Monster High: Corruption Scaremester

Monster High was finally calm—no monsters from the past, no ancient curses, just regular school drama and messy relationships.
But everything changes during a routine assembly, when a mysterious pink gas floods the building, trapping the students inside and awakening something dark in all of them.
In days, the school goes from peaceful to primal, as relationships twist into obsession and restraint gives way to raw, unstoppable lust.
Now, Headmistress Bloodgood is in a race against time: finding out the cause behind the event, creating a cure, and stopping the entire student body from turning into sex-driven monsters before they ruin their futures—and the reputation of monsterkind itself.
Can she stop the heat before it consumes them all?

Chapter 1: The Quiet Before the Storm

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

(Friday, September 29th)

(In Bloodgood’s office – 7:00am)

The morning air was thick with calm and the rich aroma of coffee.

Headmistress Bloodgood took a slow sip from her mug, savoring the blend—dark roast softened with a splash of sweetened milk. Perfection.

Outside her office window, students laughed and chattered, the sound echoing down the halls in warm bursts.

For once, no rampaging monsters, no villains with world domination agendas. Just a quiet, golden morning.

She allowed herself a small smile. Monster High, after everything, was finally living up to its name again—a haven for monsters of every kind.

After draining the last of her cup, she stepped out and made her way to the staff lounge. The door creaked open as she entered.

“Morning, all,” Bloodgood greeted with a rare note of cheer.

Heads turned. The other teachers blinked at her, slightly thrown by her upbeat tone.

“Good morning, Miss Bloodgood,” they replied, nearly in unison.

“I see you've all gotten an early start,” she said, glancing toward the coffee machine—and frowning. “And once again, we’re out of coffee.” She sighed dramatically.

“Apologies, love,” Mr. Hackington said, raising his cup with a sympathetic smile. “I’ll pop by the market after classes. Pick up the good stuff, promise.”

“Much appreciated. Carry on,” she replied, already half-turning toward the door.

“You’re in quite the mood today,” Mr. Rotter noted dryly, folding his arms.

“I know, right?” Bloodgood beamed. “But it’s just such a good morning. No chaos. No catastrophes. Nothing trying to eat the gymnasium.”

“She’s not wrong,” Mr. Where muttered behind his newspaper. “Feels almost… unnatural.”

“Better than having to fudge grades every time a student saves the world,” Rotter added with an eye-roll. “Oh no, she skipped class for the fifth time—but hey, she stopped a lava demon. Gold star!”

Bloodgood exhaled through her nose. She was used to Rotter’s constant sarcasm, but that didn’t make it any less grating.

“Anyway,” she said, straightening her posture and adjusting the grip on her riding crop, “despite the stress of exam season, these past few weeks have been unusually calm. So yes, I’m choosing joy today.”

“Let us 'ope eet stays zhat way,” said Madame Kindergrubber, stirring her tea with a dainty clink. “Because when zhings are too quiet… zhat is when trouble creeps in.”

“Oh, don’t jinx it,” drawled Sylphia Flapper, a sleek dragoness with curled horns and lavender scales. “I’ve been having a great streak lately, thank you very much. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Then here’s to good days ahead,” Bloodgood said, already stepping back into the hallway, her boots clicking confidently across the floor.

The halls were still alive with the sounds of laughter and low conversation.

For now, everything was right.

And she was going to enjoy every second of it.

(In the Creepateria – 12:00pm)

"In other news, Mr. Rotter has finally ended his anti-A+ crusade and will now accept late assignments—up to three days past the due date. That’s right, monsters, your grades might just survive the week after all."

The announcement crackled through the Creepateria’s speakers, followed by the familiar screech of the PA system shutting off.

Lunch was in full swing. Laughter echoed off the walls, a mutant mix of voices, growls, and clanks filled the air, and a tentacle or two occasionally slipped across a lunch tray. Just another typical day at Monster High.

Frankie slid into her usual seat, catching the attention of the group.

“Hey, ghouls,” she said casually, setting her tray down.

“Frankie!” Draculaura beamed.

“Whasup,” Clawdeen mumbled, half-smiling.

“Hey, mate!” Lagoona grinned, tossing her braid over one shoulder.

“Hello, darling,” Cleo said with a warm (and slightly practiced) smile.

Ghoulia gave a thumbs up with a soft groan of greeting.

“Hello, Frankie,” Abbey added in her usual cool, clipped accent. Her tone was calm but welcoming.

The energy at the table immediately picked up. Before Frankie arrived, the group had been stuck in that post-test lull—quiet, mildly grumpy, and caffeine-deprived.

But now, conversations sparked to life, hopping from afterschool plans to weekend outfits to random gossip.

“So, how’s everyone’s day going?” Draculaura asked, sipping her cherry smoothie.

“I’m alright,” Clawdeen said, rubbing her eyes. “Got my claws done earlier, but honestly, I’m dead tired. Might hit the movies later if I don’t pass out first.”

“I hear that,” Lagoona groaned. “Robecca’s been tinkering nonstop. She was up until three buzzin’ and whirrin’—I thought my brain was gonna melt.”

“Honestly, she’s more like a zombie than a robot,” Draculaura joked. “Always up late, never blinking, constantly inventing.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t made herself a robot butler by now,” Frankie laughed. “Girl’s been on a roll since what happened in Scream.”

“She’s definitely leveled up,” Cleo said with a dramatic wave of her fork. “Every time I stop by, she’s working on ‘THE NEXT BIG THING!!’ Like she’s trying to conquer the world—with gears and steam.”

Ghoulia moaned in agreement and pushed up her glasses.

“Exactly!” Frankie nodded. “And somehow, she still has time to be the nicest monster around. Honestly, she's a saint.”

“Da,” Abbey said firmly. “Is no surprise Venus is in love with her.”

The girls glanced over at the nearby table where Venus and Robecca sat.

The two were holding hands, quietly laughing together—smiles completely unguarded.

“Aww,” Draculaura cooed. “You know, I never would’ve pegged Robecca as into ghouls, but… they’re cute together.”

“Too right,” Lagoona said with a grin. “They make a good pair.”

From there, the conversation shifted back to weekend plans. With testing over, it finally felt like they could breathe again—just monster girls being teens.

But as they chattered about movies, shopping, and lazy naps, one thing became clear: Clawdeen wasn’t just tired. She was running on fumes. Her words started to slur, and she blinked too slowly. Her hair, usually on point, looked a little frizzy. Her clothes were wrinkled, and the dark circles under her eyes were impossible to miss.

“Clawdeen, ghoul,” Draculaura leaned in, frowning, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Clawdeen waved her off, her voice hoarse. “I’m fine, Drac. Just... tired, that’s all.”

But nobody at the table looked convinced.

Cleo narrowed her eyes, watching Clawdeen closely.

“Is Toralei giving you trouble again?” she asked, voice cold and direct.

Clawdeen’s expression darkened. She slammed her hand on the table, causing her fork to clatter.

“For FANG’S sake, can we not blame every problem I have on Toralei?!”

The table went silent.

“I swear,” Clawdeen hissed, voice shaking with frustration, “every time I so much as look tired, y’all act like she’s behind it. Like she’s lurking in the shadows, plotting to ruin my life or some crap!”

Draculaura held her hands up, taken aback. “We’re just worried! That’s it!”

“I know!” Clawdeen snapped, before sighing hard, the anger giving way to exhaustion. “But it’s not always her, okay? You all treat her like she’s Cruella De Vil reborn with claws and a vendetta.”

Frankie raised an eyebrow, calm but firm. “Can you blame us? She’s humiliated every single one of us at some point. You included.”

“She’s rude, aggressive, manipulative—” Cleo ticked off on her fingers, “—and let’s not forget she called Ghoulia a 'brain-dead extra.' In front of the entire school.”

“I know,” Clawdeen said, jaw clenched. “But she’s changed, alright? None of you even try to give her a second chance.”

“My issue’s not with Toralei, mate,” Lagoona interrupted, her voice sharper than usual. She jabbed her fork toward the far side of the room. “But they? Whole different story.”

The ghouls turned.

Meowlody and Purrsephone were at their table, locked in a mock playfight, laughing like nothing in the world could touch them.

Clawdeen sighed and ran a hand down her face. “Still mad about the ‘Stage Fright’ thing?”

“Mad?” Lagoona scoffed. “They broadcasted my fear on the Monster Net. I became a meme, Clawdeen! My inbox was flooded with people calling me ‘Shriekzilla.’ I couldn’t walk down the hallway without someone quoting it back at me.”

“Toralei apologized,” Draculaura offered quietly.

“Yeah, she did,” Lagoona snapped. “But they didn’t. Not even a lousy note.”

The table fell quiet.

“They’re a menace,” Frankie muttered, glaring at the twins.

Ghoulia let out a low, guttural moan and gave a thumbs-down.

“And don’t even get me started on Amanita,” Cleo snapped, crossing her arms. “If I hear ‘I'm better than you’ one more time, I'm going to shove a cobra in her mouth and let it burrow through her brainstem.”

Draculaura choked on her drink, laughing despite herself. “It’s always ‘I’m the most powerful,’ ‘I’m the most stunning,’ like—girl, calm down. You’re a walking plant, not royalty.”

“For Real. The bitch has been acting like she runs the place ever since the Gloom and Bloom Dance,” Frankie said, voice low and pissed.

Which was saying something—Frankie rarely cussed.

And if Frankie called you out, you knew you were the problem.

“And she’s not the only one,” Lagoona said, slowly turning toward Draculaura with a look.

The group went still.

Draculaura blinked. “What?”

“Oh come on,” Lagoona said. “You and Gory? You leveled a hallway.”

“It still being rebuilt,” Abbey deadpanned, her arms crossed. “I pass it every morning.”

“You were fighting like Morbius and Loxias Crown!” Clawdeen said. “Just… smashing walls like you were on a WWE special.”

“What even happened?” Frankie asked.

Draculaura looked down, her voice suddenly small. “She was mocking me. About Stoker. Said I was stupid to think I could ever be the real Vampire Queen. Called me a dhampir freak. Said I’d never control my powers.”

The air got thick. Nobody laughed. Nobody moved.

“That’s low,” Cleo said, her voice harder now. “Where does she even get off saying something like that?”

“Because she can,” Frankie growled. “She’s a mean-ass bitch who gets off on making people feel worthless.”

“And honestly?” Clawdeen added. “I don’t even know why Toralei lets Gory and Amanita hang out with the rest of them. Wydowna’s weird, sure, and Kala used to be a jerk—but they learned. Those two just live to stir shit.”

“Which is exactly why you should dump her!” Cleo snapped, leaning in. “Cut the leash, Clawdeen. Find a girl who doesn’t come with a storm cloud and a legal liability warning.”

Clawdeen rolled her eyes. “Cleo, I’m not—”

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Her phone lit up. A new message.

😾 Toralei:
(Meet me on the roof. We need to talk.)

Clawdeen stared at it for a moment. Then she stood.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” she muttered, grabbing her tray.

The ghouls watched her walk away, tension still thick in the air.

“So anywaaaaaaaaays,” Cleo drawled, flicking her hair like a diva pressing reset on the mood. “Let’s address the real elephant in the room—Frankie, what’s the deal with you and Jackson-slash-Holt?”

Frankie went full circuit overload. Her cheeks turned bright pink, eyes wide as every ghoul at the table turned to her with matching smirks.

“W-What are you talking about?!” she stammered, hands flailing.

“Don’t play dumb,” Draculaura said, pointing directly at the PA speaker. “Spectra posted it everywhere. Insta-ghoul, Snapfang, Ghostly Gossip and—yup, you guessed it—announced it over the freakin’ loudspeakers!”

Frankie’s jaw dropped. “That was Spectra?!”

“Did you forget? Her and Porter have been running school news for months now,” Cleo said with a smug grin. “And last week’s breaking headline? Frankie Stein: Reunited & Electrified.”

Frankie buried her face in her hands. “Dang it, Spectra…”

“Mhm, that’s right!” Lagoona said, nudging her playfully. “Now spill, ghoulfriend!”

Frankie peeked up with a sheepish grin. “Alright, fine! We’ve been dating again for about a month now.”

The table exploded.

“EEEEEE!” Draculaura squealed, grabbing Frankie’s hands. “I knew it!”

“Yesss!” Lagoona beamed.

“Told ya it’d happen,” Cleo said, smug.

“Is about time,” Abbey added with a small nod.

Ghoulia let out a happy moan and raised her juice box like a toast.

Frankie beamed, her eyes practically glowing. “It’s been amazing. Like, best-version-of-me amazing.”

“I’m so proud of you, Frankie!” Draculaura said, wrapping her in a hug. “I honestly thought you two were doomed with how much they used to argue.”

“Same,” Frankie admitted with a laugh. “But they really wanted to make it work. Like—really. Mediation sessions, teamwork practice, communication drills… They worked their asses off to get on the same wavelength.”

“Well, if they’re that devoted, ghoul,” Cleo said with a raised brow, “you might wanna start picking out wedding colors.”

Frankie turned bright red. “Okay, let’s not jump to ‘eternity’ just yet…”

“I support this union,” Abbey declared. “But I demand to be flower ghoul.”

“I call maid of honor!” Cleo added, snapping her fingers. “Non-negotiable.”

Frankie threw her hands up. “Alright, alright! Y’all are planning a wedding I haven’t even said yes to!”

Lagoona high-fived her. “Don’t worry, mate. Just don’t wait too long or you’ll be an old hag pushin’ a pram.”

Frankie giggled. “Noted.”

“But for real,” Draculaura said, resting her chin on her hands, “I thought you were gonna end up with Neighthan or Andy. You were obsessed when y’all first met.”

“Me too!” Lagoona nodded. “You were fangirling hard.”

“I mean, yeah,” Frankie said, shrugging. “Andy’s gorgeous, but he’s got that weird closed-off hermit energy. And Neighthan... he’s sweet, but kinda awkward. Like, painfully awkward. After a while, it just wasn’t it.”

“Yeah, both of them got their quirks,” Lagoona said.

“But none of that matters now,” Frankie said, proudly. “Because I’ve got my guy. Smart, sweet, kind... and one half’s a nerd while the other is the hottest firestarter in school.”

“Two-for-one special!” Draculaura grinned. “You scored big, ghoul.”

Frankie turned toward the tech table, spotting Jackson helping a teacher reboot a cursed laptop.

He caught her gaze, blushed, and gave a shy wave.

She waved back, looking like she might literally melt through the floor.

“Awwwwww,” Cleo said. “True love, y’all.”

“And don’t feel too bad for the other two,” she added, nodding toward the back.

Frankie turned.

At one table, Neighthan was holding hands with Isi Dawndancer, smiling like the world had finally made sense.

Nearby, Andy sat with one earbud in, the other shared with Jane Boolittle, who was curled up against his shoulder.

Frankie smiled, soft and content. “Guess we all found our happily-ever-afters.”

(In the PA Room - 12:13pm)

The faint crackle of static echoed through the dusty corners of the PA system room as Spectra Vondergeist hovered above the mic, fingers still on the switch.

Her voice—smooth, polished, and just the right amount of dramatic—finished its final sentence:

"And remember monsters, be loud, be proud, and don’t trip over your tail in the hallway. Spectra out."

Click.

She flipped the switch, and the red glow of the “ON AIR” sign dimmed into darkness.

Silence settled in, save for the soft hum of the old speakers shutting down and the distant noise of the school buzzing far below.

Behind her, Porter Geiss dropped into an old swivel chair with a ghostly whoosh, paint-splattered jeans and translucent chains trailing behind him. He exhaled, letting out a long, satisfied sigh.

“You weren’t kidding,” he said, looking around the room, then toward the closed window overlooking Monster High. “This place really is better than Haunted High.”

Spectra turned from the control board, her long lavender hair catching a soft shimmer from the fluorescent light overhead. She floated a few inches off the ground, crossed her arms, and smiled—genuinely.

“Told you so,” she said. “Monster High is... home. And I’m glad you finally get to see it the way I do.”

Porter leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s not just the school, though. It’s everything. Bloodgood actually likes my graffiti—asks for murals like I’m some kind of artist-in-residence. The teachers don’t treat me like a problem. And everyone’s been cool. Johnny Spirit and I hang out in the music wing almost every day now. He’s wild, but in a good way.”

He paused, grin growing.

“And Kiyomi? She’s loving it too. Says she’s never felt this free before. No chains. No endless halls. Just... choices. She even joined the art club.”

Spectra’s smile widened. Her eyes softened as she hovered closer.

“No hall monitors, no anti-social behavior codes, no silent study zones. Definitely no detention chains,” Porter added, shaking his head like he still couldn’t believe it.

“And the best part?” he said, standing now.

He walked up to her—phasing slightly through the mic stand without even noticing—and gently took Spectra’s hand in his.

“The best part... is I don’t have to travel through dimensions just to see you.”

Spectra’s breath caught in her chest. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have lungs anymore—Porter had that effect on her anyway.

Their eyes locked—his green flickering like ghostlight, hers glowing faintly in the dim room.

He pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her with the gentleness of someone who knew how easily moments like this could vanish.

And then they kissed.

It wasn’t rushed, or fleeting. It was deep, long, full of relief and warmth. A kiss that said finally. A kiss that didn’t have space or time between it anymore.

When they finally pulled away, Spectra’s voice was low, dreamy.

“I’m glad Principal Revenant let you—and Kiyomi—transfer here,” she whispered. “It was the right call.”

Porter brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled, one hand still holding hers.

“I’m glad too,” he said. “Because now? There’s nothing keeping us apart.”

Spectra blinked, eyes shining as she leaned in again, and with no more words left to say, they kissed once more—softly, fully, and without fear.

Up here, in the quiet hum of old speakers and abandoned broadcast wires, two ghosts stood together.

Not caught between worlds.

Not passing through.

But staying.

Together.

(The Rooftop – 12:30pm)

The wind rolled in slow and cold, brushing past the rooftop like a whisper through iron bars. Toralei Stripe stood at the edge, one hand gripping the railing, her orange hair fluttering in the breeze.

She didn’t flinch at the chill—in fact, she welcomed it. It grounded her. Quieted her claws.

Behind her, the rooftop door creaked open with a soft metallic click.

Toralei turned, her signature smirk tugging at her lips as she spotted Clawdeen stepping out.

“Took you long enough,” she purred, walking forward like she always did—like the world owed her a hug.

Clawdeen stopped her with a raised hand.

“You said you wanted to talk,” she said, calm but firm. “So—talk.”

Toralei’s smirk faded. She exhaled, turning back to the edge of the rooftop and resting her elbows on the cold metal.

Clawdeen joined her, standing just close enough to make it clear she wasn’t going anywhere, but far enough that the tension between them could breathe.

Below, the school courtyard was alive. Gigi sat on the fountain ledge feeding cherries to Ryder, Iris and Manny strolled side by side, fingers laced. Bridgett leaned into Jackie as the latter softly plucked her banjo.

Little perfect moments, scattered like petals.

Toralei watched it all with unreadable eyes.

“Do you ever feel stuck?” she asked, voice low.

Clawdeen tilted her head. “Stuck?”

“Yeah. Like…” Toralei’s fingers curled around the railing. “Being with me means you’ll always be fighting uphill. I’ve been a bitch. To your friends. To everyone. What if I never really stop being her? What if I just drag you down with me because nobody else can stand me?”

Clawdeen blinked, stunned for a second.

“Toralei... I was never planning on leaving you.”

“But maybe you should.”

Clawdeen turned toward her. “Don’t say that.”

Toralei didn’t look back. “Why not? It’s not like your squad's rolling out the welcome mat. Cleo and Draculaura were glaring at me like I poisoned their coffee just yesterday.”

Clawdeen snorted despite herself. “To be fair, if your friends didn’t act like they were better than everyone else, maybe my ghouls wouldn’t be on edge every time you walked in.”

Toralei turned sharply. “My group’s not that bad.”

Clawdeen gave her a look so deadpan it could flatten a demon.

“Seriously?” she said, then started counting off on her fingers. “Amanita doesn’t shut up about herself. Gory treats Draculaura like she's dirt. Wydowna creeps everyone out with her cryptic monologues. And don’t get me started on Meowlody and Purrsephone humiliating Lagoona in front of the whole damn school.”

“That was forever ago!” Toralei snapped, arms flaring.

Clawdeen’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Well, trauma doesn’t have a shelf life.”

Toralei opened her mouth to retort, but Clawdeen didn’t stop.

“Your whole crew’s built a reputation off tearing others down. Bloodgood’s had half of them in her office more times than I can count. And what do you do? Nothing. You let it slide. Every time.”

Clawdeen’s voice dropped, firm but tired now. “How can we ever work if you won’t even check the people around you?”

Toralei’s eyes hardened, her voice cutting like claws.

“Don’t do that.”

Clawdeen’s brow furrowed. “Do what?”

“Make me choose,” Toralei said, softer now. Almost vulnerable.

She turned away, folding her arms, but not before Clawdeen saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes. “Don’t make me pick between you and them.”

Clawdeen let out a slow breath, her own anger cooling into something heavier. Something that sat in her chest like a stone. She’d known this talk was coming—she just hadn’t expected it to feel like this.

This wasn’t just about their squads. Or school politics. Or the past.

This was about them.

And Clawdeen knew... one wrong word could end everything.

“I’m not saying I want a war,” Clawdeen said, voice steady. “But you can’t keep acting like there isn’t one. Every day, it feels like someone’s one snide comment away from a full-on brawl.”

“Clawdee—”

“You walk into the caff,” she cut in, “and half my crew looks like they just caught a whiff of roadkill.”

Toralei’s claws curled at her sides. “So what do you want me to do, huh?! Drop my friends? Pretend they don’t exist and play nice with a bunch of ghouls who hate my guts? That’s not love, Clawdeen. That’s submission.”

Clawdeen sighed and muttered under her breath, “Damn it. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid…”

She knew what Toralei’s friends were like. Just like her own crew, they were tight-knit, protective, and not afraid to throw claws when one of their own was threatened.

Toralei had known Meowlody and Purrsephone since before Monster High.

When she’d been locked up, it was those two who stuck with her, defended her and helped her through nearly everything.

Whatever rough history they had, it was real.

Kala, Pearl, and Perri? They bonded with Toralei during the Great Scarrier Reef fallout.

They were part of the reason she found the nerve to ask Clawdeen out in the first place.

And as much as Clawdeen couldn’t stand Gory and Amanita, Toralei had somehow won both of them over.

How? Clawdeen had no clue. But the bond was real.

So yeah—she couldn’t ask Toralei to cut them off.

But lately... maybe they both needed to step back from the noise.

“No,” Clawdeen said finally. “That’s not submission. That’s peace. And I think we need some. I’m getting real tired of defending our relationship like it’s a scandal waiting to explode.”

Toralei went quiet. The kind of quiet that meant she was swallowing something sharp.

“I thought we were past that...” she said softly. “The hiding.”

In the beginning, they had kept it secret. Not because they were ashamed, but because they knew the fallout would be messy.

Clawdeen’s crew was loyal, and opinionated.

Toralei’s was territorial and petty.

So they snuck around. Made up excuses. Shared kisses in storage closets. Told lies that felt like borrowed time.

Until one day, Howleen opened the wrong door at the wrong time.

Clawdeen had begged her not to say anything—but little sisters weren’t known for their discretion. It slipped out. One person told another, and soon it was all over the Ghostly Gossip.

Her crew was divided.

Her brother lost it.

Her parents? Disapproving didn’t even begin to cover it.

Howleen got grounded for two weeks. Clawdeen spent the next month cleaning up the wreckage.

“Yeah,” Clawdeen muttered. “We’re out now. But that doesn’t mean it’s been easy.”

She crossed her arms. “Frankie and Cleo still whisper about you. Say your claws are out for something else. That I’m just another notch in your rebellion.”

Toralei let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Of course they did. You ever think maybe they just don’t want to like me? That they can’t stand the idea of you being happy unless it’s on their terms?”

“You think I don’t see that?” Clawdeen snapped. “You think I don’t notice the way Abbey glares at you like you’re a walking infection? Or the way Amanita can’t shut up about Cleo’s family like it’s open mic night at a roast battle?”

Her voice cracked a bit. “It’s not just one side throwing shade. Everyone is guilty. My friends. Yours. All of us.”

Toralei exhaled slowly and turned back toward the railing, eyes dropping to the school below. The sun had just passed its peak, casting long shadows across the hills.

“So... what do we do?” she asked quietly.

Clawdeen walked up beside her, silent for a moment as she watched the wind ripple through the trees.

“We survive it,” she said. “Together.”

Toralei didn’t say anything, so Clawdeen kept going.

“I don’t have all the answers. Maybe we cool off. Take space. Maybe we fight for it anyway. But whatever we do—we do it our way.”

Toralei let out a soft laugh. "That actually sounds... decent.”

“Maybe someday,” Clawdeen said, “we’ll all be sitting around the same table. Your crew. Mine. No side-eyes. No drama.”

“That’s a dream,” Toralei said. “But hey—could happen.”

Clawdeen’s tone hardened. “But if one of your girls crosses the line again... I will bite.”

Toralei smirked. “Same here.”

The two of them stood side by side in silence, watching the hills ripple with wind, the school behind them still buzzing with life.

The future? Still messy. Still uncertain.

But for now, at least—they were facing it together.

(Boy’s Gym Locker Room – 12:50pm)

Clawd slumped onto one of the benches, his body drenched in sweat, gym shirt clinging to his skin like a second layer of fur. Practice had been brutal.

The second testing ended, Coach Igor had dragged the entire team straight into the gym.

“I don’t care if your brains are fried from exams!” the hunchback bellowed. “You’ve gotta be monsters of body and mind! Now drop and give me FIFTY!”

Technically, it was an “easy” day—no intense routines or formation drills—but 50 burpees didn’t feel easy when your bones were still aching from pulling all-nighters.

Now, Clawd lay back, head resting against the bleachers, trying to pretend his legs weren’t still vibrating.

Buzz.

He pulled out his phone. A message lit up the screen.

🧛‍♀️Draculaura:
(Hey babe! Wanna hang out later? Since testing is over, I thought we could spend some time together.)

Clawd hesitated.

Part of him wanted to say yes. Badly. Testing had worn them both out, and they hadn’t spent more than ten solid minutes alone in weeks. No school stress. No squad. Just the two of them. Finally.

But... Coach Igor had already planned a night out for the team. A reward dinner—food, games, the works. Everyone had been hyped for it all day. And if Clawd bailed now?

He'd be letting down the team. Again.

Damn.

He tapped out a quick reply, hoping she’d understand.

🐺Clawd:
(Sorry babe. The team and I are heading out later. Maybe another time?)

He hit send.

And immediately regretted how flat it sounded.

Her reply came fast.

🧛‍♀️Draculaura:
Oh come ON! This again? We’ve barely seen each other in weeks! And when we finally have time, you’re always with your boys! Why can’t we have some time for us?

Clawd’s chest tightened. That wasn’t what he meant.

🐺Clawd:
(Drac, I’m sorry. But it was already planned. I can’t cancel now.)

🧛‍♀️Draculaura:
(So you’d rather spend time with your friends than with me? That’s really sweet of you.)

“Damn it,” Clawd muttered.

🐺Clawd:
(That’s not what I said. I just meant we could hang out another day.)

🧛‍♀️Draculaura:
(Whatever. Enjoy your hangout.)

Then—nothing.

No typing dots. No reply.

Clawd called. No answer.

He texted again. Still nothing.

He sighed and leaned forward, the guilt starting to sink deep into his ribs.

🐺Clawd:
(Laura. I’m sorry. Please, talk to me.)

Still nothing. Just silence.

With a frustrated growl, Clawd hurled his phone at the wall—not hard enough to smash it, but enough to crack the screen.

He stood up, adrenaline flaring. He had to find her. He couldn’t let it end on this note.

But before he could bolt for the exit—

“Yo. You good?”

Clawd turned. Romulus stood nearby, toweling sweat off his neck, his other arm resting casually against the wall. His hair was matted, eyes sharp. Like always, he looked like he’d just come from a street fight—except now it was just gym class.

Clawd rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Just... gotta talk to someone.”

Romulus raised a brow, knowingly. “Let me guess. Draculaura.”

Clawd didn’t answer.

Romulus chuckled. “Yeah. Figured.”

Clawd dropped back onto the bench with a sigh.

Romulus sat across from him, stretching out a bit. “Lemme guess. She’s mad you’re spending time with the pack instead of her?”

Clawd looked up. “Pretty much.”

“You text her some casual ‘maybe another time’ stuff, and she took it like you canceled Christmas?”

Clawd blinked. “How did you—”

“Bro, I’ve been there,” Romulus said, smirking. “Girls hear ‘later’ and sometimes think you mean ‘never.’”

Clawd groaned. “Why does it gotta be that complicated?”

“'Cause love is complicated,” Romulus said. “Especially when you’re trying to juggle loyalty, time, and a clingy girlfriend with fangs.”

Clawd side-eyed him. “Why am I taking relationship advice from a dude who’s messing around with two girls at the same time?”

Romulus grinned, unbothered. “Correction—I’m dating two girls. They both know. They’re even cool with each other. Unorthodox? Sure. But honest? Always.”

Clawd scoffed. “Yeah, well, Draculaura would rip out my lungs if I even looked at another girl that long.”

Romulus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s the thing though, Clawd. Love ain’t just about kisses and hanging out. It’s about pressure. Balance. Priorities. Sometimes, it’s about choosing who gets your time when everyone wants a piece of you.”

Clawd stayed quiet.

Romulus stood, tossing the towel over his shoulder. He paused before heading out.

“Here’s the thing,” he said. “Your girl’s not mad you’re with your team. She’s mad you didn’t fight harder to make her feel like she mattered more.”

Clawd looked up, frozen in place.

Romulus just gave him a nod. “You don’t gotta pick sides, man. But you do gotta show up where it counts.”

And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving Clawd alone with his cracked phone, sweaty clothes, and a whole lot to think about.

(In a random hallway - 12:55pm)

Draculaura lowered her phone, her heart pounding with a mix of anger and frustration. Her hands clenched at her sides.

She couldn’t believe that Werewolf.

After weeks of barely speaking, after all the stress, the tests, the missed lunch dates, this was what she got? The one chance they had to spend time together—and he chose his teammates over her?

Seriously?

Would it have killed him to just say, “Hey guys, can’t come—I’m hanging with my girl tonight?”

One sentence. One ounce of effort. That’s all she wanted.

But as her fury started to settle, the guilt snuck in like fog.

Her eyes dropped back to the screen.

🐺Clawd:
(Drac, I’m sorry. But it was already planned. I can’t cancel now.)

She knew Coach Igor. Everyone did. That guy ran the team like a boot camp. If your leg wasn’t broken and you weren’t bleeding out, you were expected to show up.

Ditching the team? That could land Clawd benched—or worse.

Draculaura sighed, guilt mixing with regret.

Clawd hadn’t picked his friends over her. He just didn’t want to let them down.

And those guys were his friends. His family, really. Just like her ghouls were to her.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, staring at her last message.

🧛‍♀️Draculaura:
(Whatever. Enjoy your hangout.)

She groaned and rubbed her temple.

“Was I too mean?” she muttered.

“Mean about what?”

She jumped, nearly dropping her phone.

Valentine stood behind her, arms crossed, expression mildly confused—and mildly amused.

Her eyes narrowed. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” he said with a little shrug. “So, what happened? Trouble in vampire-werewolf paradise?”

Draculaura crossed her arms, debating whether to walk away.

She didn’t hate Valentine anymore… but she definitely didn’t trust him.

Still, he wasn’t the same guy from 2011. Not anymore.

After his very public downfall—and very messy redemption arc—Valentine had slowly worked on himself. Meeting Spelldon Cauldronello had been a turning point. Through him, Valentine came out, found actual love, and surprisingly, humility.

He wasn’t perfect. Still dramatic. Still snarky. But he’d changed.

He was... bearable now. And oddly insightful when he wasn’t being a pain.

So she sighed and said, “It’s Clawd.”

Valentine leaned back against the lockers. “Let me guess. Plans got canceled. You’re mad. He's clueless.”

“Pretty much.”

She filled him in. The team dinner. Her frustration. The fight.

Valentine listened without interrupting, arms still crossed, but his face a little softer now.

When she finished, he nodded. “Okay. So yeah—you had every right to be upset. But... you also knew what Igor was like. And Clawd’s been the pack leader since freshman year. That team isn’t just a hobby for him—it’s responsibility. Pressure. He’s always balancing both worlds.”

“I know that,” Draculaura said, arms still crossed tightly. “I just wanted to feel like I mattered too.”

Valentine looked at her for a long second. “You do. But sometimes, love isn’t about being chosen over everyone else. It’s about understanding why someone can’t choose you every single time. And knowing they still love you even when they can’t show it the way you want, right that second.”

She didn’t respond right away. But her posture loosened just a little.

Valentine glanced at the cracked phone in her hand. “So... you gonna talk to him? Or keep spiraling until you end up on Ghostly Gossip again?”

Draculaura glared at him. “You’re so lucky you’re semi-tolerable now.”

Valentine grinned. “I know. Growth, right?”

He started to walk off, then paused halfway down the hall and turned back with a teasing smirk.

“Oh, and by the way,” he added, “you might wanna text him soon... before one of those fang-happy she-wolves at the restaurant starts eyeing him. Wouldn’t want your little moment of jealousy to end with him getting scooped up by some ‘team spirit.’”

Draculaura’s eyes went wide. “Wait, WHAT?!”

But Valentine just winked and disappeared down the hallway in a burst of super speed.

Draculaura stared after him, panic rising in her throat. She looked back at her phone.

“…Oh fang, I need to fix this.”

(In the Pool Room - 1:00pm)

The pool room was quiet, lit only by the faint glow of bioluminescent coral and the gentle shimmer of rippling water. It was peaceful—almost too peaceful. The kind that left space for thoughts you didn’t want to have.

Lagoona Blue sat on the edge of the pool, legs submerged, her arms resting loosely on her knees. Her golden curls were tied back in a lazy bun, her shoulders slumped slightly, like the weight of the ocean itself was pressing down on her.

Gil Webber stood a few feet away, arms crossed, shifting his weight awkwardly. He hadn’t touched the water yet. Hadn’t dared.

Neither had said anything in a minute.

Finally, Lagoona broke the silence.

“You know, when we finally got time last week, I thought—maybe—just maybe, we’d actually make it through a date without drama.”

Gil winced.

“I was really looking forward to that performance,” she added softly. “Been talking about it for months. Got us seats near the current vents. You wouldn’t even have to float yourself—just let the reef breeze carry you.”

“I know,” Gil said, voice tight. “I know. I was excited too.”

Lagoona didn’t turn to look at him. She just kept her gaze fixed on the water, watching her own reflection ripple and break.

“And then... boom,” she said. “Your mom calls. Screaming. Says your dad’s dying. Full emergency mode. And I just remember you looking at me, all pale, and rushing off like the floor was gonna cave in.”

Gil rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I really thought—”

“I know,” she said quickly. “I know you didn’t fake it. I’m not blaming you.”

That quieted him. She finally looked over at him—eyes tired, not angry.

“You rushed across half the ocean thinking your dad was on death’s door,” she continued. “And then you get there, and he’s... what? Eating kelp chips and watching Krakenball?”

Gil’s jaw clenched. “Pretty much.”

Lagoona let out a dry laugh. “Unbelievable.”

He sighed and sat down beside her, though not too close. The silence stretched again.

“I’m not mad at you,” she said after a while. “I’m really not. I’ve been through enough with your parents to know the drill by now.”

Gil nodded. He knew she meant it. That was what made it worse.

“I’m just...” she took a breath, trying to hold it together, “so tired, Gil.”

He looked at her, the pain behind her smile clearer than ever.

“I keep thinking... maybe if I try harder. Be more polite. Stay quieter. Show up in the right outfit. Speak the way they like. Keep my accent soft. Talk about freshwater customs. Make myself smaller.”

Her voice cracked slightly. “But none of it ever matters. Because every time they look at me, all they see is salt.”

Gil’s heart twisted. “Lagoona...”

“You know the only time they ever accepted me?” she asked, not expecting an answer. “That wish Howleen made. When I turned into a freshwater monster.”

He said nothing.

“They were so... happy,” she said, her lips trembling. “Your mom invited me in. Your dad called me 'proper.' It was the only time I felt like maybe, maybe, I had a shot with them. But I wasn’t even me.”

Gil shut his eyes. “I know. I hated that.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her knees.

“Do you think they’ll ever accept us?” she whispered.

Gil hesitated. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to lie if it meant taking that look out of her eyes. But she deserved the truth.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I really don’t.”

Lagoona nodded, the answer sinking in like a stone in deep water.

“I should’ve known better,” she said, standing. “Saltwater monsters like me don’t get fairy tale endings with freshwater royalty.”

“Hey—” Gil stood too, reaching out instinctively, but stopped himself.

“I’m not giving up on you,” she said, turning to face him. “I love you, Gil. But loving you shouldn’t mean losing me in the process.”

He felt like someone had taken all the water out of his lungs.

“I’m gonna go for a swim,” she said, stepping back toward the pool.

“Lagoona—” he tried.

She dove in before he could finish. A clean, graceful dive. No splash. Just silence and a trail of bubbles.

She didn’t disappear. She didn’t run. But she needed space.

Underwater, Lagoona let herself drift. The water wrapped around her like a second skin, cool and familiar. Her heart ached, but here—at least—it was quiet.

Up above, Gil watched her swim, his fists clenched at his sides.

She wasn’t mad at him.

But she was hurting.

And deep down, so was he.

(The Courtyard – 1:15pm)

Heath sat alone on the front steps of Monster High, watching students pass by in pairs and groups, laughing and talking like they always did. The scene was familiar—he’d walked these stairs more times than he could count—but today, he wasn’t really seeing it.

On the outside, he looked like he was people-watching.

On the inside, his thoughts were louder than the crowd.

With testing finally over and plans for the team dinner set, Heath had wandered out here to be alone for a moment. To breathe. To reflect.

To think about everything he’d been through—and how far he’d come.

“You look troubled, Heath.”

He turned, a smile already forming as Abbey approached from behind, casting a long shadow across the steps.

“Hey, snowflake,” he said, chipper as ever. “Just sitting. Thinking. Nothing major.”

Abbey frowned, her expression unreadable as she settled beside him. Even sitting, she still had a few inches on him—and a lot more muscle.

“Who is bothering you?” she asked, concern in her voice.

“No one,” Heath said, quickly raising his hands. “Swear. Just thinking about stuff. Good stuff, even.”

Abbey tilted her head. “What kind of stuff?”

He turned back to the sunset. “About how far I’ve come.”

She stayed quiet, letting him talk.

“When I first got here,” he said, “I was a cocky little jackass. Thought I was the hottest thing on two legs—pun fully intended. Always mouthing off, trying to be the ladies’ man, and getting my dumb ass handed to me for it.”

He turned and met her eyes with a grin. “Especially by you.”

Abbey let out a soft laugh. “I did hit you. Many times.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, and I deserved it. But now? Look at me. I got a tall, gorgeous, ice-wielding girlfriend. I’ve got a family that supports me. Friends that’ve got my back. And for once in my life, I don’t feel like the class clown who’s gonna burn out after senior year.”

Abbey looked at him closely, the corners of her lips curling into a quiet smile. She’d watched this version of Heath grow slowly over the years—from fool to flame.

“I know I’ve messed up in the past,” he added, eyes dropping to the ground. “Said things I shouldn’t. Did dumb stuff. But you still gave me a chance. And if you hadn’t... I don’t think I’d be half the guy I am now.”

Her cheeks flushed faintly. She hadn’t expected that kind of honesty from him—not today.

“I love you,” Heath said, still looking down. “I’m gonna keep screwing up here and there—I’m not perfect. But I will keep trying. I wanna be the best boyfriend I can be... for you.”

Abbey didn’t say anything right away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him in a solid, grounding hug. No words. Just warmth. Or in her case, cold.

Heath melted into it—figuratively—and maybe a little literally. He’d gotten used to her icy touch by now. It was comforting in its own way.

She pulled back, cupping his cheek with one hand.

“You have come far,” she said softly. “And I believe you will go even farther. When that time comes... I hope I am walking beside you.”

Heath blinked, stunned. Then he grinned.

“Of course you will. Couldn’t picture a future without you in it,” he said, flashing a smirk. “Besides, I’ve grown kinda fond of your cold-ass hugs.”

Abbey giggled—an actual giggle—before leaning in and kissing him. Slow. Certain.

When they pulled apart, they just sat there, smiling at each other. The school faded into silence around them. It was one of those moments that felt still, even in a place always buzzing with noise.

Then Abbey’s arms folded again, this time around his shoulders.

“If you go back to old ways,” she murmured near his ear, voice low, “I crush pelvis.”

Heath laughed. “Noted.”

He was very aware of what she could do to the male skeleton—and the last thing he wanted was to test her limits.

Still, as they sat there, something about her grin made him pause.

Something mischievous.

Something that said: "You think you know everything about me... but you’re in for a surprise."

And little did Heath know…

Abbey was hiding a very big secret between her legs.

Long. Thick. Veiny. Cold to the touch.

And eventually?

He was gonna find out exactly what she was packing.

(Near Frankie's Locker – 1:20pm)

The hallway was mostly quiet, just the distant hum of conversation echoing off the walls. Most students had either gone outside or retreated to their hangout spots after testing week wrapped.

Frankie stood by her locker, organizing her things with her usual precision—lightning bolt notebook, monster history textbook, a little doodle Jackson had left folded in the corner pocket of her bag.

She smiled.

Then two warm hands slid around her waist.

“Oh?” she gasped, grinning as she turned her head. “Holt?”

He grinned down at her, his trademark firey-red hair flickering just slightly, his shades pushed up just enough to show the spark in his eyes.

“Hey, babe,” he purred, leaning in.

Before she could even respond, his lips were on hers—hot and full of energy, like always. The kiss was deep but playful, and Frankie couldn’t help but laugh against his mouth.

She could feel the heat on his lips and the warmth in his hands, like she was sleeping on a mattress that had its heater on max.

But as quickly as she felt it, he pulled away.

“Holt!” she giggled as he moved down to her neck, planting a trail of quick, teasing kisses along her skin.

“Stop, that tickles!” she squealed, laughing harder now.

But Holt didn’t stop—if anything, he got more insistent, peppering her with kisses like he had something to prove.

“C’mon!” he said between pecks. “I haven’t had a turn in days! Let me have my moment!”

Frankie managed to push him off gently, still laughing, her cheeks pink.

“You really like doing that, huh?” she asked, amused.

Holt smirked. “Can ya blame me?”

He leaned back against the lockers, running a hand through his hair.

“For a while, I didn’t think we’d ever get back here. I mean... Jackson and I couldn’t go five minutes without arguing, and you? You could’ve walked away. Found some dude with a normal life, a single personality, someone without emotional time-share issues.”

Frankie shook her head with a soft smile.

“But you didn’t,” he said, voice quieter now. “You stayed. And I don’t even have words for how much that means to me. To us.”

Frankie stepped closer, placing a hand on his chest, where his heart—their heart—beat steady beneath her touch.

“You were the first crush I ever had,” she said, her voice soft. “You and Jackson. The first ones to ever make me feel like I wasn’t just a weird science project with bolts in her neck. And yeah, it was messy. It is messy.”

She looked up at him. “But it’s our mess. And I love you both.”

There was a brief moment of silence—then Holt spoke, and just behind his voice, the gentler tone of Jackson’s echoed faintly beneath it.

“I love you too.”

It was weird and perfect all at once, like two songs playing in harmony from the same speaker. Frankie’s eyes shimmered with emotion, and Holt kissed her again—this time slower, more grounded.

Then—

“ATTENTION STUDENTS!”

The hallway filled with the sound of Bloodgood’s voice through the speakers.

“Please make your way to the auditorium for a brief assembly. I have a few announcements that you’re not going to want to miss.”

Frankie and Holt both groaned at the same time, pulling apart as the hallway buzzed to life again.

“Seriously?” Holt muttered. “Just as things were getting good.”

Frankie rolled her eyes playfully. “Guess we’ll have to finish this later.”

She reached for his hand, and he immediately took it, locking their fingers together like it was instinct.

“Let’s go see what the headmistress has planned,” she said.

“Hopefully it’s not another lecture about hallway PDA,” Holt added with a smirk.

Together, they walked down the hall, hand in hand, two halves of the same whole.

(Bloodgood’s Office – 1:15pm)

Headmistress Bloodgood stood at her desk, watching her body straightening a stack of parchment with practiced precision.

The sound of her own voice faded from the intercom speakers overhead, replaced by the faint murmur of the school springing to life outside her door.

She closed the folder with a satisfying snap, her gloved fingers lingering on the crest of Monster High embossed on the cover.

Everything had gone so smoothly this week.

Testing was over. Student conflict had been at an all-time low. No monster outbreaks, no magical mishaps, not even a single cafeteria explosion.

It was strange, really.

Strange—but welcome.

She smiled to herself, pulling on her coat and placing her signature riding crop beneath one arm.

“This is what the school was always meant to be,” she murmured. “A place for growth, for friendship… for peace.”

She reached for her head, settling it atop her body with a graceful tilt, then turned toward the door, heels clicking with polished finality.

The announcements for the assembly were still tucked neatly in her hands. A few surprises. A new club charter. Some words of encouragement. She was proud of what was coming. Proud of the direction things had taken.

If today went the way she hoped, this month would mark a turning point for Monster High.

One worth remembering.

But what she didn’t know—couldn’t have known—was that history would remember this day for something else entirely.

Because peace never says goodbye.

It just leaves quietly.

(The Auditorium – 1:30 PM)

The auditorium buzzed with voices, laughter, and the occasional monster roar as students filed in from every direction. The air was alive with movement and noise, with friends calling across rows, wings brushing backs, and a few spells misfiring from excitement.

It was chaos—organized, familiar, Monster High chaos.

In recent years, the auditorium had undergone major renovations to keep up with the school’s ever-growing student body. Spatial expansion magic made the room deceptively vast—what once looked like a modest hall from the outside now resembled a grand chamber lifted from a monster mega-church.

Gleaming obsidian floors, floating chandeliers made of enchanted bones, and chair rows that stretched farther than they logically should.

Every monster had a place here.

Frankie sat in one of the lower center rows, fingers interlocked with Jackson’s. His head rested gently against hers, and they were both caught in that quiet post-confession bliss that made the world blur. Their mismatched energies had finally found a rhythm—and for now, at least, everything felt right.

“Is this what peace feels like?” Frankie whispered.

Jackson smiled. “I wouldn’t know. First time I’ve had it in years.”

Around them, some students smiled, others rolled their eyes, and a few threw popcorn with mock disgust. But most just went about their business. PDA was nothing new around here.

Meanwhile, Draculaura zipped through the aisles in a blur of pink and black, her speed drawing the occasional “Whoa!” or “Slow down, Fangtastica!” from passing students. But she wasn’t here for fun.

She was searching for him.

She’d tried calling Clawd five times. No answer. She tried texting. Nothing.

Her stomach had been twisting into knots all day. Even if he didn’t pick up, she needed to see him—say something. Say anything.

Eventually, her pace slowed. She scanned every row again. No sign of him.

With a defeated sigh, she found a seat near the back and sank into it, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Guilt clung to her like a shadow.

"After this," She told herself. "After this, I’ll find him."

Elsewhere, Lagoona and Gil had regrouped with Kala, Ryder, and a few other sea monsters. Despite the emotional riptide from earlier, they were doing their best to ride the waves.

“Still thinkin’ about it?” Kala asked, nudging Lagoona.

“Only a little,” she lied.

Gil gave her hand a soft squeeze. “We’ll get through it.”

She offered a faint smile, the kind that meant, "Thank you" without saying the words.

On opposite sides of the auditorium, Clawdeen and Toralei sat apart. They didn’t want to, but after the rooftop conversation... it was too soon. Too complicated.

Neither of them wanted to deal with whispered questions or judgmental stares.

So they sat separately, shooting each other occasional glances across the room.

Toralei’s phone buzzed. A message from Clawdeen.

🐺Clawdeen:
(You look cute from up here.)

Toralei smirked.

😾Toralei:
(I always look cute. You just finally noticed.)

In the shadowed corner of the auditorium, Howleen sat curled up beside Twyla. They hadn’t said much, just sat close. That was enough.

Twyla leaned in. “You okay?”

Howleen nodded. “Yeah. Just don’t want Bloodgood talking for an hour.”

Twyla chuckled softly. “We can sneak out if she does.”

They weren’t exactly a public couple yet, but they weren’t hiding either. Clawd had taken it better than expected, even offering an awkward thumbs-up the first time he saw them holding hands.

Better than how he reacted to Clawdeen and Toralei, that was for sure.

Down in the front row, Cleo and Deuce sat side by side, fingers laced and bodies angled just slightly toward each other.

Deuce leaned in, whispering something that made Cleo snort and roll her eyes.

“Try saying that again without sounding like a lovestruck zombie,” she said, smirking.

Behind them, Ghoulia sat with Slo-Mo, resting her head on his shoulder. She let out a low, content moan that only he could understand.

A few rows over, Abbey was sitting with Heath, arms crossed—but she was smiling despite herself. Heath was animated, talking about something loud and ridiculous.

“So I told him, if he’s gonna try lighting his hair on fire, he better be ready to be bald by second period!”

Abbey snorted. “I believe you. You attract the stupid.”

All across the room, monsters shuffled in, claimed seats, cracked jokes, shared snacks, and whispered guesses about what the assembly was about.

Then, the lights dimmed.

The buzzing slowly died out.

A hush fell over the auditorium like a soft veil, covering the crowd in sudden stillness.

A single spotlight clicked on.

And from the side of the stage, Headmistress Bloodgood stepped forward, hat perfectly angled, her coat sweeping behind her as she reached the podium.

Her hands rested calmly on the surface. Her skull gleamed under the lights.

“Good afternoon, my students,” she began, her voice echoing through the enchanted speakers above. “I hope you’re all rested, refreshed, and ready to hear what comes next for Monster High.”

The students waited, faces lit with excitement, murmurs of anticipation rippling through the crowd like a rising tide. There was a kind of electric buzz in the air—joyful, energetic, and innocent.

Bloodgood paused at the podium, taking a slow scan of the sea of young monsters before her. For just a second, she let the silence hang.

“Let’s start with something positive,” she said, picking up the microphone with practiced ease. “As we all know, nearly all of you are in your senior year.”

The room exploded.

Cheers, whoops, fist-pumps—ghouls and mansters alike leapt up in their seats. Someone in the back even set off a miniature confetti spell that immediately got swallowed by one of the chandeliers. Laughter echoed everywhere.

Bloodgood raised her hand, palm open.

The room calmed.

“Yes, I know we’re all pretty excited,” she continued with a smile, though her tone dipped into something firmer. “I am too. But remember—there’s still work to be done. Don’t let senioritis creep in and cost you everything you’ve worked for. Graduation is earned, not assumed.”

A few knowing chuckles. Some half-hearted nods. Everyone knew at least one monster who’d nearly flunked out because they slacked off during the final stretch.

“Now,” she said, her voice lightening again, “I’ve got a few announcements regarding clubs, events, and some new additions to our extracurricular lineup.”

The next few minutes passed in a pleasant blur—updates on student council, the new Spelltech Team, a couple of rule tweaks, and reminders about volunteer hours. Some students sat up straight, hanging on her every word. Others leaned into their friends, already half-checked out.

And then—her tone shifted again. This time, upbeat in a way that grabbed attention.

“To end this announcement on a high note,” Bloodgood said, a gleam in her eye, “you’ve all officially been invited to this year’s Monster Mash Dance!”

This time, the cheers were deafening.

Students jumped to their feet. Claws clapped. Wings flapped. Someone screamed. Ghouls hugged, fangs flashing with joy. It was like tossing a lit match into a barrel of monster joy.

Because the Monster Mash wasn’t just a dance.

It was THE dance.

Prom for monsters. An evening where everyone dressed in clothes that honored their heritage—fire-resistant suits for lava monsters, glow-threaded gowns for banshees, armored dresses for gorgon girls—and partied like legends from 7 to 10pm.

“Bro,” Manny whispered, nudging Heath. “You ready for this?”

Heath grinned. “Born ready.”

“What are y’all gonna wear?”

Before Heath could answer, Abbey spoke up, face glowing with excitement.

“We are doing opposite element outfits,” she said proudly.

Manny blinked. “So he’s wearing blue and white…”

He looked at Heath.

“And you’re wearing red and orange?” He pointed to Abbey.

They both nodded.

“Yo, that’s fire. Literally.”

He turned to Iris with a grin. “What about you, babe? You—”

But Manny stopped. The grin on his face fell away when he noticed Iris wasn’t listening.

Her smile was gone.

She was staring—upward.

“…Iris?” Manny asked, nudging her gently. “You okay?”

She didn’t look at him. Just raised a hand and pointed above.

“Is the vent supposed to be doing that?”

Manny followed her gaze.

There, high up on the wall near one of the speaker systems, a faint stream of something was seeping out of a vent.

It shimmered with a light pink hue, almost invisible unless you were looking directly at it—soft, smoky, too slow to seem threatening.

Manny stared at it, heart skipping.

It wasn’t steam. It wasn’t fog.

It was… something else.

“What the hell is that?” he whispered.

The strange mist didn’t go unnoticed for long.

“What the hell is that?” Manny repeated, louder this time—loud enough for a few heads nearby to turn.

Then more.

Students began looking up, squinting toward the vent.

The energy in the auditorium shifted fast. Laughter tapered off. Conversations dulled. The giddy buzz from the Monster Mash announcement vanished like a flame snuffed out in water.

“Do you think it’s a leak?”

“Maybe the AC’s busted.”

“Did someone hide a corpse up there?”

“No way—it’s a prank, right?”

Whispers turned to speculation. Confusion. Concern.

Then another voice cut through the noise—sharper, clearer.

“Look. Another one,” Venus said, standing up and pointing to the far wall. Her green eyes narrowed as she stared at a second vent—pink mist curling from it like a snake slipping through its den.

More students began pointing.

“There's one over there.”

“And over there—look, above the lights!”

“Floor vents too…”

One by one, eyes darted across the room as more of the vents were spotted. On the ceiling. Along the floorboards. Nestled in the high corners of the chamber.

Every single vent was now breathing pink gas into the auditorium.

Slow. Steady. Spreading.

Bloodgood furrowed her brow, turning from the podium to glance at Mr. Rotter and Mr. Hackington, both stationed along the back wall.

“Is that supposed to be happening?” she asked, voice quiet but firm.

The two teachers looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“No clue,” Hackington muttered. “Could be a ventilation failure, but…”

“It doesn’t look like any system I’ve ever seen,” Rotter added, eyes narrowing.

Bloodgood’s expression hardened. “Go. Check the control room. Now.”

They nodded immediately, slipping into action, with several other faculty members trailing behind.

She turned back to the mic, keeping her voice calm, even as murmurs were rising like a tide.

“Students, please remain seated,” she said evenly, her tone reassuring. “We’re experiencing some technical difficulties, but everything is under control. There’s no need to panic—”

But she didn’t get to finish the sentence.

A deafening BOOM shattered the air as every vent in the auditorium detonated outward, one after the other—metal grates launching like shrapnel as a wave of glittering pink gas erupted into the room like a stormburst.

Within seconds, the air was thick, cloying, and saturated with a sparkling pink haze. It filled lungs. Coated skin. Eyes watered. Coughs turned to choking. Voices broke into panicked cries.

And just like that, the floodgates opened.

Students screamed—first in confusion, then in fear.

Bloodgood, quick on reflex, pulled a reinforced mask from her coat pocket and covered her face. Her voice—once calm and authoritative—was drowned in the roar of chaos.

The students weren’t so lucky.

They had no masks. No warning. No protection.

The gas swept over them like a wave, and the panic hit immediately.

Chairs scraped across the floor, toppling.

Monsters jumped to their feet, some coughing, others choking. The glittering haze clung to their clothes, stung their eyes, clogged their throats.

And then the screaming truly began.

Bodies pushed, shoved, collided. The auditorium transformed into a stampede in seconds—shoulders slammed together, wings clipped others, claws dug for balance. Nobody cared about rows or friends anymore—only escape.

“MOVE!” someone screamed. “GET OUT OF THE WAY!”

Robecca let out a shriek as a cluster of gargoyles barreled past her, their stone wings buffeting her hard enough to knock her to the floor.

Her back hit the ground with a clang.

“GEARS!” Venus shouted from a few rows up, eyes wide as she pushed against the tide to reach her. “Hold on—I’m coming!”

Robecca’s mechanical limbs trembled, gears grinding under pressure. Her processors were red-lining, steam hissing from her joints. She blinked rapidly, blinking back oil.

“I’m—I’m fine,” she stammered, trying and failing to stand.

Venus dropped to her knees, yanked her girlfriend upright with both hands, and they took off—running to one of the far exits that hadn’t yet become a wall of bodies.

In the chaos, Deuce spotted Clawd just as the werewolf was slammed to the ground by a wave of bodies rushing the central aisle.

“Clawd!” Cleo gasped.

Deuce didn’t hesitate—he waded through the madness, ducked a flying elbow, and hauled Clawd up with both arms. His snakes hissed frantically, sensing the rising tension.

“You good, man?” he asked, hoisting Clawd over his shoulder like dead weight.

Clawd groaned, blinking. His jacket was torn, his shirt scuffed, footprints pressed into his back.

“Yeah,” he rasped, “I think—I think I’m good. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

At the front of the auditorium, the crowd hit a wall.

Literally.

The main exit—the massive double doors that were always unlocked—wouldn’t budge.

“What the—? It’s not opening!”

Dozens of hands reached for the handles, pushing, pulling, scratching at the wood.

“They’re locked!”

That was impossible. The doors had never been locked during a school-wide assembly. Never.

Panic deepened.

“Stand back!” someone yelled.

Romulus shoved through the crowd, Meowlody and Purrsephone flanking him. His eyes locked on the doors like prey.

With a snarl, he reared back and slammed his full weight into the wood.

CRACK.

The door shuddered.

But it didn’t break.

Romulus staggered back a step, stunned.

He was a werewolf strong enough to crush stone, tear through reinforced lockers—shatter boulders.

And the door hadn’t even splintered.

His face twisted into something between confusion and fury.

“No... no, no, no—again!”

He launched punch after punch into the doors. Splinters flew. The hinges groaned. But the lock held. The frame didn’t budge.

Others joined him—Manny, Rochelle, Garrott. A wall of raw power. Muscles slammed into the door, claws scraped the edges, wings beat furiously.

Nothing gave.

Behind them, the gas kept pouring in—seeping from every wall, every vent, every unseen corner of the auditorium.

The students were trapped.

“SOMEONE FIND AN EXIT!” a voice screamed across the room, ragged with panic.

“On it!” Porter called back, grabbing Spectra’s hand as the two ghosts phased through the air, scanning the walls and ceilings for anything that could lead out.

On the ground, Frankie was dragging a half-conscious Jackson by the wrist, weaving through the stumbling crowd, her eyes locked on a set of side doors.

Her legs were burning. Her lungs were tight. But she didn’t care.

“Hold on, baby!” she shouted, gripping his hand tighter. “We’re almost there, just stay with me!”

Jackson’s head lolled back as he stumbled behind her, his body slack and heavy. The gas had soaked into his lungs, dulling his vision, his senses, everything.

He could barely speak.

“Fr…Frankie…” he mumbled, slurring his words. “Ge…get outta h-here. Save… yourself…”

And then, he collapsed.

Dead weight.

Frankie’s knees hit the floor as she caught him, barely.

“JACKSON!!” she screamed, shaking him violently. “No, no, no—come on, don’t do this, don’t you dare! We have to get out! I’m not leaving you!”

Bloodgood, still watching from the stage, felt something twist in her chest.

Seeing Frankie—bright, powerful, always in control—reduced to this?

It was devastating.

But something was happening.

Jackson’s skin began to steam—first lightly, then rapidly. His body jerked as if hit by a jolt of electricity. His clothes stretched against his frame as muscle mass rapidly expanded, his skin shifting from pale to an intense, glowing blue.

Then, his eyes snapped open.

Fire exploded from his head in a whoosh of heat and energy.

Frankie gasped, stumbling back. “Holt?!”

The boy in front of her stood upright, taller, bulkier—no longer trembling.

“What the hell is going o—” Holt started, but even his voice, rough and cocky, wavered.

A beat later, he, too, faltered.

The flame from his hair flickered.

His knees buckled.

He slumped.

Frankie caught him mid-fall, arms shaking from the strain.

“OH, HELL NO!” she growled. “You two are NOT doing this to me again!”

Gritting her teeth, she dragged Holt’s now heavier, smoldering body back toward the door. “You’re staying conscious out of spite if I have to shock you every ten steps!”

Across the auditorium, Andy had the same idea. He crouched low, preparing to shift into his colossal form.

The ceiling above wasn’t ideal, but if he could get high enough, he could blast them out through the top.

He gritted his teeth. Muscles bulged. His skin began to ripple—

Then he inhaled another thick plume of the pink mist pouring from the vent below.

And collapsed, mid-transformation.

“ANDY!!” Jane screamed, darting through the crowd, her swarm of tiny jungle critters flitting around her in panic.

She fell to her knees, grabbing his face, shaking him.

“Come on! Wake up! Wake up!”

Andy didn’t move.

And a few seconds later, neither did she.

Jane slumped forward onto his chest, unconscious.

Elsewhere, a group of students tried rushing to the far side doors—but didn’t see Gooliope Jellington’s massive frame swaying dangerously in the center of the aisle.

Her legs buckled.

She hit the ground like a falling building.

The crash was deafening.

Her enormous body collapsed across a group of fleeing students—including Gil and Ryder—trapping them beneath her.

“SOMEONE PLEASE!!” Ryder screamed, panic cracking his voice as he clawed at the floor. “GET HER OFF!!!”

Gil's eyes darted wildly. He could barely breathe.

“Lagoona—” he choked, “HELP ME!! PLEASE!!”

Lagoona and Gigi dove into the fray, grabbing arms, shoulders, anything they could reach.

Other students joined in, straining to lift even an inch of Gooliope’s weight.

It should have been easy—together, they’d lifted heavier things.

But right now?

Every limb felt like lead. Their muscles were dull, their grip weak.

Like the gas hadn’t just clouded the air—it had leeched their strength.

Lagoona’s heart pounded as she looked down at Gil, his face red, veins bulging, eyes wide with tears.

She wasn’t strong enough.

None of them were.

And the gas kept pouring in.

Some students, including Batsy, Gory, and Sirena, had taken to the air, wings slicing through the haze as they aimed for the ceiling. They were trying to bring it down—punch through, claw through, anything that could open a way out.

But the roof had vents too.

The second they got close, the gas hit them hard.

One by one, they dropped like stones, slamming into the floor with sickening THUDS.

Wings crumpled. Limbs twisted. The sounds made everyone flinch.

Heath, who just minutes ago had been hyped for the dance, now staggered near the wall. His balance was gone, his knees buckling. He reached for the stone bricks to stay upright, flames sputtering weakly from his fingertips.

“Heath!” a voice called out.

He looked up to see Abbey running toward him, with Marisol Coxi just behind her.

“¡Apúrate!” Marisol shouted. “We need to get out of here, ya!”

Abbey reached for him. “Come on,” she said urgently. “You’re still up. We need you to burn the doors down.”

“The doors are sealed shut!” Marisol added, her voice sharp. “Usa tus fuegos, chico. Before we all drop.”

Heath nodded weakly. He grit his teeth and pushed off the wall, staggering with them toward the main doors.

But before he could raise his hands—before the flame could even flicker to life—his knees gave out. His body crumpled mid-step.

“A-Abbey...” he croaked, his voice distant.

She spun just in time to catch him hitting the floor.

“HEATH!!” she screamed, dropping to her knees.

She shook him, hard, her breath catching in her throat. “Come on! Wake up! You can’t stop now—we need you!”

But he didn’t stir.

His skin was pale. His flame had died out.

“¡No, no, no, chico! ¡Levántate!” Marisol shouted, kneeling beside them, slapping his cheeks gently. “Heath, por favor.”

Clawd, Manny, and Deuce barreled over, panic in their eyes.

Clawd collapsed beside him, grabbing his friend’s shoulders.

“C’mon, man, get up!” he begged, shaking him. “We need you, bro! Please!”

“He’s out!” Deuce yelled, trying to force open the thick metal latch above the door. “He’s not waking up!”

Clawd looked up, eyes bloodshot. “Then what do we do?!”

“Someone get Jinafire!” a student shouted from the back.

“No good!” another voice answered, pointing into the haze.

Across the auditorium, Skelita was kneeling beside Jinafire, shaking her frantically. Tears streamed down her face.

Jinafire’s body was limp, her golden scales dulled.

“Can this day get any worse?!” Clawd roared, slamming his shoulder into the door with a few other students.

“CLAWD!”

He turned—and his stomach dropped.

Clawdeen and Toralei were sprinting toward him, and in their arms—was Draculaura.

Clawd’s chest caved in.

“LAURA!” he shouted, bolting toward them. He dropped to his knees and took her from their arms, cradling her carefully.

Her skin was burning hot. Her face flushed. Eyes closed.

“She just collapsed!” Clawdeen said breathlessly.

Toralei coughed through the gas. “We’ve gotta get everyone out of here NOW! The vents are going crazy!”

“The doors won’t open!” Purrsephone shouted from across the room, ramming her shoulder into one.

“DEUCE!” Cleo screamed, grabbing him by the front of his shirt. Her mascara was running, her voice frayed with fury. “DO SOMETHING!”

“THE HELL YOU THINK I’M TRYING TO DO?!”

“USE YOUR STONE POWER—TURN THE FUCKING DOOR TO ROCK!”

“I TRIED!” Deuce roared. “It didn’t work! Nothing’s working!”

Everyone froze.

The realization hit like a second wave of gas.

If he couldn’t do it… who else could?

All around them, students were dropping like flies. Gooliope’s body still pinned several to the floor. The pile of students beneath her barely moved. The rest stumbled through the pink haze like sleepwalkers.

And still, the gas kept coming.

Every breath felt heavier.

The entire auditorium was vanishing behind a veil of glittering pink fog.

Panic no longer needed words.

And as for Bloodgood, she stood still. Not frozen. Not paralyzed. Just... still.

The auditorium buzzed no more. It howled—with screams, with crying, with coughing. The sharp, clean echo of her voice, once steady and commanding, was long gone—drowned beneath the chaos.

The day had started so well.......

No fights. No monster attacks. No missing students. No spells gone wrong.

Just peace.

It had been quiet. Hopeful.

She had stood at that podium, proud, smiling. Ready to celebrate. To announce a dance. A future.

And now, all she could do was watch.

Watch as Lagoona cried out in frustration, her hands trembling as she tried to lift the giant limb pinning Gil to the floor.

His face was turning purple. He was still breathing—barely.

Watch as Ghoulia, normally composed and brilliant beyond belief, broke down in front of Slo-Mo’s limp body.

Her sobs weren’t loud—they were broken things. Shallow. Shaky. Like a clock winding down.

Watch as Isi rocked back and forth, Neighthan’s head in her lap, whispering his name like a prayer.

As if repetition alone could bring him back.

Watch Iris sink into Manny’s chest, her tears soaking through his shirt.

Her fists clenched as if trying to hold herself together by sheer physical force.

Bloodgood’s eyes swept the room.

Bodies. Everywhere.

Unmoving. Not dead—not yet—but they looked like it. The pale stillness. The slack jaws. The quiet, unnatural peace that came after chaos.

She’d seen it once before. In her younger days.

But not here. Not at Monster High.

This place was supposed to be different.

This place was sacred.

Now it looked like a battlefield. No—a graveyard. A holding cell for the almost-dead.

The way the pink gas still floated through the air like glittery fog made it worse—prettier, in a cruel, sick way.

It looked like a party.

But it felt like a massacre.

She should be doing something. Anything.

But what?

She couldn’t rally the students. They weren’t listening—not because they didn’t want to, but because they couldn’t.

Half of them couldn’t stand. The rest were frozen in place by fear, or grief, or confusion.

They’d just come off weeks of testing. Their minds were already cracked and raw.

Now they were breaking.

Bloodgood’s fingers gripped the edge of the podium so tightly the wood splintered beneath her gloves.

She was the headmistress. The protector. The one who was supposed to have a plan.

But there was no emergency protocol for this.

No lesson plan for mass collapse.

All she could do was stand there, choking back the scream rising in her throat, watching as her students—the ones she’d fought for, taught, protected—dropped like marionettes with their strings cut.

All she could do was wonder, over and over again—

How the hell did this happen?

How did everything go so wrong?

Why today? Why now?

The lights flickered above her.

Somewhere behind the fog, a student cried out again.

Somewhere else, another body hit the floor.

And still—she watched.

Because for the first time in her career...

She had no idea what to do next.

And then—finally—finally—someone broke through.

A thunderous CRACK rang through the smoke-thick auditorium as the main doors buckled, then snapped open, hinges screeching like banshees.

The door exploded outward under the weight of a dozen frantic fists—and light, real light, spilled through.

Bloodgood’s head whipped toward the sound, her chest seizing in disbelief.

Then—her voice returned. Not slowly. Not gently.

It came back like a whip crack.

She grabbed the mic, fingers white around the stand, and bellowed with every ounce of power she had:

“EVERYONE OUT. NOW.”

Her voice slammed across the auditorium like a wave.

“Grab anyone you can carry—if they’re unconscious, drag them! Forget your bags, forget your plans—JUST GET OUT!”

The room burst into motion again, but this time—it had direction. Purpose. A way out.

Students scrambled, slipping and coughing, many on their last legs.

Heath, still out cold, was scooped up by Manny and Clawd.

Frankie threw Holt’s arm over her shoulder and staggered forward, barely able to see through her tears and the glittering fog.

Skelita dragged Jinafire by the arms while sobbing openly.

Abbey carried two smaller underclassmen like they were weightless.

Ghoulia refused to leave Slo-Mo’s side, and it was Deuce who pried her away and carried them both.

From every shadow, ghouls and mansters rose like survivors of a storm—battered, choking, gasping—but moving.

They poured through the doors like a wave—out of the auditorium, into the hallways of Monster High. The pink gas trailed after them like a living thing, curling and clinging to the air, staining every surface it touched.

The halls echoed with screaming. Some from fear. Some from pain. Some from students simply trying to yell each other’s names over the chaos.

The lights flickered and glowed an eerie red as enchantments began to short-circuit.

Lockers flew open. Spells failed. Security charms fizzled to ash.

Classrooms were already full of mist. Doors stood ajar, desks overturned. The school looked like it had been invaded by something supernatural.

Because it had.

Then—the front doors.

They burst open, shattering the final boundary between safety and exposure.

Sunlight blasted across the floor.

And out they came.

A tidal wave of bodies poured from Monster High—students and staff alike, coughing, weeping, stumbling, carrying each other through the chaos.

Some dragged the unconscious. Some carried three people at once. Some ran like hell and never looked back.

The pink gas chased them.

It burst through windows and doors, fogging up the glass, spilling out in thick waves that billowed like storm clouds.

It didn’t move like smoke—it crawled. Reached. Spread.

Monster High was unrecognizable.

Its towers and spires, once so proud and strange and beautiful, now looked haunted.

The gas made everything seem cursed. Like the school had been pulled into some otherworldly nightmare and wasn’t done letting it bleed.

Students collapsed in the grass, some retching, others sobbing. The lucky ones grabbed friends and kept moving. The less lucky were still inside.

Bloodgood stood outside the entrance, cloak whipping around her like a tattered flag, barking orders, her voice raw and breaking.

“GET THEM AWAY FROM THE DOORS!”

“DON’T GO BACK IN!”

“HELP HER—SHE’S STILL BREATHING!”

More students spilled out. Teachers guided them across the lawn, counting heads, yelling names.

The gas kept coming.

The front steps of Monster High looked like the aftermath of a bombing—strewn with bodies, backpacks, shoes left behind in the rush. Some students lay curled up in the grass, eyes wide with trauma, whispering names over and over again like mantras.

The bell tower rang once—high, cracked, off-key.

And then—black.

The sound of running feet.

The echo of screams.

The gas kept pouring.

And Monster High would never be the same again.

(Bloodgood’s House – 7:00 PM)

Group Chat: Teachers & Staff

🏇Bloodgood:
(Status report. Is everyone accounted for?)

💀Rotter:
(I’m fine. Shaken, but okay.)

🧪Hackington:
(Bloody exhausted.)

🫥Mr. Where:
(No injuries here. Physically fine. But I’m worried about the students.)

👩‍🍳Kindergrubber:
(Same. Zhis will not be forgotten by them anytime soon.)

🐲Flapper:
(Yeah, I'm worried too. This wasn't just a scare—it was trauma.)

🏇Bloodgood:
(Agreed. Any reports of injuries or fatalities?)

[Pause]

💀Rotter:
(No deaths. Just heavy coughing, gas exposure, and mass unconsciousness.)

🏇Bloodgood:
(How many affected?)

🧪Hackington:
(Honestly? Damn near everyone.)

🫥Mr. Where:
(And the ones who were unconscious?)

💀Rotter:
(All stable. Breathing. Most are awake now. Parents have picked up a lot of them already.)

🧪Hackington:
(Those who weren’t picked up were cleared and sent home for the weekend.)

🏇Bloodgood:
(What about the gas?)

🫥Mr. Where:
(Contained. Vents sealed. We’re purging the system now. Air is being scrubbed by the cleanup team.)

🏇Bloodgood:
(Do we know the source?)

🐲Flapper:
(Still unknown. No signs of tampering on the vent system. We’re digging.)

💀Rotter:
(What about the Monster Mash? Still on?)

🏇Bloodgood:
(Yes. It's still scheduled for the end of next month. We’ll re-evaluate depending on what we uncover.)

🐲Flapper:
(Any word from parents?)

🫥Mr. Where:
(They’re already calling. My inbox is flooded.)

🏇Bloodgood:
(I’m on it. I’ll be holding a parent assembly this Saturday. In person, not virtual.)

🧪Hackington:
(Good. Keep us posted. This shook all of us.)

🫥Mr. Where:
(Please. We need updates as soon as you have them.)

🏇Bloodgood:
(You’ll have them. Thank you all. Rest if you can. We’ve got a long week ahead.)

End of Chat

(Frankie’s House – 9:30 PM)

Frankie sat motionless beneath the icy stream of water, her back pressed against the tiled wall, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The cold wasn’t just a sensation—it was a punishment, a cleansing, a desperate attempt to feel anything else.

The water hit her like shards of glass at first—sharp and relentless. It raced down her shoulders, slid between her collarbones, trickled along the bolts in her neck.

She could feel it tracing the stitches that held her together, soaking into the thin seams where magic met metal.

Her skin was buzzing. Not with life, but with static—like her entire nervous system was just trying to reset.

It didn’t help.

Every drop slid over her like a reminder. Of the gas. The screams. The limp weight of Holt’s body in her arms. The sight of friends passed out on the auditorium floor. Monster High, once her safe haven, now looking like a death trap wrapped in fog.

Earlier, she had been so happy.

She had her man—both of them. She laughed with her friends for the first time in weeks.

She finally felt like herself again. She had been thinking about dresses and dancing and what shade of lipstick to wear.

Now?

She was sitting naked in a freezing shower, trying to rinse trauma off like dirt.

The bathroom door creaked open, and she flinched—just slightly.

“Frankie?” her mom’s voice called gently from behind the curtain. “Honey… are you okay?”

Frankie didn’t move. “Yeah, Mom. Just… just leave me be, okay?” Her voice cracked. “I just need a minute to decompress.”

There was a pause.

“You’ve been in there for a while,” her mother said. “I’m worried. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I just want to be alone for a bit.” Frankie swallowed hard, trying to keep her tone level. “It’s been a long day.”

Her mom exhaled softly. “I know it has, baby. You’ve got every right to feel upset. I just want you to be safe… and happy.”

“I know, mom,” she murmured without thinking. Her voice softened. “I know. I’ll come out when I’m ready.”

“Okay, honey. Just… let me know if you need anything.”

“…Thanks, Mom.”

The door closed.

Frankie stayed a little longer, the cold water sliding over her lips, her throat, her chest—her body tingling as if rejecting the comfort.

Eventually, when her fingers were numb and her muscles were trembling, she stood and shut the water off.

She dried off slowly. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion.

She threw on a loose grey t-shirt and matching shorts—no makeup, no accessories, no care.

Her hair was still dripping wet as she trudged down the hallway and collapsed face-first onto her bed.

Her arms splayed out. She didn’t bother with the blanket. She just lay there—empty. Tired.

The kind of tired that wasn’t about sleep.

Part of her hoped she’d wake up and none of it had been real.

That Monster High hadn’t turned into a tomb.

That Holt and Jackson weren’t unconscious. That Draculaura hadn’t passed out in Clawd’s arms. That she hadn’t had to carry someone she loved like dead weight through clouds of choking pink gas.

Sleep took her eventually, pulling her down like an undertow.

And for a moment—just one—

Her face looked peaceful.

But then her eyes shot open.

And they glowed.

Pink.

It wasn’t just her.

All across New Salem, monster teens who had fallen asleep began to stir—then snapped awake with the same eerie, rose-hued light burning behind their eyes. They sat up. Motionless. Breathing—but wrong. Empty. Wired.

Charged.

Unknowing.

Ready.

No one saw it coming.

No one understood it yet.

But this day—

This day marked the last time the students of Monster High would ever sleep without sweating.

The last time their kisses didn’t taste like static.

The last time pleasure and control weren’t the same damn thing.

And from here on out?

They belonged to something bigger.

Something pink.

Something very beautiful.

Something seductive.

To Be Continued....

Notes:

What was your favorite part of this chapter?

Chapter 2: Aftershocks

Summary:

Some check ins, some emotional talks, and a few visions of the future.

Notes:

Rather than jump into the chaos like in the previous version, this is gonna be more of a slow burn, with things gradually building up to the explosion of horniess.

The dreams are just the beginning.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(Saturday, September 30th)

(Monster High Auditorium – 6:00 AM)

The auditorium buzzed with low murmurs as more parents trickled in, each one casting wary glances at the walls, the vents, the ceiling.

Some refused to enter at all.

After the trauma their children had described—some sobbing, some too numb to speak—the thought of walking into the same space where it all happened was more than most could stomach. Many had imagined gas still clinging to the air like a curse.

But Bloodgood had made her promise.

The vents were sealed.

The cleaning crews had worked through the night, scrubbing every inch of the auditorium—magic and manual labor alike. Industrial fans now lined the aisles, keeping the room cool and breathable.

Cables snaked across the floor in tangled bundles, drawing heavily from the school’s backup power grid.

It was risky.

But it was the only way to ensure this meeting could even happen.

She had failed to protect her students. She would not fail their families.

Even still, the atmosphere was brittle. The space didn’t feel like a sanctuary.

It felt like a chamber. A place waiting to close in.

Parents spoke in hushed tones or not at all. Some stood with arms crossed. Some sat stiffly, white-knuckled, their eyes glued to the exits.

They looked at the auditorium like it had teeth.

When Bloodgood stepped up to the podium and tapped the mic, the soft feedback silenced the crowd.

Dozens of eyes locked onto her—some angry, some cold, others barely holding back tears.

She cleared her throat and steadied her breath.

“I know many of you are upset,” she began, her tone calm but cautious. “And I understand completely, but—”

“Upset?” a loud voice cut in from the back. “Oh, we're way past that, Bloodgood!”

It was Ramses de Nile—Cleo’s father—standing with both fists on the back of the seat in front of him, eyes wide with outrage. His gold rings clinked as he shook the seat dramatically, voice already rising.

“You said our children would be safe!” he barked, sounding more like a petulant king than a concerned parent. “You promised! And now look—gas, injuries, panic! You’ve turned this place into a cursed circus!”

Several parents rolled their eyes. Ramses had a reputation for turning every issue into a personal tragedy—especially if it involved his daughter. But still… he wasn’t wrong.

“Sit down, Ramses!” bellowed Medusa Gorgon from the opposite aisle, arms crossed over her snakeskin blazer. Her snakes hissed in irritation. “We don’t need one of your royal temper tantrums right now!”

Ramses shot her a glare but reluctantly sat, still muttering under his breath like a grounded child.

“He’s got a point though,” Gil’s mother added, standing up. “We were told this school was a sanctuary. Now our kids are crawling home traumatized—what are we supposed to believe?”

More voices chimed in. Accusations. Demands. Panic.

Bloodgood raised her hand.

“Please—if you’ll let me expl—”

“I used to hear my daughter talk about Monster High like it was a dream!” a woman in the back shouted, eyes wet. “Now she wakes up screaming, thinking the gas is still in her lungs!”

The tension snapped.

A flood of shouting erupted, echoing across the high, gothic ceiling.

“HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?!”

“MY KID WAS BREATHING IN THAT STUFF!”

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO PROTECT THEM!”

“MY DAUGHTER HASN’T SPOKEN SINCE YESTERDAY!”

“I WANT ANSWERS!”

“I WANT BLOOD!!”

“I DEMAND JUSTICE!!”

“ENOUGH.”

The word wasn’t shouted.

It was decreed.

It rang out like a bell toll.

The crowd froze mid-breath, like a spell had been cast over the room.

Every pair of eyes turned—slowly—toward the massive wooden doors now creaking shut behind a single, looming figure:

Count Dracula.

He stood tall, wrapped in a black cloak trimmed with silver, his presence sharp and chilling. The air around him felt colder. Still. The shadows seemed to curve inward toward him.

“Your anger is understood,” he said, his voice deep, velvety, laced with that old Transylvanian cadence. “Last night, I took my daughter from the arms of her shaken boyfriend… and laid her down as if she were dead.”

His words hung there—weighted.

“I have no shortage of fury,” he continued, stepping forward, the soft clack of his polished shoes echoing off stone. “But we will not tear each other to pieces in this place. You are not beasts. You are not villagers with pitchforks. You are parents.”

Silence.

No one moved. Some barely breathed.

Dracula’s gaze drifted to Bloodgood. He inclined his head just slightly.

“You may proceed.”

Bloodgood, now steadying her trembling hands, straightened her back.

“…Thank you, Count.”

Dracula moved to the front row, folding his cloak behind him as he sat. No one followed. No one dared.

Bloodgood’s voice filled the auditorium once more—calm, but razor-thin.

“I would love—truly—to stand here and give you all the answers you want,” she began, her hands folded tightly at the podium. “I would love to tell you that everything is going to be okay. That this won’t happen again. That the person responsible is locked in a dungeon somewhere.”

She let out a slow, exhausted breath. Her eyes swept across the crowd, unreadable.

“But the truth is—I have no clue who’s behind this.”

Murmurs rippled. Some gasped. Others clenched their fists.

“We searched every inch of the ventilation system,” she continued, voice steady but void of the warmth from earlier. “No one was in the control room. The gas was too thick to see more than a foot ahead. The only hint we have is that Mr. Rotter thought he heard footsteps before entering. By the time anyone got there, the entire room had been trashed. No intruder. No footprints. No magical residue. Just damage.”

She tightened her grip on the podium.

“For all we know, this could have been a deliberate act. Or... it could’ve been a catastrophic system failure. A malfunction.”

That was it.

The parents erupted.

“WHAT?!” Scarah’s mother screamed. “YOU EXPECT US TO SWALLOW THAT?! A malfunction?!”

“FOUR TIMES!” someone else roared. “FOUR SCHOOL DESTROYING ATTACKS IN SIX YEARS! AND NOW YOU’RE SAYING IT MIGHT NOT BE MALICIOUS?!”

Bloodgood stood still as the voices roared over each other. The word “negligence” was being passed around like wildfire.

“My daughter nearly died choking on that gas!” a banshee mother shrieked, her voice cracking. “She still can’t sleep!”

“I trusted you,” another said, standing up. “And I regret it.”

More parents followed. Some shouting about pulling their children out. Others demanding lawsuits. A few stormed toward the aisles as if ready to leave the school entirely behind.

Bloodgood’s eyes dimmed.

The sympathy drained from her face. Her shoulders squared. Her tone dropped a full octave.

“I would understand,” she said coldly, “if you wanted to leave.”

The room froze for just a beat.

“But I’m afraid I can’t let you.”

A cold, collective silence swept over the room.

“Excuse me?” Invisi-Billy’s mother asked, eyes wide.

Bloodgood took a breath. “Three reasons.”

She held up one finger.

“First—as I said, we don’t know yet if this was an attack or a malfunction. If it was an attack, it could’ve happened anywhere. And if you transfer your children to another school, you might just be putting them in a place less equipped to deal with the fallout.”

A second finger.

“Second,” Rotter chimed in, standing up. “Monster High is the only fully accredited school in the world that accepts all monster species. Period. Sure, others exist, but most are either private, species-exclusive, or operate under outdated laws. And for those of you with hybrid children—this is it. This is the only place they’ll receive a full education.”

He stepped aside, and Hackington adjusted his tie as he stood.

“Third,” he added in his crisp British accent, “you signed liability waivers upon enrolment, along with binding nondisclosure agreements. Monster High has never been a conventional institution—and given the nature of past incidents, you were fully aware of what sort of school this was becoming. You accepted the risks—willingly.”

He paused.

“And breaking that contract now means covering the full tuition your children have already accrued.”

Bloodgood leaned in again.

“You want to pull your child out?” she asked flatly. “Then pay for every class, every meal, every enchanted textbook, every field trip, and every protective ward they’ve benefited from since day one. Otherwise…”

She paused—then let it drop:

“Your kids are staying.”

That’s when the fury returned.

The parents exploded with outrage. Screaming, fists waving, some standing up again. It was chaos—louder than before. A wall of sound closing in.

Bloodgood didn’t flinch.

She turned the mic dial to full.

Then slammed her hand on the podium and roared—

“SILENCE!!!”

The sound boomed like thunder, echoing off the walls with a supernatural force. Windows trembled. Lights flickered.

Every voice died.

Dead. Quiet.

She let the silence settle, her shadow stretched long beneath the spotlight.

Her next words were quiet. Clipped. Controlled.

“I’ve been trying to protect your children since the day they set foot in this building,” she said. “I don’t sleep. I barely eat. I pour everything I have into this school. And yes—I failed. We failed.”

She leaned in closer to the mic.

“But don’t come in here screaming at me like I’m your scapegoat. I’m not your therapist. I’m not your punching bag. I am the headmistress of Monster High. And I will do what needs to be done to fix this school... with or without your approval.”

Her eyes swept the stunned crowd.

“I’ve given you my time, my energy, my honesty. If that’s not enough for you?”

She smirked—tired, cold.

“I don’t give a damn.”

Then she stepped back and folded her arms, waiting.

Daring anyone to speak.

No one did.

But then, a voice broke through the quiet.

“As much as I hate to admit it… she’s right.”

All heads turned toward the center aisle.

It was Viktor Frankenstein—Frankie Stein’s father—standing tall but solemn, his expression calm, his voice surprisingly soft.

“I know everyone wants someone to blame,” he said. “Wants to point a finger and feel like they’re doing something. And trust me, I get it.”

He glanced toward Bloodgood, his gaze steady.

“But look at her.”

The room followed his eyes.

“She’s not some untouchable figure sitting behind a desk. She’s a woman who just watched dozens of children—her children, in every way that counts—collapse in front of her. Some of them screaming. Some not breathing. Some not moving.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

“She saw what we only heard about. And she stayed standing.”

He exhaled, his voice tightening.

“She’s in shock. Like the rest of us. She’s exhausted. Like the rest of us. She didn’t run. She didn’t spin lies. She stood in front of you and told the truth—even when she knew it would be turned against her.”

His voice strengthened, just a touch.

“So maybe instead of tearing into her, we should think about what our kids need most right now—stability. Support. Reassurance. Not more yelling. Not more chaos.”

A few parents looked away, ashamed. Some still looked angry—but quieter now. Deflated. Tired.

“I want answers just as much as you all do,” Viktor said. “Hell, I want someone to blame too. But until we know what actually happened… rage isn’t going to fix anything.”

He nodded to Bloodgood.

“Thank you, Headmistress. For not hiding behind paperwork. For standing here and taking it.”

Bloodgood stared at him for a beat.

Then offered a weary, almost reluctant smile.

“…Thank you, Viktor.”

She turned to the rest of the room, her face hardening again.

“Monster High will continue investigating the incident,” she said, voice back to full strength but laced with fatigue. “We’ll provide any updates as they come. Check our official Screambook page daily. That’s where you’ll find facts. Not rumors.”

She then gestured toward the front doors, already beginning to creak open again with a haunting kind of slowness.

“Until then,” she said, tone flat and dry, “show yourself the exit. Goodbye.”

There was no further drama. No more shouting.

Just the slow, dragging shuffle of chairs and the quiet thud of footsteps leaving the auditorium.

Some parents lingered in the doorway, tossing tired glares—Ramses included—but they were mostly hollow now. Spite, not fury.

Once the last echo died out, Mr. Rotter approached the stage.

“…Are you alright, Headmistress?”

Bloodgood exhaled, rubbing her temple.

“No,” she said, eyes still locked on the now-empty auditorium. “But it could be worse.”

She let the silence hang, her voice nearly a whisper.

“…I just hope the students are okay.”

(Dracula’s Castle – 10:30 AM)

The woods surrounding Dracula’s castle were suffocatingly still.

No birds. No wind. No life.

Not even the whisper of leaves shifting in the breeze.

There was no breeze.

It was as if nature itself refused to breathe near the ancient stone giant looming beyond the trees. The castle sat buried in shadow, even in daylight—its jagged towers piercing the sky like fangs. The forest around it had withered into silence, not from decay… but obedience.

It was too quiet.

So quiet the air hummed, low and unnatural, like the world was holding its breath.

And then—slicing through that stillness—a blur ripped through the woods.

Clawd Wolf sprinted at breakneck speed, dodging the skeletal remains of long-dead trees, each step pounding into the dirt like a heartbeat he couldn’t silence.

He could’ve shifted. Could’ve gone full wolf and reached the castle faster.

But he didn’t trust himself right now.

His thoughts were too jumbled, too loud.

All he knew was this:

He needed to see her.

Yesterday, after the chaos at Monster High, when the school drowned in pink gas and panic, he and Clawdeen had searched frantically for Howleen. She’d been found unconscious, collapsed beside Twyla—who refused to leave her side.

The two girls were taken home together, Clawdeen and Toralei carrying Howleen in silence.

As for Clawd… he carried someone else.

Draculaura.

Unconscious. Pale. Barely breathing.

He’d taken her to the only place he knew would protect her.

Dracula’s castle.

When he’d arrived at the gates, he pounded his fist against the ancient wood until it creaked open. Dracula himself had answered.

The way the vampire lord’s eyes narrowed—the way his expression dropped when he saw his daughter limp in Clawd’s arms—it was the kind of moment Clawd wouldn’t forget. Ever.

There was a beat of silence. Long enough to sting.

Then, without a word, Dracula took her from him. Clawd tried to explain. Tried to say it wasn’t his fault. But Dracula was already gone—disappearing into the castle as the heavy gates groaned shut behind him.

Clawd could only watch his girlfriend's unconscious body get farther away as the castle gates slowly closed.

Now, Clawd was back.

Because last night… the guilt had buried him.

He’d chosen the team over her. Over time with her. And the event never even happened. The whole restaurant celebration was canceled. Canceled.

And worse—he’d learned she’d been looking for him at the assembly. Trying to talk. Trying to fix things.

He needed to see her. Not tomorrow. Not after a text.

Now.

The castle loomed ahead like a sleeping beast. Spiked turrets clawed at the sky. The windows looked like watching eyes. And the air—chill, unmoving—coated his lungs like smoke.

Clawd stopped at the base of the outer wall, crouched low—

And launched.

His body flew through the air like a cannonball. Werewolves couldn’t fly, but with enough strength, they didn’t need to.

He landed hard on a stone parapet, claws digging into the ledge just beside a narrow, arched window. Inside, barely visible through the cloudy glass—

Her.

Draculaura.

She sat curled up on the edge of a high-backed bed, pale legs tucked under a massive T-shirt.

Her hair was a tangled mess. Her eyes were heavy. But she was alive.

Clawd tapped the glass.

She flinched—then turned.

Her eyes went wide, jaw dropping as she ran across the room and threw the window open.

“What are you doing here?!” she asked, voice tight with shock—but there was a shimmer of relief hiding behind it.

“I had to see you,” Clawd breathed, his voice cracking as he held himself against the wall with one arm. “I didn’t know if you were okay—I needed to know.”

She stared at him for a heartbeat. Her eyes scanned his face, reading every line of fear and guilt etched into it.

Then, without another word, she pulled him inside and slammed the window shut behind him.

For a long, heavy moment… the room was completely silent.

Clawd and Draculaura stood there, just watching each other—eyes wide, chests tight, faces unreadable.

No yelling. No accusations. No “You barely spend time with me!”

Just the stillness of two people who knew they had both broken something—and didn’t know how to pick it back up.

Then Clawd collapsed.

His knees hit the floor with a hollow THUD, hands trembling as his chest began to quake.

“I’m sorry!”

His voice cracked, raw and unfiltered.

Draculaura’s eyes widened.

“W-What?”

“I’m sorry!” he choked out again, tears now falling freely. “I’m sorry I didn’t make time for you. I’m sorry I picked the team. I’m sorry I didn’t look for you at the assembly—I should have. I should’ve been there!”

His words tumbled out like they’d been bottled up for too long.

“I messed up. Again. And again. And I just kept thinking about it last night—I kept hearing your voice, reading your texts—and I realized I wasn’t even mad at you. I was mad at me.”

Draculaura’s heart clenched.

Seeing him like this—this broken—made her own anger feel small. Petty. Hollow.

Clawd kept going.

“I’m a dumbass boyfriend who can’t get it right,” he said, fists clenched at his sides. “I make big promises and then I drop the ball. Remember your birthday a few years ago? How sad you were when I gave you that terrible present? I felt so damn horrible after you ran off. I felt like SHIT!”

That broke her.

It was like a ghost punched her in the stomach.

She remembered that day too clearly.

She remembered being cold to him.

She remembered Valentine stepping in when she was vulnerable.

She remembered watching Clawd—heartbroken, humiliated—shouting at her from the floor as Valentine pinned him against the wall.

“Draculaura! Look in the box!!”

And how that box held every memory they’d made. Every photo. Every charm. Every object from one of there adventures.

The thing that snapped her out of her brainwashing wasn’t magic. It was him.

She’d forgotten that until now.

And it shattered her.

She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around him.

“No!” she whispered, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

Clawd froze in her arms, stunned.

“I—I don’t…”

She pulled back, cupped his face in her hands.

“I should’ve been more understanding,” she said, her voice trembling. “I shouldn’t have blown up when you had something already planned. I shouldn’t have waited until the last minute to ask for your time. I shouldn’t have tried to guilt you into choosing me over your friends. That wasn’t fair.”

Clawd opened his mouth, but she gently pressed a finger to his lips.

“I was jealous,” she admitted. “Jealous of how much time you spent with them lately. Study sessions. Team hangouts. Even just sitting around laughing. It felt like you were slipping away from me.”

Her eyes met his—wet, red, but honest.

“And when you told me about the restaurant thing… it felt like confirmation. Like I really didn’t matter.”

“But you do,” Clawd whispered, voice small.

“I know,” she said. “I do now. But I didn’t believe it then. I was selfish, Clawd. And I’m sorry.”

He stared at her, speechless, overwhelmed.

Then he threw his arms around her and held her like he was afraid she’d vanish.

“I love you, Draculaura,” he whispered into her shoulder.

She squeezed him tighter. “And I love you, Clawd Wolf. Always.”

His face pressed into her neck, voice shaking.

“Yesterday… when I saw you in Clawdeen’s arms… and you weren’t moving—I thought I’d already lost you. And I couldn’t breathe. All I kept thinking was… I’d already ruined everything. And if you didn’t wake up, I’d never get the chance to fix it.”

He broke again.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

She kissed his forehead and held him tighter than ever.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that…”

Clawd sniffed, barely holding himself together.

“…I don’t deserve you.”

Draculaura leaned back, wiping his tears with her thumbs.

Her voice was firm, sure.

“No. You do. More than anyone.”

And for the first time in hours… maybe in days…

Clawd let himself believe it.

They cried together for a while, neither saying much—just holding on, letting the pain drain out in quiet sobs.

Eventually, the tears slowed. Their breathing evened out. And for the next hour and a half, they stayed curled up in each other’s arms—entwined, grounded, and finally still.

No one disturbed them.

Except for a brief moment, when the door creaked open.

Dracula stood in the doorway.

He didn’t say a word—just observed. His sharp, immortal eyes softened for the smallest second, a faint, rare smile pulling at the corner of his mouth before he gently closed the door again.

Later, Clawd stood with Draculaura at the castle gates, the heavy iron slowly parting as the sky stretched wide above them.

He stretched, rolling his shoulders. “So… we’re good now?”

Draculaura gave a soft giggle, brushing hair from her eyes. “Yes. We’re good.”

Clawd's chest swelled with relief. Seeing her smile again felt like sunlight after a storm. “Okay.”

He leaned in to kiss her—slow, gentle, still a little unsure—

But Draculaura pulled back with a teasing smirk.

“Uh-uh,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You know how I feel about dog breath. Go brush first.”

Clawd chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah… fair.”

Her smile deepened, warm and sincere.

“I love you.”

He grinned, eyes soft. “I love you too.”

With that, Clawd shifted—fur, claws, fangs—and with one last glance over his shoulder, he bolted into the forest, disappearing into the trees like a streak of brown lightning.

Draculaura waved, her heart light, her chest filled with something close to peace.

She turned to shut the gates—

But then, she stopped.

A heat. A sudden, rising warmth bloomed beneath her skin. Not gentle. Not comforting.

Wrong.

It rolled through her chest like a slow, deliberate fire.

Her breath caught. Her knees weakened.

She grabbed at her sternum just as her vision shifted, the world spinning, warping—colors too bright, sounds too far away—

And then—black.

(Draculaura's dream)

Draculaura's shriek split the hallway, high and shrill as Clawd slammed her into the wall, fangs bared, his rage and hunger boiling over into a single, animal snarl.

"You fucking little slut," he growled, voice gravel rough, hot breath scalding against her cheek. “You think you can prance around all day in those tight little outfits, grinding and teasing and acting like you don’t know exactly what you're doing?”

She blinked innocently, a wicked smirk tugging at her lips.

“I have no idea what you're talking about, sweetie,” she said, syrupy-sweet and laced with poison.

Her tone dripped pink glitter and venom, mocking him even as he towered over her.

It hadn’t been subtle. All day long, Draculaura and her ghoulfriends had been flaunting their bodies like candy displays, parading around Monster High like they owned the halls.

Short skirts riding high. Skin glistening with body shimmer. Moans stretched just a little too long during workouts.

Frankie giggling with each bounce of her bolts. Lagoona arching her back in yoga poses made for porn, not peace. Ghoulia twerking with zero shame, tongue lolling, while Slo-Mo practically drooled. And Cleo—Cleo had practically fucked Deuce with her clothes on, grinding her hips with slow, devastating intent.

Clawd was done pretending.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me!” he barked, claws digging into the drywall behind her. “I’ve seen it. You flaunting your tits like a bitch in heat. Your little crew acting like this place is your fuck den.”

Draculaura laughed, cold and sharp, her voice echoing like shattered mirrors. “Oh please. You’re just mad you can’t handle it.”

With a guttural roar, he ripped her from the wall and slammed her down onto the floor, the tile cracking beneath her small frame with a satisfying crack.

“What the fu—!”

But she didn’t get the words out. He was already on her, pinning her wrists above her head with one massive hand, the other braced by her throat. His body loomed above hers like a storm.

She smiled, slow and taunting. Her thighs parted just slightly. “Getting aggressive today, aren’t we?”

His lips brushed her ear, his voice dark and venomous. “You’ve been teasing me all fucking day—now you're gonna open that tight little cunt and take what you begged for.”

Her laugh was low and cruel. “Well then,” she hissed, eyes blazing, “quit running your mouth and fuck me already.”

That was it. That snapped something.

With a snarl that wasn’t even human anymore, Clawd began to shift. His spine arched unnaturally, fur sprouting thick and wild across rippling muscle. His hands grew into claws, sharp and dangerous. His fangs lengthened past his lips, glinting with saliva.

His pants tore at the seams, shredded by the surge of thick, pulsing flesh beneath. And there it was—his monstrous cock bursting free, dark and swollen, twitching with barely restrained need.

Veins pulsed along its length, heat radiating from it in waves, the tip already slick, drooling precum that smeared across her thigh as he lined himself up.

Clawd’s wolf form was pure intimidation—raw, hulking power wrapped in midnight-black fur. Massive shoulders rippled with muscle. His breath steamed from his snout like smoke from a furnace. He looked like he could tear through steel without breaking stride.

And now, he stood over Draculaura.

Eyes glowing. Chest heaving.

She was pinned beneath him—small, breathless, completely at his mercy.

He snarled against her ear, voice soaked in fury and heat. “Does that answer your question, bitch?”

Draculaura’s grin stretched slow and wicked, fangs flashing. She hiked her legs high, spread wide like an offering carved in velvet and sin.

“Well, darling,” she purred, dragging a finger across her lower belly, teasing just above her slit, “you’ve got the key—so why don’t you unlock me and fuck like you’ve got something to prove?”

Clawd’s howl tore from his throat, feral and raw. In a blur of motion, he lunged. His claws shredded the last barrier of fabric over her soaked cunt, the sound of tearing cloth like a battle cry.

Then—he plunged.

His cock, monstrous and pulsing with beast-borne hunger, impaled her with a savage thrust that rocked her whole body.

She screamed, head thrown back, eyes wide and alight with wicked joy.

“YES, DADDY!!” she howled, voice breaking on the edges of her ecstasy. “FUCK ME HARDER! TEAR ME TO FUCKING PIECES!”

And Clawd obliged.

He slammed into her like a force of nature, hips snapping like gunfire, each thrust hammering into her with no mercy.

His cock was pure violence—thick, ridged, and brutal—and it pounded her with such savagery she felt her body cracking beneath it.

Bones creaked. Ribs strained. The world blurred.

But she didn’t break.

Her vampiric body healed as fast as he ruined it—skin knitting, bones resetting—only to be destroyed again. The pain spiraled into pleasure, so sharp it carved her open inside, and she fucking drowned in it.

She knew she’d be wrecked when this was over. Shattered. Shaking. A ruin of blood and bruises.

And she wanted more.

After what felt like hours of savage, unforgiving fucking in his monstrous form, Clawd began to shift back, bones cracking as fur receded and his snarl melted into a dark, human grin.

But his hunger? Untouched.

Now she was on all fours, knees bruised, arms trembling, soaked in sweat and cum and bite marks.

And he was behind her again—fucking her deep, dragging her back onto him like a ragdoll. One fist tangled tight in her hair, yanking her head up like he owned her, the other smacking her ass with unholy rhythm.

Every few seconds: CRACK. A blow hard enough to blister.

Then claws. RIP. A rake down her back or across her cheek, leaving long, bleeding lines in their wake.

And she loved every second.

Pain bled into pleasure. Pleasure bled into madness.

She was his chew toy, his outlet, his fuckdoll—and that made her cum harder than anything ever had.

“WHO’S YOUR DADDY, BITCH?!” he roared, his palm crashing against her raw, marked ass.

Draculaura screamed herself raw, her body a trembling mess. “YOU ARE, CLAWD!! YOU’RE MY FUCKING DADDY!!”

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

The room echoed with their screams, the wet, brutal slap of skin against skin, the animal sound of flesh being claimed and wrecked over and over again.

A bloodstained, cum-soaked, breathless symphony of ruin and rapture.

Draculaura awoke on the ground, her back pressed against the cold marble floor of the castle entrance.

Above her—her father.

“Lala!” Dracula knelt beside her, voice full of fear. “Are you alright?!”

She blinked, dazed. Her hand flew to her head, skin damp with sweat.

“I… I think so,” she murmured, confused. “Just dizzy. I must’ve passed out.”

Dracula exhaled and helped her up, steady and gentle.

“Go lie down,” he said softly, brushing her hair from her face. “I’ll close the gates.”

She nodded and turned away, moving slowly toward the inner hall.

But as her bare feet echoed down the stone corridor, her thoughts spiraled.

The warmth.

The visions.

The feeling.

Something had happened.

And as she reached her room, one question echoed over and over in her mind like a whisper she couldn’t silence:

"What the hell did I just see?"

(Lagoona’s Residence – Great Scarrier Reef – 11:00 AM)

Soft blue light filtered down through the coral windows of Lagoona’s room, casting shadows that danced gently across the walls. Her bed, a nest of seafoam silk and kelp-woven quilts, cradled her like a tide pool. She lay curled on her side, one arm draped over her eyes, the other clutching her shell phone tight against her chest.

She hadn’t moved much since she got home.

Her body still felt heavy with exhaustion—muscles sore, mind foggy. It had been an intense day, and the emotional toll hadn’t let up. She’d been texting with her friends all morning—Frankie was okay, Clawdeen was fine, even Heath had already cracked a few dumb jokes—but the one person she hadn’t heard from…

Gil.

Not a text. Not a call.

Not even a “yo.”

She tried not to overthink it. Tried to reason that maybe he’d just needed rest. That maybe his phone was dead. But no matter how many times she reassured herself, the silence kept creeping back in.

And with it came the worry.

What if something had happened?

What if he was hurt?

What if his parents kept him locked in again?

She clutched the blanket tighter.

Please be okay.

She picked up her phone again, thumb hovering over his name—just about to call—

Then she heard it.

A distant splash.

Muffled voices downstairs—her mum answering the door?

And then—footsteps.

Fast. Urgent. Rushing up the stairs like the tide at full pull.

Knock knock knock.

She bolted upright and hurried across the room. Her heart was already racing before she touched the doorknob.

She opened the door—

Gil.

Soaked to the bone. Out of breath. Eyes wild and shining. His shirt clung to his chest, and he looked like he’d just swum halfway across the ocean.

“G-Gil?!”

“Hey, Lo…” he gasped, holding his sides. “You okay?”

She stared at him, completely stunned. “You—you idiot! Where have you been?! I’ve been messaging you since last night! I thought—” her voice caught in her throat “—I thought something happened to you.”

He held up both hands. “I’m sorry. I—I couldn’t use my phone. Had to hide it. My parents—” he paused, catching his breath. “They wouldn’t let me leave. Said I wasn’t allowed to come see you.”

“Then how—?”

“I snuck out,” he said. “Waited until they were asleep. Swam all night. Didn’t stop once.”

Her heart caught in her chest.

“You… swam here?”

“From my reef to yours,” he said. “I had to know if you were okay. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think.”

Lagoona’s mouth trembled.

She didn’t say a word.

She just threw herself at him.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her cheek pressed to his soaked shirt. Gil staggered for half a second—then hugged her back just as hard, holding her like she was the only thing keeping him afloat.

They didn’t speak.

They just stayed there—arms around each other, surrounded by the muffled hush of the sea and the quiet thrum of their own heartbeats.

Wade and Coraline Blue peered in from the hallway, both wearing the exact same proud, dopey grins.

“Oi, look at you two!” Coraline beamed, her voice warm and lilting. “You guppies are bloody adorable!”

“Reminds me of when we were your age,” Wade chuckled, nudging his wife. “Only difference is, I had better hair.”

Lagoona whipped around, face flushing bright red as she scrambled away from Gil.

“Mum! Dad! Do ya mind?” she cried, flailing her arms as she rushed toward them. “Can’t a girl get a bit of privacy around here?!”

She practically shoved them out of the room, slamming the coral door behind them.

Gil laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re a riot.”

Lagoona turned back to him, still red in the face. “Ugh, sorry ‘bout that. They’ve got no shame.”

Gil smiled. “It’s alright. Mine aren’t much better.”

“Well, guess that’s one thing our folks’ve got in common,” she grinned.

They both laughed, and slowly the room settled into a softer quiet.

They sat near her bed, shoulders pressed close, talking for what felt like hours. About the assembly. The gas. The stampede. The split-second decisions. How scared they’d both been. Gil thanked her—again—for diving back into the chaos to help him escape from under Gooliope.

They even touched on the lie—Gil’s parents faking an emergency just to drag him home and make him miss their date.

But right now, none of it mattered.

They had this. Each other. And in this moment, that was everything.

Eventually, though, Gil checked the time and let out a sigh.

“Gotta head off. If my folks wake up and I’m not there… well, I’ll be hearin’ it through every conch shell this side of the reef.”

Lagoona’s smile faded, just a little.

“I get it,” she said softly. “Still… wish you didn’t have to go.”

Gil took her hand and gave it a small squeeze.

“I’ll be back. Promise.”

With one last look, he slipped out through the bubble-curtained entrance and kicked off into the open sea, vanishing into the blue.

Lagoona swam up to her window and watched him go, her expression caught between sadness and worry.

“You really love that boy, don’t ya?”

Lagoona turned toward the doorway, where her dad—Wade Blue—leaned with his arms crossed, a familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

She flushed a little, caught off guard. “Yeah... I do.”

Wade chuckled, stepping into the room. “Even after every bit of nonsense—his uptight folks, the drama, the lies... you’re still hangin’ in there with him.”

Lagoona gave a half-shrug. “I know he can be a bit of a dork. Total suck-up sometimes. And he’s not always the sharpest fang in the reef... but he’s got heart. He never means to hurt me.”

She paused, her eyes drifting to the window, voice softening.

“He tries. That’s what matters, right? Knowing someone loves you—even when they mess up. You don’t stick around ‘cause they’re perfect... you stick around ‘cause they’re yours.”

Wade stared at her for a moment, his smile fading into something more serious—prouder.

“You’re bloody right,” he said, nodding. “And I want you to know—I’m behind you two, no matter what. His family’s a nightmare, and yeah, that might not change... but you? You’re strong. And the way he looks at you?”

He gave her a wink.

“You two’ve got somethin’ real.”

Lagoona couldn’t help but smile—wide, soft, grateful.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Wade leaned in, pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head, and turned toward the hall.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he said with a grin. “Even saltwater girls need their sleep.”

And with that, he disappeared, the soft click of the coral door echoing behind him.

Lagoona turned back to her window, staring into the vast blue of the open sea.

The reef stretched on forever, shimmering in streaks of gold and green—alive, beautiful, full of stories yet to be lived.

And for a moment, everything felt okay.

But then—her breath caught.

A strange warmth crept through her chest—not the good kind. Not the glow of love or joy.

This was different. It was hot.

Too hot.

Her gills fluttered. Her skin prickled. Her hand flew to her chest, pressing hard as her eyes widened with sudden tears.

She stumbled backward, gasping.

Her vision blurred. Her knees gave out.

She collapsed to the floor, eyes fluttering as her world began to warp—colours bleeding, sounds stretching like they were underwater, even though she already was.

And then—darkness.

(Lagoona's Dream)

Lagoona laughed, the sound bright and bubbling as she sliced through the water, her arms surging forward with perfect rhythm. Her hair streamed behind her like a golden flag. She hit the far wall of the pool and whipped around, barely slowing down.

Lap twenty-three. And she was flying.

She’d come to practice, sure—but Gil had shown up not long after, and practice had turned into a full-blown race.

What started as a joke quickly became war.

Lagoona had the early lead, dominating the first dozen laps with ease, but Gil was stubborn—relentless—and by lap twenty, they were neck-and-neck. Each splash echoed like a drumbeat in the tiled chamber, the poolroom humming with tension.

Now—final lap.

They launched off the wall like torpedoes, pushing every fiber of muscle, water cutting across their faces as they churned toward the other end.

It was close—so close—but Lagoona reached it first.

She flipped, powered through, and touched the far wall again just as Gil’s fingertips broke the surface behind her.

She shot out of the water like a missile, hands raised in victory, laughter echoing off the glossy white tiles.

“WOOOOOOOOOOOO!” she howled, voice booming. “Now that was bloody legendary, eh Gil?!”

But there was no response.

The sound of her joy bounced back at her, unanswered.

Her smile faltered.

She turned in the water, scanning the pool’s surface. No ripples. No movement.

“…Gil?”

Her heart gave a small, nervous kick.

She dove back under—eyes wide, searching—but there was no sign of him. No flippers. No shadow. Just blue.

His towel was still on the bench. His goggles sat on the tiles.

But he was gone.

Before panic had the chance to settle in, a massive splash of water slammed against Lagoona’s back.

She yelped, spinning around with a gasp—only to see Gil doubled over in the pool, laughing his gills off.

“You should’ve seen your face!” he howled between bursts of laughter. “I wish I got that on video!”

Lagoona crossed her arms and huffed, water dripping down her cheeks. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, you dingus!”

Gil just kept laughing, slapping the surface of the water like it owed him money. “I’m sorry! I couldn’t help it! You looked like you saw a ghost-shark!”

Lagoona narrowed her eyes, lips twitching into a pout.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, do ya?”

Gil paused—caught the shift in her tone—and immediately felt the temperature of the room change.

“Uh-oh…”

With a wicked grin, Lagoona threw her arm into the air. Water spiraled from the pool and coiled into a massive swirling ball in her palm, shimmering like liquid crystal. It spun faster and faster, growing larger by the second.

“Wait, wait, babe, hold up—”

Too late.

“Catch, ya clownfish!” she roared, hurling the orb straight at him.

The sphere shot across the pool, sucking in water like a whirlpool as it went—until it was practically the size of Lagoona herself.

Gil screamed and tried to duck, but the wave hit him square in the chest, launching him out of the water like a cork from a shaken bottle.

He crashed onto the tiles with a loud smack, landing face-first with a splash of seafoam and limbs tangled awkwardly.

Lagoona blinked.

“…Gil?”

He didn’t move.

“Gil?!”

She bolted to the edge of the pool, panic setting in like a cold current. She leapt out and slid across the wet tile to his side, grabbing his shoulder.

“Gil, come on, wake up! That wasn’t even full pressure—I didn’t mean—Gil?!”

His chest wasn’t rising.

Her stomach twisted.

But just as her voice cracked and her first tear slipped free—

His eyes snapped open, bright and mischievous.

“Gotcha.”

Before she could react, Gil’s arm shot up, grabbed her wrist, and spun her onto her back with a thump! on the tiles.

“HEY!”

She tried to scramble up, but his elbow gently pinned her in place, resting just between her shoulder blades. He leaned down, his grin stretching wide.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” he murmured low and close, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

A shiver ran down her spine.

“You wanna play rough…” he whispered, voice smooth as sea silk.

“Then guess what…” His smirk widened as he locked eyes with her. “Two can play at that game.”

In one fluid motion, he tore the clingy fabric from her body, the soaked swimsuit flung aside like seaweed torn from a reef. Her curves, slick and gleaming under the pale aqua light, were laid bare for him, the water clinging to her like a jealous second skin.

Lagoona flushed scarlet, rage and arousal mixing beneath the surface.

“You fucking bloke,” she spat, voice dripping venom, eyes flashing.

Gil just laughed—deep, cocky, and utterly unbothered.

Without breaking eye contact, he yanked his pants down in one brutal motion.

The splash echoed as they hit the pool tiles, and with them came the reveal—his thick, glistening fish cock already half-hard and twitching to attention.

Seven inches of slippery, scaled need throbbed between his legs, tapering with a ridged curve that made her thighs clench on instinct.

Lagoona’s breath caught. Damn, she'd forgotten just how massive he was. It never looked that big when hidden beneath those pants—but freed, it sprang to life like a sea monster breaking surface.

Her eyes traced every inch, from the slightly veined underside to the shimmering head already leaking at the slit.

“You wanted rough?” Gil growled. “Let’s see how much you can take.”

He flipped her with brutal ease—one firm hand pressing between her shoulder blades, the other guiding himself between her legs. Her knees scraped against the tiles as she gasped, chest rising in shock as he plunged into her with one steady thrust.

“Fuck!” Lagoona cried, voice echoing off the pool walls. Her body jolted, clenching instinctively around him, her nails raking wet ceramic. It was always like this with him—overwhelming, violating, perfect.

Gil leaned over her, teeth grazing her ear.

“Yeah, you like that, huh?” he whispered, voice thick with smug lust. His hand slid along her thigh, gripping hard enough to bruise, possessive and cruel. “Don’t worry, I’m just getting started.”

He pulled back, slow and taunting, making her whimper. Then he rammed back in, hips slamming hers with a slick, wet smack. She let out a strangled gasp, legs trembling under the assault.

“You good?” he murmured, lips brushing the edge of her jaw.

“Y-Yeah,” she panted, voice cracking.

He grinned against her skin, breath hot. “Good. That’s what I like to hear.”

And then he moved again—faster now, harder—waves sloshing with every savage thrust, their rhythm making ripples echo across the pool.

Each thrust sent a jolt through her, a stuttered gasp spilling from Lagoona’s lips with every brutal stroke. Her body quaked beneath his, soaked skin slapping against soaked skin, the water making everything slick, raw, primal. Gil moved with maddening control—slow enough to savor, deep enough to make her twitch.

And yet every time he drove into her, it was like being jackhammered at max fucking velocity. The wetness made it worse—made it better—turning her into a trembling mess under him. Her cunt, slick and swollen, clung to him like it had a will of its own, primed for one thing: to get dicked down hard.

“You love this, don’t you?” he growled low, biting at the shell of her ear. “Love when I take charge—when I fuck the fight out of you.”

Lagoona snarled through her moans, “You bloody wish!”

That mouth of hers only made him move faster. He drove into her without mercy, pounding her into the tiles so hard the whole pool seemed to vibrate around them. Her cries turned desperate, almost feral, echoing off the concrete. She tried to push back, to wriggle away, but Gil's hands were iron.

He was supercharged now—soaked to the bone, his gills pumping in overtime. Water was his fuel, his amplifier. He didn’t need to bend it like she could—he became a force of it, weight and power and relentless surge, the very pressure of the deep packed into every slam of his hips.

“Fuck—fuck—GIL!” she shrieked, losing track of time, of anything but the slap-slap-slap of his body punishing hers.

Every few thrusts he added a vicious slap across her face, snapping her head sideways, and she fucking loved it. The sting only added to the heat spiraling out from her core, her whole body on fire despite the cold water surrounding them.

“Aaaw shit—” Gil hissed, voice strangled, hips faltering for just a heartbeat. “I’m gonna fucking cum—!”

“YES!!” Lagoona screamed, back arching like a bow as her pussy clenched down on him with vice-grip desperation. “Fucking fill me up—NOW!”

“Fuck, take it—take all of it!” he roared, hips slamming flush as he spilled into her. Thick pulses of cum poured into her eager cunt, his gills flaring wide as he lost control, body convulsing with each spurt.

“YES! YES! YES!” she cried, writhing beneath him as her orgasm hit, spraying out around his cock, mixing with his load in a mess of fluids that gushed down her thighs.

He kept thrusting through it, milking every last drop, driving it deep, claiming her from the inside out. Only when he was sure—absolutely sure—he’d left nothing behind did he finally pull out, letting his slippery cock drop hot and heavy across her ass.

She shivered as his warmth spread, bliss-drunk and twitching, loving the full, sloppy mess he'd left dripping from her.

Gil exhaled a ragged, contented breath. “Damn... that was unreal.”

Lagoona laughed, voice husky, breath catching on the edge of something wild. “Heh—bloody wicked, mate.”

Before he could blink, she was on him—swift as a current—flipping him onto his back with the ease of a crashing wave.

She straddled him hard, knees planted, hips tight to his. Her face hovered just above his, curls dripping seawater onto his cheeks. Her eyes glinted—not soft, not sweet—but feral.

“My turn now,” she growled, accent thick, voice low like deep tidewater rumbling over stone. “And I ain't stoppin' 'til you’re sucked bone dry.”

Then her mouth claimed his, fierce and wet, tongues clashing like blades. The kiss was brutal—consuming—like drowning in flame and salt.

Gil’s body arched as she pulled back, a slick thread of water trailing from his parted lips to hers. His breath hitched. Skin shriveled in real-time. Moisture—his very essence—bled from him into her, inch by inch.

He gasped, but she was already moving—gripping his shoulders tight, she began to ride him with a punishing rhythm. Her hips snapped with ferocity, crashing down like breakers in a storm, relentless and fast, every bounce grinding the breath from his lungs.

Each thrust drained him further, each gasp fed her more.

Yeah... this wasn’t just lovemaking.

This was war.

A battle of strength.

And Lagoona was winning.

Lagoona jolted awake with a sharp gasp, her body stiff against the cold stone floor of her room.

She blinked up at the ceiling, her heart pounding, gills fluttering wildly along her neck. Her skin was clammy, her hair stuck to her face in damp strands. The room spun for a second before settling back into focus.

She slowly pushed herself up, elbows trembling.

“…What the bloody hell was that?”

Her voice was hoarse, like she’d just surfaced too fast from a deep dive. She glanced around—everything was the same. Coral curtains drifted in the current. Her furniture sat untouched. No sign of anything wrong.

Except for her.

She clutched her chest where that strange heat had started before she blacked out. It was gone now, but her skin still tingled like it remembered.

Bits of the dream clung to her mind in flashes: racing in the pool, Gil vanishing, the waterball, the teasing, the—

Her face turned bright red.

“Okay—nope. Nope nope nope.”

She dragged herself to her feet, legs wobbly beneath her, and stumbled toward her bed. The second she collapsed onto the mattress, she threw a pillow over her head and groaned into it.

She wasn’t even sure how to process what she’d just seen.

Of all the things that could’ve happened after a school-wide panic attack and mystery gas leak—hallucinating some kind of weird, steamy water-bender power trip was not at the top of her list.

“I mean, I love the guy, sure…” she muttered into the pillow. “But what was that even about? That’s not even how my powers work. I don’t drain people.”

(Authors Note : She can, she just doesn't know how or want to. Yet...)

She flopped over with a frustrated sigh.

And okay—maybe the way Gil tackled her had been kinda hot. Maybe. But the rest?

It wasn’t just a fantasy. It felt… real.

Too real.

“Ughhhhhh.”

She buried her face deeper, groaning. She didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Whatever that was, it wasn’t normal. And she was too freaked out—and too exhausted—to untangle it right now.

“I’m sleepin’ it off,” she grumbled, curling into her blankets.

But even as her eyes slid shut, a quiet thought lingered behind the fog in her mind:

That wasn’t just a dream.

(Heath’s Residence – 12:15 PM)

Heath sat slouched on the couch, the TV remote in one hand and an annoyed scowl plastered across his face.

Click. News.

Click. More news.

Click. A talking head shouting over another headline.

'Monster High Undergoes Investigation After Suspected Terrorist Attack.'

'Monster Students Left Traumatized After Gas Incident.'

Heath groaned and leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Man, come on.”

He understood why it was all anyone was talking about. It made sense. The gas. The chaos. The screaming. The damn doors not opening. It was a full-on nightmare.

He clicked again.

'BREAKING: Public Opinion on Monster High Divided After Attack.'

'Are Monsters Safe Around Other Monsters?'

'How Do You Think It Happened? Tell Us in the Comments Below!'

Heath let out another long, exasperated sigh. “This sucks.”

He wasn’t in denial—it had been serious. Terrifying, even. But did every news outlet, streamer, and Screambook page need to milk it nonstop?

He just wanted to zone out. Watch a dumb action movie. Maybe a cooking show with stuff on fire. Something that didn’t involve people screaming or fainting or calling Monster High a war zone.

But no dice.

At least it was quiet at home. His parents were out running errands after the big meeting with Bloodgood, and Jackson had gone to check in on Frankie.

For once, the house wasn’t loud.

No background chaos. Just him and the—

Ding dong.

Heath groaned. “Oh, for the love of…”

He peeled himself off the couch and trudged to the front door, muttering, “If this is some weirdo tryin’ to sell anti-monster merch, I swear…”

He opened the door—and froze.

“Abbey?”

All of his irritation vanished.

His girlfriend was standing there, eyes locked on him, expression unreadable for half a second—then she rushed forward and wrapped him in a bone-cracking hug, nearly lifting him off the porch.

“Whoa—ack! Abbey—can’t—breathe!” Heath wheezed, arms flailing as her icy grip compressed him like a vice.

She didn’t let go.

Heath winced, but chuckled, gently patting her back. “Glad to see you too, snowflake.”

She didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Just held him.

And Heath, for once, didn’t mind the silence.

Not one bit.

“I thought I lost you…” Abbey whispered, her arms still locked around Heath like a vice.

Her voice, normally strong and steady like mountain stone, wavered with something raw and human. There was no ice in her tone now—just warmth. Sincerity. Relief.

“You didn’t,” Heath murmured, rubbing circles into her back. “And you never will.”

He pulled away just enough to look at her face, then gently guided her inside.

Abbey had been to Heath’s house many times before. His parents liked her. Holt joked constantly that Heath was living a dream dating a “glacier goddess with knockout legs.” Heath usually responded with, “Yeah. I'm built different.”

But today, none of that humor lingered in the air. Just silence and exhaustion.

They sat on the couch.

Heath looked over at her. “So… what happened after I passed out? If it’s not too much to ask.”

Abbey was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded.

“I carried you out. I could barely see, the smoke was everywhere. Gas, too thick. People screaming. Students falling left and right.” Her eyes darkened. “It was panic. No one could think.”

She swallowed.

“I saw Frankie crying over Jackson. Clawd trying to carry his sister. I saw... Ghoulia on floor, not moving. I did not know who to help first.”

She looked down at her hands.

“Marisol was with me. We escaped together. But... she fell. Collapsed once outside. She has not answered any messages. I do not know if she is okay.”

Heath frowned. “Damn… I didn’t know it hit her that bad.”

Abbey nodded slowly. “I keep asking myself… maybe if I moved faster. Maybe if I stayed with group. What if—”

“Hey,” Heath cut in, gently nudging her shoulder with his. “No ‘what ifs,’ alright? You saved me. You did what you could, and that’s more than most.”

Abbey’s lips trembled, but she gave a small nod.

Heath leaned back into the couch, stretching his arms behind his head.

Abbey’s eyes narrowed. “You joke too much.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s kind of my thing.”

“You are lucky I like your face.”

“Trust me, that’s mutual.”

She let out the faintest of laughs.

“On the bright side,” Heath grinned, “you got to carry me around like a sack of potatoes. Bet that scratched some power fantasy itch.”

Abbey gave him a look—but she couldn’t help the faint smile that crept across her face.

“You are heavy,” she said, folding her arms. “Like warm rock.”

“Aw, babe.” Heath grinned. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Abbey rolled her eyes, but the mood had lifted just enough for her to breathe again.

Eventually, she stood up, brushing her long white hair back behind her shoulders.

“I should go." She said. "I need to check on Marisol. And maybe sleep for three days.”

Heath followed her to the door, leaning in the doorway as she stepped outside.

“If you need anything, let me know. Soup, hugs, flamethrowers—whatever helps.”

Abbey turned back and hugged him once more. This time, it was gentler. Warmer. Almost tender.

“I see you at school,” she said.

He nodded. “Yeah. See you.”

She walked off, disappearing into the quiet light of the afternoon.

Heath closed the door behind her and leaned his forehead against it.

Still quiet.

But not so heavy.

As Abbey walked down the empty street, the crisp afternoon air brushing against her skin, she suddenly froze.

A strange heat bloomed deep in her chest—sharp, rising fast, like fire under ice.

Her breath caught.

Her knees buckled.

She collapsed onto the sidewalk with a heavy thud, hands trembling as she tried to steady herself.

"What..." she rasped, struggling to breathe. Her lungs burned, her vision blurred.

"What is happening... to me?"

Her voice was thin. Fractured.

Her body felt too heavy to lift. Her limbs were ice, but the heat inside her chest only grew—twisting, burning, spreading.

And then—darkness.

Everything went black.

(Abbey's Dream)

The air inside the igloo was thick with heat despite the frozen walls, every breath misting like fog around bodies drenched in something far steamier than snowmelt.

The crystalline chamber glowed faintly blue, jagged with icicles, an arctic cathedral to depravity.

Abbey sat high, sprawled across an angular throne carved from a glacier she’d summoned herself, ice creaking under her weight like it worshipped her.

Cold steam curled around her like a cloak, but the true focus of her smug, glacial gaze was kneeling right between her thighs—Heath, flushed crimson, lips wrapped around her cock.

Not just a cock. A fucking behemoth.

It stretched thick and long across his face, the pale blue skin slick with his spit and studded with veins that throbbed like arteries frozen in time. Just the first few inches bulged his cheeks.

Cold as death, smooth as carved crystal, it made his tongue tingle and his jaw ache.

Heath hadn’t wanted this. At least, that’s what he told himself. When she first pulled that monster out, hard and steaming with cold, his stomach dropped through his boots. He’d stammered, hesitated.

But then—her hand.

That huge, cold palm cupped the back of his head, firm, unshakable, a silent threat carved in permafrost.

He remembered her knuckles cracking a boulder in half once, just for fun.

Heath knew damn well: if Abbey wanted to crush him, she'd do it. Snap his spine, shatter his ribs, all with the same ease she used to crack the air around her when pissed.

So he obeyed.

But fuck him if a part of him didn’t like it.

Her cock in his mouth—too big, too cold, too everything—made his nerves light up like fire against the frost. His tongue stuck against her shaft now and then, tingling like he'd licked a frozen pipe.

The chill made his lips puff, his eyes water, but he pressed deeper, gagged around her tip, and moaned into the base.

Spit dribbled down his chin, pooling at her balls. His hands braced on her thighs—thick as marble, carved in ice—and he bobbed his head slowly, reverently, sucking harder, taking more, giving into it.

Abbey let her fingers thread through his fire-red hair, stroking idly, her breath steady despite the obvious twitch in her cock each time his throat tightened around her.

“Takoy khoroshiy mal’chik,” she muttered, voice low and decadent, almost a growl, Russian purring through her chest like a glacier cracking. “Such a good boy.”

Heath moaned in response, the sound vibrating down her shaft. His own cock throbbed, leaking against the cold floor, untouched and desperate. But he didn’t stop. Didn’t dare.

Because he loved it.

He loved the weight of her on his tongue. The ache in his jaw. The sting of the cold as it numbed his lips.

And most of all, he loved the way Abbey looked down at him—like he was hers, and always had been.

Heath’s head bobbed faster, the wet slop of spit and suction echoing through the igloo like a lewd metronome.

Abbey’s hand clenched tighter in his hair, her knuckles pale blue as the icy shaft in his mouth began to throb with mounting pressure.

He could feel her pulse there—slow, thunderous beats running up the length of her cock like frost lightning.

Cold cum churned within, rising up from deep inside her core, thick and bone-chilling, swelling toward the tip.

Driven by instinct, by terror, by pure perverse desire, Heath redoubled his efforts. His lips sealed tighter, cheeks hollowed, throat relaxing in spasms as he sucked with everything he had, saliva coating her shaft in slick sheen.

His own cock was stiff and leaking, bobbing untouched beneath him, twitching at the taste of her.

And then came the numbness.

The freezing temperature of Abbey’s cock had slowly robbed him of sensation. His lips tingled. His tongue went dull. His throat felt like it no longer belonged to him. Now it was just pressure—just this massive, frost-covered column forcing in and out of a mouth that had stopped recognizing pain.

And then, she came.

With a feral roar that made the walls tremble, Abbey let go.

Her cum hit like a snowstorm down his throat—cold and thick, flooding his mouth in shuddering spurts. He gagged around the load, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t dare let a drop fall. It was like sucking down ice cream made of pure dominance and lust—choking, numbing, addictive.

Abbey rode it out in silence, just breath and pulse and the slight curl of a satisfied smirk, until the last drop was drained.

Then, with calm care, she pulled his mouth off her cock, strings of spit and frozen cum clinging between them like delicate webbing. She gripped his waist, lifting him like he weighed nothing, setting him flush against her lap.

His legs dangled on either side of her icy thighs, shivering, hole already twitching in anticipation.

“First, I claimed mouth,” she said, her accent thick and purring, crystalline as snowfall. Her smirk spread wider. “Now… I claim anus.”

Before he could respond—before he could think—she gripped his hips and slammed him down.

Her entire cock forced its way into his ass with a single, brutal thrust, stretching him to his limit, splitting him open on ice and power.

The scream that tore from Heath's lungs was monstrous, primal, echoing across the mountains in a howl that scattered birds from trees and sent avalanches rumbling in the distance.

And Abbey? Abbey just threw her head back and laughed.

Abbey jolted awake with a sharp gasp, a cold sweat clinging to her skin.

"Niyet!" she breathed, eyes wide, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

“Abbey!” Heath’s voice rang out as he rushed to her side, dropping to his knees. “Are you okay?! What happened?!”

She couldn’t answer.

Her hands were trembling. Her whole body felt like it had been dunked in ice—inside out.

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

“I… I need to go home,” she whispered.

Heath reached out, his hand brushing gently against her cheek. “Should I call someone? A doctor or—”

“No.” Her voice was quick, firm. “No doctor.”

She pushed herself up slowly, legs unsteady beneath her.

“Hey—whoa, easy,” Heath said, wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her.

She didn’t push him away.

Once she was standing, she exhaled, long and shaky.

“I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep.”

Heath nodded and walked her to the sidewalk. “You sure you don’t want me to come with?”

Abbey shook her head. “Nyet. I… I need space. Just for tonight.”

He hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “Alright. Just… message me, yeah? If anything feels off. I mean it. I’m worried.”

She looked at him, her expression softening. “I know.”

Heath lingered a second longer before finally turning and walking back toward his house.

Abbey watched him go.

With every step he took, her heart twisted tighter.

It was just a dream. Just a dream.

But…

Why did it feel so real?

The way she moved in that dream—towering over him. The power, the control, the heat in her chest that didn’t feel like her own. The way he gasped under her weight—how he choked, helpless beneath her—and she liked it.

They BOTH liked it.

She shivered. Not from cold.

No. That dream had felt real in a way dreams shouldn’t. Visceral. Alive. Wrong.

She clenched her jaw, trying to shake it from her thoughts.

“I would never hurt him,” she muttered. “Not like that.”

But as she walked in silence, through dim streets and quiet corners, one quiet question clung to her like mist:

"Should I tell him?"

Because eventually… he’d find out something was wrong.

The only questions were:

When?

And how?

Group Chat: Ghouls 💖🧠💅🐺🧛‍♀️🌊❄️

⚡Frankie: hey girls… everyone doing okay?

🧛‍♀️Draculaura: I was literally JUST about to text the group 😩

🧛‍♀️Draculaura: i’ve been thinking about all of you nonstop

🌊 Lagoona: Same here.

🌊 Lagoona: I’ve been checkin’ Screambook every five minutes hoping for updates 🫠

🌊 Lagoona: My nerves are still fried.

❄️Abbey: I am okay. Tired. Head hurts. But I am here.

👑 Cleo: I’m in one piece, emotionally drained, and ignoring my father’s 43 missed calls.

👑 Cleo: So yes. I suppose I’m “okay.” 🙄

🧠 Ghoulia: Present. Exhausted. Hugging Slo-Mo like he’s made of bubble wrap.

🐺 Clawdeen: Same here tbh.

🐺 Clawdeen: Still can’t believe that even HAPPENED 😞

🐺 Clawdeen: I keep hearing the vents in my sleep.

⚡ Frankie: I know…

⚡ Frankie: It was like something out of a horror movie 😔

🌊 Lagoona: Mum cried when I got home. Dad nearly swam out lookin’ for Gil.

🌊 Lagoona: Told ‘em he was fine but they wouldn’t hear it.

🧛‍♀️Draculaura: My dad…

🧛‍♀️Draculaura: He didn’t say much. Just stayed with me the whole night. 🥺

❄️Abbey: Marisol collapsed next to me. I tried to call her again today. No answer.

❄️Abbey: I do not like it.

🐺Clawdeen: Wait—Mari passed out??

🐺Clawdeen: Shit, I didn’t know that. Is she okay?? 😟

❄️Abbey: I don’t know yet.

👑 Cleo: Deuce’s mom called me four times.

👑 Cleo: Apparently, she “felt it in her snakes.”

👑 Cleo: My dad, shockingly, said he was proud I didn’t faint.

👑 Cleo: 🙃 He doesn’t know I threw up after.

🧠 Ghoulia: My mom banned me from opening any air vents for the next month.

⚡ Frankie: 💀💀💀

⚡ Frankie: Jackson and Holt both got smothered by my parents after.

⚡ Frankie: Hugs, cocoa, and like… twelve “we love you”s.

⚡ Frankie: They were so relieved we were okay 😭💚

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: Speaking of lovers…

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: I talked to Clawd today.

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: We’re good now 💖

🐺 Clawdeen: Oh thank god. 😭

🐺 Clawdeen: I knew something was up yesterday.

🌊 Lagoona: I’m really glad to hear that, ghoul 💙

🌊 Lagoona: Gil swam all the way to my place to check on me 😭

🌊 Lagoona: Had to sneak past his parents. He was nearly caught. AGAIN.

👑 Cleo: That boy better be grateful you still date him.

👑 Cleo: He’s lucky he’s hot.

❄️ Abbey: I saw Heath.

❄️ Abbey: He is… alive. And very loud. But he hugged me. Tight.

❄️ Abbey: I think he was scared. I was too.

⚡ Frankie: This is so sweet I’m gonna cry 😩

🧠 Ghoulia: Love you all. So glad you’re here.

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: Me too. For real.

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: I’m just glad we’re safe. All of us.

🌊 Lagoona: Yeah…

🌊 Lagoona: I was so scared I’d lost one of you. I really was.

⚡ Frankie: Same…

⚡ Frankie: When I saw everyone dropping…

⚡ Frankie: I thought it was over.

🌊 Lagoona: Also… random, but I’ve been meanin’ to ask:

🌊 Lagoona: Clawdeen, is Toralei okay? 🐱💬

🌊 Lagoona: I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but… still.

🐺 Clawdeen: …Wow.

🐺 Clawdeen: Yeah. She’s good. Just shaken up like the rest of us.

🐺 Clawdeen: Thanks for asking. Seriously—that means a lot.

👑 Cleo: That’s sweet.

👑 Cleo: We may not always like each other’s girls, but we do care.

👑 Cleo: You know that.

❄️ Abbey: Yes.

❄️ Abbey: Even when we fight, we are still... sisters.

⚡ Frankie: Amen to that. ⚡💕

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: Okay, okay, before I start sobbing again 😭

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: Let’s all try to rest tonight, yeah?

🌊 Lagoona: Agreed.

🌊 Lagoona: Dreamless sleep, please 🙏

🐺 Clawdeen: One night without gas clouds or panic attacks 😩

🧠 Ghoulia: Goodnight, ghouls.

❄️ Abbey: Goodnight. Stay safe. Love you.

👑 Cleo: Love you all too.

👑 Cleo: Talk tomorrow. No drama allowed.

⚡ Frankie: Night night ⚡💚

⚡ Frankie: Don’t let the gas vents bite.

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: Too soon.

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: But I love you. 😅💜

🐺 Clawdeen: Night, pack. 🐾🖤

And with that, the ghouls shut their phones off and slip into sleep.

Unaware of what the future holds for them.

To Be Continued....

Notes:

What was your favorite part of this chapter?

Chapter 3: Echoes in the Flesh

Summary:

With the students back in Monster High, examinations begin, therapy sessions start, and everyone begins to have some.... raunchy thoughts.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

(Monday, October 2nd)

(Monster High - 7:00 AM)

The atmosphere was… hollow.

Monday had arrived like a gray fog rolling in off the moors—quiet, slow, suffocating. Monster High, once loud with laughter and locker slams, now sounded like a library under a curse.

The gas was gone—vacuumed, filtered, scrubbed out of the vents by overnight crews in hazmat suits—but that didn’t matter. The trauma lingered in the bones of the school, and in the eyes of every student who walked through its doors.

A lot of them didn’t.

Entire rows of lockers stood untouched. Desks remained empty. Some parents had tried to pull their kids indefinitely—but the contracts said otherwise.

Others had begged them to stay home. For the ones who did return, it wasn’t about class or routine.

It was about facing the building again.

The ones who came were quiet. Skittish. Every time they passed a vent, some would flinch. Others walked faster. A few stared up at the grates like they might open again at any moment. No one talked about it out loud. They didn’t have to.

It was written on every face.

Even Spectra and Porter’s morning announcements—normally the pulse of the school, loud and full of jokes—sounded like they were echoing through a graveyard.

The speakers crackled, then hummed to life.

"Good morning, Monster High," Porter said, his usual swagger dimmed. His voice was calm, low, and tired. "First things first… glad to see you're still here. For a minute there, I thought we were gonna be picking out caskets instead of yearbook quotes."

A strained silence followed.

"Me too, babe," Spectra chimed in softly, her tone brighter, but still respectful. "No big announcements today. Bloodgood’s asked that everyone come in for a mandatory check-up at the nurse’s office—just in case there are any side effects from… well. You know."

"We’ll be calling you by hallway," Porter added. "And if you miss it, you’ll get another chance tomorrow during lunch."

There was a pause. You could almost hear them breathing.

"Look," Spectra said, her voice firmer now. "We know Friday was terrifying. It shook a lot of us. But we’ve made it through other disasters—attacks, takeovers, worse. Don’t let fear write the rest of your story. Let it remind you that you’re still here."

"Or," Porter added lightly, "you could hide in your locker until graduation. Not judging. Just bring snacks."

That almost got a laugh from a few students.

Almost.

"Either way," he finished, "just keep your heads up. You’re not alone. We’re all in this together. Porter out."

The announcements clicked off. The silence returned.

No one moved right away.

No one was rushing to class.

Because even though the air was clean and the lights were on, the fear hadn’t left. It lived in the hallways now. In the corners of every conversation. In the way students stared a little too long at the walls, at the ceilings, at each other.

Monster High had survived another attack.

But no one was sure if the school had survived intact.

(Monster High Gym – 7:30 AM)

The gym, usually a space filled with sweat, shouts, and bouncing echoes of basketballs, was unrecognizably quiet.

Coach Igor stood near the bleachers with his clipboard tucked under one arm, watching over the students with tired, sunken eyes. He had planned a hard set for today—strength drills, resistance circuits, maybe some combat sparring. The kind of work that usually put fire back in the bones.

But the moment he saw their faces that morning… he dropped the plan.

Blank stares. Slumped shoulders. Quiet voices. Some hadn't even changed into gym clothes. They just sat against the wall, heads leaned back, trying to keep it together.

And for once, Igor didn't yell.

He sighed and gave them a rare grace: “Do what you want today. Move, don’t move. I’m not gonna push you.”

Most of the students just talked quietly among themselves. Others walked laps around the room like ghosts trying to outrun something. A handful had gone to the equipment racks and started lifting or running drills anyway—more out of anxiety than discipline.

What surprised Igor most… was the guilt.

He didn’t have to ask. He just listened.

“Hey… you think we could’ve stopped it if we were stronger?”

“I should’ve busted the doors down. I froze.”

“I panicked. I’ve trained for emergencies, but I just—blanked.”

“We could’ve gotten everyone out faster if we didn’t choke.”

“Maybe if I’d trained harder, I could’ve helped more.”

Igor had heard regret before. After losses, after injuries, after failures in the field. But this was different.

This wasn’t the regret of losing a game or botching a team drill.

This was the guilt of surviving.

Of not saving someone.

He closed his eyes for a moment, tightening his grip on the clipboard. It felt too light in his hands. Useless.

They were kids. Teenagers. And yet, here they were—haunted by what-ifs, blaming themselves for something they never should’ve had to face in the first place.

It broke him.

Because deep down, he’d asked himself the same things.

"What if we'd gotten to the control room faster?"

"What if we turned off the vents?"

"What if I hadn’t let them leave the gym that day without checking the auditorium myself?"

He was a teacher. A guardian.

A hunchback.

Not a dragon. Not a phantom. Not a warrior bred for battle. Just a tired, patched-together man with a bent spine and more years behind him than ahead.

And still, he had sworn to protect them.

He didn’t stop it.

He didn’t help enough.

And now… now he watched his students punish themselves with every conversation. Every breath. Every drop of sweat on the gym floor.

Igor took a long breath and set the clipboard down on the bleachers. He walked across the floor slowly, quietly.

If they wanted to work out, he’d spot them.

If they needed to talk, he’d listen.

And if all they could do today was sit on the floor and stare into space?

Then so be it.

They had survived.

That, right now, was enough.

In a quiet, shadowed corner of the gym, Abbey was putting in the work. Plates clanged, her breath came out in steady huffs, and the cold aura around her shimmered with every exertion. Her mind was still reeling—just slightly—from her dream, but her will?

Steel.

She wouldn't let one strange moment rattle her focus.

Not now. Not in her sanctuary.

She was deep in her set—150 pounds had come and gone. Now she was pressing 300, sweat glistening on her pale skin, arms locked tight around the bar as she pushed through rep twelve.

And then—distraction.

Not panic. Not a classmate mid-meltdown.

It was Heath.

More specifically… his ass.

Abbey’s hands nearly slipped. Her breath hitched in her throat. The muscles in his lower back flexed as he dipped into his squat, and his shorts hugged him too well.

She looked again. Couldn't not.

That bounce—those tight, sculpted cheeks shifting rhythmically with every rep—it was hypnotic.

Her cock twitched.

A slow, guilty pulse of warmth spread through her core, making her jaw clench.

Even though Abbey was futanari, she’d trained herself. Disciplined herself. Yeti instincts were… violent. Savage. Her ancestors used to rut mid-hunt, mating like monsters in caves. But Abbey had evolved past that. She’d chosen control over chaos.

But right now?

Control was slipping.

The longer she watched Heath move, bend, lift—the way sweat pooled at the curve of his spine, the stretch of fabric over that perfect ass—the more the heat inside her grew.

She forced herself to look away the moment his head turned. Her heart pounded. Her legs squeezed together, hiding the thick press of something rising beneath her gym shorts.

“Inappropriate,” she muttered, clenching her thighs tighter.

Heath didn’t know. He couldn’t. Her secret stayed hers. He had no idea what she was hiding between her legs—and it damn sure wasn’t going to be revealed by her pitching a tent over his squat form.

Then—

'Why hide it?'

Abbey froze.

The voice didn’t come from outside. It rang inside her skull, cold and sharp—and yet… it was her.

A different version. Primal. Dripping in dominance.

‘Look at him. Plump. Ripe. Fit for mating.’

Her eyes widened. She looked around sharply, heart hammering. No one.

“Shut up,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

Heath looked over, mid-lift. “Uh—what?”

Shit. She'd said it out loud.

“Nothing,” she snapped quickly, face flushing.

He blinked, shrugged. “Um… okay.” Then he bent over to grab another plate.

And that damn ass went up again, high and tempting.

Her cock throbbed painfully.

‘Go take it,’ the voice purred inside her skull, voice dripping with hunger. ‘Grab him. Bend him. Mate him. Make him yours.’

Abbey clenched her fists. Her jaw. Her everything.

“Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. DON’T—”

‘No. Keep looking,’ the voice whispered, silky and cruel. ‘Watch him squirm. Watch him moan when you take him. You know you want to.’

“NO!” Abbey barked aloud, panic snapping from her throat like a whip. Her hands shot to her mouth.

The gym froze. Dumbbells stilled mid-air. Shoes squeaked against mats.

Every eye turned toward her.

Including his.

Heath peeked between his legs mid-stretch, sweat dripping off his brow, eyes blinking in mild confusion.

“Did you… say something, Abbey?”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

“Nope.” The lie dropped like ice. “Nothing at all.”

He shrugged and went back to it, muscles rippling as he sank into his next rep. But Abbey couldn’t look away this time.

Her gaze dragged over the curve of his glutes, how the sweat clung to every contour, how the fabric of his shorts outlined everything like it was sculpted.

Temptation incarnate.

‘You could break him in half… gently. He’d beg for more.’

"No," she snapped inwardly. "He'd be horrified. He’d never look at me the same."

‘Would he?’ the voice purred, colder now. ‘He worship you. He blushes when you speak. He crave you and doesn’t know why.’

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Wait. Wait, was that true?

Abbey’s breath hitched. A bead of sweat—not hers—slid down Heath’s thigh, vanishing between his legs. She could see it. Smell him from here.

The hunger clawed at her again.

And now… it could read her thoughts. Her very doubts became dialogue.

‘Bite him. Leave marks. Sink your teeth into his shoulder. Let the whole school know—he’s claimed.’

"No," She gritted her teeth. "I’m not like that. I’m not a monster. I won’t take him like some savage cave beast. He’s not prey."

‘Then someone else will.’

That made her freeze.

Before they were together, Heath was a walking hormone. Clumsy. Flirty. Harmless. He didn’t score, not really—he was more goof than threat. But…

But what about the girls she didn’t know? The ones who eyed him during gym? The ones who smiled just a little too long at his jokes?

Could they want him?

Would they try?

‘They will. This school is full of strong women. Even Ghoulia could break his ribs if she wanted, Da. You’ve seen their thighs. You’ve seen the way they look at him. How long do you think he’ll stay yours if you don’t act?’

No. NO. Her hands trembled on the weights. Her cock pressed painfully against her waistband, thick and angry, throbbing with frustration.

‘Someone will take him. Someone will bend him over. You’ll walk in and find him gasping under another woman. Scent-marked. Fucked. Not yours.’

“SHUT UP!” she hissed under her breath, voice shaking.

But it wouldn’t.

The voice had found its crack.

And now, it was driving in like a blade.

And that’s when it hit her.

This wasn’t just lust. Not fleeting attraction. Not momentary heat.

She wanted to claim him.

To mark Heath as hers, irrevocably, unmistakably. She wanted to bind him with something deeper than affection—primal, possessive, territorial.

So no one else could even think of touching him.

‘That’s right,’ the voice crooned, smug and serpentine. ‘You’ve been strong long enough… haven’t you earned a reward?’

Her eyes locked on his ass again. The tight sway of it, flexing with every breath he took. And gods—her lips parted. She was salivating.

‘Look at him. That’s yours. Take it. Just one grab. Just one ride. Just one scream of your name echoing through the gym.’

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

She could see it. She could feel it.

Slamming him down on the yoga mats. His soft whimper as she tore those tight little shorts off.

Mounting him.

Owning him.

Pounding him into the floor until he forgot his name—except for hers.

No—NO!

That’s not who she was! Those weren’t her thoughts! They couldn’t be! She had fought those instincts for years! The savage hunger of her ancestors, the beast in her blood—it was not her.

“I need to get out of here,” she muttered under her breath, voice trembling, legs stiff as ice. “Before I do something I regret.”

She bolted upright, muscles tense, cock pressed tight against her gym shorts in protest. She didn’t dare look back.

“Abbey!” Igor called from across the floor. “Where are you going?”

“BATHROOM!” she barked without stopping, voice cracking, eyes on the exit like it was the last point of sanity in a room set to burn.

Other students glanced her way, confused, but quickly returned to their routines.

Except for Heath.

He paused mid-set, towel draped around his neck, sweat shining on his brow.

He watched her leave, puzzled, brow furrowed.

"What was that about?"

He didn’t know.

But Abbey did.

And she was one more look away from losing herself completely.

(Nurse’s Office – 9:15 AM)

The air inside the nurse’s office was cold and too sterile, like it had been scrubbed not just of germs but of emotion. The curtains were pulled open, the lights dimmed slightly—but even then, everything felt too bright.

Draculaura sat on the padded table, legs crossed at the ankle, her fingers nervously tugging at the sleeves of her black sweater.

Nurse Hatchetson stood across from her in a white coat, flipping through a clipboard. Her horns poked through her hairnet, and a set of pens clicked softly in her breast pocket as she shifted.

“Alright, Miss Draculaura,” she said, voice low but warm. “Standard check-up. Nothing too invasive. Let me know if anything feels off.”

Draculaura nodded, giving a faint smile.

Hatchetson slid on a pair of gloves and pulled out a small kit. Inside was a sleek silver needle—polished, thin, and cold.

“Silver,” Hatchetson explained, catching the quick flicker of discomfort in Draculaura’s eyes. “Only way to get through vampiric dermis.”

“I know,” Draculaura muttered, bracing herself. “It just... stings.”

“It’ll be quick.”

The nurse gently cleaned a patch of skin on Draculaura’s forearm before pressing the needle in. The contact made Draculaura wince—like a thousand static shocks crawling just under her skin—but she didn’t flinch away.

The vial filled slowly with thick crimson blood, darker than human red, gleaming in the light like wine.

When it was done, Hatchetson swiftly removed the needle and pressed a gauze pad against the wound.

Her healing quickly kicked in, and within a few more seconds than usual, the wound was gone.

“Good job. Almost done,” she said as she placed the vial in a sealed case and reached for her clipboard again. “Now, tell me—have you experienced any unusual symptoms since Friday? Lightheadedness? Heat spikes? Hallucinations? Memory lapses?”

Draculaura hesitated for a second too long.

Her mind flashed—flesh, heat, pressure, Clawd growling into her ear, the way her butt ached as he slapped and clawed at her—

She blinked it away, smiling quickly. “No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Hatchetson looked at her for a beat, then nodded, scribbling something down.

“Any use of magic since the incident? Even passively?”

“No,” Draculaura said, more confidently this time. “I’ve barely used any since last semester.”

“Alright.” Hatchetson clicked her pen and gave a short nod. “That’s all for now. If anything does come up—fever, memory loss, odd behavior—you come straight to me. Don’t wait for it to get worse. Understood?”

“Got it.”

“Then you’re free to go.”

Draculaura slid off the table, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. The bandage on her arm still pulsed faintly from the silver prick.

As she walked out into the hall, the smell of antiseptic faded—but that phantom heat in her chest?

Still there.

Still humming.

Draculaura kept her head down, arms folded, still feeling the sting of the silver needle under her gauze. Her thoughts drifted—until something bumped her shoulder.

Hard.

She snapped her head up.

Gory.

The vampire stared at her for half a second, eyes cold, chin lifted like she was daring Draculaura to speak.

Draculaura didn’t.

Neither did Gory.

They both just huffed, turned in opposite directions, and kept walking—heels clicking in opposite rhythms, tension dragging behind them like a stormcloud.

Some things hadn’t changed.

Not even after that.

(Empty Hallway – 9:30 AM)

Cleo stood beside her locker, compact mirror in one hand, lipstick in the other. The hallway around her was quiet—eerily so. Not a single student in sight. Just her, her reflection, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

Was she still shaken? Of course. Who wasn’t?

But would she let it show?

Absolutely not.

She was Cleo de Nile. Royalty. And no gas attack, no chaos, no fear was going to make her crack her image.

Still… there was a tightness in her shoulders she couldn’t quite shake. Everyone was on edge. Even if they weren’t saying it, she saw it in their faces. Heard it in the way they whispered instead of laughed.

She glanced at Deuce, who stood a few feet away, leaned against the lockers, phone in hand. He looked relaxed, like always—cool, unbothered. But Cleo knew him too well.

He wasn’t as unfazed as he pretended to be. None of them were.

“Anything good on the web?” she asked, running the lipstick across her bottom lip with a practiced swipe.

Deuce glanced up. “Nah. Just dumb memes my boys keep spamming.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, flicking her eyes toward him. “Let me see.”

He turned his phone toward her, a smirk on his lips. A photo of a cat in a suit of armor riding a goldfish into battle filled the screen, the caption in bold: "ME HEADING TO CLASS LIKE."

Cleo let out a small laugh, one hand covering her mouth. “Ugh. That’s so stupid.”

“But it’s funny.”

“…Yeah. A little.”

She gave him a quick smile, then turned back to her mirror for a final touch-up. A sweep of blush. A pat of powder. Perfect.

Deuce was about to scroll again when his eyes dropped—briefly—to her skirt.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t worn something like it before. But something about the way it shimmered when she moved, the way it clung to her hips just right…

He bit the inside of his cheek.

It was tight. Way too tight.

That skirt clung to Cleo like it was painted on, every curve pronounced, every sway of her hips hypnotic. The fabric hugged her ass in a way that made it look perfectly round, perfectly high—like a ripe peach just begging to be touched.

Deuce’s mind slipped, just for a second.
What would it look like without the skirt?

That’s when he felt it—his pants getting tight in the wrong damn place.

He coughed, shifted awkwardly, tugged subtly at his waistband to hide the growing issue. But his eyes… they kept flicking back. Just quick glances. Sideways. Downward. Back up. Thank Ra she didn’t catch him.

Or so he thought.

“You alright?” Cleo asked, not looking up from her compact mirror.

Deuce blinked. “Oh yeah! Just zoned out for a sec.”

She raised an eyebrow, suspicious, but said nothing. She returned to her makeup, dabbing gloss onto her lips with practiced precision.

Deuce bit the inside of his cheek. That skirt…
That skirt is driving me insane.

He muttered the words under his breath, maybe a little too loud.

Cleo stopped. Mid-application. Turned to him slowly.

Her expression was unreadable at first—surprise? Confusion? But then…

A smirk.

“Oh?” she purred. “Something catch your eye, babe?”

Deuce looked right at her now, lips curling into a slow grin. His voice dropped, smooth, dangerous.

“Yeah. I don’t know if you’re trying to get me hard in front of the whole damn school or if that skirt just has a personal vendetta.”

Cleo’s eyes flew wide open. “DEUCE!”

He didn’t flinch. The grin didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened.

Cleo’s face flushed—equal parts scandal and rage.

“DO YOU EVEN HEAR YOURSELF? THAT IS SO INAPPROPRIATE!”

She launched into a tirade like he’d confessed to fucking her sister, hands flailing, voice rising, lips flying faster than her mascara wand ever could.

Deuce listened. For a bit.

Then he sighed and rolled his eyes. “I swear, sometimes you talk just to hear yourself.”

Silence.

Cleo’s rant cut off mid-word. Her gaze locked onto his face. Cold. Piercing.

“Excuse me?” she said, voice dangerously soft.

But Deuce had already leaned into it. Smirking. Reckless.

“Bet you’d moan just to hear that too.”

For a heartbeat, everything went still.

Then—SLAP.

His head snapped to the side, not from the force, but from the sheer audacity of it. His glasses clattered to the floor. He immediately covered his eyes with both hands, protective instincts kicking in before he could accidentally stone the whole hallway.

“You…” Cleo seethed, face now glowing red. “You DISRESPECTFUL SNAKE!”

She didn’t slam the locker. Didn’t make a scene. She just turned and stormed off, regal as ever even when furious, her long strides slicing down the hallway.

Deuce stayed there, crouched, retrieving his glasses slowly.

His face flushed with guilt. Shame. Frustration.

Why the fuck did I say that?

Now he just looked like a dick. A complete asshole.

But still… he watched her disappear around the corner.

And he couldn’t tell if that redness on her face was all anger…

…or a blush.

(The Girl's Bathroom – 9:30 AM)

The door burst open with a furious slam, Cleo storming inside like a goddess scorned, heels clicking hard against the tile.

Her face was flushed red, not from embarrassment—from rage.

“That…” she seethed, voice trembling with fury, “That fucking PUNK! HOW… DARE HE!!”

She slammed both palms onto the cold metal counter with a crash that rattled the mirrors. Her breath came hot and fast through gritted teeth, body trembling with the force of her indignation.

How dare he say that to her.

Her. Cleo De Nile.

Daughter of Ramses.

Queen of the student body.

Most worshipped girl in Monster High.

And most of all… his girlfriend.

She clenched the edge of the sink, nails carving small crescents into the aluminum. Her knuckles turned bone-white, jaw locked like a vice.

Deuce hadn’t just crossed a line. He’d vaulted over it, flipped the bird, and flashed the entire fucking kingdom on his way down.

She should’ve dumped his scaly ass on the spot. Let him wander the halls like a blind idiot, begging for attention he’d never deserve.

She yanked out her phone, thumbs flying across the screen.

“I’m gonna give that boy a piece of my mind,” she hissed, texting furiously. “He’s gonna regret ever—”

‘No, you won’t.’

Cleo froze.

Her thumb hovered mid-word. Her head snapped around.

Empty. No stalls opening. No shoes under the doors.

“Who said that?”

‘Right here, bitch.’

She spun toward the mirror.

And saw herself.

But not quite.

Her reflection wasn’t holding a phone. It stood, arms braced against the counter—smirking. Confident. Alive.

Wrong.

'You’re not gonna do anything,' it said flatly.

Cleo scoffed. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are telling me what I will and won’t do?”

‘Someone who knows you better than you know yourself.’ The reflection folded its arms, one perfectly sculpted brow raised. ‘You’re not gonna dump Deuce. You’re not even gonna yell at him.'

Cleo’s eyes narrowed. “And what makes you so sure of that?”

The reflection smirked.

‘Because as much as you pretend otherwise… deep down? You like it when he talks to you that way.’

Her face flushed deeper.

“How dare you! I am ROYALTY—”

‘No, you’re not.’

The words hit like a slap.

The reflection stepped closer—without Cleo moving. The glass rippled.

‘You act high and mighty. You parade around like you’re some goddess meant to be worshipped.’

It pointed—directly at her.

‘But deep down? You’re just a spoiled, bratty little slut who gets wet when her boyfriend talks back.’

Cleo’s jaw dropped. Her eyes went wide.

But the reflection… kept going.

‘You act like you’re a princess. A goddess everyone should kneel for.’

The reflection’s smirk widened, eyes sharp as obsidian, full of venom and velvet.

‘But everyone knows the truth, Cleo. Deep down... you’re just a whore.’

“SHUT UP!” Cleo shrieked, staggering back from the mirror, her heels clicking violently on the tile. Her voice cracked with panic, anger, shame. “This is just some damn illusion! Some sick trick!”

‘Is it?’ the reflection purred, its tone silk-draped in poison. ‘Or is this you finally seeing what you really are?’

The image in the mirror shifted.

It still looked like her—but the designer clothes, the perfectly pressed skirt and gold accents? Gone. Replaced with scrawled filth across her naked body like graffiti on royalty.

NAUGHTY SLUT.

ROYAL WHORE.

DIRTY BITCH.

Cleo stumbled backward, breath shallow, her back hitting the bathroom door. She stared in horror as her reflection—her twisted twin—smiled wider than the glass should allow.

‘Is this really an illusion? Or is it the only time you’ve ever looked in a mirror and seen the truth?’

“I’m not you!” she cried out. “I’m Cleo De Nile! Daughter of Ramses! You don’t get to define me!”

‘Oh?’ the reflection hissed, voice dipping low, wicked. ‘Or are you just some pampered brat, dripping for a man to bend you over and show you what you really are?’

“SHUT UP!” she screamed, fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms.

‘Don’t pretend, Cleo,’ the reflection snarled, eyes narrowing like a predator. ‘I see that blush. I see those trembling thighs. I see how wet you are.’

Cleo’s eyes dropped.

Her legs were pressed tightly together, quivering. Her thighs glistened.

She gasped, a sob catching in her throat.

‘You love it when he’s mean to you,’ the reflection whispered, low and cruel. ‘When he gets jealous over you. When he grabs you. When he reminds you you’re not a queen—you’re his.’

“That’s not true!” Cleo choked, trying to force strength back into her voice, but it cracked, thin and trembling.

‘Isn’t it?’ the voice whispered, all heat and daggers. ‘Then why do you let it happen? Why do you come back every time? Why do you ache for it—beg for it?

Cleo shook her head. No words. No answer.

Because she couldn’t.

Because maybe… it was true.

‘You love how he makes you feel,’ the reflection whispered. ‘You love how he gets rough. How he talks down to you like you’re not royalty—but property.’

It pointed to the door behind Cleo, its grin wide and wicked.

‘Because that’s what you really want, isn’t it? Someone to dominate you. To control you. To make you feel like you’re nothing without him.’

Cleo’s body trembled. Not from fear. From fury. From confusion. From something deeper—something more dangerous than either.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her throat clenched as the tears welled again. She wasn’t just hearing this voice—she was feeling it. Like it lived inside her chest, tearing through her confidence from the inside out.

The reflection only smirked, leaning on the sink as if it had all the time in the world. Watching her crack.

‘What’s wrong, Cleo?’ it mocked. ‘It’s just me. So why the tears, your highness?’

“SHUT UP!!!” Cleo screamed, fists balled, her body shaking like a fault line about to split.

But the voice kept coming, low and lethal.

‘Why do you think he wants you? Why do you think Deuce keeps coming back?’ The reflection folded its arms, head tilting, tone heavy with accusation. ‘Is it love? Or is it because he knows what you really are?’

Cleo’s resolve shattered.

She turned and ran.

Tears blurred her vision as she burst out of the bathroom, ignoring the stares, brushing past students who barely had time to react. She didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Her heels clicked wildly, echoing through the hallway like frantic drumbeats.

She ducked into the janitor’s office, slammed the door, and dropped to the floor.

Alone.

Shaking.

Silent.

And then—she wept.

Her chest heaved, sobs escaping her like steam from a cracking urn. She didn’t even realize her phone had slipped from her pocket, landing on the tile beside her.

Two message notifications glowed against the screen:

🐍Deuce:
(Cleo, babe, I'm really sorry.)

🐍Deuce:
(I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk. I just… really liked how your skirt looked and didn’t know how to say it right.)

She stared at it through her tears.

Before… she had typed a storm. A digital rant, full of fury. She’d been ready to unleash it. To chew him out. Hurt him. Make him pay.

But now…

Now that voice had shown her something uglier. Something she didn’t want to admit. And worse… something true.

Her fingers hesitated.

Then she deleted the whole thing. Line by line. Gone.

Instead, she typed:

👑Cleo:
(Say it again. But quieter next time.)

(Nurse’s Office – 9:45 AM)

The paper sheet crinkled under Gil as he shifted on the edge of the cot, arms resting on his knees, wet footprints still faintly visible beneath his shoes. His gills fluttered faintly with each breath.

Nurse Hatchetson stood beside him, clipboard in hand, scanning the chart.

“Alright, Gil,” she said with a practiced calm, “same routine as everyone else. Blood sample, general questions, and we’ll get you on your way.”

He nodded. “Sounds good.”

She stepped over to the small metal tray on the counter and began prepping the syringe—but paused before reaching for a standard one.

“Have you submerged yourself in water within the past few hours?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Gil scratched the back of his neck. “Uh… yeah, actually. I always swim to school—kinda comes with the gills.”

He gave a sheepish shrug. “Didn’t think it’d be a problem.”

Nurse Hatchetson hummed. “Thought so. Skin’s dense. Hydrated sea monsters—especially freshwater hybrids—are tough to draw from.”

She switched syringes, grabbing a slightly thicker needle from a small black case and clicked a switch on the tray. A soft glow emanated from beneath the surface—heating pad active.

“This one’s been warmed,” she said. “Not to burn, just enough to break through the outer dermis. You’ll feel it, but it won’t last.”

Gil braced as she approached. “Hit me.”

She cleaned a spot on his arm, then gave a precise, swift jab. It burned—not painfully, but enough to make him flinch. The blood came slower than normal, thick and slightly iridescent.

After a moment, the vial was filled, and she withdrew the needle.

“Done.”

Gil let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Thanks.”

“Any hallucinations, odd behavior, or outbursts since Friday?” she asked, jotting on the clipboard.

“No, ma’am. Just a lot of stress. But no weird stuff.”

“Any recent magic use?”

“Nope.”

“Good. You’re clear for now. Head to class.”

Gil gave a polite nod, slid off the table, and walked out of the office—still rubbing his arm a bit.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Gil spotted Lagoona and Ryder leaning against the lockers a few feet away. Lagoona lit up the second she saw him.

“Hey, you survive the blood draw?” she asked, nudging him with a grin.

“Barely. Hot needle this time,” Gil groaned. “Felt like I was getting branded.”

“Yeesh,” Ryder muttered. “Nurse Hatchetson doesn’t play.”

“Speaking of,” Gil said as they started walking down the hall together, “how’s Gigi doing? She okay?”

Ryder’s smile faded a bit. “She’s alright. Still recovering. Didn’t come in today—her parents wanted her to rest.”

Gil nodded in understanding. “Yeah… makes sense.”

They walked together in silence for a few beats. Not uncomfortable—just thoughtful.

Even with the worst behind them, the quiet wasn’t the same anymore.

(Monster High’s Greenhouse – 10:30 AM)

The air inside the greenhouse was heavy with warmth and the rich, earthy scent of damp soil. Soft shafts of sunlight filtered through the glass above, casting gentle light across rows of blooming flora—tangled vines, flowering stalks, and leaves that shimmered with dew.

Venus slowly moved through the aisles with a watering can in hand. Her steps were slower than usual, more deliberate. Her vibrant pink and green curls bobbed as she leaned over a sprig of dragon’s breath, whispering a soft hello before gently drizzling water into the soil.

To anyone else, it was just gardening.

But to Venus, it was grounding.

The plants didn’t judge her. They didn’t scream in fear. They didn’t panic and stampede.

Unlike Friday.

She could still hear it. The gas bursting through vents. The shrieks. The horrible sound of students dropping like stones. The panic. The silence. The way the ivy screamed as the miasma touched its roots. The way the grass begged her to make it stop.

And the way Robecca was trampled—her sweet, strange, steam-powered Robecca, crushed under the chaos like she wasn’t even there.

They’d spent hours that night in her garage—Venus tightening bolts, replacing cracked gears, wiping away oil and dried tears. Robecca kept saying she was fine. But Venus saw the dents. The loose plating. The flicker behind her eyes.

And now, even with her girlfriend helping Bloodgood in another wing of the school, Venus couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t breathe it away.

She paused to water a bed of mourning lilies when her phone buzzed.

She pulled it from her pocket.

Her lock screen glowed to life—a photo of her and Robecca kissing, Venus’s hand tangled gently in her curls, Robecca’s eyes closed in that rare, tender way that made her heart ache.

Venus smiled.

A real one.

But then… a heat rose inside her.

It was slow at first—like sunlight creeping in through the window. But it didn’t stop. It spread like wildfire through her chest, her veins, her fingertips. Her breath hitched.

She staggered back.

The watering can clattered to the ground.

Her hands flew to her chest as her eyes widened, panic setting in as that warmth turned searing.

She gasped. “Wh… What—?”

And then the plants reacted.

All around her, they twitched—as if sensing her pain. Vines curled inward, flowers jerked in her direction. The ferns nearest her trembled, and in a flash, thick thorned stalks shot up from the ground and wrapped around her arms, her waist, her legs.

They weren’t attacking her.

They were trying to hold her up.

But the heat was too much.

She collapsed to her knees, body trembling as her chlorophyll-rich blood surged with energy that didn’t belong to her.

Leaves twisted around her shoulders. Blossoms pressed to her face.

And then—everything went black.

(Venus's Dream)

Venus’s boots struck the marble floor of her greenhouse palace with measured force, each click echoing through the hothouse like a countdown.

Every step she took was deliberate, powerful—dominion made flesh. The air around her was heavy, heady with the scent of humid flora, thick pollen, and the low musk of sweat and submission. Her domain pulsed with wild life, a chaos she alone commanded.

Twisted vines coiled lazily along the glass walls, blossoms quivering in unnatural hues, petals unfolding as she passed—opening like mouths, bowing like courtiers.

This was her kingdom.

Not just of plants—but of obedience, of control, and of desire.

And at the center of her throne room, curled like a gift at the base of her vine-draped dais, waited her prize.

Robecca.

She bore almost no resemblance to the iron-willed automaton she once was. Gone was the proud construct, the legacy of a brilliant inventor. What remained was something softer.

Sleeker. Redefined. Trained.

Reforged under Venus’s hand.

She wore latex like skin—obsidian black, glistening with the sheen of polished devotion. The suit traced every curve of her mechanical frame, molded her like sculpture. Her limbs were bent, paws pressing into the floor in perfect posture. A synthetic tail twitched behind her, idle and expressive.

Perched atop her head: canine ears, twitching with every shift in sound.

And in her mouth—a rubber bit gag, silencing all but the eager, animal sounds her mistress had allowed her to keep.

She didn’t speak anymore. She didn’t need to. Her whimpers said everything. Her posture spoke volumes. Every excited shiver, every panting breath—love. Worship. Total surrender.

Venus descended her throne slowly, her vine-wrapped fingers gliding along the rail, the greenery parting for her with reverent ease.

Robecca tensed at once. Her head lifted. Tail raised. Body humming with anticipation.

She let out a high, muffled yip. Her paws tapped on the marble, desperate for her queen’s touch.

Venus crouched beside her, eyes aglow, a slow smile curling across her lips.

“Good girl,” she cooed, voice dripping with honeyed approval. Her fingers stroked along Robecca’s cheek, tracing the seam where latex met steel. “Did you miss your mistress?”

Robecca leaned into the touch, vibrating with need, whining low through the gag, eyes wide and pleading.

Her body arched. Her tail wagged. She nuzzled against Venus’s thigh like the trained creature she’d become.

Venus chuckled softly, indulgently, and trailed a single finger down Robecca’s back—slow, precise, possessive.

Above them, the vines stirred. The walls whispered. Coils of green slithered downward like sentient rope, eager to be of use.

She leaned in, her breath warm against the metal of Robecca’s ear.

“You’ve been such a perfect little pet,” she murmured. “But I think it’s time we let the whole garden see just how well you’ve learned to obey.”

Her fingers snapped.

And the vines obeyed.

The vines slithered down from the ceiling like predators called by scent, smooth and sinuous, coiling with intent. They wrapped around Robecca’s limbs—wrists, ankles, waist—lifting her effortlessly from the ground.

She didn’t resist. She never resisted.

Instead, she let out a soft, muffled whine of eager delight as they hoisted her into the air, her limbs splayed, her body offered up like a sacred gift to her queen.

Venus smiled, slow and wicked, as she circled her pet. Her fingers drifted over Robecca’s latex-bound body, trailing the seams and curves with a possessive grace.

“My pretty little machine,” she purred, the words humming like silk soaked in wine. “You always know how to please me... but let’s see how far your obedience goes today.”

At her flick, the vines responded—tightening, stretching Robecca open. Her limbs pulled taut, spread wide for Venus’s gaze.

Another vine—thicker, darker, pulsing with life—slithered between her thighs, nudging at the slick tension of her suit.

Robecca let out a strained moan through her gag, arching into the teasing touch. Her tail thrashed behind her, wagging with frantic desire.

Venus watched her squirm with a smirk.

“There we go,” she cooed, brushing hair from Robecca’s masked face. “My little toy wants it.”

The vine pressed firmer, grinding against the latex barrier—until with a low, wet rip, the material gave. The vine forced its way through the breach, sliding into Robecca’s dripping heat.

A muffled cry tore from her throat. Her body jolted in the air, twitching, trembling as the vine filled her mercilessly. Paws clenched. Muscles fluttered.

“Look at you,” Venus whispered, voice hot and reverent. “Taking it so deep. So perfect.”

Her hand drifted between her own thighs, fingers slipping beneath the folds of green. She mirrored the vine’s rhythm, matching the slow, grinding thrusts with her own touch.

“Good girls don’t just obey,” she breathed, pressing her palm harder. “They worship. Now show me.”

Robecca’s whines turned frantic, her body writhing midair as the vines drove deeper, harder, fucking her with the ruthless, rhythmic precision only Venus’s garden could achieve.

The sound of squelching latex and panting breaths filled the greenhouse. Venus moaned softly, her head tilting back, eyes half-lidded with lust as her fingers moved faster, in time with the vine’s pounding tempo.

“That's it,” she gasped, her voice tight, sharp with the edge of orgasm. “Cum for me. Cum with me.”

And they did.

Robecca spasmed, her whole body twitching like a puppet yanked by wires, tail thrashing wildly. Venus let out a queen’s cry—half-growl, half-ecstasy—as her climax struck her like lightning.

Their sounds mingled—whimper and roar, leash and lash—echoing through the greenhouse like a storm in bloom.

The vines loosened, retreating with wet, satisfied slithers, lowering Robecca gently to the floor. She collapsed in a dazed sprawl, limbs limp, suit slick with sweat and slick.

Venus stood above her, flushed and glowing, chest rising and falling in post-orgasmic waves.

Her smile was feral. Her eyes were fire.

“You’ve done so well, my pet,” Venus purred, fingers threading slowly through Robecca’s tangled hair, stroking like she was brushing the petals of a prized bloom. “But we’re far from finished.”

She rose, towering with effortless grace, and with a single snap of her fingers—sharp, commanding—the vines responded.

They lifted Robecca again, this time setting her down in a perfect kneel, her latex-clad body glinting in the garden’s filtered light, her back straight, head bowed.

Venus stepped closer, trailing her fingers along the curved swell of Robecca’s chest, the slick suit creaking under her touch.

“You’ve been such a very good girl,” she cooed, her voice dipping low and velvet-smooth. “And good girls get their rewards.”

With slow, deliberate care, she reached down and unbuckled the bit gag, slipping it free from Robecca’s mouth.

“Show me,” she whispered, voice husky, electric with arousal. “Show me how grateful you are.”

Robecca didn’t hesitate.

Her tongue slipped out, eager and trembling, as she leaned forward to press soft, reverent kisses along Venus’s thighs.

She worshipped her with each lick—slow, gliding patterns across her skin, every breath hot against flesh kissed by heat and sweat. She moved upward, lips brushing over Venus’s hips, her navel, her scent overwhelming and divine.

Venus exhaled slowly, fingers sliding back into Robecca’s hair, guiding her movements with the reverence of a high priestess.

“My perfect little pet,” she murmured, her head tipping back, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure. “That’s it. Just like that…”

Robecca’s tongue moved with practiced obedience—no hesitation, no wasted motion. Every kiss was a vow. Every lick, a confession of loyalty. She could taste everything—salt, nectar, the faint sweetness of garden musk and something deeper, more primal.

Her mistress’s power.

Venus shivered, her fingers curling tighter into Robecca’s hair.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed. “Show me how much you need this.”

And Robecca did. She pressed in closer, her mouth finding the seam of Venus’s thighs, her breath hitching as the scent of arousal flooded her senses. Her tongue slid higher, parting warm, damp skin, teasing, tasting.

She moaned softly, her entire body humming with need as her tongue slipped between Venus’s folds, and finally—finally—tasted her.

The flavor was heady. Sweet. Earthy. Dominant.

Venus gasped, her hips rocking forward against Robecca’s mouth.

“Fuck—yes,” she hissed, voice shaking. “Just like that. Lick me, my sweet little pet.”

Robecca obeyed without pause. Her lips sealed around her mistress’s clit, her tongue stroking in slow, methodical circles, building the rhythm that made Venus tremble.

Every flick, every suction, was perfectly tuned.

Venus’s body tightened, her breath coming in staggered gasps as her free hand gripped Robecca’s hair, anchoring her.

“That’s it,” she moaned. “Oh—fuck—that’s it…”

Robecca’s pace quickened, sensing the rise, tasting the tension. Venus’s thighs tensed around her, the pressure building like a storm ready to break.

And then—Venus cried out, hips bucking as the climax ripped through her like lightning.

Her legs trembled. Her back arched. Her fingers twisted in Robecca’s hair as the wave of release poured over her.

But Robecca didn’t stop. She licked slower now, more gently, savoring every drop, every twitch, every pulse.

Venus slumped slightly, breath ragged, her skin flushed and glowing.

Her hand remained in Robecca’s hair, stroking now. Calmer. Gentle. Worship returned.

“Such a good girl,” she whispered, voice thick with pleasure. “My good girl. My perfect little pet.”

Robecca whimpered, leaning into the praise, her body trembling, aching with joy.

She had pleased her mistress.

And nothing else mattered.

"..."

"Venus."

"...Venus."

“Venus.”

“VENUS.”

“VENUS MCFLYTRAP, WAKE THE HELL UP!”

With a SPLASH, a wave of icy water smacked Venus straight in the face. She shot up with a gasp, sputtering and coughing, her neon hair plastered to her face. Before she could orient herself, a sharp slap cracked across her cheek.

“OW—what the hell?!” Venus shrieked, clutching her face.

Hovering above her, arms folded, stood none other than Amanita Nightshade—plant diva, chaos gremlin, and the only other botanical monster in the school who knew exactly how to make a dramatic entrance.

“You're welcome,” Amanita said, tossing the now-empty bucket onto the bench behind her with a clang. “You’ve been out cold for, like, twenty minutes. Just lying there. Twitching. Moaning.”

Venus blinked, still trying to get her bearings. “Moaning?”

Amanita tilted her head, putting on an exaggerated expression of mock concern.

“‘Good girl, Robeeca! Did you miss your mistress?’” she mimicked, swooning dramatically. “'Lick me, my sweet little pet! Oh yes! Such a good girl!'”

She paused to inspect her nails. “Honestly, I thought you were having a heatstroke or a very vivid fantasy.”

Venus’s face went beet red as everything came rushing back.

The dream. Robecca. The sensation. The—

“FUCK,” she muttered under her breath, running a hand down her face.

Amanita raised an eyebrow, her lips curling. “So, I take it that wasn’t just a midday power nap.”

“Was I... was I saying it all out loud?” Venus asked, mortified.

“Oh sweetie, not just saying it,” Amanita replied, waving a hand dramatically toward the ruined greenhouse, “you were projecting it. You turned the entire greenhouse into a Venus-powered horror show.”

Venus turned slowly.

The greenhouse was a mess of twisted vines, overgrown stems, and strangled flower beds. The roses had bloomed and wilted all at once. The carnivorous plants had overextended and fallen over, their roots torn up from the floor.

Even the moss had curled up in exhaustion.

The plants hadn’t just reacted—they’d panicked. Her power had overloaded the whole system.

Venus groaned, crouching forward and burying her face in her hands. “Great. Just great. I nearly choke myself in a dream and kill a greenhouse in real life. Perfect.”

Amanita rolled her eyes and grabbed a rake. “Look, you’re lucky I was the one who found you and not, say, Ghoulia. She would’ve reported this and had you in the nurse’s office before you could say ‘botanical breakdown.’”

Venus looked up, guilt simmering just beneath her embarrassment. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I know, darling,” Amanita said, exhaling dramatically as she flounced toward the tool closet. “None of us mean to unleash chaotic power through unconscious magical trauma, but here we are. Now, are you gonna cry in your chlorophyll, or are you gonna help me clean this mess before the headmistress has a meltdown?”

Venus wiped her face, nodded, and stood.

“Right. Let’s fix it.”

As she moved to collect the tools, she couldn’t help but glance at Amanita. Her fellow plant ghoul was as flawless as ever—sharp eyeliner, perfect curls, smug smirk still painted across her face like she hadn’t just dragged someone out of a supernatural meltdown.

And yet, beneath the attitude, she had stayed. She had helped.

They were both children of nature, but the differences between them were night and day.

Where Venus was roots and compost, Amanita was thorns and perfume.

If Venus was nurture, Amanita was wrath in heels.

The Poison Ivy to her Swamp Thing.

And yet… maybe that balance was why they worked so well together. Even when they drove each other nuts.

As the two began untangling vines and reviving withered orchids, Venus let out a breath and thought to herself:

"Note to self—no more greenhouse naps."

"Especially not when your dreams come with a body count."

(Nurse Hatchetson’s Office – 11:00 AM)

The room was quiet, clinical, and somehow a little too bright for Twyla’s liking. The walls were lined with various charts, potions, and medical kits for every kind of monster biology. Twyla sat on the examination table, legs crossed, her wispy purple hair falling slightly over her eyes as she fidgeted with her sleeves.

Nurse Hatchetson flipped through a clipboard as she washed her hands. “Alright, Miss Boogeyman,” she said, her tone efficient but not unkind. “Any physical pain? Dizziness? Trouble breathing?”

“No,” Twyla answered softly. “Just a little... tired.”

The nurse nodded, scribbled something, then grabbed a fresh needle from her tray. “Good. I’ll need a small blood sample, then we’ll finish up with a few questions.”

Twyla instinctively tensed at the sight of the needle.

“Don’t worry,” Hatchetson said with a practiced ease. “Just a standard one. No need for the heated silver or diamond tips. You don’t have any high-density tissue or venom sacs, so this won’t sting much.”

Twyla offered her arm without complaint. The needle slipped in easily. Just a quick prick, a small vial filled, and it was done.

“Alright.” The nurse capped the vial and looked her in the eye. “Now. Any unusual behavior or symptoms since Friday? Hallucinations, muscle spasms, sudden use of unexplained abilities?”

Twyla hesitated.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the hem of her sleeve.

“I… I had a dream,” she admitted.

Hatchetson didn’t blink. “Go on.”

“It was... strange. I think it was just a dream, but it felt really vivid. And Howleen was in it. We were together, but not like… just hanging out. It was a little... steamy.”

She said the word like it had a strange taste in her mouth.

The nurse arched a brow but didn’t look surprised.

“Considering what you went through—and your lineage—that makes sense,” she replied, scribbling another note. “You’re a dream-walker. Your powers are rooted in subconscious spaces. When under stress, your body might’ve responded by crafting a dream to soothe you. Something that grounds you. Comforts you.”

Twyla blinked. “You think it was my own powers… comforting me?”

“More than likely,” Hatchetson said. “Trauma does strange things to the brain. To your brain, it probably throws it into an emotional simulation.”

She softened, just a bit. “You care about her. You love her. That would make her the safest place your mind could retreat to.”

Twyla nodded slowly, the pieces clicking into place.

“That’s… actually kind of nice.”

The nurse gave a small smile. “It is. But if the dreams get more intense, or start bleeding into your waking hours, let me know.”

Twyla hopped off the table, her boots landing softly on the tiled floor.

“Thanks,” she murmured, making her way toward the door.

“Take care of yourself, Twyla.”

As she stepped back into the hall, the shadows at her feet curled slightly with each step.

But they were calm—quiet.

Like they’d been soothed too.

(Frankie's Dream)

Frankie yelped as her back hit the wall hard, the impact echoing like a gunshot in the empty classroom.

Holt was on her in an instant—heat radiating off him in waves, his pupils blown wide, fire licking behind his eyes like a storm about to break.

He seized a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, forcing a gasp from her lips.

“Thought you were the level-headed one,” he sneered, breath hot against her cheek, voice low and venomous. “Smart, sharp little ghoul. But no—get you alone, and you melt like candy. Fucking pathetic.”

Her stomach twisted. A flutter of fear, yes, but deeper than that—deeper and darker—was want.

That wicked, suffocating need to be seen like this. Torn down. Exposed.

Holt’s hand darted to the front of her shirt, and with a savage rip, fabric tore open—her chest bared, breath hitching as cool air kissed flushed skin.

No bra. She hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t meant for it.

But he didn’t care.

He grabbed both her tits and squeezed, hard enough to make her cry out. Not gently. Not teasing. Possessive. Punishing. He leaned in and licked up the curve of her neck, slow and filthy, keeping her head pinned by her hair.

“You like being ruined, don’t you?” he growled, voice vibrating against her skin. “Tell me.”

She whimpered, tried to twist away, but he shoved her back, his hips pressing hard against her thighs.

She could feel him—thick, hard, straining. And she hated how her body reacted. How wet she already was.

“I... I don’t know—” she whispered.

SLAP.

Her face snapped to the side, heat blooming in her cheek. The shock of it stunned her, silence rushing in.

“You don’t get to lie to me,” Holt snarled. “Not here. Not now. You gave yourself to me the second you opened your legs in your mind.”

Tears welled in her eyes. Her lip trembled. She didn’t want to cry—but it all felt so much. Too much.

“I didn’t mean to—”

SMACK.

“Didn’t mean to what?” he spat.

Her head rang. Her legs buckled, and only his grip on her hair kept her from sinking to the floor.

“I-I didn’t mean to disobey—”

Another crack across the face.

“Still wrong, slut.”

Frankie choked back a sob. Her lip was swelling. Her body burned.

“I didn’t mean to displease you,” she whispered.

Holt’s mouth twitched, then twisted into a vicious grin. “Better.”

His fingers finally loosened from her hair and slid down, curling behind her back, pulling her flush against his chest. Skin to skin. Bare nipples brushing his shirt. She could feel his heart hammering like a drum.

He dipped his head again, breathing hot against her ear.

“Now be a good girl and take what I give you.”

Holt shoved her forward, her chest slamming against the cold surface of a desk, papers scattering beneath her like broken wings. One hand pressed firm against the back of her head, pinning her in place.

“Ass. Up.” His breath scorched her ear, voice feral. “Now.”

Frankie hesitated—heart pounding, thighs clenching—but the command was magnetic. Inevitable.

She arched her back, lifted her hips, presenting herself like some shame-drunk offering.

Her skirt hiked up on its own, bunching around her waist, leaving her panties and ass fully exposed.

Her soaked panties.

She bit her lip in humiliation, cheeks blazing hot.

Holt gave a dark laugh as he stepped back and took in the sight of her. “Look at this. You’re fucking drenched. I haven’t even touched you there yet and you’re already making a mess.”

He crouched a little, dragging two fingers down the soaked fabric, then brought them up to show her. Glimmering. Sticky. Evidence.

“You’re a dirty little whore, Frankie,” he growled. “Say it.”

She didn’t answer—couldn’t. Her lips trembled around nothing.

He snarled and grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back until her spine arched like a bow.

“I said, say it.”

“Y-Yes,” she whimpered.

He jerked harder. “Yes what?”

Her mouth opened, but the words stuck in her throat like thorns. His hand slid from her hair to her jaw, forcing her face up, holding her there like a mirror.

“Say it with your fucking chest.”

Still silence.

His free hand ignited—bright, searing red—and came down hard across her ass.

CRACK.

She screamed.

Pain bloomed red-hot across her left cheek, the fabric of her skirt smoking and curling from the scorch.

“Say it,” Holt hissed, voice vibrating with barely contained fire. “Say it or so help me, I’ll slap you so hard your fucking kids’ll come out branded.”

Tears stung her eyes. Her body shook. And yet her cunt was throbbing, needy and wet and begging for more.

“I—” she gasped. “I’m... a filthy fucking slut.”

“LOUDER.”

She lost it.

“YES!” she shrieked, all dignity gone, voice cracked and wild. “I’M A FILTHY FUCKING SLUT!”

Holt smirked. Victory flickered in his eyes like firelight.

“Damn right you are.”

He let go of her face and her head dropped to the desk with a soft thump, strands of silver and black hair fanning out across the wood.

He grabbed her skirt and yanked—ripping straight through the waistband, shreds of fabric fluttering to the floor like ashes.

Her ass was bare now, twin cheeks glowing red, panting and trembling under his gaze.

He took a step back and palmed his cock—thick, veined, pulsing hard enough to ache. He let his pants fall, freeing it. Steam actually rose from the head.

Frankie’s eyes darted back, catching a glimpse. Her breath hitched. Fear coiled in her gut like a snake, but somewhere beneath it—curled in the dark like a secret—was something else.

Excitement. A thrill. That same traitorous grin she’d worn once as a schoolgirl, just before her first kiss. Powerless, terrified, lit up from the inside.

And Holt saw it. He knew.

“Oh, you like this,” he murmured, stroking himself slowly as he moved behind her. “You're fucking dripping.”

Frankie said nothing.

But her legs parted just a little wider.

Holt hooked his fingers into the sides of Frankie’s panties and yanked—hard.

The fabric gave way with a sharp snap, splitting in two as he ripped them clean off her hips. He tossed the ruined scrap aside without a second thought, too focused on the sight before him.

He stepped back, grabbing her ass in both hands, spreading her wide, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he stared down at her bare, exposed holes. Every twitch. Every shiver. Every slick little tremor between her thighs.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice thick with heat. “Look at you. So wide open for me. So fucking ready.”

Then he leaned in, lips brushing her ear like a match to kindling.

“By the time I’m done with this sweet, ruined little body,” he growled, “you won’t even remember the names of the other boys in this school. Even if they wanted a taste, your holes’ll be too stretched out to even feel ‘em.”

The words hit her like a current, sending a fresh wave of arousal flooding down her thighs. Frankie’s breath hitched, her knees almost giving way, but she held herself up against the wall, chest heaving, heart pounding like a war drum.

And still—still—she wanted more.

With a grin laced in filth, she gave her hips a slow, deliberate wiggle. Taunting. Teasing. Offering herself up like a gift she knew he’d unwrap with violence.

“Do it, babe,” she purred, breathless and filthy. “Use me. Abuse me. Break me until there’s nothing left but your cum leaking out of me.”

Holt groaned, the sound deep, almost guttural.

One hand left her ass and came down hard with a sharp SMACK, making her gasp, her skin blooming red beneath his palm.

His cock was already pressed against her slit—thick, hard, hot—and when he thrust his hips forward just a little, the head slid along her soaked lips, making her moan, helpless and desperate.

“You’re a nasty little slut, Frankie,” he hissed. “Say it.”

“I’m a slut,” she gasped, pushing her ass back against him. “I’m your nasty, used-up little slut—daddy—please, just fuck me.”

Holt’s grin was wicked as hell.

“With pleasure.”

And then he slammed into her.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Frankie screamed—raw, high, broken—the sound echoing off the lockers, carrying through the empty halls like a siren song of sin. Her back arched. Her mouth fell open. Her entire body shuddered as he buried himself to the hilt.

Somewhere, someone would say they heard it.

That haunting, holy, fucked-out scream that marked the moment Frankie Stein was ruined—forever.

(Mr. Rotter's Classroom – 11:30am)

Frankie's eyes shot open as she let out a small yelp. Her hair was a mess, and she felt… warm. Too warm.

She glanced around the room—her classmates were still quietly working and chatting. No one seemed to have noticed.

She exhaled and tried to refocus on the chemistry equation in front of her.

"Frankie?"

She jumped again. Clawdeen was staring at her from the next desk.

"You okay, ghoulfriend?"

Frankie forced a smile and a shaky breath. "Yeah. I'm fine. It was just a dream."

Clawdeen didn’t look sold.

"You sure?" she asked, brow raised. "You were heating up like a bunsen burner."

"And mumbling something… odd," Jinafire added, leaning in. "Are you quite certain you are alright?"

Frankie brushed a few strands of hair behind her ear. "I promise, ghouls. I'm okay. It was just a weird, confusing dream. Nothing to worry about."

Before they could press her further, Mr. Rotter’s voice boomed across the classroom.

Not loud like usual, but still serious.

“Miss Stein, if you’re done daydreaming, would you kindly demonstrate the mixing procedure before someone loses a hand?”

She blinked. "Uh, sure."

She stood, wobbling slightly, and glanced at Clawdeen with a weak smile before heading to the front.

Clawdeen watched her go, sighing. "That ghoul..."

As Frankie walked to the teacher’s table, her mind buzzed.

The heat. The way his hands gripped her hair. Those dirty words.

It all felt… intense. New. Strange.

She didn’t really get it. Not fully. But it made her chest feel tight and her thoughts spiral.

What was that?

She had absolutely no idea.

She'd have to ask someone. Eventually.

But for now, she just focused on not mixing the wrong chemicals.

(Bloodgood’s House – 9:47pm)

The moon hung low over the darkened hills of New Salem, a hazy silver glow filtering in through the tall windows of Headmistress Bloodgood’s bedroom. She lay reclined in her bed, back propped up by a firm stack of pillows, a half-read faculty report resting on her lap. Her head floated a few feet away on the nearby nightstand, eyes closed, drifting in a state of near-sleep.

Then—ring ring.

Her eyes blinked open, the ringtone vibrating from the nightstand beneath her head. With a tired groan, she shifted, reached, and tapped the answer button.

“Yes?”

“Headmistress? It’s Nurse Hatchetson. Sorry to call so late.”

Bloodgood blinked again, pulling herself more upright. “No, it’s fine. What’s going on?”

“I’ve just finished reviewing most of the medical examinations from today,” Hatchetson said, her voice sharp as ever. “We didn’t get everyone—several students didn’t show—but of the ones we did examine, there’s something consistent.”

Bloodgood tensed. “What is it?”

“They’re all fine. Physically, I mean. No burns, no respiratory damage, no signs of poisoning or neurological disruption. We ran toxin panels, scanned for magical contamination—nothing.”

“Nothing?” Bloodgood repeated, almost disbelieving.

“Not a trace. Whatever gas was used on Friday, it left no harmful residue behind.”

The headmistress let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That’s… good. That’s very good.”

Hatchetson paused. “There is one thing.”

Bloodgood sat straighter. “Symptoms?”

“No. Well, not in the typical sense. It’s just—almost every student we've spoken to reported weird dreams. Intense, vivid, emotional. Some were frightened. Some were confused. But nothing physical.”

“Dreams,” Bloodgood repeated slowly, frowning. “Do you think that’s relevant?”

“I think it’s stress. A shared trauma. The entire school was locked in during a gas attack. Emotional residue is to be expected.”

The headmistress was silent for a moment, her mind calculating. “But no one’s sick. No one’s hurt. No lingering effects.”

“None,” the nurse confirmed. “Aside from some shaken nerves and everyone treading on eggshells, everyone’s back to normal. Well. As normal as our students get.”

Bloodgood almost laughed. Almost.

“Well,” she said finally, voice more measured, “that’s something. I was afraid this attack was the beginning of something larger—some kind of... biological weapon. Or a curse. But if it was just a scare tactic, that’s a very different thing.”

“It seems that way.”

There was another pause.

“Have all the chemicals been contained?” Bloodgood asked.

“Yes. The entire school was scrubbed and sealed yesterday. No trace remains. And containment crews finished disposal this morning.”

Bloodgood nodded slowly. “Then until we hear otherwise, continue examining any students who didn’t show up today. I want full clearance on everyone. But…”

She allowed herself a deep, steadying breath.

“Until then, I’m calling this matter resolved.”

“Understood.”

“If the gas had no negative effects, we need to stop fixating on what it was and start focusing on what it did—the fear, the panic. We shift priorities. Help the students process. Rebuild the sense of safety.”

“Agreed.”

“Thank you, Nurse. Get some rest.”

“You too, Headmistress.”

The call ended with a soft click.

Bloodgood leaned back into her pillows, reaching to shut the folder on her lap. Her head floated back to its place on her neck with a sigh as she pulled the blankets higher. The tension in her chest finally eased.

No casualties. No illness. No catastrophe.

For the first time since Friday, she felt like she could sleep.

She reached for the lamp and turned out the light.

The room went dark.

And with it, so did her awareness of the single, massive mistake she had just made.

Because something had changed.

They just didn’t see it yet.

To Be Continued....

Notes:

What was your favorite part of this chapter?

Chapter 4: Variables in Motion

Summary:

The tension thickens, the dreams get crazier, and an outsider gets infected too.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

(Tuesday, October 3rd)

(Monster High – Gym – 9:30am)

Clawdeen and Toralei were going at it.

After ghosting school for a full day, Toralei had finally returned—swaggering in like she owned the place, tossing out barbed comments and smirks like nothing was wrong. Everyone else rolled their eyes, wrote it off as classic Toralei.

But Clawdeen knew better. That wasn’t confidence. That was armor.

She’d seen the signs in her girlfriend before: the way she avoided eye contact, how her tail twitched just a little too fast when she thought no one was looking.

Toralei wasn't fine. Not even close.

And Clawdeen wasn't about to let her pretend her way through this.

They had the gym to themselves—no classmates, no stares, no whispers. Just the echo of sneakers and claws on hardwood.

It was the perfect space for what they used to do before they ever kissed, before the labels and late-night phone calls. When words failed, they threw fists and claws. Not to hurt. To connect.

“Come on, Toralei. Fight me,” Clawdeen said, circling her with steady steps, claws out and gleaming. “I know you need this.”

Toralei raised her fists, but kept her stance tight, guarded.

“I’m not doing this today,” she muttered.

Clawdeen narrowed her eyes. “You already are. Just not honestly.”

“Clawdeen, seriously—back off.”

“Fight me, Toralei,” she growled, low and sharp.

“I said—” Toralei didn’t finish the sentence before Clawdeen slapped her across the face. Not hard. But enough.

That did it.

With a snarl, Toralei snapped forward and landed a hard punch to Clawdeen’s gut. Her claws came out with a hiss, curved and ready.

“You wanna go, huh?” she shouted, her voice laced with fire. “Fine. Let’s go.”

She pounced—fast, agile, a blur of orange and fury.

Clawdeen ducked, barely dodging the swipe aimed at her face, countering with a slash across Toralei’s ribs—not enough to break skin, just enough to sting.

They grappled, clawed, shoved.

Toralei’s strength was in her speed, every movement sharp and whip-quick.

Clawdeen had power and precision, years of training with her brothers in the woods. She knew how to block, to absorb, to strike when it counted.

Toralei twisted mid-air, flipping over Clawdeen and raking her claws across her back.

Clawdeen hissed and rolled forward, using the momentum to launch herself back at Toralei with a shoulder tackle that sent them both tumbling to the ground.

“You think this is helping?” Toralei snapped, panting. “You think throwing me around is some kind of therapy?”

“No,” Clawdeen growled, pinning her for half a second before Toralei flipped them. “But lying to yourself isn’t helping either.”

They rolled again, claws clashing in midair, until Toralei slammed her heel into Clawdeen’s thigh, forcing her off.

Coach Igor stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching like he always did.

This wasn’t chaos to him. This was normal. A monster’s version of sorting things out.

He’d seen worse. And in his mind, it meant they were healing—even if they had to bruise their way toward it.

Back on her feet, Clawdeen bared her teeth.

“Let’s see you block this!”

She dropped low and spun in a tight, controlled sweep—catching Toralei off-balance and sending her crashing to the mat with a solid THUD that echoed off the gym walls.

Before Toralei could recover, Clawdeen lunged and pinned her, hands pressed hard to her wrists, straddling her hips to keep her down.

They froze, breathing heavy, eyes locked.

Toralei's tail lashed against the floor. “Feel better now?” she muttered, defiant as ever—but there was something else in her voice. Something shaky.

Clawdeen didn’t let go. Not yet. “No. Not until you stop pretending, you’re fine when you’re falling apart. We're all in this mess together.”

Toralei glared up at her, but her claws didn’t rise again.

The air between them buzzed, thick with heat and breath and something that was definitely not just a friendly spar.

And then—

She heard it.

“She looks real cute like that, huh?”

Clawdeen’s eyes snapped wide. Her ears twitched. She looked around instinctively, but no one was there.

Just her. Coach Igor. And Toralei.

Pinned. Beneath her.

And blushing.

“Um… okay, Clawdeen?” Toralei’s voice cracked as she tried to keep her cool. “You can get up now.”

Clawdeen didn’t move. She couldn’t.

Because the voice kept going—and it sounded eerily like her own.

“She acts like a tough little bitch, always mouthing off, always starting shit…”

The voice purred now, taunting, wicked.

“But you know the truth. She melts when you’ve got her like this.”

“Clawdeen!” Toralei snapped, squirming beneath her. “I said let go!”

But Clawdeen’s muscles were frozen. Her thighs were clenched around Toralei’s hips, and all she could feel was how soft her girlfriend felt beneath her—how warm, how pliant, even with all that attitude.

“She wants it,” the voice whispered. “She lives for this. For being under you. For feeling you tremble with restraint. You could shut that dirty little mouth of hers with a kiss. Or your claws.”

Clawdeen’s face was blazing red now. Sweat dripped from her brow, trailing down her cheek, her collarbone—until a bead slid right off her chest and landed square between Toralei’s breasts.

The werecat flinched. Then blushed harder.

“Clawdeen!” she shouted again, her voice higher, breathless as she twisted against her grip. “Let go!”

But Clawdeen couldn’t.

Because she liked it.

She liked the way Toralei squirmed. The heat of her body pressed to hers. The tension between them that sparked every time they fought—every insult, every scratch, every push—was never just about rivalry.

It was about domination.

And both of them damn well knew it.

And then—

‘Why are you letting her hold you down?’

The voice in Toralei’s head slithered through her skull like smoke, velvet and vicious.

‘Show her who’s boss. Flip her. Make her mewl under you.’

Her eyes widened. “What the—?”

‘She’s strong now, sure,’ the voice purred. ‘But she’ll whimper when she’s the one pinned. She wants it. So do you.’

At the same time, another voice surged inside Clawdeen—hot, growling, almost feral.

‘Go on. Make her beg. Show that cocky little bitch who really runs this jungle.’

Clawdeen’s body trembled.

Part of her knew—knew—she needed to let go. She didn’t want to hurt Toralei. That wasn’t what this was.

But the other part… the part whispering to her in her own voice…

That part loved how Toralei squirmed.

Loved how hot her skin felt beneath her claws.
How flushed her cheeks were.
How those wide eyes danced with something very different from fear.

With a guttural breath, she tore herself back.

“I—shit—I’m sorry!” Clawdeen gasped, scrambling off her, backing up fast. “I didn’t mean to get carried away. I just— I don’t know, I got caught up.”

Toralei sat up slowly, brushing herself off, fixing her shirt with deliberate movements. She glared—but not with anger.

No. That look? It was smirking, veiled with heat and challenge.

“You got carried away?” she repeated, her tone thick with mock offense. “You? Miss Control Freak?”

Clawdeen nodded sheepishly.

Toralei barked a laugh, then grinned—wickedly.

“Babe, if you wanted to throw me around and get me all hot and helpless, you could’ve just asked. I might’ve even worn something easier to rip off.”

Clawdeen blinked. Then laughed.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

“Mm,” Toralei hummed, rolling her eyes, but she stepped forward, placing one clawed hand on Clawdeen’s shoulder. Her touch was warm. Firm. Lingering.

“You good?” she asked, softer now.

Clawdeen exhaled. “Yeah. I’m good. Just… y’know. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Toralei said with a shrug. “We all slip sometimes.”

She turned and walked off, hips swaying just a little more than necessary. Clawdeen’s eyes followed her like a wolf on the hunt.

And she couldn’t help it—she noticed.

The sway. The heat. The invitation in every step.

‘She acts cool now,’ the voice whispered again, curling low and hungry in her skull. ‘But soon, she’ll push too far. And when she does… you won’t hold back.’

Clawdeen’s ears perked. Her tail flicked, slow and deliberate.

And somewhere deep inside her—the beast smiled.

(Jackson's dream)

Jackson’s scream rang out sharp as thunder, bouncing off the tiled bathroom walls the moment a pair of hands—large, hot, and unrelenting—slammed him back-first into the wall. Cracks spiderwebbed behind him from the force, dust sifting down like snowflakes, but his body? Still intact.

His glasses weren’t so lucky.

They skidded across the floor, useless now as he blinked up at her—Frankie.

Smiling like a devil disguised as a sugar-high child locked overnight in a candy store. Eyes wide, teeth gleaming, starved.

With one vicious tug, she yanked him forward by his tie, her mouth crashing into his. Lips on fire. Tongues clashing like swords, but she had the upper hand—always did.

Holt might be the beast, but when Jackson was in control, he was fragile, vulnerable. Easy prey.

Especially to her.

Frankie kissed like she was starving and he was made of chocolate.

She devoured him, breath hot and greedy against his lips, breaking only to growl, “I missed you so much, baby.”

“Mmph—I missed you too, m-mommy,” he moaned, voice muffled, hips already twitching as her kiss deepened, turned savage.

She didn’t wait. She never did. Frankie tore at his clothes with impatient fingers, shredding through buttons like paper, her breath hitching every time skin was exposed.

“Say it,” she ordered, mouth brushing his neck, teeth teasing. “Say you love me.”

“I—I love you, Frankie,” he gasped, voice breaking as his pants dropped to the floor with a humiliating thump.

“Good boy.” Her grin widened right before his cock sprung free, bouncing up and smacking against her cheek with a lewd wet sound.

She laughed, almost purring, before her lips wrapped around the tip. Then she went down. And down. Until her nose touched his pelvis and her lipstick was a bloody red ring around his shaft.

She moved like a machine built for sin—smooth, powerful strokes, spit and lipstick smearing in ribbons down his cock. Jackson moaned, high and pathetic, his knees buckling as his mind blanked out. A bitch in heat, helpless and melting.

God, she was too good.

No one else could make him feel this way. Not even his own hand. Frankie wasn’t just a girl—she was a force of nature. And her mouth was a fucking altar.

“You love mommy’s mouth, don’t you?” she teased, voice vibrating against him as she took him deeper.

“Mmhm… I love it so much,” he whimpered, barely hanging on, hands gripping the edge of the sink for dear life.

Then something changed.

Steam curled from his skin. Muscles bulged, swelling beneath the surface. His complexion darkened to a deep cerulean as his other half—Holt—began clawing his way out.

Frankie felt it instantly. Her eyes flicked up. And without missing a single stroke, she reached up and zapped him—fingers sparking as she pressed them against his ribs.

Jackson shrieked, jerking from the electric snap, the burn sharp and unforgiving.

“Nuh-uh.” Frankie wagged her finger, still bobbing her head, unbothered. “Holt’s not allowed to come out, baby.”

Jackson could hear the beast snarling in the back of his head, desperate and aching for release. But Frankie’s command was iron.

And Jackson? Jackson always obeyed.

Jackson could feel his climax building, his cock throbbing as the pressure inside him reached its peak.

"Frankie," he muttered, his voice strained as he gripped himself tightly. "I think it’s time!"

Frankie pulled his cock from her mouth with a loud, wet POP, strings of drool and smeared lipstick trailing behind.

She opened her mouth wide, her hands outstretched like a child eagerly awaiting a treat.

"Give Mommy her present," she purred, her voice dripping with anticipation.

Jackson tried to protest, but his body betrayed him, tensing as the inevitable took hold.

Frankie’s smile widened as the first hot jet of cum splashed across her tongue, painting her cheeks and even threading through her hair.

Jackson slumped to the ground, spent and dazed, his body trembling from the force of his release.

Frankie gleefully licked up every drop, savoring the taste with a wicked grin.

"Good boy," she cooed, her face lined with devilish satisfaction. "You sure know how to keep me satisfied."

Jackson lay there, completely drained, his cock soft and his strength sapped.

Frankie crawled over to him, planting a small, almost tender kiss on his cheek.

"Night night, handsome," she whispered, her voice a mix of affection and dark amusement.

She got dressed, her movements slow and deliberate, before making her way to the door.

"I’ll be back for round two later."

With that, Frankie closed the door behind her, leaving the grandson of Dr. Jekyll alone on the floor, his body still humming from the intensity of their encounter.

(Mr. Hackington’s Classroom – 10:30 AM)

Jackson jerked awake with a sharp gasp, glasses crooked and forehead slick with sweat. His chest rose and fell fast, his heart pounding like he’d run a mile.

Around him, the class was in its usual scattered chaos—some students working, others talking, a few dozing. No one had noticed he’d fallen asleep.

He exhaled slowly, wiping the sweat off his brow. For a second, he thought he was in the clear.

Then—

“So you were having some wild fantasies too, huh?”

Jackson groaned and dropped his face into his palm. So close.

Standing beside him was Holt—flaming hair low and flickering, visible only to Jackson, as always. An unwelcome reminder of the walking chaos inside his head.

“Yeah,” Jackson muttered, still dazed. “You had the same dream?”

Holt smirked. “I wish it was the same. Mine was better. Spicier. Had Frankie in it. I was giving her the bees—if ya catch my drift.”

Jackson sighed, not even bothering to respond to that. Holt was always like this. Loud. Unfiltered. All heat, no brakes.

Jackson, on the other hand, was wired differently. More careful. More hesitant. It wasn’t that he was weaker—he just had restraint. Holt? Holt was the part of him that never learned to shut up or slow down.

“I don’t know what that dream was,” Jackson muttered. “I don’t care either. I don’t want to think about it.”

“Come on, man,” Holt nudged him. “You gotta be at least a little curious. It was wild. Intense. You felt it too, didn’t you? The heat? The—”

“I said no!” Jackson snapped, his voice rising before he could stop it. “Just stop talking about it!”

The silence that followed was instant and deafening.

Jackson blinked, heart sinking, and slowly looked up.

Every pair of eyes in the room was now fixed on him.

Even Holt froze.

“Well... that happened,” Holt muttered, then disappeared in a flicker of orange flame—retreating back into Jackson’s mind like a ghost into shadow.

Jackson swallowed hard and looked around, his face burning.

Neighthan was seated a few desks over, watching him with mild concern.

“Holt giving you trouble again?” he asked, gently.

Jackson gave a resigned nod. “Yeah.”

Neighthan nodded back, calm, like he’d seen this a dozen times before. “Figured.”

Slowly, one by one, the rest of the class returned to their own business. Chatter resumed. The moment passed.

But Jackson stayed frozen in his seat, fists clenched, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow him whole.

God, he hated days like this.

(The Courtyard – 12:00 PM)

The courtyard was quieter than a graveyard at sundown.

Normally, lunchtime would be buzzing—chatter bouncing off the walls, monsters laughing, gossip flying faster than a bat on a sugar rush.

But not today.

Not since the attack.

Some students were trickling’ back in, sure, but the air still felt... hollow. Like everyone was waiting for something bad to happen again.

Didn’t bother Johnny and Operetta none. Long as they had each other, that was enough.

“Place is quieter than a tumbleweed caught in a dust storm,” Operetta muttered, her Southern drawl low and thoughtful.

Johnny gave a slow nod, arms stretched behind his head. “Ain’t that the truth. Kinda spooky, if I’m bein’ honest.”

Operetta leaned back on her elbows, eyes drifting over the courtyard. “Still… reckon I’m grateful we’re here. Some folks still ain’t come back yet.”

“I know it,” Johnny said, glancing over at her. “If you hadn’t come back, Retta... don’t think I’d be sittin’ here, smilin’ like I am.”

She looked at him, one brow raised. “Aw, you gettin’ all soft on me now, cowboy?”

Johnny chuckled, a bit red in the cheeks. “Don’t go spreadin’ that ‘round.”

Operetta smirked—then, without warnin’, leaned across him, stretchin’ her arm past his shoulder.

“Whoa there, Retta!” Johnny yelped, practically jumpin’ back, eyes wide and very pointedly not lookin’ down. “What’re ya doin’?!”

She sat back down with a satisfied sigh, poppin’ a red lollipop into her mouth. “Relax, sugar. Just reachin’ for my candy.”

Johnny blinked, flustered. “Well give a man a warnin’ next time, would ya? I almost short-circuited.”

Operetta grinned, slow and wicked. “Ain’t no fun in warnin’ ya, darlin’.”

Operetta's lips closed around the lollipop with an audible slrp, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she began to suck lazily, her silver eyes unfocused, lost somewhere far beyond the quiet little park bench they shared.

Johnny glanced at her from the side, not really thinking, just watching the slow swirl of her tongue, the glint of her spit-slicked candy catching the sunlight like a tiny, wet gem.

She looked so innocent, so casual. Like she was doing nothing but enjoying her treat.

But fuck...

His chest tightened when she popped it out with a wet pop, the tip of her tongue flicking over the glistening surface before sliding it back in again, deeper this time.

And just like that, everything around him slowed. The chirp of the birds, the rustle of the trees — all of it faded out.

All he could see was her mouth.

That tongue. Coiling, curling. Wrapping itself around the candy like it was alive. Like it was hungry.

Saliva dripped down the red sheen, catching in the corners of her lips.

And those lips — soft, shiny, perfect — they sealed around the stick with an obscene little mmph.

She let it sit in her mouth for a long moment, then drew it out again with a long, slow shhlrp.

Her jaw moved slightly as she rolled the candy on her tongue, giving him a little glance — playful, half-lidded, and completely fucking devastating.

Johnny shifted on the bench. His pants felt tighter, way too tight.

"Holy shit," he thought, breath catching. "She’s doing this on purpose."

It was like she was whispering to him with her mouth, not her voice.

"Hey Johnny… see what these lips can do? Imagine if it were somethin' thicker. Somethin' warm. Somethin' alive."

His hand drifted to his lap, casually adjusting the painful strain in his pants, heart thumping loud enough to deafen him.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

Her tongue slid out again, dragging up the side of the lollipop, leaving it slick and dripping. A single string of spit hung from her lip for a beat before she licked it away with a sultry little smirk.

His cock twitched.

He could picture it so vividly — those lips pressed to the head of his cock, that tongue swirling around his shaft, licking up the mess she'd made.

He could see her kneeling between his legs, looking up with those big, silver eyes full of filthy intentions.

The first gag when he pushed a little too far. The watery, desperate sounds as she tried to breathe around him.

Glk— glk— glkkk—

The POP when she pulled back, gasping, then giggling as pre dripped down her chin.

Every sound she made in his head was louder than reality. Wet, messy, obscene.

“Johnny?”

Her voice broke through the haze — innocent, clueless. She was still sucking, still flicking her tongue, still torturing him without even realizing. Or maybe she did. Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing.

He cleared his throat, sat up straighter, forced a smile, even as his cock pulsed in his pants.

He had to get out of here. Or he had to fuck her right here.

God, he couldn’t decide which.

'She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to you, does she?'

That teasing little voice inside Johnny’s head wouldn't shut up, its tone half-accusing, half-awed.

Poor, oblivious Operetta.

Still sitting there with her legs crossed, that big, bright-red lollipop bobbing between her lips like it was the most normal thing in the world. Her silver eyes blinked up at the clouds, innocent as ever — or maybe just pretending.

'Or maybe she does…'

Maybe she knew exactly what that tongue of hers was doing to him.

The way she dragged it across the candy’s surface, slow and thorough, like she was worshipping every sugary inch.

The way her lips pursed, then popped off the stick with just a hint of a smile.

He clenched his jaw, trying not to stare. Trying not to picture her bent over the couch with that same mouth moaning around something much thicker.

God, she’d been there during the attack. She’d seen him — exhausted, rattled, knocked out from the gas.

Maybe this was her way of helping.

A little stress relief, wrapped in southern charm and sweet, red candy.

Or maybe he was losing it.

Either way, he needed to move. Fast.

He shot up from the bench like a gun going off, startling Operetta out of her slow, syrupy trance.

She blinked at him, surprised. “What’s wrong with ya now?” she asked, brows knitting, lollipop still in hand.

“Nothing,” he lied with a grin that was all teeth, no truth. “Just gotta… go see a friend! Later, darlin’!”

“John—?”

Too late. He vanished in a flicker of spirit energy, gone before she could finish.

Operetta stared at the empty space for a moment, lips parted.

Then she sighed.

“God darn it,” she muttered, sliding the candy back between her lips, cheeks hollowing again as she sucked.

Slow. Lazy. Unbothered.

Almost like she knew he was still watching from somewhere.

(Monster High – Second Floor Hallway – 1:12 PM)

The hallways of Monster High had never felt this quiet.

Not empty. Just quiet. The kind of quiet where you could hear your own thoughts echo, even over the occasional locker slam or distant whisper.

Students moved like ghosts—ironic, considering Spectra was one—and while bodies filled the corridors, no one seemed in a rush to talk, laugh, or joke like they used to.

Porter Geiss leaned against a row of lockers, arms crossed, one foot propped up behind him. His sketchpad floated beside him, charcoal dancing through the air on its own. It traced lazy spirals in the air until—

“Don’t even think about drawing me with that smug look,” came Spectra’s voice, gliding up beside him from the other end of the hallway.

She wasn’t smiling, not yet, but her eyes glinted. Ghostly tablet in one hand, typing away with elegant flicks of her fingers, she paused beside him.

“Can’t help it,” Porter said, that smooth tone slipping out like honey. “You’re at your most radiant when you’re stirring the pot.”

Spectra allowed herself a small smirk. “It’s not gossip if it’s true. And everything I’ve typed today has receipts.”

He raised a brow. “Oh yeah? What’s the headline this time?”

She floated a few inches higher, screen flickering in front of her as she scrolled. “Let’s see... Cleo was spotted running out of the bathroom crying during second period. Deuce wasn’t even with her, so it wasn’t a lovers’ spat. Yet.”

“Oof,” Porter said, pushing off the lockers. “Think she’s cracking?”

“I think everyone’s cracking,” Spectra said, more serious now. “Monster High’s rep is hanging by a thread. The gas attack scared off a bunch of first-years, and parents are still calling the school hotline demanding answers.”

Porter nodded, expression softening. “Yeah. Lotta fear hangin’ in the air lately.”

Spectra’s tone dropped lower. “And the dreams. I’ve had three interviews just this morning about them. Different people. Same story.”

He tilted his head. “Dreams?”

She looked at him, voice quiet. “Heat. Hands. Kisses that don’t make sense. Like... emotions got tangled with someone else’s. Everyone’s describing something personal. Intimate. Stuff they don’t usually talk about.”

Porter’s eyes flicked to hers. “You have one?”

Spectra hesitated, then typed something on her tablet she didn’t say out loud.

“I haven’t had one. Yet.”

Porter’s grin deepened. “Shame. Dreams are where the good stuff happens.”

“Oh?” she replied, tapping the screen one last time before it dimmed. “And what exactly does your subconscious get up to when the lights go out?”

He took a slow step closer. Not pushy—just deliberately closing space.

“Let’s just say… if you were in one, you’d wake up breathless.”

Spectra laughed low in her throat, warm and just a little dangerous. “That a promise or a threat?”

He leaned in just enough to feel her chill mix with the heat of his voice. “Depends how you like it.”

The hallway suddenly felt a lot smaller.

Her gaze locked on his, no tablet, no headlines—just charged silence.

“I bet you think you’re smooth, don’t you?” she whispered.

Porter chuckled. “No, darlin’. I am smooth. And you’re lovin’ it.”

Spectra floated even closer, their faces barely inches apart now. “Keep talkin’ like that,” she said, voice a ghostly purr, “and I might let you find out just how still I can sit.”

His hand twitched slightly at his side, like he was one second from grabbing her waist and letting the rest of the school fade into white noise.

And then—

“Spectra!”

They both flinched—not much, but just enough—as Kiyomi Haunterly rushed toward them in a blur of panic.

“Spectra, I need you! Something’s off in the theater room. Like... seriously weird.”

Spectra exhaled, long and slow. The kind of sigh that belonged to someone ripped out of a moment they didn’t want to leave.

“Alright, alright,” she said, reluctantly pulling herself upright. She started to float after Kiyomi—

Then paused.

Her eyes flicked back to Porter. Her mouth didn’t move, but her voice wrapped around his thoughts, husky and playful:

“Let’s pick this up next time... unless you’re afraid I’ll finish you.”

Porter’s smirk said everything.

Then she was gone—gliding down the corridor with Kiyomi, leaving a trail of chill in the air and heat in Porter’s chest.

(Howleen's Dream)

The shower curtain snapped open like a gunshot, hooks clattering on the rail as Howleen shoved Twyla backward into the porcelain stall. Water still misted the air, heat curling into the fog like a breathless whisper.

"Thought you could hide from me forever?" Howleen snarled, pinning the dreamwalker to the tile with a wet thud. Her grin was wide, sharp, feral.

Twyla gasped, back hitting the wall. Her breath caught in her throat — not just from the impact, but from the look in Howleen’s eyes. Wild. Possessive. Electric. She’d never seen her like this. And it was terrifying. And... something else.

“Ho-Howleen, what are—?”

A finger pressed against her lips. Quiet. Intent.

“Shhhh…” Howleen’s voice dropped, sultry and threatening all at once. “You’ve been a bad girl, Twyla.”

The words coiled like smoke around her ears, curling down her spine. And then teeth. Kisses. Sharp little bites down her neck, blooming like violets in the mist. Every nip stole her breath. Every kiss left her trembling.

“Bad girls need to be punished,” Howleen whispered against her collarbone, tongue flicking the words like a spell.

Twyla’s knees went weak. Her thoughts fuzzed. Her thighs pressed together, desperate to still the ache forming low in her belly. Heat shimmered in the shower stall, but it wasn’t the water anymore.

“Tell me…” Howleen’s hands slid down, gripping just above the hem of Twyla’s skirt. Her mouth hovered above flushed skin. “Tell me how bad you’ve been.”

Twyla’s voice failed her. She wanted to speak, to spill everything filthy she’d dreamed about. But fear choked her — fear of exposure, of judgment. Of needing too much.

Howleen’s grip tightened. Her lips brushed the shell of Twyla’s ear. Her breath was hot.

“Say it, you little tease,” she growled. “Or I’ll leave you aching so bad, you’ll beg your own shadow to finish what I started.”

Twyla whimpered, the threat shooting straight to her core. Her lips trembled.

“I... I need you,” she whispered, a confession torn raw from her throat. “I’ve been so bad. I need to be punished. I need... your hands on me.”

A low, wicked chuckle.

“I knew you were hiding that filthy little mouth behind all those shy smiles.” Howleen licked a stripe up her neck. “Shy girls don’t beg like that.”

She tugged Twyla’s shirt over her head in one quick pull, tossing it aside. Her eyes roamed, hungry and possessive. She leaned in close, nose brushing Twyla’s cheek.

“When I’m done with you, babe,” she whispered, “you won’t remember where the dream ends and the craving starts.”

And then she sank her teeth in. Not gentle. Not asking. Claiming.

Twyla gasped, hips twitching forward, hands finding Howleen’s shoulders just to hang on. The tiles were cold. The water still ran. But all she could feel was fire.

And the night was just beginning.

(Wolf Family Residence – 1:30 PM)

Howleen shot upright in bed with a gasp, heart hammering so loud it echoed in her ears. For a second, she couldn’t breathe—like whatever nightmare she just had was still gripping her chest.

The room around her was still. Too still. Everything untouched, like the air itself hadn’t moved in two days.

After the gas attack on Friday, she’d woken up surrounded—her entire family piled in around her like a life raft.

Her mom. Her dad. Clawd. Clawdeen. Even Romulus had paid a visit.

Her sister, Clawdia, had flown back from Scamerica the second she heard. She didn’t even wait for a return ticket.

And Clawdeen… yeah. Even Clawdeen had been relieved. Even after the whole drama with Toralei—the secret, the shouting, the long cold stares—she still hugged Howleen like she’d almost lost her.

Clawd and Clawdeen had gone back to school yesterday, but their parents insisted Howleen stay home a little longer.

"Just in case,” they said. "You’re younger. Your system might react different."

So here she was. Still at home. Still stuck in bed. Still shaken.

A knock pulled her from her thoughts.

“Howleen?” her mom’s voice called gently through the door.

Harriet. Always calm. Always warm.

“Yeah?”

“I’m headin’ to the store. Need anything?”

Howleen hesitated. Her mouth opened, but no words came for a second.

Then—

“…Coffee.”

A pause, then a soft “Okay.” Footsteps down the stairs. Door closing. Quiet again.

She sat back, pulling the blankets to her chest, her mind replaying the same fragments over and over. Heat. Breath. Touch. Feelings she didn’t even have words for.

What even was that?

She stared at the wall for a long moment before whispering under her breath:

“What the hell was that dream?”

(The Courtyard – 2:00 PM)

RIIIIIIIINNNNGGG.

The final bell of the day blared through the air, and within seconds, the courtyard buzzed with life—footsteps, chatter, the rustle of backpacks slung over shoulders. The usual post-school chaos.

But beneath the noise, an edge lingered.

Teachers stood posted at every entrance, eyes scanning the crowd for anything off. Just in case. After what happened Friday, nobody was taking chances.

Not that the students needed guards. Everyone was already on high alert—backs straight, eyes sharp, shoulders tense like someone might pull a cursed relic or bioweapon out of their locker at any second.

Gil descended the stairs slowly, eyes flicking left and right, just to be safe. He kept his breathing steady. Calm. Controlled.

Ping.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message.

🐟 Dad:
(“I want you home as soon as possible. I don’t want you anywhere near that saltwater freak. Come home. Now.”)

Gil’s stomach twisted. He didn’t even have time to reply before a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Oi, Gil!”

He looked up to see Lagoona making her way over, her usual crew—Kala, Sirena, and a couple others—right behind her.

“We’re all headin’ to my place,” she said with a bright smile. “Gonna watch a movie, chill for a bit. You in?”

Gil hesitated. His heart said yes, but his gut clenched. His parents were already furious about him sneaking out Saturday. If he didn’t go home now…

He opened his mouth to decline—

‘Ignore him.’

Gil froze.

The courtyard stopped moving. Like time itself hit pause. Voices, motion, even the wind—gone. Everything around him fell into a strange, suspended silence.

The voice echoed through his skull. Cold. Close.

‘He doesn’t love you. She doesn’t love you. They don’t matter anymore.’

His breath caught. His parents' faces flickered in his mind, warped, blurred, twisted by disappointment and disgust. Their features melted into noise—unrecognizable. Meaningless.

‘All that matters is her.’

Lagoona sharpened into perfect focus. Her face. Her eyes. The way she smiled only at him.

The way she looked real—solid—while everything else crumbled.

‘She’s the only one who sees you. The only one who makes you feel alive.’

His hand trembled as he glanced at the text again. His vision darkened around the edges.

‘You deserve to be happy. You deserve her. Not them. Be hers. That’s all you need.’

And just like that—the world snapped back.

Sound returned. Movement. Reality. Students filed past again like nothing had happened.

Lagoona was still there, watching him with a furrowed brow. “Um, mate? You alright?”

Gil stared at his phone one last time. Then he turned it off. Quietly slipped it into his pocket.

And looked at her.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d love to.”

Her face lit up instantly.

“Great!” she beamed, grabbing his arm with both hands. “C’mon, we’ll grab snacks on the way.”

She pulled him along, her laugh echoing through the courtyard like nothing was wrong at all.

Clawd was heading down the steps when he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

He turned and saw Draculaura hovering just enough to meet him eye to eye, her pink pigtails swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.

“Oh, hey babe,” he said with a soft smile. “What’s up?”

Draculaura looked away, her fingers fidgeting together nervously.

“Do you wanna check out that new amusement park that opened this week?” she asked, eyes avoiding his. “I heard they’ve got a haunted maze, a night ride... and cotton candy.”

Clawd sighed quietly. He had heard about the park. Honestly, he’d been hoping she’d ask. He wanted to go. With her.

But Coach Igor had asked him to stay after school to talk about the team—how they’d regroup, how they’d handle training after the gas incident.

Clawd didn’t want to let the team down. Not when they were still shaken up. And definitely not if it meant facing Igor’s wrath later. The guy might’ve been easing up lately, but once things felt “normal” again, he'd have them running laps 'til they dropped.

Draculaura could see the hesitation written all over his face.

“If you can’t, it’s fine,” she said quickly, looking down. “I understand. This time.”

Clawd’s chest tightened. That guilt he’d managed to bury since Friday clawed its way back up.

Then—
A voice echoed in his mind.

“You’re really gonna let your poor little girlfriend down again?”

He froze. The sounds around him faded, replaced by a cold stillness. All he could see was Draculaura’s sad little smile as she tried to pull away.

“Look at her,” the voice pressed. “She’s begging you to choose her. And you’re gonna blow her off? Again?”

Clawd swallowed hard, his fists clenching slightly.

“Forget the team. Forget Igor. Look at her.” The voice grew louder. “That tiny waist, those heart-shaped lips, those big, lavender eyes. You really wanna say no to that?”

His mind spun. He felt like something inside him was unraveling—like the weight of every missed moment was crashing down at once.

“That’s what I thought. Now go make it right.”

Just as Draculaura turned to walk away, Clawd’s hand shot out gently and grabbed hers.

She stopped. Looked up.

He was staring at her now, not with guilt, but with warmth. A calm resolve in his eyes.

He let out a small sigh. Then smiled.

“Sure,” he said, voice soft but sure. “Let’s go.”

Draculaura blinked. Her expression twisted into disbelief.

“Re-really?” she stammered.

Clawd chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I kinda owe you one after Friday. And... I miss spending time with you.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Just looked at him.

Then her face lit up like a sunrise. She grabbed his hand with both of hers and pressed it close to her chest.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Clawd blushed, ears twitching slightly. “Love you too, batling.”

She giggled at the nickname.

With a gleam in her eye, she floated up onto his back and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“Piggyback time?” she asked playfully.

Clawd grinned. “Always.”

And with that, the two of them headed off down the path together—laughing, smiling, like nothing else in the world mattered but them.

And just like that, the day ended on a lighter note.

One moment of peace in a week full of chaos.

(In a Restaurant Monster Side of New Salem – 8:00 PM)

“Thank you, ladies and gents, for attending my wonderful performance!”

The crowd erupted in cheers as Casta Fierce and her band, The Spells, took a synchronized bow under the shimmering stage lights.

They’d just wrapped up a set at a cozy restaurant tucked away on the monster side of New Salem.

The audience wasn’t huge, but that didn’t matter. The room was alive. After everything that had happened lately, folks were just grateful for some real, live music—and Casta delivered.

Things had changed a lot since her tour at Monster High. Back then, her spells were unstable, her lyrics sometimes misfiring into accidental transformations.

But those chaotic performances were long behind her.

With time, Casta had mastered her craft.

After honing her vocal spellwork, her mother had taken her deeper into magical training.

Energy projection. Flight. Telekinesis. Transmutation. The list went on.

It meant stepping away from touring for a while, but when she came back? She came back stronger.

Now, her shows were more than concerts—they were spellbinding spectacles. She lit the stage with magical fireworks, vanished and reappeared mid-verse, summoned illusions and even real animals that danced with the music. Her voice was still the centerpiece, but now it was wrapped in wonder.

And tonight was no different.

As Fierce stepped offstage, the crowd still cheering behind her, she felt that familiar warmth bloom in her chest. In a world that felt increasingly heavy, her magic—her music—still made people smile.

That was enough.

At a corner table near the back of the restaurant, Spelldon and his boyfriend Valentine clapped along with the rest of the audience, both glowing with admiration.

“I have to admit,” Valentine said, squeezing Spelldon’s hand, “your sister really knows how to put on a show.”

“I know!” Spelldon beamed. “She really gets magic now. And not just the musical kind.”

Valentine smirked. “I noticed. I mean, she summoned a peacock out of pure light, so… yeah.”

Spelldon laughed and leaned in, brushing a kiss against his boyfriend’s cheek before whispering, “I love you.”

Valentine smiled, soft and sincere. “Love you too, dear.”

After the gas attack at Monster High, things had been rocky. Valentine had been one of the monsters knocked out cold. Spelldon had rushed him to the Cauldronello family home, where their mother quickly placed him in a healing chamber.

He came out Sunday night, dazed but safe.

Spelldon had smothered him in kisses the second he opened his eyes.

Now, days later, they were here. Watching a show. Holding hands. Trying to remember what peace felt like.

And for a moment—it did.

Spelldon stood up suddenly, nearly dragging Valentine out of his seat.

“Come on! We have to go see her backstage!”

“Wait—”

But it was too late.

With a flash of purple light and the smell of lavender smoke, they vanished.

Backstage was a maze of dim lights, half-empty water bottles, coiled mic cords, and the soft hum of magical residue still fizzing in the air. Casta Fierce stood near her wardrobe rack, dabbing her face with a towel and unfastening her crystal-lined cloak. Her glamor spells were fading now, revealing the natural shadows under her eyes.

She loved performing. Loved it. But tonight had drained her more than usual.

“CASTA!”

A flash of purple light exploded in front of her, and suddenly Spelldon was throwing himself into the room, practically vibrating with excitement. Valentine followed right behind—taller, smoother, more composed, but still visibly starstruck.

“There he is,” Casta said, smiling as she turned. “My favorite little brother.”

Spelldon launched into a hug before she could even open her arms. She stumbled slightly, laughing as he clung to her like he hadn’t seen her in a decade.

“You were amazing!” he said. “Seriously, amazing. You conjured a wolf made of light and made it howl on beat. I don’t even know how—”

“It’s all in the rhythm,” Casta said, tousling his hair. “You catch it, you command it.”

Valentine lingered by the door, watching quietly.

Casta clocked him with a glance.

She didn’t hate Valentine. Not anymore. But she didn’t love having him around either.

Back in the day, he’d been cold, manipulative, arrogant. The kind of guy who broke hearts just to hear them shatter.

He’d changed—supposedly. Spelldon insisted on it. And if her brother was happy, then Casta would let it go.

Mostly.

“Valentine,” she said with a nod.

He returned it, polite but reserved. “Casta.”

“Still feeding off attention?” she asked sweetly.

Valentine gave a half-smile. “Only his, these days.”

She watched him for a second longer, then turned back to her brother.

“So,” she said, “graduation’s only a few months away. You ready to become a full-fledged monster of the world?”

Spelldon shrugged, beaming. “Almost. Still gotta pass Monster World History. But I’m getting there.”

“I’m proud of you,” she said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “You’ve come a long way, Spell. You’re not the kid who used to hide glitter bombs in my potion books anymore.”

“I still do that,” he said with a grin.

They both laughed.

Valentine stepped back as the two embraced again. But as Casta pulled her brother close, something flickered at the edge of her senses.

For a split second, it felt like the temperature dropped. Not cold. Just off.

The air pressed in around her like static, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch a little longer than they should’ve.

A hum. Not sound, not magic—just… presence.

She blinked and looked around, but the moment passed.

Gone.

Spelldon pulled back, still smiling. “We should head out. I promised Val I’d take him to that graveyard-themed milkshake bar he likes.”

“Of course he likes that place,” Casta said with a smirk. “You two go have fun. Text me when you get home, alright?”

“I will.”

They gave one last wave before disappearing in another flash of purple light.

Silence returned.

Casta exhaled and turned back toward the stage door. Her bandmates were already packing up their instruments, chattering quietly among themselves. The excitement of the night was starting to settle into fatigue.

She bent down to unplug her amp, but as she stood up again, a wave of nausea rolled through her chest.

Not pain. Just... unease. Like her stomach had suddenly dropped for no reason.

She steadied herself on a mic stand, eyes narrowing.

“Too many energy bursts,” she muttered, brushing her hair out of her face. “Should’ve gone easier on the teleportation sequences…”

One of her background singers looked over. “You good, Fierce?”

“Yeah. Just... dizzy for a sec. I’m fine.”

She shook it off, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the exit.

The door to the back alley opened with a low creak. She stepped out into the cool New Salem night, stars flickering overhead, the city humming quietly in the distance.

Then, for just a heartbeat, her reflection in the glass door glitched.

Her eyes flashed—bright pink. Not the soft glow of a charm or spell. No. This was sharper. Deeper. Wrong.

She didn’t notice.

She just pulled her jacket tighter around herself and walked toward the waiting van.

Unaware that she, too, had been touched by the unseen force that had swept through Monster High on the day of September 29th, 2017.

And she wouldn't be the last.

To Be Continued...

Notes:

What was your favorite part of this chapter?

What do you think will happen to Casta?

Chapter 5: Muted Warnings

Summary:

More students are starting to return, tensions are rising, and Hackington begins to suspect somethings afoot.

Notes:

We're getting closer folks!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(Wednesday, October 4th)

(Monster High – Courtyard – 7:30 AM)

Iris and Manny stood at the entrance of Monster High like they were seeing it for the first time.

They hadn’t stepped foot on campus since the attack.

While most of their friends had trickled back in over the past few days, the two of them had been among the last to return.

Manny’s dad had flat-out refused at first, insisting the school still wasn’t safe. It took days of convincing to get him to back down.

Iris, on the other hand, hadn’t needed anyone holding her back. She was already frozen in place by fear.

She couldn’t shake the images—her classmates collapsing, the gas flooding the halls, the screaming, the chaos. She’d never felt fear like that before.

Well… almost never.

The only time that even came close was when she and Manny had been turned into ghosts by Twyla’s boogie sand and almost dragged into Haunted High by its hall monitors. That was terrifying, sure—but at least they’d known who the enemy was.

This? This was different. This had felt real.

Her shoulders tensed as she stared at the familiar brick walls of the school.

Then, she felt a warm, calloused hand slip into hers.

She turned to see Manny, smiling gently. The usual roughness in his face had softened.

“I’ll admit,” he said, “I’m a little scared too. But I know I’ll be alright... as long as we’re walkin’ in together.”

Iris smiled and nodded. That helped.

They stepped forward side by side, crossing through the front doors.

The halls weren’t as packed as they usually were, but the buzz of life had returned—at least on the surface. Students whispered between lockers, exchanged uneasy glances, kept checking the vents overhead. Everything looked normal, but the tension still clung to the air.

Iris’ eye scanned the walls, the floor, the ceiling. She searched for signs of change. For proof that what happened had left a mark.

But there was none.

No bloodstains. No broken lockers. No signs of panic or damage.

The vents had been opened, cleaned, and cleared—Bloodgood had sent more than a few emails assuring students and parents the gas was long gone. But that didn’t calm the tightness in Iris’ chest.

Manny must’ve noticed, because he nudged her lightly with his elbow.

“Hey. Look on the bright side,” he said with a grin. “At least we ain’t dead.”

Iris let out a soft laugh. “True. Somewhere out there in the multiverse, my mom’s probably planning my funeral right now.”

Manny chuckled. “Poor alternate-universe you.”

They kept walking, the mood lightened just enough.

Eventually, they reached the hallway where their classes split.

They stopped.

Iris frowned. “Guess this is where we part ways.”

Manny nodded. “You gonna be okay?”

She paused, then shrugged. “Not really. But I’ll manage.”

He gave her hand one last squeeze. “Text me if you need to bolt. I’ll fake an allergic reaction or something.”

She smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he said, already backing away, “but I’m your ridiculous.”

They both headed off in opposite directions, disappearing into the slow hum of the school’s morning routine.

And just like that, Iris was back.

Not totally ready.

But moving forward anyway.

However, as she sat down, she froze.

Her entire body locked up, and suddenly, her mind was overwhelmed by flashes of a future she had never dared to imagine.

(Iris's Dream)

The petite cyclops skipped barefoot down the dirt path behind her cottage, her single, gleaming violet eye catching the late afternoon sun. The grass brushed against her calves as she moved, light on her feet, practically glowing with anticipation. She was dressed to drive him wild — and she knew it.

Her hair was done up in a high ponytail, bouncing with each step, and her outfit left very little to the imagination: a cow-print bikini top barely containing her modest bust, matching thigh-high leggings clinging to her toned legs, and snug little arm sleeves that hugged her biceps like they’d been painted on.

The collar around her neck was leather, snug, and glossy black. A brass cowbell hung from it, jingling faintly with each step — not enough to echo, but enough to tease. Around her lips, glossy red lipstick gleamed like wet candy.

She knew what that color did to him.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her whenever she wore it. He’d grow feral, needy, ravenous. The memory made her giggle as she approached the old wooden barn. Her hips swayed naturally, sensually — not for show, but because she couldn’t help it. She was excited too.

She stopped at the barn door, her painted nails fishing the keyring out from between her breasts where it had been tucked. The lock clicked open, and she slipped inside, letting the heavy door close behind her with a deep, earthy creak.

The scent of hay, musk, and summer heat clung to the air inside — familiar and comforting. Her steps were soft as she moved past the stalls, pausing to pet the snouts and horns of her other animals. They grunted and huffed affectionately, but she didn’t linger.

She was headed to the far end.

Where he was kept.

As she approached the oversized cage, the sound of breathing hit her ears — heavy, ragged, fast. He knew the sound of that bell. He knew that smell on the wind. She bit her lower lip and knelt slowly, her fingers trailing across the fogged glass of the lower panel.

And there it was.

Just like always.

Thick. Pulsing. Veined. A monstrous shaft twitching with barely-contained need, jutting out from between his muscled thighs. The cage barely seemed to hold him anymore, thick limbs coiled with restrained power.

She stared. She never didn’t stare.

She remembered the first time she'd seen it — that sheer scale, that frightening, primal thing that seemed impossible to fit inside anything, let alone her. She'd been horrified. Awed. Frozen.

But not anymore.

Now, it was hers.

And over time, with each visit, each moan, each trembling gasp... she’d been reshaped. Broken in. Rebuilt around it. Slowly. Deeply. Thoroughly. Until nothing else could fill her. Until the thought of anything less made her laugh.

Now, here he was again. Hard. Ready. Waiting.

Just like always.

And she?

She was starving.

She grinned as the key turned in the lock with a click that echoed off the barn walls like a gun cocking.

“Hey there, big guy,” Iris purred, voice low and syrupy, eyes glinting with mischief as she eased the heavy cage door open.

She didn’t even get another word out.

Two massive hands — clawed, calloused, trembling with anticipation — shot forward and grabbed her. She gasped, caught like prey, and in one fluid, brutal pull, she was yanked inside. The door slammed shut behind her with a CLANG, the lock swinging uselessly as shadows swallowed them both.

Then came the sounds.

Raw. Wet. Relentless.

The barn filled with her voice — not the soft giggles she gave the goats, not the hums she sang to herself while feeding the chickens — but something else.

“Harder! HARDER! Fuck me like the filthy little slut I am!”

Her screams tore through the morning like lightning through stormclouds, mixing with low, inhuman growls and the rhythmic thud of bodies colliding.

Out in the barn, the animals stirred. Cows blinked. Pigs shifted in their hay. None dared draw close. They’d heard it before — the wild crescendo of their caretaker being split open again and again by the beast she kept caged for no one but herself.

No one else could take him. No one else had tried.

Only Iris.

And she wasn’t just taking him.

She was begging for more.

Iris jolted awake, drenched in sweat, her body trembling, her breathing uneven.

The images—whatever that was—still clung to her mind. The sounds, the sensations, the overwhelming realness of it all. And yet… none of it had ever happened. Not to her. It was like she’d been trapped in someone else’s memories—someone who looked like her, but wasn’t.

She sat up, pressing a shaky hand to her forehead, trying to will the fog out of her brain.

She’d spent all of Monday and Tuesday psyching herself up, telling herself everything would be fine. That it was just another weird week at Monster High. That things were finally returning to normal.

Now here she was, shaking like a leaf and sweating like a dog, all because of one insane, vivid dream.

In what universe would she ever do something like that?!

She wanted to be a scientist, not some… breeding cow.

Iris shook her head again, harder this time, trying to flush out whatever bizarre residue the dream had left behind.

She needed to focus. Hackington’s class was about to start, and rumor had it today was dissection day.

With any luck, whatever unfortunate creature ended up on the table would be gross enough to erase everything she’d just seen from her mind.

She hoped.

Desperately.

Mr. Hackington stood at the front of the classroom, arms folded, claws tapping rhythmically against the edge of the dissection table.

He hadn’t taught a proper lesson since Friday. The gas attack had thrown everything into chaos, and Bloodgood had made it clear—keep things calm, no surprises, no triggering lectures. Let the students breathe.

But this morning, she stopped him in the hall with a firm request: “It’s time we bring back structure. Resume class—but go easy.”

So here he was, back under the dim lab lights, with a tray of sealed dissection kits and a cooler of already-deceased frog specimens courtesy of the science wing’s eternal freezer.

The students filed in, slowly. Cautiously. He could feel their nerves crawling just under the surface.

He understood. Everyone was still on edge.

But if he was being honest with himself… it wasn’t just nerves that had him uneasy.

Something was… off.

He’d noticed it in the halls. In brief flashes.

A handful of students—never the same ones twice—would suddenly freeze. Mid-step, mid-sentence, mid-blink. Their eyes would flicker, glowing pink. Just for a second. Then gone. Like it never happened.

They always looked confused afterward. Or agitated. Sometimes they just muttered to themselves and kept moving.

Then there were the dreams.

Students whispering about them between classes. Overheard in the courtyard. At lunch tables.

Vivid. Intimate. Sweaty. No one was using the word inappropriate, but the tone was all the same—embarrassed. Shaken. Overwhelmed.

Nurse Hatchetson had dismissed it as delayed trauma—mind and body sorting through the panic in the most vulnerable, messy ways possible.

And Hackington didn’t disagree... but something about it didn’t sit right.

Too widespread. Too specific. Too similar.

Still, he had a lesson to teach. Nothing graphic. Just frog anatomy, and only if students felt up to it. No pressure.

He glanced around the room, noting faces. Some alert, some half-asleep, some barely holding it together.

His eyes settled on Iris.

She looked pale. Sweaty. Like she’d seen a ghost and hadn’t slept since. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her chair.

He made a mental note.

She’d be visiting the nurse after class. No debate.

But first—biology.

Time to keep things normal, whatever that meant anymore.

(Monster High – Park – 9:30 AM)

Cleo sat on the edge of the fountain, arms crossed, lower lip slightly jutted out as she stared into the distance. Her posture was regal, as always—but her energy? Pure sulk.

She wasn’t doing much of anything. Just sitting, watching the world move around her. Students walking, laughing, chatting like things were normal again.

Her gaze drifted down to her phone, which had been resting on her lap. She’d opened the same message thread a dozen times that morning.

Deuce.

They hadn’t spoken in days—not really. Not since he made those suggestive comments. The kind that made her entire body light up with heat and embarrassment, even though she’d slapped him and stormed off like she was so above it all.

He’d tried to call her. A few times, actually. But she didn’t answer. She wanted to see how far he’d go to make it up to her. Wanted him to sweat a little.

He deserved that, didn’t he?

Still... here she was. Sitting alone. Staring at those texts like they were spells she couldn’t figure out.

She told herself it was about pride. Control. Image.

But that wasn’t all of it.

She remembered what the mirror said—what she said, really. That reflection that wasn’t a reflection.

(Flashback)

“That’s not true!” Cleo choked, trying to force strength back into her voice, but it cracked, thin and trembling.

‘Isn’t it?’ the voice whispered, all heat and daggers. ‘Then why do you let it happen? Why do you come back every time? Why do you ache for it—beg for it?

(End of flashback)

She hated how the words sank in. Hated how they made her squirm—not out of fear, but because… maybe part of her liked being undone by him. Maybe it felt good to not have to be in charge all the time. Maybe that was the real reason she kept circling back to him, again and again.

Ugh. Disgusting.

She pulled her scarf tighter around her shoulders and huffed, eyes narrowing at absolutely nothing in particular.

“Cleo?”

She stiffened, blinking once, before glancing up.

There he was.

Deuce.

He looked like hell. Shades on, hair messier than usual, lips pressed in a thin line. She could still see the faint streaks under his eyes—like he hadn’t slept or maybe...

Crying.

He cried?

Her stomach flipped.

She turned her head slightly, pretending to look unimpressed. But her eyes betrayed her—they lingered on him, scanning, searching.

“Hmm,” she hummed, crossing one leg over the other. “Didn’t expect you to show your face so soon.”

But her voice was soft.

Less venom. More... pout.

Deuce took a cautious step closer. Cleo still hadn’t looked at him.

She sat rigid on the fountain’s edge, arms folded tight across her chest, legs crossed, chin slightly raised. She was pouting. Full-on royal sulk mode.

But he knew her well enough to read through the cracks.

She was listening.

“Cleo…” he started, his voice soft. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond. Just let out a breathy little hmph and looked in the complete opposite direction.

Deuce ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you. I was being a jerk. I pushed too far, and—”

“You think?” Cleo snapped, eyes still averted. “You think telling me I was trying to get you HARD in front of everyone wasn’t going too far?”

Deuce winced. “Yeah. No, I—I get it. That was stupid. I was trying to be funny, but... it wasn’t. It was just dumb.”

She finally glanced at him—briefly. Her lips were pressed into a pout, eyes glossy with something between irritation and something much more dangerous.

She looked away again, dramatically.

“And then you just left me there,” she said, voice lower now, more fragile. “Like it didn’t matter.”

Deuce stepped closer, slowly, like approaching a wild animal. His chest hurt just looking at her.

“I panicked,” he admitted. “You ran off and I—I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

Cleo’s shoulders rose a little, arms tightening around herself like a child refusing to be comforted.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have made me cry, idiot,” she muttered, almost too quietly for him to hear.

That hit him hard. Deuce felt the air leave his lungs.

“I know,” he said. “I hate that I did. I hate that I hurt you. I don’t wanna do that ever again.”

Cleo stayed quiet for a second, then let out a long, deliberate sigh.

“I guess,” she said, dragging the word out like it physically pained her, “you’re not completely hopeless.”

She still wasn’t looking at him. Still performing. Still waiting.

He stepped closer. “Cleo... look at me.”

She turned—slowly, dramatically—and finally met his eyes.

There it was: the crack in the mask. A flicker of longing behind her scowl. That bratty, dangerous dare me look he knew all too well.

“You really want me to forgive you?” she asked, lip jutting out slightly, voice a whisper dipped in sugar and venom.

Deuce nodded.

“Then earn it.”

Her gaze flicked to his lips for half a second before darting away again. The voice—that voice—lingered in the back of her mind, feeding her pride, warping it into performance.

'Make him prove it.'

'Make him crawl.'

'He wants to.'

And maybe... she wanted it too.

She stood, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt, keeping her arms crossed.

“You hurt my feelings,” she said, swaying slightly as she walked past him. “Made me look stupid. And now you think a little apology fixes it?”

Deuce followed her instinctively.

“I don’t think that,” he said, voice lower. “I don’t want to fix it with words.”

She stopped in front of the brick archway that lined the edge of the park. The shadows from the trees danced across the bricks, flickering like firelight.

He caught up to her, his chest barely brushing her back.

“You’re just mad because I said what we both know you think about sometimes,” he said quietly.

Cleo turned to face him, slowly, eyes burning with heat and offense.

“Excuse me?”

Deuce stepped forward again, closing the gap. Her back pressed against the wall behind her.

“I said something I shouldn’t have. I crossed a line. But... Cleo, you liked it.”

Her breath hitched.

“Shut up.”

“You liked knowing I lose it when someone flirts with you. You liked that I wanted to claim you right there in the middle of the hall.”

“I said shut up.”

But her hands weren’t pushing him away. They were resting against his chest, balled up in his jacket.

And she wasn’t pulling away either.

“Tell me you didn’t,” he whispered, his lips inches from hers.

Cleo narrowed her eyes, her voice barely a whisper.

“You’re such a snake.”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning in until his forehead touched hers, “but I’m your snake.”

And then—like the last thread finally snapped—she grabbed the front of his hoodie and pulled him into her.

Their lips collided.

The kiss was anything but gentle. It was heat and teeth and muffled gasps. Like everything they hadn’t said in days poured out all at once.

Her back hit the wall with a soft thud, his hands braced on either side of her, caging her in.

She was all attitude and velvet softness, fingers clawing into his collar like he might vanish again if she let go.

She moaned softly into the kiss, then bit his lip—hard enough to make him grunt.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless. Cleo’s lipstick was smeared. Deuce’s shades were crooked. Her hairband was slightly tilted, and she didn’t care.

She looked up at him, still pouting, but with a glow in her cheeks now.

Their lips parted just barely, breaths tangled, foreheads pressed together.

Cleo stared up at him, flushed and fuming in the prettiest way possible.

Her voice was low, a breathy little growl dripping with pretend menace.

“If you ever say something like that again,” she muttered, “I’ll make sure you wish I turned you to stone.”

It was empty. A performance. She didn’t mean it—and they both knew it.

Deuce smirked, eyes glinting beneath his crooked shades.

“Yeah, sure,” he whispered back, already leaning in.

And then they were kissing again—harder this time, needier. Like a dam had broken and they didn’t care what spilled out.

Cleo’s nails curled into his hoodie, dragging him closer as if she didn’t want even air between them. Her pout had vanished, replaced with parted lips and quiet little gasps that only made him want to ruin her composure all over again.

She kissed like a queen used to being worshipped—until someone called her bluff.

And deep down, Deuce felt it—heard it.

That low voice curling at the base of his thoughts, smooth as venom and just as sweet.

“She acts like royalty, but she wants to be ruled. A bratty little queen begging for a real king to put her in her place.”

And judging by the way she moaned into his mouth the second he pinned her tighter against the wall—

That voice might be right.

(Monster High – Courtyard – 9:30 AM)

Gigi stood at the front steps of Monster High, her expression unreadable.

She hadn’t stepped foot on campus since Friday.

Not since the screams.

Not since she watched her friend Howleen collapse on the floor.

And definitely not since she’d dragged her boyfriend out from beneath Gooliope’s unconscious body.

Just standing here made her stomach twist. But she knew she had to come back eventually.

“You sure you want to keep attending this place?”

Gigi turned to look at the man beside her—her father. Well, adopted father.

Even after escaping the lantern in her sister’s place and enrolling at Monster High, she’d technically still been an orphan. It was Headmistress Bloodgood who helped with the paperwork, who found her a family. A real one.

The genie couple who adopted her had been free from their own lanterns for years. They understood. They were kind. Loving. Protective.

Maybe too protective.

They were scared to let her come back. Understandably so. But Gigi had made her choice.

Friday was horrifying, but running away wouldn’t help anyone. She had friends here. People she cared about. And she wasn’t about to let fear stop her from protecting them.

She smiled softly and stepped forward to hug her father.

“I’ll be okay,” she said. “I promise.”

He hugged her tighter than expected, then pulled back with a sigh. “Alright. But if anything feels off—anything—you call me. We’re all worried, but… we trust you.”

She nodded, eyes shining. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll see you after school. Love you.”

“Love you too, sweetie. Stay safe.”

With a final smile, he vanished in a soft puff of golden smoke.

Gigi stood there for a second longer, taking one last breath, then turned and walked up the steps.

The second she stepped inside, the tension in her chest lingered—but only for a moment.

Because then she heard a voice. Familiar. Loud. Excited.

“GIGI!”

Her head whipped around—and there he was.

Ryder, rolling full speed through the hallway in his wheelchair, eyes bright, a huge grin on his face.

“RYDER!”

She dropped her bag without a second thought and bolted toward him.

They met in the middle of the lobby, crashing into each other with a force that almost knocked him back—but neither cared. Her arms wrapped around him tight, and he held her just as fiercely.

They stayed like that for a long moment. Holding. Breathing. Real.

Then, without a word, they pulled back just enough for their lips to meet.

It wasn’t a kiss of passion. It was relief. A desperate, thank-god-you’re-still-here kind of kiss.

When they finally broke apart, Ryder brushed a hand down her arm and smiled softly.

“I missed you so much,” he said, voice low and warm.

Gigi’s voice cracked slightly. “I missed you too. I thought—” She shook her head. “I thought I’d lost you.”

He reached up and touched her cheek. “Not a chance.”

And just like that, the fear began to fade.

Not gone—but replaced with something better.

Hope.

As Gigi and Ryder rolled side by side toward their first class, the buzz of laughter and chaos that used to fill every corner of the school was replaced with something quieter. More cautious. Conversations were hushed. Smiles were thinner. Eyes darted more than they used to.

“Feels weird,” Ryder muttered, glancing around. “Like… everyone’s walking on glass.”

Gigi nodded. “It’s like the whole school aged five years over the weekend.”

“Howleen still hasn’t come back?”

“Nope. Clawdeen says she’s been staying home, barely texting anyone.” Gigi frowned. “Honestly, I don’t blame her.”

Ryder sighed. “And Monster High’s rep is tanking. News outlets are calling it the ‘Gas Massacre’ now. Even though nobody died.”

“Yet,” Gigi muttered under her breath, then immediately shook her head. “Sorry. That was dark.”

He reached for her hand, giving it a squeeze. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to be freaked out.”

They walked in silence for a bit. Around them, students moved like shadows—still recovering. Still unsure.

“But,” Ryder said eventually, offering her a small smile, “we’ve still got each other, right?”

Gigi looked at him and smiled softly. “Yeah. We do. That’s all I need right now.”

They reached the fork in the hall, right outside Mrs. Kindergrubber’s classroom. Gigi paused, clutching her bag, glancing at the door.

“Excited?” Ryder asked.

“Yeah. She’s one of the few teachers that actually makes me feel like I belong here,” Gigi said. “Her and Mr. Hackington. Weird combo, huh?”

“Very,” Ryder grinned.

She leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’ll see you after class, okay?”

“Count on it.”

She turned to head inside—then froze.

Her vision swam. The floor tilted under her feet.

The hallway lights blurred into soft streaks, like someone smeared her world with a wet brush. Her limbs felt heavy. Her chest tightened.

“Wh—” she started, but her voice cracked.

Ryder blinked. “Gigi?”

She staggered forward, hand fumbling for the wall. Her knees buckled.

Then—darkness.

She hit the floor with a soft thud.

And the last thing she heard was Ryder shouting her name, panic laced in every syllable.

“GIGI!”

(Gigi's Dream)

Beneath a velvet sky littered with stars, the desert wind whispered secrets through the high arches of an opulent Arabian palace.

The stone corridors echoed softly with the sound of jeweled anklets as Gigi glided barefoot through the candlelit halls, a mischievous spark lighting her golden eyes.

She wore desire like a second skin — a belly dancer’s ensemble, sheer chiffon and glinting gems clinging to her curves with every sway of her hips.

Her pink and gold hair tumbled wild and loose down her back, and the translucent veil around her waist danced with each step, barely hiding the tease of thigh and the curve of motion beneath it.

She was a vision, yes — but more than that, she was a storm.

And tonight, she wasn’t just walking through her palace. She was hunting.

The massive double doors at the end of the corridor stood tall and proud, carved with intricate golden filigree and shimmering under the chandelier’s glow.

She paused only for dramatic effect, palms pressing against the doors until they creaked open under her touch.

Inside, the room was a fantasy. Silk draped from every corner. Golden lanterns bathed the air in soft, flickering warmth. A floating chandelier spun lazily overhead, scattering fragments of light across the walls like tiny constellations.

But she only had eyes for the bed.

And for the man chained there.

Ryder lay at the center of a plush, sprawling mattress, wrists bound in golden cuffs that shimmered with enchantment, arms stretched wide to the bedposts.

He was shirtless, his body taut and waiting, breath catching as she stepped into view.

The sight of him like that — helpless, exposed, hers — sent a delightful shiver down her spine.

A wicked smirk curled her lips as she slowly slid off her slippers, one by one, letting them drop to the marble floor with soft, deliberate taps.

“Good evening, my love,” she purred, stepping up onto the bed with the grace of a dancer and the intent of a queen.

She straddled him, veil fluttering as she sank down, close but not touching — not yet.

“Did you miss me?” she whispered, voice like warm honey, her fingers already tracing slow, maddening lines down his chest.

The look on Ryder’s face was a cocktail of heat and helplessness — eyes wide and lips parted, as if caught between a moan and a plea. He was laid bare beneath her, every line of his body exposed under the soft gold light, shimmering faintly where sweat had begun to pearl on his skin.

No chair. No mobility. Just ropes of silk and the commanding presence of the woman straddling him.

Gigi drank in the sight — the ocean-blue flush creeping across his cheeks, the twitch in his jaw as he fought the urge to move, the way his muscles flexed beneath her but obeyed the restraints.

He was hers. Entirely.

“Gigi…” he whispered, breath shaky, voice half-surrendered. “What is this? What’s going on?”

She leaned in, her warm breath brushing against the sensitive shell of his ear, slow and deliberate. “You’ve been so good to me, my love. Loyal. Soft. Obedient.” Her voice lilted like a lullaby, edged in something darker. “Tonight, I reward my good boys.”

Her teeth found his earlobe, giving it the lightest bite. She felt him jerk beneath her, a choked whimper catching in his throat.

She sat up with a graceful roll of her hips, her hips hovering just above his, veil fluttering like a breath of smoke. Her fingertips dragged down his jawline, trailing a path to his throat, her nails scratching faint pink lines into his skin like a signature.

“Tonight,” she said, her voice like velvet, “you don’t get to touch me.”

Her fingers wrapped around his bound wrists, pressing them harder into the pillows above his head, pinning him even though the restraints did the job just fine. It was about control — and the thrill of him knowing he didn’t have any.

“I’m going to use you,” she whispered, her eyes glowing with promise. “Use you like the pretty little thing you are.”

She lowered herself until her lips brushed his, barely there. His eyes fluttered, desperate to close the distance — but she denied him that too.

“And you,” she breathed, tongue just flicking the corner of his mouth, “are going to lay there and take it like a good boy.”

His chest rose sharply. His hands tugged at the restraints instinctively — helpless. She saw the panic again in his eyes, but it melted under the wash of pure, aching arousal. He was trembling beneath her now.

“G—Gigi…”

Her palm silenced him, firm and soft over his mouth, her thumb grazing his cheekbone like a lover, her eyes daring him to try again.

“No talking,” she said, voice low and sharp, her other hand trailing down the plane of his stomach, over the fluttering muscles of his abdomen. “Unless you’re begging.”

Her fingers danced lower. He gasped.

And then she moved.

Gigi's hips rolled with sinuous grace, slow as a tide, deliberate as ritual. Every motion was calculated — not for her pleasure, not yet — but for his torment.

She wanted him trembling. She wanted him squirming.

And she wanted to watch him come undone, inch by inch.

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling like leaves in the wind, his breath catching in his throat as her body hovered just out of reach — barely grazing, barely touching, maddening in its restraint.

Her veil brushed against his hips like a whisper, silk on skin, her fingers still dancing along his torso, teasing, circling, never quite giving him the contact he craved.

He groaned low behind her palm, hips bucking just slightly, instinctively, aching for connection.

She let out a soft laugh.

“Ah ah,” she chided, dragging her nails down his side, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. “You're not allowed to want anything unless I give it to you.”

Her hand lifted from his mouth, slowly, and she watched his lips part, breathless, wet from her skin.

“Please…” he whispered, his voice wrecked already, vulnerable in a way that sent a thrill up her spine. “Gigi… I need—”

Her fingers closed around his jaw, tilting his face to meet hers. She stared down at him, her eye hard, glowing faintly with heat and command.

“You need?” she echoed, mocking the word with a crooked smile. “No. No, love. You beg.”

He shivered beneath her. Even shackled, even pinned, he arched his back slightly, chest rising toward her touch, trying to earn something more — friction, contact, her.

“Please,” he said again, and this time, it dripped with desperation. “Please… let me have you. Let me feel you.”

Gigi purred in approval and released his jaw, letting her fingers drift lower again, curling around the jut of his hip, her nails dragging down until they slipped between his legs, warm and wet and cruelly gentle.

He gasped — loud this time — his body bucking against the restraints. But there was nowhere to go, nothing to fight against but the ache blooming in his core and the woman straddling him like a throne.

“That’s better,” she cooed, circling him with a featherlight touch. “My good little merman knows how to use his words.”

She leaned down again, her lips grazing his cheek, her voice a breath in his ear.

“And you will feel me,” she promised, hips shifting downward, letting her weight lower just enough to brush against him. “But only when you’re begging for release like a dockside whore too ruined to remember his name.”

Her words made him groan — not from shame, but from the brutal thrill of surrender.

His wrists twisted in the chains, his fin dug into the bed, and his head fell back, mouth open in a silent cry as her hips finally made contact and rolled, slow and agonizing, against the most sensitive part of him.

“Gigi—!” he gasped, voice cracked, throat raw with it.

“Say it,” she whispered, her own breath breaking now, her control slipping just slightly as she ground down again. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” he gasped. “You. Gigi. I belong to you.”

And with that, she claimed him — fully, deeply, mercilessly.

The chandelier spun overhead, casting broken stars across the room, and beneath it all, Ryder surrendered. Not to the chains. Not to the bed.

To her.

Gigi's eyes flew open with a sharp, rattling gasp.

She was no longer standing.

Instead, she found herself cradled in the arms of Mrs. Kindergrubber, who was kneeling beside her with surprising strength for a woman in high heels and layered lace.

A soft breeze brushed her face—it was coming from outside. Most of the class had spilled into the hallway, standing in a loose circle around her, murmuring anxiously.

Ryder was right at her side, practically trembling.

“Mademoiselle Grant!” Kindergrubber cried, her thick French accent full of concern. “Are you alright? Ze lights were on and zen... boom! You collapse!”

Gigi blinked rapidly, trying to focus. Everything was blurry at the edges, her head damp with sweat and her heart pounding in her ears.

She slowly sat up, groaning softly. “I… I’m okay. I think. Just… dizzy.”

Rochelle knelt beside her, concern etched in every stone-like feature.

“Zat was not a small fall,” she said gently, helping to steady Gigi’s arm. “You scared us, truly.”

“You should not push your body like this,” Jinafire chimed in, her tone calm but firm, one elegant hand pressed against Gigi’s back. “Your skin is too pale. You’ve been under much stress.”

Gigi managed a weak smile. “Guess I needed a more dramatic entrance…”

Ryder exhaled in relief, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand before helping gather her dropped books. He handed them to her one by one, not saying much, just watching her with wide, worried eyes.

She took them with a grateful nod. “Thanks, all of you.”

“But of course,” Rochelle said.

“No problem,” Jinafire added.

Mrs. Kindergrubber stood up, brushing her skirt off and placing her hands on her hips.

“Zat is quite enough drama for one morning,” she huffed. “If you are well enough to walk, mademoiselle, I suggest we get you inside before I call Nurse Hatchetson with a flying stretcher.”

Gigi chuckled faintly, her legs still shaky, but she nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ryder made sure she made it back through the classroom door before reluctantly pulling away.

“I’m gonna be late,” he mumbled, already backing toward the hallway, “but I don’t care. Just… promise me you’ll take it easy.”

Gigi gave him a soft look. “Promise.”

He lingered for one last second before heading off.

None of them noticed the small figure standing farther down the hallway—half-hidden behind a column of lockers.

Mr. Hackington watched silently, arms crossed, his sharp features locked in a frown.

His eyes tracked the hallway, then flicked back to Gigi.

There was no panic in his expression. Just something colder. More calculating.

Suspicion… laced with worry.

Something was happening.

And he didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

(East Hallway – 10:05 AM)

Hoodude strolled through the hallway like a ray of stitched-up sunshine.

Hands in his patched pockets, button eyes gleaming with that usual bright-eyed innocence, he hummed a little tune under his breath as he passed locker after locker.

The gas attack? The tension? The rumors? Hoodude had somehow floated above all of it—figuratively, of course.

He was just happy to be here, alive and appreciated, on his way to Home-Ec with a skip in his step and a bounce in his thread.

What he didn’t notice was the growing number of girls that had stopped in their tracks to stare.

They weren’t friends. Not anyone he knew personally. Just a collection of background students—ghouls with wings, tails, fangs, and claws—lurking around lockers, frozen mid-conversation, lips parted as he walked by.

And every single one of them was staring at him like he was made of chocolate-dipped sin.

One girl leaned against her locker, eyes raking him up and down with a hunger that belonged in a haunted rom-com.

“I wanna pull those little stitches loose while he’s squirming,” she muttered under her breath, clutching her books to her chest.

Another snorted behind her, biting her lip hard. “He probably moans like a kitten,” she whispered. “One little poke and he’d be a mess.”

“He’s so cute I wanna break him,” a third growled, dragging one claw along her locker door like she was carving his name into it.

“And that smile,” another sighed. “Ugh. I wanna ruin it.”

Meanwhile, Hoodude—utterly oblivious—was busy trying to pick lint off his sweater vest and checking the classroom numbers.

“Oh! Hi!” he chirped, pausing and waving sweetly at one of the girls as he passed.

She froze like she'd just been tasered, cheeks exploding into red as she choked on her own breath.

“Hi—H-Hi!” she squeaked, holding her folder in front of her face.

“Have a nice day!” Hoodude said with a big grin, then happily continued on his way, humming once more.

The moment he turned the corner, the hallway behind him exploded into whispers, groans, and some very deep sighs.

One girl leaned her head against her locker. “That boy has no idea what kind of power he’s walking around with.”

Another fanned herself. “

I swear. If he smiles at me again, I might die.”

“I wanna sew him up and then rip the threads right out!” a third grunted, growling under her breath.

“Same,” a fourth sighed.

“Ugh. Same,” a fifth groaned.

And far, far down the hall, completely unaware of his sudden rise to 'dark fantasy' fame, Hoodude Voodoo just kept walking—whistling a happy little tune.

(West Hallway – 10:14 AM)

The hallway rumbled slightly with every step she took.

Not literally, but it felt like it.

Gooliope walked slow, careful, deliberate—shoulders hunched and eyes cast down. At nearly fifteen feet tall, she didn’t need to make an entrance. She was the entrance. The hallway shifted around her like water around a ship’s bow, students parting before her, rushing to opposite walls or ducking into classrooms just to avoid her passing.

No one said anything cruel.

No one threw shade.

But no one smiled either.

They whispered when she passed. Turned their backs. Some glanced nervously at her shoes, checking how close she was. Others straight-up bolted down the hallway like she was a runaway train barreling toward them.

She heard it all.

“Dude, is she really allowed back?”

“Don’t look. Don’t even look.”

“What if she—melts again?”

Gooliope's jaw tightened.

Before the attack, the halls of Monster High had felt like home. Her freak du chic shows had drawn big crowds. Her glitter cannons, her choreography—people loved her. She'd felt like she belonged. Like her size didn’t make her something to fear.

But after the gas attack…

After she passed out...

After she lost control of her form and collapsed onto multiple students...

After her body melted over them and scorched their skin, even without meaning to…

Everything changed.

The truth no one wanted to say out loud was simple: she’d become the nightmare everyone now remembered.

What they didn’t know—couldn’t know—was the reason why.

When she'd gone unconscious, her concentration broke. Her human-like shape unraveled, and her true nature bled out. Her gelatinous form melted across the floor, across people. There was no leverage. No arms to push. Just thick, hot, shifting mass—and anything her body touched began to dissolve just enough to leave burns behind.

Gil. Ryder. Others.

(Note From The Writer: For those who don't know, Gooliope (more specifically her species) is based on The Blob from the 1988 movie (or something similar to that). In this version of the canon, her real form is a giant pink blob that can morph into whatever she chooses. This form is maintained through her concentration and if she slips, she devolves into a giant blob. Consider this a tiny retcon to chapter 1).

They survived—but they remembered.

And now, every time her boots thudded on the tile, they flinched.

She spotted a student drop her books ahead. Gooliope moved to help, carefully kneeling, scooping them up in her giant, delicate hands.

“Here, you—”

But the student snatched them and sprinted off without a word.

Gooliope froze, still kneeling, staring at the empty space where the girl had been.

Her heart cracked open.

She turned quietly, squeezing past a trophy case and ducking through the back double doors that led into the garden—Monster High’s quietest, most hidden spot.

There, away from the whispers, she slumped down behind a wall of hedges and curled into herself. The once-powerful performer, now reduced to a shaking mass of cloth and glitter-smeared tears.

And then, the control slipped.

Her hands began to blur. Her legs softened into puddles of pink and gold.

Her form melted into the grass as if gravity had finally said, “enough.”

The more she sobbed, the less her body held together. Threads unraveled. Her hair liquified into long, wavy strands that sank into the dirt.

All she could do was cry.

It felt just like the circus days again. A sideshow. A burden. Something too big, too weird, too much.

Then—

“Gooliope!”

Her breath hitched.

A familiar voice. Hesitant. But there.

She blinked through watery eyes.

“Hey,” came another voice, softer, accented. Lagoona.

She looked up—what was left of her face holding shape—and saw Gil and Lagoona standing at the edge of the garden, eyes full of something she hadn’t seen all morning.

Not fear. Not judgment.

Just concern.

Gil knelt down beside the sobbing, half-melted form of Gooliope, careful not to step too close to the slowly spreading puddle of her body.

His voice was soft, full of concern. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

Gooliope turned away, cheeks rippling, her face barely holding its shape.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I didn’t want to scare them. It just… happened. I lost control.”

Lagoona knelt on Gooliope’s other side, her tone gentle but firm.

“Oi, mate,” she said, brushing hair out of her face. “We know that. We all know you didn’t mean any harm. No one’s blamin’ ya.”

Gooliope looked at her—what was left of her face still dripping tears—and then suddenly flung her liquefying arms up in the air.

“Then why does everyone act like I’m a monster?!” she cried, her voice booming louder than she meant it to.

The ground beneath them rumbled—just slightly, but enough to make the hedges rustle and a few stones rattle in the garden path.

A mini-quake, the result of her swelling emotions.

“Everywhere I walk,” she shouted, “people look at me like I’m gonna crush them! Like I’m some... walking disaster!”

Her form wavered, parts of her body flickering out of shape.

“Even when I try to help, they run away. And I get it—I’m huge, I melt things, I nearly burned people alive—but it was an accident!”

Her voice cracked. She turned toward the hedge wall, curling in on herself again. Her hands trembled as she clutched her sides, barely holding a human shape.

“It’s just like the circus all over again…” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Even when I had a family… even when I was doing what I loved… people still stared. Still treated me like a sideshow.”

Her voice dropped to a soft sob.

“No matter where I go… I’m always too big. Too strange. Too much.”

Gil and Lagoona exchanged a glance—painful and knowing. Because, in their own ways, they’d been there.

“Gooliope,” Gil said softly, inching a bit closer. “That’s not true.”

She didn’t turn. Just let out a trembling breath.

“You scared me that day,” Gil continued honestly. “Yeah. When I got trapped under you... when you melted over me... it hurt. A lot.”

Gooliope flinched.

“It burned. I soaked in freshwater for hours afterward just to feel normal again. But does that mean I hate you?” he said, his voice stronger now. “Not even close.”

“We all went through hell that day,” Lagoona added, placing a hand on the only part of Gooliope’s shoulder that looked solid. “It wasn’t your fault, love. None of it was. And more than anything, we need each other right now. We’re all a bit messed up—but we’re still together. We’re not leaving you behind.”

Gooliope sniffled again.

“Really?” she asked, voice quiet. Fragile.

“Of course,” Gil said, smiling softly. “You’re our friend. And friends stick around. Even after freaky, gelatinous blob meltdowns.”

Lagoona giggled. “Especially after those.”

Gooliope laughed—just a little. It wobbled in her chest, but it was real.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Gooliope smiled. A real, human-like smile.

Her body began to pull itself back in, the loose, gooey parts retracting. Her face began to reform—soft cheeks, kind eyes, streaks of glitter returning to her hair as her shape solidified.

She wasn’t perfect. Not fully solid. But she was herself again.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice trembling with gratitude. “I thought I lost everything. But I didn’t.”

Gil offered his hand.

Lagoona offered the other.

And Gooliope took both.

Together, they walked out of the garden—slowly, carefully. She stood tall again, her towering figure casting a long shadow across the path. But this time, it didn’t feel so lonely.

She still had her friends.

And even if the rest of the school feared her now... that wouldn’t last forever.

So long as she had people who saw her—really saw her—maybe things could go back to normal after all.

(The Rooftop – 12:32 PM)

Lunch hour usually meant noise—laughter, shouting, clinking trays and racing feet.

But up on the roof, it was quiet.

Andy Beast sat cross-legged near the edge, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he gazed out over the school courtyard. Beside him, nestled against his arm, Jane Boolittle rested her head on his shoulder, her purple streaked hair brushing the fabric of his shirt.

Neither said anything for a long time.

They didn’t need to.

For two monsters who’d never expected to end up in a relationship—socially anxious Jane, who could talk to animals but barely knew how to talk to people, and quiet, brooding Andy, who used to pine after Frankie Stein—this moment of silence said more than words ever could.

Jane shifted slightly, glancing up at him. “Y’know… I really thought you were dead.”

Andy blinked, then looked down at her. “You… what?”

She bit her lip. “When you collapsed. After you tried to transform you way out. You pushed through all that gas, even after it hit you. I—I saw you drop and I—”

Her voice trembled. “I passed out right after. I thought I’d never get to tell you…”

She trailed off, her face going red.

Andy rubbed the back of his neck. “Jane… I was thinking about you when I hit the ground. I remember. I was trying to yell for someone to check on you.”

Jane looked up at him, surprised. “You were?”

Andy gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “Of course I was. We were separated by the crowd. I couldn’t see you. I panicked.”

Jane curled closer into his side, letting his warmth pull her in. “You big softie.”

“I mean, yeah,” he muttered, voice low. “Literally.”

They both chuckled softly. It was the kind of laugh people shared when they were still a little shaken, but too tired to cry again.

Off to the side, hiding in the shade of a rooftop vent, a small collection of Jane’s animal friends watched the couple quietly.

One of her monkeys, Kip, scratched his head. “They look real sad…”

Her squirrel, Bindi, curled her tail around herself. “They almost died. That’s scary. I don’t like scary.”

“Should we cheer them up?” chirped a small bird, blinking rapidly.

“No,” said a wise-looking iguana perched on a pipe. “Let them have their moment. She needs this.”

Back on the roof’s ledge, Jane turned her face into Andy’s shoulder, barely whispering, “This whole thing was... a lot.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice just as quiet. “But we’re here. You’re here.”

Another pause.

Then, slowly, awkwardly—Andy turned his head. Jane tilted hers.

Their noses bumped. They both flinched.

And then, with a nervous giggle, they leaned in again—this time managing a soft, shy kiss. Nothing dramatic. Just enough.

When they pulled back, Jane’s face was bright pink. Andy scratched his head, flustered but smiling.

“Um,” Jane mumbled, eyes flicking down. “That was… nice.”

“Yeah,” Andy said, clearly stunned. “I—I should’ve done that sooner.”

Off to the side, the animals all gave a collective, quiet “awww.”

Kip the monkey wiped a tear. “They’re so awkward.”

“Perfect,” said the iguana.

(Monster High – Second Floor Hallway – 12:50 PM)

It was supposed to be just another quiet moment between friends.

Frankie stood with Draculaura near the stairwell, tucked between a row of lockers no one really used.

The two had been chating it up—Draculaura was talking about the amusement park date with Clawd, her voice animated, her arms gesturing as she described some ridiculous haunted ride they got stuck on.

Frankie was smiling. Or at least, trying to.

The smile didn’t feel real.

Then—

“Of course you’re still together with that mangy mutt.”

The air shifted.

Frankie felt it before she even turned.

Gory Fangtell stepped out from around the corner, perfectly composed, her arms crossed like she’d been waiting for this moment.

Draculaura’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Oh great, here we go again.”

Gory clicked her tongue. “I’m just surprised you still have the nerve to show your face around here. After what happened. After you let him run wild—”

“Don’t.” Draculaura’s tone dropped. “You’re not blaming Clawd for what happened. Not today.”

“I’m blaming you, actually,” Gory shot back, her voice like venom. “You and your little boyfriend are always playing the victims. Always pretending you're the poor misunderstood monsters. When in reality? You're dangerous.”

Frankie blinked. Once. Twice.

The words were ringing in her ears, but they felt… distant. Like they were echoing down a long hallway she wasn’t standing in.

Draculaura turned slightly toward her. “Frankie, can you—”

She stopped. Frankie hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even blinked.

She just stood there. Watching.

“Frankie?” Draculaura asked again, voice tight.

Nothing.

Frankie wanted to say something. She did. She wanted to tell Gory off. To say she was wrong, cruel, bitter. She wanted to stand by her best friend.

But the words—they didn’t come.

They were there, buzzing behind her lips like static, but the spark that usually lit her fuse?

Gone.

Like someone had reached into her head and turned the volume way down.

She tried to speak up.

And then—

“Shut the fuck up, Stein,” Gory snapped, turning toward her. “No one asked you.”

And Frankie—stopped.

She actually closed her mouth.

Lowered her eyes.

Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

And Gory just rolled her eyes and turned back to Draculaura.

Any other time, Gory would’ve been fried—sent flying by a bolt of raw voltage. Frankie had done it before. Without hesitation.

But now… nothing.

The fight continued for another minute—Draculaura slinging insults like daggers, Gory returning every one of them with that same smug tone, and Frankie?

She stood there.

Frozen.

By the time Gory tossed her hair and speed off, the hallway fell silent again.

Draculaura turned to her, arms folded, cheeks flushed with leftover rage.

And disappointment.

“You really just stood there,” she said. Not yelling. Not even raising her voice.

Just hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Frankie mumbled, barely audible. “I… I don’t know what happened.”

Draculaura sighed through her nose and rubbed her forehead.

“Whatever. I’m going to class.”

She turned and walked away. Not storming off. Not making a scene. Just leaving.

Frankie stood there alone, clutching the strap of her bag like it was an anchor.

Her hands weren’t shaking, but her brain felt… scrambled.

Why hadn’t she moved?

Why hadn’t she said anything?

There was something in her head. A weight. A fog. Like her thoughts were being pulled through mud.

Not fear. Not indecision. Interference.

Like someone had jammed the frequency she always broadcast on.

Like someone had rewired her silence.

She stared at the floor tiles for a long moment.

Then looked toward the corner Gory had disappeared around.

And shivered.

(Bloodgood’s Office – 2:00 PM)

Bloodgood sat at her desk, staring blankly at her computer screen like it had personally wronged her. The video meeting had finally ended, but it had dragged on for so long, she was convinced she’d been trapped in some kind of temporal loop.

"Yes, I understand," she muttered, dragging her mouse to the bottom corner. "Have a wonderful day."

Click.

The call ended, leaving her screen empty and her patience thinner than parchment.

Before she could even reach to close the window, the door creaked open.

She didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

"Bloodgood," came a low, steady voice.

Professor Hackington stood at the doorway, his expression unreadable but his tone unmistakably firm.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Professor.”

“We need to talk.”

She gave a small nod and gestured for him to sit. Hackington moved with his usual precision—straight-backed, perfectly composed—as he lowered himself into the chair opposite her.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, keeping her tone polite, though the weariness in her posture lingered.

“There is,” Hackington replied crisply. “It’s the students.”

That got her attention. She straightened slightly, folding her hands in front of her.

“Go on.”

Hackington adjusted his collar, ever the meticulous sort. “Since the incident on Friday, I’ve observed a number of troubling patterns. Many of the students have reported vivid, recurring dreams—most of which are...” he cleared his throat, “overtly adult in nature.”

“I’m aware,” Bloodgood interrupted gently, lifting a hand. “Nurse Hatchetson briefed me two days ago. She flagged it as a likely trauma response.”

“I’m not finished,” Hackington cut in, sharper now. “It’s not just dreams. I’ve witnessed students collapsing in corridors—unprovoked. There have been increasingly inappropriate remarks, uncharacteristic behaviour... and the eyes, Headmistress.”

She tilted her head.

“The eyes?”

“Pink,” Hackington said. “Glowing. Only for a moment. But it’s there. Sudden flashes. Followed by confusion. Tension. Sometimes complete emotional shutdown. I’ve seen it half a dozen times in the past three days.”

Bloodgood sat silently for a moment, absorbing it all.

“I don’t mean to downplay any of this, Professor,” she said carefully. “But our students were just subjected to what amounts to a coordinated chemical attack. That kind of trauma has unpredictable effects—mentally, emotionally, even physiologically. Odd dreams, confusion, sudden emotional outbursts... It’s not unexpected.”

Hackington stared at Bloodgood, disbelieving. “This makes sense to you?”

“A little,” she replied, her voice measured but wary. “After something that traumatic, it’s not surprising some students are collapsing. Panic attacks, dissociation, residual shock—it tracks.”

“PTSD?” Hackington snapped, his voice rising. “How does dreaming about shagging their friends and classmates qualify as trauma?”

Bloodgood hesitated, then looked away. “The mind responds to stress in strange ways, especially young ones. The subconscious can distort fear, intimacy, vulnerability… even desire.”

“And the conversations?” he pressed, voice edged with disbelief. “Students speaking openly about things they’d never dare mention before? In graphic detail?”

“I’ll admit,” she said, folding her hands, “that part is concerning. But let’s be honest—these are teenagers. Hormonal, curious, emotionally charged teenagers. We don’t have to like it, but it’s not unheard of.”

Hackington leaned forward, voice cold now. “And the pink eyes? That’s not hormonal.”

Bloodgood raised a brow. “Neither is a banshee’s voice cracking windows. Or a vampire glowing red when they’re angry. We live in a school full of anomalies, Hackington. We teach monsters.”

He stood suddenly, his chair sliding back with a sharp screech. “Do you hear yourself? I’m pointing out patterns—not coincidences—and you're brushing it off like I'm paranoid!”

“I’m saying it’s not enough,” Bloodgood replied, standing to meet him. “We cannot risk alienating students based on speculation. Our job is to support them, not interrogate them.”

Hackington folded his arms. “Two faculty members reporting the same abnormalities, and you don’t think that warrants closer scrutiny?”

Bloodgood paused. Just for a moment. Something in her expression cracked—just a flicker—but she straightened again quickly.

“It’s deeply concerning,” she said, carefully. “But I can’t build policy around hunches. Not now. Not without real data.”

“Rumours and symptoms,” he echoed bitterly. “That’s what you’re calling it?”

She nodded once. “Until we have hard evidence. Yes.”

“Our entire student body is spiraling, and you think all of this is just… coincidence?”

“They could be,” she said, softer now. “We’re still in the fallout. The mind is fragile after trauma. There’s no rulebook for how these things manifest.”

Hackington clenched his jaw. He pushed the chair aside and began pacing, his coat flaring behind him.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Keep playing the diplomat.”

He reached the door, hand on the handle—then stopped.

He turned, eyes shadowed with something colder than frustration.

“Tell me this,” he said, voice low. “How many signs does it take before coincidence becomes evidence?”

Bloodgood didn’t answer. She just stared at him, silent.

And before she could find the words, he opened the door—And walked out.

Bloodgood let out a long, steady sigh.

She knew Hackington wasn’t wrong. He was picking up on something—something real. But without hard evidence, pursuing it would be like chasing shadows through fog.

And with everything Monster High had already endured, she couldn’t afford another scandal. Not now. Not when the school was still under scrutiny.

Not with what was coming in the next two weeks.

Down in the corridors, Hackington moved like a storm.

He cut through the empty halls without hesitation, boots echoing off the tile. His expression was carved from stone.

He didn’t know what was happening to the students. Not yet.

But he would find out.

No matter what it took.

To Be Continued...

Notes:

What was your favorite part of this chapter.

Chapter 6: Boiling Point

Summary:

Resistance is crumbling, it's only a matter of time before things descend into chaos.

Notes:

This was gonna be part 2 to the last one, but I ended up changing it.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(Date: Thursday, October 5th)

(Monster High – Gym – 7:45 AM)

For the first time in days, the gym felt… alive again.

With most of the student body finally back on campus, and Bloodgood pushing for a return to structure—especially after weeks of testing and postponed lessons—Coach Igor had wasted no time getting back to form.

And by “form,” that meant barking like a reanimated drill sergeant.

"Alright, maggots!" he bellowed, voice echoing through the rafters. Though notably, it was marginally less harsh than usual. “Relaxin’ time’s over! Time to get back to work. Especially for all of you slackers on the sports teams.”

He paced in front of the class like a predator.

“So I’ll make it easy today. Thirty laps around the court!”

Before anyone could groan, he blew his whistle—and the entire class took off in a mass stampede, desperate to get it over with.

Unlike in the past, Igor didn’t shout when someone slowed down. He didn’t even blow his whistle again. He just stared. That look. Stone-faced. Intense.

And somehow… that was worse.

Strict as ever, but now with a quiet edge of empathy. Subtle. Unexpected.

After the laps—and a gauntlet of burpees, mountain climbers, and crunches—the students eventually collapsed onto the bleachers, gasping, sweaty, and clutching their water bottles like lifelines.

Clawd and his friends gathered at the top row, their shirts clinging to their backs.

Gil let out a long, ragged sigh. “And here I thought school would still be gloomy and slow for at least another week.”

Clawd wiped sweat from his brow. “Yeah. The attack was last Friday, and it’s like nothing even happened.”

Deuce leaned back against the wall. “I mean… part of me’s glad it’s feeling normal again. That silence? Gave me the creeps.”

Jackson, sitting cross-legged, looked conflicted. “I get that. But I dunno… something about it doesn’t feel earned, y’know?”

Manny nodded slowly, unusually quiet. “I watched people drop like flies, man. One minute everything was fine, next thing I knew, I hit the floor.”

“And we had no idea what was even happening,” Ryder muttered from his wheelchair. “One second we were talking about outfits for the Monster Mash, next thing I’m pinned under Gooliope, covered in slime and smoke.”

Clawd exhaled through his nose. “And the worst part? We still don’t know how it happened. Or where that pink gas even came from.”

“Or why it didn’t kill anyone,” Manny added, his voice low.

They fell into a rhythm of nervous theorizing—everything from rogue spellcasters to faulty ventilation hexes to “maybe it was all a prank by the Normies.”

Some of the theories were plausible. Others... not so much.

But eventually, the chatter slowed.

Because something on the court pulled all their attention.

Someone.

A group, actually.

The ghouls.

All of them—save for Clawdeen, who was talking to someone near the bleachers—had stayed on the court even after Igor dismissed the class.

And they were still moving.

Stretching. Lunging. Sprinting. Push-ups.

In perfect unison.

Not just synchronized. Surgical. Their movements were fluid, precise—controlled.

But that wasn’t what had the boys frozen.

It was the way they looked.

Their clothes clung to their bodies like second skin. Sweat glistened along their arms and legs. Hair stuck to the sides of their faces. And every twist, every flex, every bend—

It was hypnotic.

Mouths started to part. Bottles hung limp in hands. Eyes tracked every motion without blinking.

No one said it, but they all felt the same thing:

It felt like a porno.

Too much skin, too much sweat, too much tension. And every guy in the room knew—if they didn’t get out soon, someone was gonna do something reckless. Or humiliating.

Clawd could barely hold onto his water bottle, palms slick as he watched Draculaura bend down for another set of squats. Her form was perfect. Focused. Unbothered.

But her shorts — fuck, those shorts — clung tighter every time she dropped low, riding up just enough to flash pale, sweat-kissed thighs, all lean muscle and effortless tease.

He shouldn’t stare.

He knew that.

But he couldn’t stop.

Every slow descent gave him another glimpse, another taste, another little jolt that made his thoughts spiral dirtier and darker by the second. His mind wasn't just wandering — it was sprinting.

‘You see that bounce?’ a voice murmured inside his head, way too familiar. ‘Imagine her doing that on your dick.’

His eyes blew wide.

“What th—”

‘Don’t lie,’ the voice snickered, slick and smug. ‘You’re thinking about it. Her fat ass slamming down on your cock, those soft little tits in your face, thighs locking around you, soaking wet and begging to be split open.’

Clawd’s face turned scarlet. His legs shifted. His breath hitched. He clenched the bottle so hard the plastic creaked.

“Shut up,” he hissed under his breath, more to himself than anyone. He took a shaky inhale, trying to ground himself, glancing around. No one seemed to notice.

Or maybe... they were just too busy having their own breakdowns.

'You see how hard she’s working?'

The voice in Deuce’s head slithered like smoke as his eyes tracked Cleo lunging across the gym floor, flushed and gleaming with sweat. 'You think that’s for fitness? No. She’s doing that to drive you insane.'

Deuce gritted his teeth, gripping the edge of the bleachers like it might anchor him to reality.

They’d just patched things up yesterday — he wasn’t about to mess it all up by acting like a horndog in public. Not again.

But gods, the way she moved — all precision and poise and just enough bounce to make his imagination sprint — it wasn’t fair.

And with the attitude she’d been giving him lately? She’d probably like it.

'Go on,' the voice hissed. 'She’s practically begging for it. Bent over, flaunting that body like it belongs on your lap. Like she wants you to lose it. Right here. In front of everyone.'

He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He kept his breath even. Focused. Grounded.

Then Cleo bent down, perfectly slow, perfectly timed — like she knew.

And his resolve cracked.

His cock throbbed in his pants. Instant. Brutal.

She turned casually toward the bleachers — and every guy’s gaze shot away like they’d been caught mid-sin.

But the voices didn’t stop.

'You’re dying to,' said the one in Gil’s head, thick with temptation. 'Look at her hips. She’s doing it on purpose.'

Gil’s eyes flicked toward Lagoona. She was mid-set, legs lifting and stretching with mesmerizing grace. Her skin gleamed, smooth and damp, glowing under the gym lights. His throat tightened.

'You’d give anything to feel those wrapped around you, wouldn’t you?'

He looked away fast — like that might stop the thoughts — but the ache in his gut only grew deeper. This wasn’t going to stay inside much longer.

Jackson was sweating, and it wasn’t from the heat.

His eyes found Frankie. She was doing crunches — innocent, focused — but her tank top clung to her chest with every motion, her ponytail swishing behind her like a metronome of madness.

'She acts so sweet,' the voice crooned in his head. 'But you know better. That look in her eyes? That’s not innocence. That’s bait.'

He blinked, and suddenly he saw her different — an image flashing in his mind like a fever dream.

Frankie, naked, sweat-slick, walking toward him, eyes half-lidded, voice purring.

“Come over and kiss me, cutie~”

He twitched in place. His jeans got tighter.

'You could shift into Holt,' the voice goaded, 'and take her right on the mats. Or sneak into the shower room. You’d have her moaning your name before the water even got hot.'

Another flash. Frankie, on her knees beneath the steam, mascara running, mouth open, voice shaking with a filthy plea.

"Please…" She begged. "Fuck my pretty face~"

Jackson's breath hitched hard. His whole body buzzed with adrenaline, lust, and raw confusion. He was trembling now — hands clenched, jaw tight, every muscle screaming for release.

'She wants you,' the voice whispered like velvet. 'You can feel it. And you could take her right now. No one would notice. No one would stop you.'

Jackson swallowed.

Hard.

Manny was barely holding it together.

Iris was down on the mat, arms trembling as she pushed through her first set of knee-supported push-ups, her breathing ragged, sweat trailing down the line of her back.

And her ass — small, tight, glistening — was right there, perfectly framed by those spandex shorts, twitching with every motion.

He could barely think.

His mind was a snarl of instinct and impulse, ugly and hungry. A loop he couldn’t escape.

Walking up behind her. Grabbing her by the hips. Tearing those shorts down and burying himself so deep she forgot her own name.

'You’d make her scream,' the voice in his head snarled. 'Slam that sweet nerd body into the mat until she’s drooling all over it. She wants it, Manny. You know she wants it.'

His fists clenched so hard his nails dug into his palms. He couldn’t let himself break. Couldn’t do that to her. Not her.

But the voice laughed.

'You’re gonna snap eventually,' it whispered. 'And when you do? She’ll love every fucking second.'

Ryder wasn’t faring much better.

Gigi was mid-stretch, arms overhead, arching her back as she leaned into a long, elegant bend. It was just a stretch. Perfectly normal.

But to Ryder, it was torture. The way her hips rolled, the shimmer of sweat between her shoulder blades, the line of her legs flexing just enough — it had his imagination in a chokehold.

He saw her crawling into his lap, voice sing-song and soaked in heat.

“I’m gonna ride you till morning, baby~”

His mouth was dry. His pants, definitely not.

'Look at her,' the voice purred, sick and sweet. 'Flexible. Fit. She could wrap those legs around you, and you’d be done in seconds.'

Ryder’s jaw tightened. His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair.

She was stronger than him. Faster. Mobile. Magical. He hated thinking like that — hated the way it made him feel less — but goddamn if that thought didn’t punch a raw, dark thrill straight through his gut.

'She could drag you out of that chair,' the voice whispered. 'Lay you out like a ragdoll. Ride you like a toy until you forget how to move. You wouldn't even try to stop her.'

His heart was thundering. His cock strained painfully against his pants.

And the worst part?

He didn’t want to stop her.

He wanted to be used. Taken. Reduced to a gasping mess while she grinned and rode him like she owned every inch of him.

'She’d break you,' the voice hissed. 'And you’d thank her.'

He nearly groaned aloud.

Around them, the other boys weren’t any better. Pants bulging, legs shifting, hands subtly adjusting as they tried not to give in.

Every last one of them bricked up. Fighting a losing war with their own imaginations.

None of them noticed Romulus approaching.

And he saw everything.

“Are you guys okay?” Romulus asked, brows furrowed.

Silence.

Not even a grunt.

Every one of them — Clawd, Heath, Deuce, Ryder, Jackson, Gil — frozen in place, eyes glazed, legs shifting like they were trying to subtly escape their own skin. Not one of them answered.

So Romulus followed their gaze.

Across the gym, the girls were paired off in the middle of group stretches, bodies bent in impossible angles, limbs intertwined, muscles flexing under layers of sweat-slick gymwear. Nothing overt. Nothing technically inappropriate. But goddamn, the energy — it clung to the air like heat lightning.

Romulus let out a heavy sigh.

“Really?” he muttered, glaring at them in disbelief. “Is it that hard to control yourse—”

His words died in his throat.

Because then he saw them.

In the far back corner of the gym — Meowlody and Purrsephone.

His girlfriends. Both of them.

Twisting and tumbling, caught in a playfight that was way too aggressive for a cooldown. Claws out, tails flicking, pinning each other down on the mat in a flurry of limbs and purring laughter.

Romulus hadn’t talked to either of them much since the attack. Just quick check-ins, awkward silence, distance that hadn’t quite closed. But now, watching them tangle together like wildcats in heat…

It hit him like a hammer to the chest.

And then the voice came.

'Imagine that,' it whispered — his own voice, but darker, slurred with hunger. 'Only instead of fighting, they’re fighting over your cock.'

His head jerked. “What the f—”

'They act wild, untamed,' the voice hummed, slow and low. 'But you know how to handle them. You’ve seen the way they whimper when you take control. They’d beg to be broken. Beg to be your little pets again.'

Romulus swallowed hard, feeling the stiffness already building beneath his waistband. His hands curled into fists. His pulse pounded.

“Get out of my head,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

The voice only laughed.

'I’m not even in there yet.'

He looked back.

Meowlody was on top now, pinning her twin by the wrists, their bodies pressed together like puzzle pieces.

Purrsephone bucked beneath her, legs wrapped tight. They were grinning. Teasing. Completely unaware of what they were doing to him.

But in his mind, they weren’t fighting anymore.

They were straddling him, one on either thigh, purring in sync as they nuzzled his neck, their slick thighs warm under his hands, tongues flicking his skin while they whispered filthy things in stereo.

“Stop that…” he muttered, cheeks flushing, looking away like it would help. It didn’t.

Because his eyes always went back.

Meanwhile, Clawd wasn’t doing much better.

He was still locked on Draculaura — who was now down on a yoga mat between Ghoulia and Spectra, doing sit-ups like it was nothing.

But each lift pulled her tight tank top across her chest, and her sports bra did nothing to hide the bounce of her breasts with every crunch.

Clawd’s hands were clenched in his lap, jaw rigid.

“Stop…” he muttered, barely audible.

A part of him wanted to run to her. Shield her. Hold her close and make sure nothing ever touched her again.

But there was another part.

And that part?

It wanted to tear the mat away and take her right there. Wrap his arms around her waist and claim her.

That part screamed inside his head:

'You know you want it!'

Clawd winced, grinding his teeth.

“No,” he growled to himself. “Must. Stay. In. Control.”

Every single boy was cracking under the weight of it. Shifting, squirming, legs spread just slightly to make space for the pressure building below the belt. No one dared speak. No one could admit it.

But something was happening.

A pressure in the air.

Something invisible. Dark. Hungry.

And it wasn’t done with them yet.

“Maybe this’ll convince you…”

And then it hit them.

Not an image — a vision. A mind-dominating, dick-throbbing, soul-melting vision that felt like it had been surgically designed to obliterate every last ounce of willpower they had left.

It wasn't even porn.

It was worse.

Because it was the girls. Their girls. And they weren’t just posing — they were performing.

In front of the boys.

Naked but for sweat and skin, their gym clothes discarded like a peeled-off second layer.

No pretense, no subtlety. This was full-throttle seduction.

Cleo, Draculaura, Lagoona, Iris, the twins, Frankie, Gigi — all of them. In a perfect line. Twerking.

And not just casual bouncing. No, they were throwing it back like strippers in heat — sweat flying, cheeks rippling, muscles flexing, bodies glistening.

Every motion sent shockwaves through the boys’ nerves. The rhythm of their asses was hypnotic, perfectly timed, each clap ringing out with obscene authority.

The look in their eyes?

Sin incarnate.

“Like what you see, boys?” Cleo purred, her hand pressed to the wall, the other raised like she was working a pole. She arched her back, cheeks rippling with every calculated bounce.

“I bet you all can’t wait to take a ride,” Draculaura giggled, spanking herself with a wet slap and sticking her tongue out with a wicked wink.

“I know you’re gonna have a good time~,” Purrsephone cooed, shaking her ass in perfect synch with Meowlody, both of them looking back with wide smirks like they knew exactly what they were doing.

“Oh, I know I’m having a good night,” Meowlody added, rolling her hips with a slow, sinful twist, eyes flicking over every boy like she was picking her prey.

“You boys ready to make some bad decisions?” Frankie chimed, ass twirling in tight circles, eyebrows dancing, her tone playful — but daring.

Each clap, each bounce, each lascivious moan that slipped from their lips dragged the boys deeper. Their minds slowed. Their cocks throbbed. Time folded in on itself.

This was the moment.

This was gooning.

That slack-jawed, cock-dazed, pupil-blown state of worship where thought vanished and only one truth remained: must cum.

“You want this,” Lagoona whispered, lips slick and biting, finger curling with a crook that screamed obey. “So why don’t you whip those dongers out and start gooning.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a command.

And they obeyed.

One by one, every boy’s hand dropped toward his waistband. Hesitant. Desperate. Shaking. Shorts being pushed aside. Palms brushing heat. Every inch closer to slipping under.

Jackson and Manny were still a bit hesitant, trying to hold on.

Iris leaned forward, one brow raised, her voice soft but dripping with tease.

"Aww, what’s the matter, boys? Need us to show you how to stroke, too?"

She winked, slow and deliberate.

"Don’t be shy… I see everything."

The 2 hesitated for a second, before slowly moving their hand down their pants, eyes squeezed shut.

“Good,” Gigi purred, letting her hair tumble loose as she bent lower, ass rolling in slow-motion. “Keep going, baby. Don’t stop.”

The smell of sweat. Pheromones. Lust. The air was thick with it. The ghouls were relentless now — twerking harder, slapping harder, moaning louder, owning the moment.

The boys? Glassy-eyed. Breathing heavy. Cocks twitching. Inches from giving in. From pumping. From losing themselves completely to the rhythm, the heat, the hypnotic nightmare of ecstasy.

And then—

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING.

The second period bell hit like a gunshot to the brain.

Every illusion shattered.

The fantasy evaporated.

The gym was just a gym again — sweat and mats, sneakers squeaking, the rustle of students packing up. No bouncing asses. No sultry voices. Just dazed boys blinking like they’d just woken up from the dirtiest dream ever recorded.

Silence. Wide eyes. Stiff pants.

Then—

“…What the fuck did we just witness?” Jackson rasped, voice hoarse.

Gil whimpered, hiding his face behind both hands. “That was so… so… h-hot… I… I think I saw God.”

“I don’t even know if that was real,” Deuce muttered, hunched over, rubbing his temples. “My dick’s still twitching, man. Like it’s mad I didn’t finish.”

Clawd stood up slowly, like a man returning from war.

He didn’t say anything.

He just walked.

Toward the cooler. Past everyone.

Past Draculaura.

She caught sight of his pale, dazed face as he passed, one eyebrow lifting in bemused concern. She didn’t say anything either.

But as she turned to leave the gym, a little blush began to spread across her face.

Why?

Cause she knew.

(North Stairwell – 9:00 AM)

He knew he shouldn’t be skipping class.

But right now, he didn’t care.

Neighthan shivered as he sat alone on the cold stairwell steps, his back pressed against the wall like it was the only thing holding him together. The hallway was quiet—too quiet. Just the faint hum of the building. No voices. No footsteps. No witnesses.

That should’ve been calming.

It wasn’t.

The zombie-unicorn clenched his fists in his lap, his breathing shallow, uneven. Since the gas attack last Friday, nothing felt real. Not fully. He tried to put on a brave face for his friends—he smiled, nodded, even cracked jokes—but they knew.

He knew.

He flinched at every sudden noise. Tensed whenever someone’s hand grazed his shoulder. He'd woken up screaming more than once since the attack—gasping, drenched in sweat, heart thudding in his ears like war drums.

His parents wanted him pulled from the school. Withdrawn immediately.

But Headmistress Bloodgood had made it clear: That’s not going to happen.

So instead, they sent him a long, careful letter. The kind of letter you write when you're trying not to panic. They told him they loved him. That they were proud of his bravery.

Brave? What a joke.

He wasn’t being brave.

He was hanging on by threads.

The images wouldn’t stop replaying.

Sirena’s body hitting the floor, limp.

The screaming.

The ghouls dropping one by one like glass dolls in an earthquake.

The panic—the real kind—when they realized the doors wouldn’t open.

And then—

Black.

According to Avea, she and Bonita had carried him out. Said he was out for hours. Said he was barely breathing when they found him.

And ever since he woke up, something had been wrong.

Not physically. Mentally.

Something was there. Nestled in the back of his head. Like a shadow with teeth. It didn’t speak, not exactly. It just… watched. Waiting. Like it was testing his defenses, slowly wearing them down.

He couldn’t tell anyone. They’d think he was cracking. Maybe he was.

“Come on, man,” he whispered, hugging his arms tight around himself. “Get a grip. You’ve fought worse. You’re a Monster. Act like it.”

But the words shook as they came out. Weak. Hollow. His voice sounded too small in the hallway, like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

He took a breath, held it.

Let it out.

Still trembling.

His thoughts were drifting again. Slipping out of reach like smoke. Like someone was rewriting him, slowly, from the inside out.

'They’re not safe with you like this.'

'You’re not safe with you like this.'

Then—

“Neighthan?”

His head turned slowly, eyes wide and glassy.

Isi stood above him, her soft features carved with concern. She moved with the grace of a wind spirit, every step down the stairs fluid and quiet, like she didn’t want to scare him further. Her dark eyes never left his.

He tried to smile. Failed.

“I—uh. I just needed some space,” Neighthan mumbled, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she said softly.

She didn’t sit right away. She lowered herself gently in front of him, crouching like she was greeting a frightened fawn.

“I could feel it,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand. “From across the hall. Something pulling on your spirit.”

Neighthan swallowed. His throat was dry.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Isi slowly sat beside him, legs folded, shoulder brushing his. Then, carefully, she pulled him into her lap, guiding his head down the way she had once before—back when his body was limp and lifeless.

He didn’t resist.

She began to hum. A soft, rhythmic melody—low and ancient, like wind through hollow bones and rain on stretched hide. Her fingers threaded gently through his hair, her other hand resting over his heart.

“I was so scared,” she whispered, rocking him gently. “You didn’t move. I kept calling your name, over and over…”

Neighthan’s breath hitched. “I heard you.”

She blinked. “You did?”

“Not... clearly,” he murmured. “Just faint. Like a dream I didn’t want to wake up from.”

Isi smiled, but it trembled. “I never stopped whispering.”

They stayed like that in silence. The only sound was her soft humming and his slowing breath.

Eventually, he spoke again. “I think something’s... inside me. Not like a possession. Just… watching. Waiting.”

Isi didn’t flinch.

Instead, she pressed her forehead to his. “Then it picked the wrong monster.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“I love you, y’know,” Neighthan said, voice barely audible.

Isi giggled, the sound light but full of emotion. “I know. You keep saying it when you’re half-conscious.”

“Guilty.”

She leaned in, brushing her nose against his.

They both tilted their heads for a kiss—

—and thunk.

“Ow,” Isi laughed, pulling back, rubbing the base of her antlers.

Neighthan winced. “Sorry! Sorry. I thought I angled left—”

“You did, I angled right. Too much pride, not enough planning.”

They both laughed, the kind that eased tension in the chest. Relief disguised as silliness.

“Okay, take two,” Isi whispered.

They leaned in again, carefully adjusting their horns, cheeks tilted just so.

And this time, when their lips met—

Everything went black.

(??? Dream)

The moonlit forest glowed with quiet magic.

Luminescent flowers pulsed with gentle light, their petals whispering against one another like wind chimes. Soft animal calls echoed in the distance—unfamiliar, yet comforting. Even the air buzzed faintly, charged with an energy that felt more alive than natural.

The forest floor was shallowly flooded, the water brushing just above the ankles. Each bare step sent ripples outward, the surface glowing faintly where it broke.

The couple moved slowly, barefoot, bodies close. Every movement was mirrored in the earth beneath them. The trees swayed. The water rippled. The entire forest breathed with them.

“Um… Isi?” Neighthan’s voice trembled, respectful but uncertain. “Where are you taking me?”

The deer spirit turned to him, her eyes full of warmth, her voice lilting like a wind-blown leaf. “This is something my grandmother taught me when I was little. It’s what my people do when someone becomes one of us.”

She smiled, soft and sacred. “We don’t have a word for it. But I suppose you’d call it… dancing.”

Neighthan’s breath hitched. The moonlight cast her in silver, reflecting off her skin, highlighting the graceful curves of her body, her movement like poetry written in flesh.

“I… I don’t know how to dance,” he admitted, embarrassed.

Isi laughed gently, her voice bubbling with affection. “Don’t worry. Just follow me.”

He nodded, blushing, swallowing the lump in his throat.

They reached the center of the woods—a shallow moonlit pond, still and pristine. The water barely reached their knees, but it slowed movement, grounding them in stillness.

Perfect for a slow dance.

Isi stepped into the pond first, then turned and held out her arms. Neighthan followed, and she guided his hands to her waist, wrapping her own arms around his neck.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered. “Just follow me.”

He obeyed.

Her body swayed slowly, rhythm dictated not by music but by the wind. The trees bent with her. The water curled around their feet. The flowers began to shift and spin like they, too, were part of the ritual.

Every breath, every movement, became a shared language. When he stumbled, she caught him. When he tensed, she loosened his grip. When he hesitated, she held him steady.

And all the while, her smile never faded.

She could feel his heartbeat flutter like a frightened bird beneath his chest.

She took his trembling hands and gently placed them over her heart.

“Feel it?” she whispered. “That rhythm? That’s the earth in you. That’s the part that belongs.”

Neighthan’s breath hitched. He was blushing again.

She pressed closer to him, her chest against his, body warm and firm. The space between them vanished.

It felt… right. Whole. Quiet.

And then—

The wind stopped. The flowers froze. The forest dimmed.

The trees no longer swayed.

The moon above—once pale and silver—began to glow red.

Like blood in water.

Like a warning.

The warmth between them began to cool.

And something unseen stirred beneath the pond.

Neither of them noticed the music shift — from soft, lilting tones to something darker. Deeper. A beat that pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath the surface of the night.

They couldn’t hear it anymore.

All they could hear was each other — the breath between them, the soft splash of water lapping around their bodies, the thundering need pounding in their chests as their eyes locked.

Neighthan’s breath hitched. Just moments ago, he’d been awkward — stumbling through the pond, laughing nervously, splashing with clumsy charm. But now? That anxiety had melted, burned away by something primal. Something hot.

It hit him like fire under the skin.

Lust. Hunger. A desperate, raw need.

He didn’t just want her — he craved her.

And from the heat in her stare, the way her lips parted just slightly, she saw it too.

“Well,” Isi whispered, a wicked little smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “What are you waiting for?”

She didn’t give him a chance to answer.

She just grabbed him and kissed him — deep, hungry, devouring. It was lightning behind his ribs, thunder between his legs. His arms wrapped around her instinctively, pulling her closer until there was no space left.

She moaned into his mouth, a sound so soft and needy it sent a shiver down his spine.

“More~”

Her fingers curled into his back, nails dragging lines that made his breath hitch.

Without a word, Neighthan lifted her — strong but careful — letting her legs wrap tightly around his hips. Their wet skin met with a sizzle, water cascading off them in ripples as the kiss deepened.

Steam began to rise from the pond, swirling around them like mist from a dream.

Hands fumbled.

Clothes tugged, peeled away, torn loose, discarded into the water like offerings. His shirt clung before being tossed. Her top slid down her arms, vanishing below the surface. A trail of fabric bobbed around them — silent witnesses to everything falling away but want.

Now naked, they clung to each other like lifelines. Mouths locked. Hands roaming. Tongues tangling in a rhythm that pulsed like the music — deep and carnal.

Isi gasped against his lips, voice breaking, “I want you, Neighthan. No... I need you.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

His eyes burned with the same desire, the same surrender.

And then they crashed together again — lips, hips, hearts — lost in each other.

Fingers gripped. Breaths hitched. Bodies aligned.

And as they sank beneath the surface of the steaming pond, silhouettes tangled together, the world around them slipped into shadow — fading away into black as if even the night knew it wasn’t meant to see the rest.

“¡Oye, despierten!”

The shout jolted them both awake.

Neighthan blinked, disoriented. Isi stirred on top of him.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then realization hit—and both went beet red, scrambling apart in flustered silence. Neighthan sat upright, brushing leaves and dust from his shirt. Isi fixed her braids and tried to act like they hadn’t just been tangled together on the floor like lovers caught in a spell.

“What were you two even doing?” came the familiar, half-accusing voice.

Standing nearby were two of Isi’s friends: Kjersti Trøllson and Batsy Claro.

Kjersti looked relatively normal—just confused. Batsy, on the other hand, was sporting a bandage around her head and a cast wrapped tightly around one of her wings.

Falling from the ceiling during Friday’s chaos hadn’t been kind to her. She’d landed on a row of chairs, and unlike other vampire types, her kind didn’t heal fast. Even now, she stood with a limp in her posture, her eyes sharp but tired.

Isi sat up quickly, brushing dust off her skirt. “It’s not what it looked like. I was just… comforting him. That’s all.”

Batsy tilted her head, raising a brow. “¿De veras? 'Cause where I’m from, comforting don’t usually involve laying on top of your man like a hammock in the jungle.”

Neighthan cleared his throat and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t even know how it happened. We were talking—about Friday, y’know—and then…”

Isi quickly stepped in, her voice just a touch too fast. “And then we were attacked again. I didn’t want to leave his side. So I stayed with him. And then…”

She turned to Neighthan, her smile a little too calm.

“And then we ended up like this.”

Batsy gave her a long look. She glanced at Kjersti. Then back.

“Hmm,” she said, tapping a clawed finger against her cheek. “That’s one very romantic-sounding ‘attack,’ amiga.”

Isi’s smile froze for half a beat. “That’s exactly what happened.”

Kjersti arched a brow behind her pixel-pink glasses. “Right. Well... whatever. We should head back before a teacher comes looking.”

“Sí, let’s go,” Batsy muttered, turning with a flick of her uninjured wing. “This hallway got a whole lot weirder since I walked in.”

As the two girls walked off, Isi and Neighthan were left sitting in awkward silence.

They slowly turned to each other.

Still flushed. Still unsure what just happened—or why it felt so intimate. Like something had wrapped around them in the dark, whispered something neither fully remembered, then vanished before morning could reach them.

Isi raised her fingers to her lips and made a zipping motion.

Neighthan blinked. “...You want me to shut up about it?”

She nodded.

He gave a shaky smile. “Fair.”

They got to their feet and hurried to catch up with the others, walking a little too fast, like if they moved quickly enough, the weight of what just happened wouldn’t follow them.

But it did.

In the silence between footsteps.

In the way their hands almost brushed—but didn’t.

In the way neither of them dared to look back at where they’d just been.

(Rooftop – 10:14 AM)

Heath sat at the edge of the rooftop, arms resting loosely on his knees, eyes drifting toward the sky.

It had been a while since he let himself breathe.

The courtyard below buzzed with muted voices and footsteps, but up here? It was still. The kind of stillness that let your thoughts wander whether you wanted them to or not.

He stared at the clouds, watching them shift and curl like smoke on water. If he squinted, he could almost make out faces in the shapes—ghostly profiles that dissolved as quickly as they came.

And that color. That pale blue sky.

It reminded him of her.

The moment cracked when the door creaked open behind him.

“Heath?” Clawdeen’s voice called out. “You seen my sketchbook? I might’ve left it up here.”

He didn’t turn. Just exhaled. “No. Haven’t seen it.”

Clawdeen stepped onto the roof, the wind brushing her curls off her face. She stopped a few feet behind him, brow furrowed.

“You okay?” she asked. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

Heath let out a longer breath, one that came from deep in his chest. “It’s nothing,” he muttered. “Just… me and Abbey stuff.”

That got her attention.

Clawdeen’s eyes narrowed. She’d noticed Abbey being off all week—quiet, colder than usual. She’d assumed it was something to do with the gas attack.

But now…

“Heath,” she said, cautious, “did you do something?”

He whipped around.

Flames erupted from his eyes, his hair flaring with heat.

“For fuck’s sake, Clawdeen!” he snapped.

She flinched, stunned into silence.

“Can you not assume that every time something’s wrong in our relationship, it’s automatically my fault?!”

Clawdeen held up her hands. “Whoa—okay, okay. That’s not what I meant—”

“You always do this,” Heath said, voice rising. “Every time something’s off with me and Abbey, it’s like—‘what did Heath mess up this time?’ Ya'll don’t even ask.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“And you do the same thing with Toralei!” he added, pacing now. “Someone says something shady and we’re all ready to burn her at the stake, and you defend her without blinking. But with me? One weird mood and it’s the third degree!”

Clawdeen frowned but stepped back. “Alright! I get it! I was wrong, okay? Chill.”

Heath sighed. His flames dimmed.

He turned away from her, gripping the edge of the railing.

There was a beat of quiet before she asked, more gently, “So… what did happen?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, in a softer voice, almost ashamed: “I think she’s hiding something from me.”

Heath didn’t move from the railing.

“I mean, it’s not like we’ve ever kept things from each other,” he said, voice low. “That’s never been us. We always talk things out. If she’s mad, she says it. If I screw up, I admit it. That’s just… how we work.”

Clawdeen stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“But since Monday,” he continued, “she’s been weird. Distant. Avoiding me in the halls. Leaving class early. She’ll talk, sure—but only in short answers. Like she’s rushing to get away.”

Clawdeen’s brows pulled together, slowly.

“And there’s the other stuff,” Heath added, running a hand through his hair. “She’s always hiding behind something. A desk, a coat rack, a damn vending machine. Like… like she doesn’t want me to see her lower body.”

Clawdeen’s eyes widened a bit at that.

“She’s stiff, too. Walking like she’s sore or something. And when I ask her what’s up, she just gives me that same line every time—‘I’m fine.’ Always ‘I’m fine.’ No matter what I say.”

He paused, jaw clenched. “I don’t know if it’s something I did, or if it’s something she doesn’t want me to know.”

Clawdeen looked away, letting the breeze brush her hair across her cheek.

She hated to admit it—but he wasn’t wrong.

“You’re not imagining it,” she finally said, arms folding across her chest. “Me and the ghouls… we’ve noticed stuff too.”

Heath turned to her, surprised.

Clawdeen nodded. “We thought it was the attack. Y’know, trauma response, stress. But she’s been—off. Ever since the weekend.”

Heath’s eyes narrowed. “You think she’s hurt?”

“I don’t know, but…” Clawdeen hesitated, choosing her words. “Every time we’ve been together—study sessions, sleepovers, Ghoul Squad calls—she’s always doing something weird. Sitting with pillows in her lap, pulling her hoodie down extra low, or standing behind something when she doesn’t need to.”

There was a beat of silence.

“She’s covering something up,” Heath said, almost in a whisper.

Clawdeen didn’t argue.

“But look,” she said, gently now, stepping closer. “Abbey’s always been the strongest out of all of us. I mean, second to me, maybe,” she added with a flick of a smirk, “but you know how she is. Proud. Guarded.”

“I know,” Heath muttered. “But why keep secrets now?”

Clawdeen placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s going on with her. None of us do. But if she’s not ready to talk about it yet, maybe you need to give her that space. Pushing might just make her lock up tighter.”

He looked down at the ground far below.

“I want to let it go,” he said. “I do. But I can’t shake this feeling. Like something’s… wrong. Really wrong.”

Clawdeen gave his shoulder a squeeze, her voice quiet but firm. “Then trust her. Even if you don’t understand it yet.”

Heath didn’t say anything.

He just stared out over the edge of the building again, the wind tugging at his shirt, the sky still that soft, Abbey-blue.

And something cold creeping at the back of his mind.

(In a Bathroom - 10:17 AM)

Abbey was losing it.

One hand braced hard against the tiled wall, the other clenched into a trembling fist at her side.

Frost crept in delicate cracks across the porcelain seat behind her — her powers reacting to every pulse of pressure flooding through her body. Her breath came in ragged bursts, fogging the mirror in front of her.

Her cock — thick, heavy, aching — was harder than it had ever been. Veins throbbed down its length, her shaft slick with sweat, twitching with raw need.

She growled under her breath, the sound guttural, frustrated, primal.

“Hold. It. Together,” she muttered, her Russian accent curling each word like ice.

But the heat in her mind made it impossible.

Because she could see it — too clear, too vivid.

Heath. Naked. Flushed. On his knees.

Those big red eyes filled with tears as he looked up at her, lips stretched around her cock, drool running down his chin. His cheeks puffed from the fullness of her, his hands trembling as he gripped her thighs for support.

“Fuck…” Abbey hissed, her knees nearly buckling as another shiver raced up her spine.

She slammed a fist into the wall, tiny shards of frost scattering from her knuckles. No. No no no.

Heath was her boyfriend. He made her tea when she was sick. He brought her stupid jokes and even dumber flowers. He kissed her forehead and listened when she ranted.

What the hell was she doing imagining him like that?

But…

What if…

Her eyes squeezed shut. “NO!”

But the voice in her head — the one that sounded far too much like her own — wasn't done.

'You know you want to,' it whispered, coiling around her brain like steam in the air. 'You want to see him gag on it. You want to feel his lips trembling as you push deeper. You want him to take it, Abbey. All of it.'

She clenched her jaw, the cold around her intensifying, mist rising from her shoulders as her control threatened to snap.

“I— I shouldn’t…”

'But you will,' the voice teased, sing-song and slow. 'You’ll lose control eventually. And when you do… oh, he’ll love every second of it.'

Her fingers flexed.

Her cock throbbed, betraying every ounce of resistance left.

She didn’t want to believe it. She didn’t want to be that kind of monster — the kind who forced her hunger onto someone she loved.

But deep down… buried under layers of snow and pride and restraint…

She knew.

She wanted him.

And if she didn’t cool down fast, she was going to do something very bad.

(Boiler Hall – 11:03 AM)

It was quiet down here. The kind of quiet Frankie needed.

She leaned against one of the old boiler pipes near the wall, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her sleeves. The steam hissed somewhere in the distance, a rhythmic noise that kept her grounded while her mind swirled.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she muttered.

“You say that every time we end up in a closet, hallway, or abandoned wing,” Holt drawled from a few feet away, arms folded across his chest, head tilted in his usual cocky way. “But here you are.”

Frankie glanced up at him. “No, I mean—here, like this. With you. With anyone. After what happened yesterday…”

She trailed off.

Holt’s grin faded, and he stepped closer. “Drac and Gory?”

She nodded slowly, eyes flicking down. “I froze. Like, actually froze. Laura was getting into it with Gory again and… I just stood there. Like I wasn’t even there. Gory told me to shut up, and I—did. Without thinking. I didn’t even blink.”

He moved in front of her now, his expression more serious than usual.

“That’s not you,” she whispered. “I’m always the one who jumps in. Who says something. But it’s like… something’s messing with my head. I feel foggy all the time, and when I try to speak up, it’s like the words get jammed in my throat.”

Holt studied her face for a long beat. Then, slowly, his voice dropped lower—serious, but still him.

“Look. I don’t know what kind of haunted fog or emotional voodoo you’re caught up in, but lemme tell you this like a rapper at his first Grammy speech.”

Frankie blinked. “Huh?”

“I’m being real, Frank.” His tone was raw now, all performance stripped away. “You’re allowed to break sometimes. We all are. This school’s been through hell, and people are still actin’ like we’re just gonna bounce back like cartoon physics. You’re not broken. You’re just—human. Or, y’know. Close enough.”

She gave him a small smile. “Thanks.”

“And Draculaura?” he added with a shrug. “She’ll come around. Ghouls always do. She’s mad, not heartless.”

Frankie let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Besides,” he said, stepping even closer now, “even if something was wrong with you—like, brain static, dark aura, pink-eyed freakout vibes—you got me.”

He flashed a grin. “And Jackson. Two-for-one support plan. Can’t beat it.”

Frankie giggled, but it came out shaky. She looked up, and he was already watching her—eyes locked, smirk fading into something quieter.

The air shifted.

And then, without asking, without warning—

He kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative.

He moved in and claimed her mouth like he was reclaiming something that had slipped away. One hand cupped her face, the other slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The heat of him pressed her back into the wall, her shoulders hitting the cool tile with a soft thump.

Frankie gasped against him—but didn’t resist.

She melted. Completely.

Her knees wobbled, her hands slid up his chest like they needed something to hold on to. His lips were hot, confident, relentless—and all she could do was feel it.

When they finally pulled apart—finally—they were both breathless.

Frankie’s face was red as a warning light, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling like she’d just run laps.

Holt gave her a lazy, satisfied grin, his hand still resting on her hip.

“Still think you shouldn’t be here?” he asked.

Frankie swallowed, dazed.

“…Shut up.”

(Ghoulia’s Laboratory – 11:30 AM)

She hadn’t stepped foot in here for nearly a month.

As Ghoulia pushed the door open, the lights flickered on with a low electric hum. The familiar scent of solder, static, and aging textbooks drifted up to meet her—welcoming her and quietly reminding her what she’d been avoiding.

The lab looked exactly as she left it: blueprints pinned to the walls in perfect symmetry, projects half-built and paused mid-function, her tools lined up with surgical precision. Dust clung to every surface like the room had been holding its breath, waiting for her return.

She stood still for a long moment.

This place had once been an extension of her mind—brilliant, buzzing, full of motion.

Now it felt like a ghost of her former self.

She brushed a finger across a half-assembled drone, then slowly sank onto her stool.

And then—

A low, dragging knock at the door.

She turned just as it creaked open, revealing a tall, familiar figure slouched in the doorway.

Slo-Mo.

His eyes lit up slowly when he saw her—warmth blooming across his face like sunlight pushing through clouds.

“Ghhhoulia…” he murmured, voice gravel-thick and slow. “Me… happy… you back.”

Her chest clenched at the sound of his voice.

“Hey, slowpoke,” she whispered.

She crossed the lab in three steps and wrapped her arms tightly around him.

He held her with more strength than she expected—his massive arms curling around her like she was something precious and breakable. One hand gently cupped the back of her head, his fingers curling into her curls like he was scared she’d disappear again.

“You… gone long,” he rumbled into her shoulder.

“I know,” she said, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to be. I just… couldn’t come back. Not right away.”

They swayed gently, the hum of machines and the quiet throb of their heartbeats the only sound.

Finally, he pulled back, just enough to see her face.

“You… okay now?” he asked, each word deliberate.

“I think so,” she said. “Or I’m… trying.”

They moved to the workbench and sat down—him slouched, arms hanging loosely, her knees tucked beneath her, eyes on the table.

“I thought I had it under control,” Ghoulia whispered. “But when the gas hit, it was like my brain short-circuited. I couldn’t breathe. I blacked out outside the east wing. Abbey said I was out for five hours.”

Slo-Mo nodded slowly. “Me… same. Wake up... in nurse room. Head… like bricks. Body… heavy. Cold.”

She closed her eyes, guilt rising in her chest. “I should’ve been with you. I should’ve stayed.”

He shook his head. “No. Me… too far. Me… should stay close. Not your fault.”

Her eyes welled. “But I left. I bailed on everything. On you. I wasn’t thinking about how it’d affect anyone—”

“Stop,” he murmured, putting his large hand gently over hers. “You… need time. You… hurt. Me get it. You come back… when ready. That okay.”

Her throat tightened.

She didn’t realize how badly she needed those words.

“Thank you,” she whispered, leaning into him again.

His fingers brushed over hers—clumsy, warm.

“Me here,” he said, voice low. “You here. Still… together.”

She squeezed his hand. “I missed you.”

His lips twitched into a crooked, shy smile. “Me… miss you more.”

They sat in silence, heads leaning together. Not talking. Just… being.

Eventually, her voice broke the stillness.

“I passed out so fast, I didn’t even see what happened to anyone else. When I woke up, all I could think was—what if you didn’t make it?”

Slo-Mo looked down. “Me… think same. Think… maybe me gone. No one miss.”

Ghoulia blinked, stunned. “Slo-Mo, everyone’s been asking about you.”

He tilted his head, confused. “They… ask?”

“Of course,” she said gently. “Deuce, Abbey, Lagoona, Howleen—even Holt. They all wanted to know how you were doing.”

He looked away, like he wasn’t sure how to handle that.

“Me not good… with talking,” he said slowly. “Words… hard. Feelings… harder.”

She gave him a look, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “You’ve said more in the last ten minutes than most people say all week.”

“Only… with you,” he mumbled. “You make words… easier.”

Her heart fluttered. She didn’t even try to hide it.

“You always make me feel safe,” she said. “Even when nothing else does.”

They leaned into each other again, warmth lingering in the space between them.

After a long pause, Slo-Mo exhaled deeply.

“So… we stay sad… forever?” he asked.

Ghoulia chuckled softly.

“No,” she said, reaching for her notepad. “Let’s talk about good things now.”

They sat together for most of the period, trading quiet updates—how their friends were coping, the strange new rules around campus, and, to Ghoulia’s amusement, Slo-Mo’s new favorite show about a yeti trying to make it big in the Scarewood film scene.

For the first time since the attack…

Ghoulia felt something close to relief.

The tight knot in her chest had loosened, just enough to let her breathe again. For a little while, the fear and static in her brain dulled into background noise.

Which was saying a lot—especially after the kind of thoughts she’d been having lately.

Thoughts involving her and Slo-Mo… in situations that were definitely not school-appropriate.

She blinked those away, cheeks faintly flushing, and leaned her head lightly against his shoulder.

For now, this moment was enough.

(Mrs. Flapper's classroom – 10:52 AM)

The drone of Mrs. Flapper’s voice filled the classroom, slow and grave, like stone being dragged across marble.

“…and the migration of the gargoyle clans into pre-Medieval Europe created a ripple effect across—”

Spectra barely heard her.

She was hunched over her desk near the back, scribbling furiously into her notebook—not class notes, but her own side project. A running list of student anomalies since the gas attack. Collapses. Behavioral shifts. The dreams.

She had already filled half a page before she noticed the handwriting start to wobble.

Her wrist felt… heavy.

She blinked hard.

Then again.

The words on the page swam a little, like the ink was trying to bleed off the lines.

Her pencil slowed.

"No, no, not now," she thought, adjusting in her seat. She rolled her shoulder and gave herself a little shake.

It didn’t help.

Her eyelids were lead. Her breathing slowed.

She pressed the pencil harder into the page, trying to ground herself with pressure, with sensation—but even that slipped away.

The sounds of the room faded, as if someone had turned down the volume on the world.

She gasped softly. "Oh no. It’s happening. It’s—"

She dropped the pencil.

It clattered against the floor like the first domino in a chain reaction.

Her eyes fluttered once…

Then closed.

Her head slumped forward, her body limp in the chair.

And just like the others—Spectra Vondergeist began to dream.

(Spectra’s Dream)

It started in the dark.

A narrow alley stretched like a wound between decaying brick and flickering streetlight — quiet, empty, forgotten. Just the hum of the city far off, and the stillness of something waiting.

Floating midair, barely inches above cracked asphalt, were Spectra and Porter. Naked. Intertwined. Dripping with ghostlight and want.

Their bodies shimmered like oil in moonlight, barely tethered to gravity — just smoke and heat and raw, tangled lust.

Their mouths crashed together again and again, cold, feverish and sloppy — the kind of kissing that made time stutter.

Moans got lost between parted lips, their sounds soft and ghost-thin, echoing faintly like trapped whispers behind a locked door. They clutched at each other like they were still falling. Still drowning.

And Porter needed her. She could feel it. His body buzzed against hers, a crackling hum of energy begging for more.

But Spectra pulled back, lips swollen, eyes glowing with wicked light.

“Not like this,” she whispered, voice airy and sharp, a tease wrapped in fog.

Porter blinked. His breath hitched. Obedient. Desperate.

“Like what?” he asked, dazed.

She turned her head, nodding toward the alley’s mouth.

There, leaning against the wall, stood a boy. Mortal. Human. Headphones in, music drowning his world, eyes shut — completely unaware of the phantoms above him, dripping hunger.

Porter’s grin spread slowly.

“Oh,” he muttered, realization snapping into place. “You wanna get kinky.”

Spectra’s eyes glittered.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

And then — they dived.

Two streaks of green and violet light, they plunged downward, vapor-thin, slipping through the boy like steam through cracks.

His whole body seized.

The music cut off.

His phone clattered to the ground.

And then… silence.

Except for the quickening of his breath. The twitch of his fingers. The chill up his spine. The slow rise of something deep, foreign inside him.

Because he wasn’t alone anymore.

Inside his chest, Spectra and Porter wrapped around each other again — ghosts fusing, twisting, moaning inside a body not their own. Limbs melding.

Movements becoming one, fucking in the marrow of someone else’s spine.

“Harder, Porter!”

The words echoed from the inside of his skull like thunder trapped in glass.

“Yes, Spectra, yes!”

Beneath his tongue, from his tongue, from somewhere he couldn’t reach.

His hips jerked. His throat let out a low, involuntary moan. His hands gripped his thighs, shaking, trying to ground himself as waves of phantom pleasure rolled through him like seizures laced with ecstasy.

He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t touching.

They were.

And he felt everything.

Every grind. Every gasp. Every desperate collision of ghost against ghost inside his skin.

He was the shell. The puppet. The playground.

They were the storm.

And they had no intention of stopping.

They used him like a hotel room. Like a living fleshlight with a pulse.

Spectra and Porter collided inside his body, echoing through his bones, slamming into each other with zero regard for the human shell they were crammed into. Each thrust reverberated through his spine, each moan made his vision blur.

He staggered. Twitched. Shuddered.

They were fucking in his soul.

“SPECTRA!” Porter howled from somewhere deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through the man's ribcage like an explosion about to blow.

“I’M— I THINK I’M GONNA—!”

“DO IT!” she shrieked, gleeful and feral. “CUM INSIDE THIS GHOSTLY PUSSY!”

The mans eyes snapped wide.

“Wait—NOOOOOO—”

Then it hit.

Porter let go, unleashing a supernatural climax that scorched through their shared vessel. Electricity. Fire. Frost. Everything at once. The man’s legs folded. His knees gave out. And he came — hard. Fast. Loud.

His scream tore into the night air, ragged and half-possessed. Cum flooded his pants as he collapsed onto the alley concrete, twitching, gasping, twitching again.

A moan spilled from his lips that didn’t even sound human.

And then… silence.

A soft hum. A crackle of static.

The weight lifted.

Spectra and Porter slipped free, rising from his heaving chest like breath made visible — glowing, tangled in each other’s arms, still kissing lazily as if they hadn’t just hijacked a man’s body and used it like a fuck dungeon.

The guy lay below, eyes glazed, mouth parted, twitching.

He looked ruined. Like he’d seen God, fucked Them, and didn’t survive the afterglow.

“I think we broke him,” Porter muttered, floating above, one eyebrow raised in mock guilt.

“Good,” Spectra purred, licking a shimmering wisp of ectoplasm off his cheek. “He should feel honored.”

Porter chuckled. “God, I love you.”

They didn’t look back. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t wait.

They drifted into the shadows together — two spirits still burning for more.

Another alley. Another vessel. Another body to bend and burn and break.

Another round.

"Spectra…"

"SPECTRA!"

"MRS. VONDERGEIST! PLEASE WAKE UP!!"

Spectra jolted upright with a sharp gasp, eyes wide, chest heaving. A dozen faces stared back at her, all frozen in a mix of worry and bewilderment. Operetta stood closest, her hand just inches from Spectra’s shoulder, hesitant to touch her.

The room had stopped cold. Every desk, every whisper, every pencil scratch had gone still.

Mrs. Flapper was next to her now, towering over her desk with one hand thoughtfully threading through her own shimmering lavender curls, the other gently braced on the desk’s edge. Her eyes, previously glowing with pulsing violet light, dimmed and faded the moment Spectra’s eyes met hers.

"Are you alright, Spectra?" she asked, voice warm but laced with caution.

Spectra blinked hard. Everything felt heavy, like she was waking from underwater. She gave a faint nod, her voice hushed. "Y-yeah. I think so."

She looked around—the entire class had inched toward her in their seats, as if drawn by static, expressions taut and hungry for explanation.

"What… happened?"

Mrs. Flapper's lips pressed into a line. “You collapsed, dear. Slumped right over your desk.”

Spectra’s breath caught in her throat. "Oh no..."

Her mind reeled. What had she said? Did she scream? Cry out? Whisper his name?

How much did they hear?

They couldn't know. They mustn’t.

"You were speaking in your sleep," Mrs. Flapper said delicately. "It seemed... vivid."

Spectra stiffened. "I—I don’t remember."

A snort from the back. Then a voice, brassy and unfiltered: “Did you have a sex dream too?”

Spectra turned crimson.

Gasps. Giggles. Someone let out a dramatic "Oooooh!"

Mrs. Flapper snapped around, scandalized. “Young man! That was highly inappropriate!”

But it was too late. The crack had split the dam.

Another student raised a trembling hand, cheeks glowing beet-red. “It happened to me too,” she said. “I was in my room… then suddenly I was in this hot tub… and there were these three guys—”

"Alright!" Mrs. Flapper clapped sharply. “That’s enough! The bell is about to—”

"I was getting railed by some dude with tentacles!" a boy across the aisle blurted, completely unbothered.

"Mine was a hut," someone added. "Some witch with the fattest ass I’ve ever seen."

"I was chained up in a dungeon," another girl moaned dreamily. “So fucking hot…”

"ENOUGH!!"

The lights flickered as Sylphia’s voice rang out like thunder. Her dragon eyes blazed violet again, casting arcs of light across the room.

Students jerked back into their chairs like puppets yanked by invisible strings.

"Sit. Down. NOW."

The silence that followed was instant and absolute.

Sylphia adjusted her fitted jacket with a curt "Hmph," flicked her long tail in irritation, then turned back toward the chalkboard without missing a beat.

As the class sat trembling in awkward silence, Operetta leaned in toward Spectra, voice low, lips barely moving.

“You sure you’re alright, sugarplum?”

Spectra waved her off, eyes back on her desk. “I’m fine. Really.”

Operetta lingered a second longer before pulling back.

Spectra picked up her pen, resumed writing like nothing had happened.

But her hand trembled with excitement.

A small smirk curled at the corners of her lips. Her eyes shimmered faintly pink beneath her bangs.

The dream had been too real.

Too warm. Too wet. Too full of that voice.

Porter.

The way she invited him—no, yanked him—into that poor guy’s body, laughing as they tumbled into his skin like it was a five-star suite with legs, made Spectra’s insides churn in the best way.

Porter had wrapped his spectral fingers through her ectoplasmic wrists and pulled, and they both dived—headlong—into that unsuspecting meat suit like thieves into velvet.

No knock. No courtesy. Just in.

She remembered the shock of warmth. The sudden rush of breath that wasn’t hers. The pulse thudding against borrowed bones.

And then him. Inside. Not just the body—they shared that. But him, inside her, curling up in all the hollow spaces she never let anyone touch.

The way he moved her hips with his. The way he grinned with her mouth. The way his laughter rattled in her throat as they fucked, hard, using that guy like a plush, twitching hotel room with a cock.

She’d never felt so alive.

No shame. No rules. Just flesh and fog and filthy pleasure.

He saw her. Not just the ghost girl. Not the gossip. Not the drifting thing people pretended not to stare through. He saw her.

The dark little freak hiding under the schoolgirl smirk.

And he didn’t flinch. He joined her.

Spectra had enjoyed every delicious second of it.

And she couldn’t wait to do it again.

(The Greenhouse – 12:00 PM)

It was lunchtime, and as always, Venus was tucked away in the greenhouse—her sanctuary.

She knelt near the rows of soil beds, gently watering the petunias she’d nearly scorched on Monday during… whatever that dream had been.

The plants still seemed a little shaken. Honestly, so was she.

Then—BANG.

The greenhouse doors burst open.

Venus jerked around, startled.

Robeeca steamrolled in, arms flailing with pure joy, practically skidding on the tile.

“BABE!” she shouted, nearly tripping over her own excitement. “VENUS! I DID IT! I DID IT!”

Venus blinked, watering can still tilted in midair. “Robeeca? What’s—?”

“I GOT IN!” the steampunk ghoul screamed, bouncing in place like a pressure valve about to blow. “Gearhold Institute of Monster Mechanics! They just called! I GOT ACCEPTED!”

Venus’s jaw dropped. “No way—wait, Gearhold? The school your dad went to?”

Robeeca nodded so hard her goggles nearly slipped off. “YES! I’ve been waiting to hear back for months! This is it, V! This is the dream!”

Venus stood, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt. “Gears, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!”

“I know! Isn’t it insane?! I could scream—I will scream!” Robeeca twirled, steam puffing from her joints as she jumped, spun, and jogged laps around the greenhouse like an overclocked jackrabbit.

Venus couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, okay! Just—maybe don’t knock anything—”

But Robeeca was too far gone in the high. “Ever since Dad vanished, this has been it, Venus. The goal. I’m gonna be a better builder than he ever was—I’m gonna find out what happened to him, too!”

Venus’s eyes darted to the shelves, where flowerpots began to wobble—her babies, all her delicate, regrowing plants.

“Gears, babe, I love your energy,” she said, trying to sound calm, “but if you could maybe—”

CRASH.

The room fell silent.

Robeeca froze mid-step. Venus turned her head slowly toward the noise.

On the floor near the back wall, a pot lay shattered. Dirt splayed across the tiles. A long, toothy, carnivorous vine slithered weakly, half-crushed under its own stem.

Venus’s expression darkened.

Robeeca winced. “...Oops.”

Robeeca barely had time to blink before Venus spoke.

“Robeeca Steam.”

The name came out low—measured, but with enough weight to flatten the room.

Robeeca turned slowly, heart clanking like a loose gear. Venus stood stiff, eyes locked onto her, jaw tight, voice like pressure behind glass.

The plants were reacting too—leaves curled, vines creaked, thorns slid out from petals. Even the air seemed to thicken with tension.

“Sit. Down.”

Robeeca opened her mouth. “Ve—”

“Now.”

The word cracked like a whip.

No hesitation. Robeeca dropped where she stood, folding her legs beneath her like a scolded schoolgirl. Her bolts clicked nervously.

Venus didn’t shout. She didn’t pace. She simply stared.

“Stay. Here.”

The tone was colder than frostbite. “Don’t. Move.”

Then she turned and walked out of the greenhouse, boots tapping with deadly calm.

Silence swallowed the space. The plants didn’t stop growling. Robeeca sat frozen, her gears still buzzing faintly, arms wrapped around herself like she was bracing for an explosion that hadn’t come yet.

Outside, Venus’s footsteps echoed away.

But her fury didn’t linger—it evaporated as quickly as it had boiled over, leaving something else in its place.

Shock. Confusion.

She stared at her own hands as she walked, flexing her fingers like they weren’t hers.

“I… I didn’t even use my pollen persuasion,” she muttered, voice barely a whisper.

Then quieter.

“What the hell was that?”

Because whatever that was…

It hadn’t just come from her.

Not entirely.

(Invisi-Billy’s Dream)

“Ahhh hell yes—!”

Billy was hunched over in the stall, pants puddled at his ankles, one hand pumping fast, the other gripping his phone like it was holy. His breath was ragged, chest heaving.

On-screen: Scarah Screams, mid-laugh, sun-drenched, lounging in that green one-piece that hugged her hips like a second skin.

Ocean breeze in her hair. Eyes closed. Legs long and glistening.

It was his favorite picture.

And right now? He was pounding his cock to it like it was gospel.

“Come on, Billy,” he grunted through clenched teeth, pace picking up. “You got this. Just... almost—”

The stall door banged open.

He froze.

And there she was.

Scarah herself. Standing in the doorway. Arms crossed, hip cocked, face unreadable — except for that little glint in her eye. Cold. Knowing.

“Well, would ya look at this,” she said, voice rich with an Irish lilt. “Caught yerself in a right mess, haven’t ya?”

Billy scrambled, flailing for his shorts, nearly dropping his phone in a panic. “Sc-Scarah, I swear I—!”

“Ah ah ah.” She raised a finger, stepping forward. “No lies, love. I can smell the guilt off ya.”

He opened his mouth to plead — but she pressed that finger to his lips, silencing him.

“Shhh now, pet. Ye know how this goes.”

Before he could blink, she yanked him down — off the seat, onto the floor — like he weighed nothing.

The cold tiles bit into his back. No pants. No cover. Rock hard and red-faced.

He rolled over. “Scarah, wait! I—AHHHH—!”

His scream cut short.

She dropped.

Her full weight landed right across his face, thighs locking around his head like a trap. Her ass pressed into him firm, warm, merciless.

And all he could do was muffle.

She grinned, wicked and wild, as she yanked his beanie clean off and grabbed a fistful of his messy hair.

“Y’know,” she said sweetly, grinding just slow enough to torture, “every time you go sneakin’ off to stroke that dirty little thing o’ yours to me— I make damn sure you remember it.”

Her legs slid lower — pinning his waist, her calves crossing tight around his twitching cock.

He squirmed beneath her. Useless. Trapped.

“Aw, don’t go thrashin’ now,” she cooed, one hand pinning his wrist like steel. “Else I might let loose a wee fart right on that shameful little face.”

He let out a pitiful noise — part moan, part panic.

She leaned closer, her accent wrapping around every word like silk over steel.

“Aww, love… ya wanted the fantasy, didn’t ya? Now lie still, like the filthy little ghostboy pervert I know ye are.”

And from the look in her eyes, this dream wasn’t ending anytime soon.

Trapped. Owned. Dream or not — it didn’t matter.

Because Billy wasn’t leaving.

Not until she said so.

(Theater Room – 1:30 PM)

“BILLY!”

Invisi-Billy jolted awake as Mr. Where shook him roughly by the shoulders.

The room went dead quiet. Every student turned to look as Billy flailed in his seat, blinking like he’d just been pulled out of a deep ocean.

“Son, are you alright?” Mr. Where asked, concern etched into his face. “You were mutterin’ at first, then you started screamin’.”

Billy’s cheeks turned bright red. “I’m fine, sir. Promise.”

Mr. Where narrowed his eyes. “Let me guess—naughty dream?”

Billy rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “…Maaaaybe.”

Mr. Where groaned and threw up his hands. “That’s it. I’m calling Bloodgood. She’s too busy makin’ statements and recordin’ press releases to notice we’re in the middle of a full-blown dream pandemic!”

He stormed off in a huff, muttering under his breath, and disappeared out the door. The room stayed silent. Uncomfortably so.

A moment later, Scarah walked up to Billy, her steps light but deliberate.

“You alright, love?” she asked softly, voice curling with her Irish lilt. “You gave half the class a fright.”

She stood close—too close—and Billy could feel her gaze cutting right through him.

He forced a smile. “Yeah. Totally. Just… drifted off, I guess.”

Scarah tilted her head, her green eyes narrowing just a little. She could see it—feel it—in his thoughts. The confusion, the heat, the fear still clinging to the edges of his mind like smoke.

But she didn’t say anything.

Didn’t press.

Just patted him gently on the shoulder. “If that’s what you say, pet.”

Then she turned and drifted back to her seat without another word.

Billy sat there, eyes wide, swallowing hard, hands clenched in his lap.

His heart hadn’t stopped racing.

And even though he was awake…

He still didn’t feel alone.

(Mr. Rotter’s Classroom – 1:30 PM)

The room buzzed with quiet conversation as Mr. Rotter typed away at his desk, replying to an email from Professor Hackington. A rare moment of freedom in a school full of tension.

In the back corner, Isi, Gilda, Kjersti, and Claro sat clustered around two desks pushed together. Their voices low, but their faces tense.

“I swear, it’s getting worse,” Batsy said, adjusting the sling on her wing. “It’s not just the dreams anymore. It’s like... these urges, thoughts popping into my head that I know aren’t mine.”

Isi nodded slowly. “It’s like something’s crawling into your mind. And when you feel it, it’s so hard to tell where you stop and it starts…”

Kjersti looked up from her handheld console, frowning. “I keep waking up in the middle of the night. Sweaty. Dizzy. And all I can remember is music and... glitchy shapes. Like something was trying to code itself into me.”

“That’s so gross,” Gilda muttered, her arms crossed. “Like some weird virus trying to piggyback off our heads.”

They all nodded.

Then, without warning, a voice broke their little bubble.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the streaming queen herself.”

They turned as a smug-looking vampire boy sauntered up. The name wasn’t important—he was just another filler face in a school full of noise.

Kjersti squinted at him. “Do you need something?”

He smirked. “Nah, just wondering how your last stream went. What was it—four viewers? Including your mom?”

Batsy rolled her eyes. “Here we go…”

Isi looked ready to jump in, but Gilda held up a hand.

“Back off,” Gilda said calmly. “She didn’t ask for your commentary.”

“Whoa, hey,” the boy said, eyes glinting. “Relax, Goldstag. I figured your kind liked a little attention. What do they call you again? Forest rabbits? Oh, no—deer spirits. Right.”

Gilda blinked.

The air shifted.

Even Mr. Rotter paused in his typing, something instinctual making him glance up.

“What was that?” she asked quietly.

The boy chuckled. “I mean, come on. The whole mystic animal vibe? So outdated. You all just prance around acting like you’re connected to some deep nature force when really, you're just glorified roadkill.”

Silence.

The laughter died.

Even the other students stopped talking.

Gilda didn’t say a word.

She just moved.

In less than a heartbeat, she was gone from her seat.

A blur of gold and brown streaked across the room, and suddenly the boy was bent over a desk, his arm twisted behind his back, Gilda’s hand gripping it hard enough to make his fingers go numb.

The sound of the desks dragging under his weight was deafening.

The boy gasped. “H-Hey—what are you—?!”

Her mouth was at his ear now, voice like thunder wrapped in silk.

“You ever talk to me like that again,” she growled, “I’ll break you like a brittle twig.”

“Gilda!” Isi screamed from the back, jumping to her feet.

“Let go of him!” Kjersti stood too, eyes wide.

“Okay—what the hell?!” Batsy backed up, knocking over a chair.

Gilda turned her head just slightly—and Isi froze.

Her eyes were glowing. Bright, unearthly pink. Not a shimmer. Not a reflection.

A full, burning radiance.

Isi’s breath caught.

“Gilda… please,” she said, her voice breaking. “That’s not you. You’re scaring me.”

Gilda blinked.

The glow faded like a light switch being flipped off.

She looked down. Realized what she was doing.

She let go instantly and stumbled back, mouth parted in shock. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

The boy scrambled to the floor, clutching his arm and looking like he’d seen a banshee.

Mr. Rotter was already out from behind his desk, his face unreadable.

“Miss Goldstag,” he said, voice calm but stern. “Please go to the headmistress’s office. Now.”

Gilda didn’t protest. She didn’t even speak.

She just nodded numbly, brushing past the stares of her classmates as she left.

Rotter sighed, rubbed his eyes, and walked back to his desk.

He picked up the phone and pressed a button.

“Hackington,” he said. “It’s me again. You were right. I’ve got another one. This time it wasn’t just pink eyes… it got violent.”

He paused.

“…And Hackington? She didn’t even look sorry.”

(Mr. Hackington’s Laboratory – 1:50 PM)

The man looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Dark circles rimmed his eyes, his coat was wrinkled, and his tie had long since lost the will to live.

He’d spent the entire night combing through every scrap of evidence he could get his hands on—student reports, nurse’s logs, blood samples, behavioural notes, even some CCTV footage from the main hallways. And yet…

Nothing.

No infections. No foreign agents in the bloodstream. No parasites, toxins, or even minor irregularities.

The students were clean—biologically, at least.

But something was wrong.

They were falling asleep mid-lecture, zoning out with glowing pink eyes, muttering about dreams that ranged from oddly romantic to violently sexual.

Some were collapsing. Others were acting like completely different monsters.

And every test came back normal.

“It doesn’t make any bloody sense!” Hackington snapped, slamming his fist on the lab table with a metallic clang. “There’s no physical cause, no pathogen, no neural damage, not even a spike in hormone levels! It’s like they’re being puppeteered by bloody ghosts!”

He pressed his fingers against his temples and let out a long, ragged sigh.

He was exhausted. Frustrated beyond reason. And growing more convinced by the hour that he was the only one truly paying attention.

“Meanwhile, Bloodgood’s too busy playing politics—kissing up to the Board and the Council like it’s going to solve a damn thing,” he muttered bitterly, pacing. “There’s something happening right under her nose, and she’s more worried about press releases.”

He stopped, turned, then paced again, faster this time.

“Think, man. There has to be a common thread. Something that ties this madness together…”

He retraced the timeline in his mind.

The Friday attack.

Students collapsing.

That strange gas flooding the school.

Then, just two days later, dreams. Nightmares. Odd behavior. Disorientation. Sudden aggression.

And always—always—the same shade of glowing pink in the eyes.

His eyes widened. His breath caught.

“…The gas.”

He froze.

“Of course. The gas.”

The memory hit him like a freight train: that eerie pink mist seeping through the vents. Hazmat teams rushing in. Systems offline. Repairs through the weekend.

The very same ventilation system that was mysteriously tampered with.

And the gas—harmless, they said. No physical side effects.

But it was pink.

The same pink he and the other staff had seen flickering in the eyes of most of the student body.

“Bloody hell… why didn’t I think of that before?”

He yanked his Ghoul phone from his coat pocket and immediately dialed a number.

As the line rang, he began rifling through his notes, his eyes darting from sheet to sheet.

“Hello?”

“It’s Hackington,” he said quickly, his voice strained and urgent. “I need a favour.”

There was a pause on the other end. “What kind of favour?”

“I need a sample of the gas your team vacuumed out of Monster High last Friday. I believe it may be connected to the ongoing disturbances.”

Another pause. This one longer. “I’m sorry. We’ve been given strict orders—not a trace of that agent is allowed back inside the school.”

“You don’t understand,” Hackington snapped. “Something is happening here. The students, they’re changing. Glowing eyes. Blackouts. Psychological breaks. Dreams that are… wrong. Whatever that mist was, I’m convinced it’s at the root of all of it.”

“I hear your concern,” the man replied, measured but firm. “But I can’t give you a sample. If I do, I’ll be in direct violation of a Supernatural Council mandate. My hands are tied.”

Hackington’s tone dropped an octave, cold and deliberate. “Then let me make something clear: I’m saving this phone call. If—when—something worse happens, I will forward this recording to every authority, every news outlet, every parent group with a grudge. And I will make sure they know exactly who refused to act.”

There was silence. Then:

“...Bloody hell, alright!” the voice barked. “I’ll try to pull some strings. But if anyone asks, this call never happened.”

Hackington exhaled. “You have my word.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Hackington stood in the silence of the lab, staring at his phone. For a brief moment, his shoulders dropped.

He hoped—truly hoped—whatever he uncovered would be enough to stop the next wave before it came.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING.

To Be Continued.

Notes:

Next Chapter.
The dam's gonna burst!

Chapter 7: The Dam Burst's

Summary:

After today...
Monster High will NEVER be the same...

Notes:

This is it folks! We've reached the tipping point!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(Date: Friday, October 6th)

(In a Random Hallway – 7:00 AM)

Abbey was fighting for her life.

Her cock had gotten so out of control, she’d had to scrap her usual outfit entirely. No signature skirt. No boots. Today she was in full camouflage mode — loose grey sweatpants, a plain white hoodie, black sneakers. Nothing flashy. Nothing that hugged.

And yet, it still wasn’t enough.

The bulge in her pants was painfully obvious. Every step, every sway, every accidental brush of her thighs made it worse. She had her school bag slung low in front of her, clutching it like a lifeline as she speed-walked through the halls with clenched teeth and laser focus.

This had never happened before. Not once. Before the gas attack last Friday, she’d been ice-cold discipline. Controlled. Focused. Unshakable — even around Heath. Especially around Heath.

Now? She couldn’t keep her fucking hands off him.

The last few days had been a blur of skin hunger and frustrated arousal. She was wound tighter than a tripwire. The worst case of blue balls she’d ever had. It wasn’t just uncomfortable — it was agonizing. She couldn’t even wear her usual skirt without risking indecent exposure.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was the way she looked at him now.

Every time Heath walked by, all she could think about was slamming him against the lockers, yanking off his clothes, and pounding him until the hallway echoed with his screams.

Right there. In front of everyone.

And the fact that he seemed totally, blissfully clueless made it ten times worse.

Her body was on fire. Like a bad period, but instead of cramps and mood swings, it was throbbing arousal and violent urges.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

She was almost to her locker, one hand gripping the strap of her bag like it might snap, and the other shaking as she reached for the lock.

Then—

“Babe!”

She froze.

Her blood went cold. Her thighs squeezed together on instinct.

No. Not now. Not fucking NOW.

Slowly, she turned.

Heath stood a few feet behind her, arms crossed, face serious.

He looked so normal. So casual. So unaware that she was two seconds from losing her entire mind and jumping him in front of a vending machine.

Her mouth went dry. Her heart pounded. Her dick twitched — violently.

“Uh… h-hi,” she managed, voice barely holding.

Keep it together. Do NOT look at his lips. Do NOT imagine bending him over a desk. Do NOT—

She was going to explode.

“We need to talk,” Heath said, calm and even, the quiet weight of his voice slicing through the charged air like a knife.

Abbey's lungs seized.
Not this. Not now.

Her heart pounded like a war drum in her chest, but she couldn’t tell if it was fear or the way his scent hit her like smoke on ice — familiar, intoxicating, dangerous. Her skin prickled beneath the hoodie, heat pooling low in her stomach and lower still. She forced herself to look at him, jaw tight.

“Uh… s-sure,” she replied, the Russian accent curling over her words like frost edging glass. It cracked at the end, thin as ice under pressure.

He straightened his posture, shoulders set, eyes steady — not angry, but serious. Focused.

“When we got together,” he began, voice low and deliberate, “we promised we’d be honest with each other, right?”

Abbey nodded slowly. Her hands tightened around the strap of her bag, pressing it firmer against her hips. She could feel it again — that slow, traitorous pulse starting in her pants. Her cock twitching at nothing but his voice and the way he looked at her when he was being sincere.

She blinked, swallowing hard. “Yes. I remember.”

He took a step closer.

“Then why does it feel like you’ve been hiding something from me?”

Abbey froze.

Every word hit her in the gut, then sank lower, twisting. The guilt rose like bile in her throat — thick and burning. She wanted to tell him. She really, truly did. But how the hell was she supposed to explain this? That after the gas attack she couldn’t think straight, couldn’t walk straight without feeling her cock throbbing like a time bomb in her pants every time he was in the room?

She felt like an animal. A beast in heat pretending to be human. And she didn’t know what scared her more — that Heath might hate her for it… or worse, pity her.

“I am not—” she started, but the words died in her throat. “It is… hard to explain.”

He didn’t look mad. He didn’t look impatient.

He just looked… hurt.

“Abbey,” he said, softer now. “Whatever it is, I just wanna know. You haven’t been yourself lately. You barely look at me. You leave class early. You keep running off. I don’t care how weird it is. Just tell me.”

Her cock throbbed.

She winced.

Her thighs clenched together, the fabric of her sweats pulling tight. She could feel it pushing against her bag now, betraying her. The panic clawed up her spine. Not now. Not in the middle of the hallway.

She backed up. “I—I have to go. I cannot—this is not the time.”

Heath stepped in front of her, blocking the path. “No,” he said, calm but firm. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Move,” she said sharply, her accent thickening, voice trembling from strain.

“Not until you tell me the truth.”

Her breathing turned ragged. Her eyes shimmered with panic.

She couldn’t let him see. If he looked down—if he noticed—
She’d die.

“I said move.” Her voice was barely above a growl now, her control slipping.

“Abbey—”

She grabbed him.

Gently, almost tenderly, her strong hands wrapped around his shoulders. She lifted him up as if he weighed nothing, turned, and set him aside like furniture she couldn’t bear to break.

Then she ran.

Her boots pounded the hall. Her breath burned in her throat. Her bag swung wildly in front of her, desperate to hide the now fully tenting sweatpants. She didn’t look back.

Heath stood frozen in place.

Confused. Concerned. A little breathless.

And maybe… Just maybe...

Turned on.

(In a Random Classroom - 8:00 AM)

The room was empty except for Rochelle and Garrott, sitting on two desks pushed together near the back, the rest of the class long gone.

Faint echoes of laughter and strange whispers hung in the air—after this week, even empty hallways felt haunted.

They were speaking English... but with thick French accents so rich you could taste the cream in each vowel.

“Mon Dieu,” Rochelle sighed, leaning forward, “what is going on in this school, Garrott? These dreams… the eyes… the weird chemistry labs… c’est fou.”

Garrott nodded slowly, smile curling. “Oui. It’s like a mauvaise farce. Everybody’s collapsing. Everybody sees pink glow. And nobody tell us why. I keep expectin’ la sorcière to pop out from behind the lockers and cackle.”

She giggled. “Just when I think it cannot get more bizarre, something else happens.”

He stood up, pacing in small circles before her. “But at least we still have each other, non?” His accent thickened. “For a little bit of normal in this bizarre chaos?”

She looked up, heart stumbling. “Oui… especially with you.”

The tone shifted. They both leaned in, stepping into a level of intimacy that felt dangerous in the empty classroom.

Garrott’s voice grew lower: “Tu veux rire? Or would you rather we share something plus sérieux?”

Rochelle’s breath caught: “Plus sérieux, s’il te plaît.”

He grinned and leaned closer. “Alors… peut-être we should speak in the vraie langue now, oui?”

Her pulse accelerated. “D’accord…”

And just like that, the French accents faded, replaced by complete French:

“Tu es si magnifique ce soir, Rochelle." Garrott said, his voice flirtatious. "Tes yeux brillent comme les étoiles après cette catastrophe bizarre.”

“Tu fais rougir une pauvre gourmande comme moi." Rochelle said, becoming red as a tomato. "J’arrive plus à penser avec ton sourire.”

“C’est dangereux de te parler comme ça ici..." Garrott said, looking away. "mais je ne peux pas m’arrêter."

“Ne t’arrête jamais.” She said.

They were so deep in their private world that when a teacher appeared at the front of the room, they didn’t hear her footsteps until her shadow stretched across them.

“What are you two whispering about over there?” She snapped.

They both jumped, Rochelle knocking a pencil to the floor, Garrott stepping back and hastily pulling his shirt straight.

Rochelle shot him a panicked smile:

“Oh—c’est rien, Madame." Rochelle said urgently. We are… just discussing les projets for French class.”

The teacher eyed them, suspicion etched into her features, then smoothed her own skirt.

“Very well. Just—don’t neglect your work.”

She paused, long enough for Garrott to mutter under his breath as she turned away:

“She should really mind her business.”

Rochelle nodded, voice quiet but fierce:

“Vraiment. Liberté, non?”

They both grinned at each other in triumph, the moment charged and electric—even though the room looked the same as ever, something inside had shifted.

(Operetta's Dream)

Johnny let out a startled yelp as he hit the mattress hard, wrists jerked together with a rope that smelled faintly of dust, sweat, and leather. His head barely hit the pillow before he heard a whoop from across the room—

“YEEEE-HAW!!”

—and then BAM, she was on him.

Operetta tackled him like a wild bull out the gate, her knees slamming down beside his ribs, red hair whipping as she grinned like a banshee. Her nails dug into his arms, and her eyes were blazing — not mean, not cruel, just crazy in that gleeful, reckless way only she could pull off.

“Finally,” she huffed, her accent thicker than molasses, pressing her chest against his, her breath hot and fast. “I been dyin’ to get my hands on ya, sugar.”

Johnny squirmed, breathless, wide-eyed, completely unprepared for the sheer feral energy coming off her. She wasn’t calm. She wasn’t in control.

She was possessed.

Operetta tore his shirt open with both hands, buttons flying, then bit one right off for good measure. “Oop—guess you didn’t need that,” she giggled, hips grinding as she settled lower, her body already dripping heat.

“Y’all act all nervous,” she teased, voice sing-songy, twanging at the edges as she dragged her fingers down his chest. “But you ain’t scared. You’re shakin’ like a sinner in church ‘cause you want this.”

She kissed him hard, then pulled away just as fast, laughing like a woman unhinged.

Johnny tried to say something — anything — but she was already going for his pants.

With a wild grunt, she grabbed the waistband and yanked, nearly dragging him up off the bed as she tore them down past his thighs. His cock sprang free, flushed and twitching in the cool air.

She paused.

Whistled.

“Well damn,” she breathed, eyes wide like she’d just spotted gold in a riverbed. “Ain’t you just the full package.”

Then she straddled him in one swift motion, lining herself up without hesitation, tongue between her teeth like a girl about to ride a bull for the eighth time that night.

“Now hold on, Johnny-boy,” she purred, eyes wild and electric. “’Cause I’m gonna ride ya till you scream like a ghost in a jukebox.”

And then she slammed down.

Johnny howled.

It was too much. Too fast. Too deep. She was bouncing on him like she’d been saving it up for years, like she had something to prove to the whole damn county. Her thighs clapped against his, boots still on, hat barely hanging on her head as she threw it back and let out a breathless “WOO!”

It was like being fucked by a tornado in rhinestones.

His vision blurred. His legs kicked. His voice cracked into something between a scream and a laugh. And she was loving it.

“C’mon, baby! Give it up! You ain’t breakin’ me, I’ll outlast ya!”

She smacked her own ass and rode harder.

Johnny honestly thought his dick was gonna snap in half.

And she just kept goin’.

(Mr. Rotter’s Classroom – 9:00 AM)

Operetta jolted awake, breath catching in her throat. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her eyes darted around, wild and unfocused.

The classroom was quiet. Mr. Rotter wasn’t teaching—he sat hunched at his desk, fingers flying across his keyboard, typing notes with uncharacteristic urgency.

Operetta blinked hard, trying to shake off the fog in her brain. She ran her hands through her hair, brushing out the static and dust, wiping at her eyes.

“So,” she muttered under her breath, voice low and shaken, “it happened to me too, huh?”

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her desk.

She couldn’t stop herself from wondering—

Did Johnny have the same dream?

(Gym Roof – 9:30 AM)

They hadn’t skipped class in a while—too much chaos, too much heat—but today, the rooftop was theirs again.

Toralei and her crew lounged across the sunbaked edge of the gym roof, legs dangling like they owned the sky. The wind toyed with their hair and the hum of the schoolyard below felt miles away—distant, unimportant.

“This,” Toralei purred, arms behind her head, “this is what I missed. Just us, out of sight, above it all.”

“Like a much-needed detox,” Gory sighed, touching up her lip gloss in a cracked mirror. “I swear, if I had to hear one more peppy speech about ‘healing together,’ I was going to hex someone.”

“Can’t even lie,” Kala chimed in, one of her tentacles lazily flicking a pebble off the ledge, “I needed this. Between the pink-eyed freak-outs and the dream crap, my brain’s been fried.”

“Yeah, well the view makes up for it,” Meowlody purred, gazing down at the gym floor below. “So much eye candy… all that sweaty testosterone? Ugh. Delicious.”

Purrsephone smirked. “And every single one of them would fail the vibe check.”

Amanita glanced up from her compact mirror, arching a perfect brow. “Aren’t you two dating the same wolf?”

“Exactly,” Meowlody shrugged, unapologetic. “Doesn’t mean we’re blind. Monogamy isn’t a lifestyle, it’s a suggestion.”

“And besides,” Wydowna chimed in, twirling a pen between her fingers while one of her spiders adjusted her shades, “if we don’t appreciate the flesh now… who knows if we’ll get the chance tomorrow.”

The mood shifted.

“What?” Peri blinked, her shared eye-roll with Pearl paused.

Wydowna shrugged. “Just saying. Monsters are acting weird. People collapsing. Freaky dreams. We’re one cursed gym class away from becoming ghost stories.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Way to kill the vibe,” Gory muttered, popping a gum bubble without breaking eye contact.

Toralei just laughed, draping an arm around Wydowna’s shoulder. “Ignore her, she’s always like this. Cryptic, creepy, and totally ours.”

“Damn right,” Kala grinned, wrapping a tentacle around Wydowna’s wrist. “You’re our girl, gloom and all.”

“Appreciate the loyalty,” Wydowna said, her smile just a little too soft. “Even if I’m the buzzkill.”

“Hey,” Toralei flicked her tail. “Every gang’s got the doomsayer. You're ours. It’s balance.”

Amanita didn’t join the hug-fest. She just rolled her eyes. “Emotional vulnerability? In this humidity?”

Back to normal.

“Anyway,” Meowlody leaned forward, biting her lip as she scanned the court below. “That guy by the climbing ropes? That jawline. I’d ruin him.”

“Same,” Purrsephone snickered. “Twice.”

The conversation had spiraled into dangerous territory.

Smash or pass.

“What about Clawd?” Pearl asked, tilting her chin toward the werewolf currently body-blocking a massive cyclops on the basketball court.

Meowlody didn’t even hesitate. “Smash — but only if he agrees to a collar and a leash. No exceptions.”

Purrsephone snorted. “Honestly? If the way Draculaura looks at him is anything to go by? I’d definitely get a piece if he were single.”

“Ugh,” Gory groaned, tossing her hair. “As if I’d ever sleep with a werewolf.”

Meowlody rolled her eyes hard. “Aren’t you the least bit curious to see what he’s packing under all that fur?”

“Absolutely not,” Gory deadpanned.

“Would. Raw. No questions,” Kala chimed in out of nowhere.

The whole group turned to her — wide eyes, stunned.

“WHAT?” Kala huffed, tentacles flailing around her in full defense mode. “I’ve always been curious, okay?!”

A long beat of silence.

Then nods.

“Fair,” Pearl murmured.

“Honestly, yeah,” Purrsephone added.

“Right,” Toralei said with a flick of her tail, reclaiming the flow. “What about Gil? Fish boy, slick hair, daddy issues?”

“I would,” Pearl replied, scratching behind her ear. “If his parents weren’t massive racists.”

“Tell me about it,” Kala sighed, flopping backward against the bench. “Sweet as pie, hot as fish-fry, but his folks? Fucking insufferable.”

“I don’t even know why Lagoona still deals with that,” Peri muttered, pushing her glasses up her nose. “He literally hides her from them like a guilty secret.”

“She’s a sucker for love,” Gory said with a shrug.

Toralei scoffed. “Please. He’s a sucker for her body.”

That one got a round of snorts and cackles.

“Okay, okay,” Meowlody leaned forward, pointing into the crowd. “What about that one? Glasses. Black hair. Kinda soft looking.”

“Who, Jackson?” Pearl asked.

“Pass,” she added flatly.

“Smash,” Wydowna said immediately, sipping from her water bottle. “Cuties are the best ones to corrupt.”

“Pass,” Gory chimed, popping her gum. “No ass. Zero.”

“Smash!” Kala grinned. “He looks like he’d let me do anything to him.”

“Pass,” Amanita groaned. “I don’t do nerds.”

“Pass,” Purrsephone shrugged. “Not my flavor.”

“Alright then.” Purrsephone’s eyes scanned the gym and lit up. “Okay, what about that one?” She pointed toward the bleachers.

Manny.

The response was instant.

“Smash.” Purrsephone said.

“Smash.” Pearl said.

“So smash.” Meowlody said, fanning herself dramatically.

“Smash?” Peri said, unsure but tempted.

“Smash, duh!” Kala said, who high-fived Wydowna mid-sentence.

“Smash,” Gory admitted, licking her teeth. “He looks like he could lift a bitch.”

“Smash. I’d make Iris watch.” Amanita added with zero hesitation.

“Smash,” Wydowna purred. “But only if I get to hold his horns.”

Laughter erupted.

Then—

“Wait a minute!” Gory interrupted. “Toralei, you haven’t said anything! What gives?”

Everyone turned.

Toralei looked up, eyes wide — like a deer caught in headlights. Or more appropriately, a cat caught in gossip.

“I’m lesbian, remember?” she huffed, arms crossed over her chest. “Been dating Clawdeen for months.”

Silence.

Then a collective, “Ohhhh.”

“Right,” Meowlody nodded. “Forgot about that.”

“Been a thing for months,” Toralei said, arms crossed, smirking. “Y’all need to keep up.”

“My bad,” Gory added, eyes narrowing with a grin. “Still — smash though, right?”

Toralei rolled her eyes. “Clawdeen’s the only one I would smash. And she doesn’t need horns to wreck me.”

And just like that — the roof exploded in small shrieks.

Kala grinned. “Fine. Next round’s girl edition.”

“Now we’re talking,” Toralei purred.

(The Bottom of The Gym - 9:40)

The bottom of the gym was a haze of heat and movement.

Sweat glistened on foreheads, the sharp scent of exertion mixing with the echo of sneakers and squeaking pompoms.

Coach Igor paced the sidelines like a general surveying his troops.

“Alright, water break!” he bellowed. “Don’t get too comfortable—you’ve still got suicides and lifts before I’m done with you!”

Students scattered toward their respective corners of the gym, collapsing onto benches or leaning against the walls in exhausted heaps.

Draculaura twirled a pompom around her finger as she sauntered toward the bleachers. Her cheer uniform clung to her skin, damp from practice, and her high ponytail had begun to fray around her cheeks.

Clawd, shirt clinging to his torso and hair spiked with sweat, was already leaning against the wall, towel slung around his neck. His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, and his eyes flicked up the moment he caught a whiff of her scent.

“You look like you just walked out of a horror movie,” Draculaura teased, biting her lip.

Clawd gave a low chuckle. “And you look like you just walked out of my dreams.”

She rolled her eyes, pretending to be unimpressed. “Smooth, Wolfie. Very smooth.”

“I try,” he said, stepping closer. “Though I’m a little distracted by all the… sparkle.” His eyes trailed over her, pointedly. “You always sweat glitter, or is that just for me?”

Draculaura giggled and leaned her shoulder into his chest. “I’m not sure you’ve earned glitter privileges yet.”

“Oh?” Clawd raised an eyebrow, smirking. “After that stunt I pulled the month before testing? Caught you mid-air and stuck the landing.”

“That was pretty impressive,” she admitted, flicking his towel. “But that was before you ran into the bleachers trying to impress me with that no-look pass.”

“I was distracted,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “You wore that high ponytail and expected me to focus?”

She arched a brow. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

She didn’t deny it.

Instead, she let her fingers trail along the collar of his shirt, eyes drifting lazily up to meet his. “You smell like a locker room.”

“I am a locker room.”

“Gross.”

“You like it.”

“...Maybe a little.”

They were close now. Really close. Too close, maybe—but neither of them backed away. There was something in the air. Not just the heat from practice, but something under the surface—pulling them in, fogging the edges of their minds.

Clawd reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering a second too long on her skin.

Draculaura’s breath hitched. Just barely.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low and quiet now.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “I feel… weird today.”

Clawd nodded. “Yeah. Me too. Like… I wanna bite something.”

She smiled at that, all fangs and pink gloss.

“Then bite me, wolf boy,” she teased, voice like sugar and static.

He laughed—rough and low—and leaned in, just a bit. “Careful. I might take that seriously.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

They paused. Staring.

And just like that, the noise of the gym disappeared. The buzz of drills, the chatter of teammates, even the yelling of Coach Igor—all of it faded beneath the humming between them.

Something wasn’t right. But neither of them cared.

Not in this moment.

Not with her heart beating out of rhythm and his claws itching against his palms.

“Five more minutes!” Igor yelled from across the gym.

They both jumped slightly, pulling back just enough to break the tension—but not the eye contact.

Clawd exhaled. “We should… probably get back to practice.”

Draculaura grinned. “Or we could fake a leg cramp and hide behind the bleachers.”

“Tempting.”

She turned on her heel, giving him a look over her shoulder. “Come on, Romeo. Try not to drool while you run.”

“No promises.”

And just like that, they were gone—back to their teams, back to the rhythm of the gym.

But the static still lingered.

Something was off.

Something electric.

And it wasn’t going away.

(Mrs. Kindergrubber’s Home Ick Lab – 10:20 AM)

The scent of sugar and vanilla danced through the air, cut only by the sizzle of stovetops and the low hum of mixers.

Mrs. Kindergrubber’s Homec class was in full swing, today’s assignment being simple: bake a small batch of cookies using a family recipe or improvise your own.

But the energy in the room was anything but simple.

At station six, tucked into the corner of the classroom, Howleen Wolf was leaned over her mixing bowl, one elbow on the counter and a devilish grin playing on her lips. Next to her stood Twyla, measuring flour with a shaky hand and pink blooming across her cheeks.

“Okay,” Howleen said, low and teasing, “so you’re tellin’ me your secret ingredient is nutmeg?”

Twyla nodded quickly, avoiding eye contact. “It… brings out the vanilla,” she muttered, almost inaudible.

Howleen leaned closer, her voice a whisper just for Twyla. “Vanilla’s overrated,” she said, her breath ghosting across the other ghoul’s ear. “You ever try cayenne? Little heat makes the sweet hit different.”

Twyla dropped her spoon into the bowl with a sharp clink, her whole face going crimson. “I–I think we should just follow the recipe…”

Howleen laughed softly. “Aw, c’mon, Twy. Live a little. You’ve already got everyone hypnotized with that shadow dream-girl charm. You’re allowed to spice it up.”

Twyla’s hand twitched, knocking over the sugar canister. She squeaked as granules scattered across the counter like falling snow.

“I—Sorry! I didn’t mean to—!”

Before she could grab a rag, Howleen was already brushing sugar off her arm, fingers lingering a little too long. Her claws skimmed the delicate inside of Twyla’s wrist, and Twyla visibly shivered.

“Jeez, you’re jumpy today,” Howleen purred, tilting her head. “You good?”

“I… I’m fine,” Twyla said softly, though her voice cracked on the word fine.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Kindergrubber was across the room, hands elbow-deep in dough, pretending to be focused on a student’s chocolate chip disaster. But one eye—and both ears—were very much on station six.

“Zhis iz getting… strange,” she muttered to herself, kneading dough a little too aggressively. “Zhe werewolf flirts, but zhe shadow one? Zhis is… new.”

Back at their station, Twyla had returned to stirring the batter, her hair falling in front of her face as she tried to stay focused. Howleen, however, wasn’t done.

She watched Twyla’s concentration for a moment, then dipped her finger into the bowl and scooped up a glob of cookie dough.

“Twy,” she said sweetly.

Twyla turned, just as Howleen reached up and gently swiped the dough across her cheek.

“Oops.”

Twyla blinked, stunned.

Before she could react, Howleen leaned in—tongue out—and licked the dough clean off her skin.

Twyla nearly combusted on the spot.

Her jaw dropped, her eyes wide, and her body practically stiffened like she'd been struck by lightning.

“Howleen!” she hissed in a panic-whisper, scanning the room.

Mrs. Kindergrubber had turned her back, but her shoulders were hunched with tension. She was definitely listening.

Howleen just grinned like a predator who’d caught scent of something fun.

“What?” she said innocently. “Wouldn’t wanna waste good cookie dough.”

“You can’t just—” Twyla fumbled over her words, her hands fluttering in midair like she was trying to swat away the heat building in her face.

“Oh, relax. It’s not like I kissed you.” Howleen winked. “Yet.”

Twyla let out a tiny squeak and immediately ducked into the shadow of the mixing bowl.

From across the room, Kindergrubber’s eye twitched.

“Zhis… zhis iz madness.” She mumbled to herself. “Zhey are seventeen, not savages. Zhis behavior—ze staring, ze licking, ze giggling—it iz… unnatural!”

She snatched her clipboard and scribbled in sharp, frantic lines:

“Note: Hackington must escalate zhe investigation. Immediate intervention may be required.”

Back at the station, Howleen was back to pretending to help stir, though her gaze stayed locked on Twyla the entire time.

“You look cute when you’re flustered,” she whispered.

“I–I look like I’m overheating,” Twyla muttered, still hiding her face.

“Exactly.”

The timer on their oven dinged.

Neither of them moved.

Eventually, Twyla reached for the tray, her fingers trembling.

And Howleen?

She just leaned in, rested her chin on her hands, and kept watching her like she was the most fascinating thing in the world.

(Boy’s Bathroom - 11:05 AM)

The hum of the fluorescent lights echoed faintly in the mostly empty bathroom.

Water dripped steadily from one of the cracked faucets, and a faint layer of steam still clung to the edges of the mirror—someone had clearly taken a hot shower during their gym period and not cleaned up after.

Valentine stood in front of the mirror, casually adjusting his collar. Not that it needed it—his outfits were always tailored, ironed, perfect.

He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief that smelled faintly of rosewater, even in a public restroom.

Behind him, the stall door creaked open, and out walked Spelldon Cauldronello, his pink and violet-streaked hair tousled and falling into his face, sleeves pushed up, and a slightly unimpressed look tugging at the corner of his lips.

"You know this is a bathroom, right?" Spelldon said as he walked to the sink next to Valentine and turned on the cold water. "Not a dressing room at a charity gala."

Valentine didn’t miss a beat. “Forgive me for maintaining a standard. Not all of us are committed to that... ‘cursed poet on a caffeine bender’ aesthetic.”

Spelldon cracked a small grin. “It’s called taste. But I get it—hard to recognize when you’re still stuck in the 1800s.”

Valentine laughed softly, folding his handkerchief neatly. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it,” Spelldon replied, rinsing his hands with a slow, methodical grace. “And only because your jawline is dangerously close to art deco perfection.”

Valentine raised an eyebrow, then leaned on the counter. “You’re in a mood today.”

“Just had to sit through a twenty-minute presentation about monster-safe internet practices given by a banshee with a lisp. My brain still hasn’t recovered.”

“You should’ve skipped.”

“You say that like you didn’t make me promise to stop cutting class.”

Valentine gave a small shrug. “I enjoy being a corrupting influence and a good example. Duality.”

Spelldon grabbed a paper towel and dried his hands with a little too much force. “You’re exhausting.”

Valentine leaned closer, just enough to invade Spelldon’s space. “And yet, here you are. In love. Tragic, really.”

Spelldon looked at him, unimpressed. “More like cursed.”

“But a sexy curse?”

“The sexiest,” Spelldon deadpanned, then tossed the paper towel into the trash without looking. It landed perfectly.

They stood there for a beat in silence, the quiet between them familiar and easy.

Valentine adjusted one of his cuffs, then glanced sideways.

“You okay though? You’ve been a little off since Tuesday.”

Spelldon paused, then sighed, resting his palms against the edge of the sink. “Yeah. I dunno. Something’s weird in the air lately. Everyone’s either acting hyper, getting weird dreams, or just… not themselves.”

“You mean extra weird, for Monster High.”

“Exactly.”

Valentine gave a knowing nod. “I’ve noticed it too. Gory told me she dreamt about a faceless figure whispering compliments to her while braiding her hair. Bram was nowhere to be found.”

Spelldon turned his head slowly. “That’s… actually kind of sweet? Terrifying. But sweet.”

“Terrifyingly sweet,” Valentine echoed with a smirk.

Spelldon pushed off the sink and turned to him. “Just… if I start acting strange—like, more than usual—you’ll tell me, right?”

Valentine placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “I would never let my boyfriend spiral into madness without a dramatic intervention.”

“Good. Because I already talk to ghosts and scream into cursed teacups. I don’t think I have much further to fall.”

They shared a quiet chuckle.

Then, just as Valentine turned back toward the mirror, Spelldon added with a wry smirk:

“Also, if I do lose my mind, make sure my final outfit isn’t some frilly red mess you picked out. I want to be buried in all black. Tastefully wrinkled. Preferably with boots that could kick someone’s soul loose.”

Valentine turned to him with a glare, but there was affection under it. “You wound me.”

Spelldon leaned in, resting his chin on Valentine’s shoulder for a brief second. “I’d rather wound your fashion sense.”

Valentine laughed, low and pleased. “Well, good. Because you already do.”

And with that, Spelldon gave his boyfriend a quick peck on the cheek, then spun around on his heel and made for the door.

“I’ll see you at lunch, Valentino. Try not to be late. Or weird. Or, you know… yourself.”

Valentine watched him go with a crooked grin, then turned back to the mirror and adjusted his collar one more time.

“Still the best taste you ever had,” he murmured to no one in particular, before following Spelldon out.

(Pool Room - 11:30 AM)

The gym was steamy from someone’s late shower, sure. But the pool room? It was dripping with heat in all the wrong — or maybe right — places.

No one had touched the water for over an hour, yet a low mist clung to the surface like silk. The overhead lights flickered faintly, casting blue and green shadows that danced along the tiled walls. The air was thick. Not just with chlorine, but with tension — the kind that buzzed under your skin and crawled up your spine.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The leaky faucet played its lazy rhythm. An occasional ripple broke the silence as Gil shifted slightly in the shallow end, arms draped along the lip of the pool, head tilted back, gills fluttering faintly with every breath.

He was a perfect picture of ease — but even that was starting to crack.

Lagoona floated a few feet away, chest-down in the water, hair swaying around her like seaweed. She let herself drift, half submerged, watching him through lowered lashes. Her lips twitched in a smile as he hummed — off-key, soft, and oddly sweet. It made her heart flutter and her stomach twist.

But there was something else now. A pressure in the room. A weight in the air that wasn’t just heat and humidity.

It was the want between them. And it was boiling.

She rolled onto her side, propped her head up on her hand, and let her eyes roam over him. The curve of his shoulders. The way the water made his skin glisten. Her gaze dipped lower before she caught herself and smirked.

“You alright there, Gil?” she asked, voice honeyed by her Aussie drawl.

One eye cracked open. “Just enjoyin’ the quiet.”

She raised a brow. “And the view?”

He hesitated — just for a beat — before letting his gaze slide toward her. His breath hitched. The way the water clung to her skin, beading on her collarbone, the rise and fall of her chest as she hovered just above the surface — it was impossible not to stare.

“The view’s… nice,” he admitted, voice low.

“Good t’hear,” she said, letting her voice drop half an octave.

The mist thickened.

The scent of the pool — salt and heat — filled her lungs like something alive, and suddenly, she wasn’t just drifting. She was prowling.

Lagoona swam closer, body fluid, lazy — like she had all the time in the world. A smile curled on her lips, teasing, slow.

“Gil,” she said, sweet and deadly.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“Tell me how much you love me,” she purred, propping her chin on his shoulder, face only inches from his.

He laughed awkwardly. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me, mate.” Her voice dropped. “Tell me what you like about me. Looks, personality, everything. Lay it on thick.”

He gave her a look, confused, a little concerned. “You alright? You don’t usually—”

She reached up and tapped his nose. “Let’s just say I’m feelin’ frisky. And if you don’t tell me, I’m gonna make you regret it.”

Gil rolled his eyes but grinned in spite of himself. “Fine, fine…”

He took a breath. “You’re beautiful. One of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Your accent’s adorable, your laugh’s contagious, and your style’s always got flair.”

She tilted her head. “That’s sweet. But you’re holdin’ back.”

“What?”

“You’re bein’ too polite, Gil,” she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You’re not really sayin’ what you’re thinkin’.”

His cheeks flushed. “Uh… you smell nice?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, inching closer.

“Your voice is like music?”

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, lips barely apart.

“Your hair’s like… the golden sea?”

She giggled.

“Your eyes are like stars over the ocean at night?”

She bit her lip.

Then she grabbed his chin, not hard — just firm enough to make him look at her.

“More.”

His breath caught. “Your touch is like magic. Your smile… it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her lashes fluttered. Her lips parted.

“And?” she whispered, barely audible.

“You’re… amazing, Lagoona,” he breathed. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Silence.

And then—her finger pressed to his lips.

“Gil.”

His heart skipped.

“Yeah?”

“Stop talkin’.”

And in a heartbeat, she was on him.

She surged forward, wrapped her arms around his neck, and slammed her lips to his. The kiss hit like a wave — messy, wet, full of salt and hunger.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, and the only sound louder than the water around them was the way their mouths crashed together.

And just like that, the steam in the room wasn’t just mist anymore.

It was them.

The heat between them built fast, crashing like waves, pulling them deeper with every desperate kiss.

He stumbled back against the edge of the pool, gripping her hips tight to keep them both steady. Water splashed up their bodies, slicking them down, dripping from their skin in glistening rivulets.

Lagoona moaned into his mouth, her fingers threading through his soaked hair, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp.

And that did it.

Gil turned them sharply, slamming her back against the wall of the pool. There was a sharp crack — the tile behind her fracturing beneath the sudden force. Neither of them flinched.

Lagoona's eyes blew wide for a second, wild with surprise, then softened, gleamed.

She let out a breathy laugh, hot against his lips. “Didn’t know you had it in ya, fishboy.”

He grinned — flushed, eyes dark — and leaned in again, kissing her even deeper, with that hungry kind of kiss that made her knees go weak, that made her wrap her legs tighter around his waist, grinding against him in rhythm with every breath.

Steam coiled around them, thick and cloying, making everything slicker, hotter. Their skin glowed with the sheen of water and sweat, bodies pressed close, so close it felt like the pool itself was boiling.

Her hands slid beneath his shirt, claws raking lightly over his back.

His lips moved down her neck, trailing fire.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

They were too far gone.

And just beyond the cracked door of the locker room — hidden behind a row of benches — Lorna McNessie knelt, lip between her teeth, one hand over her mouth, the other buried between her thighs.

Eyes wide.

Breath quick.

Watching.

And she couldn’t look away.

(Bloodgood’s Office – 12:00 PM)

The door slammed open without warning. Bloodgood’s pen froze mid-stroke as a wave of faculty stormed in—Mr. Rotter, Ms. Flapper, Mr. Where, and Mrs. Kindergrubber. Only Hackington was notably absent.

Bloodgood raised a brow, unimpressed but curious. “Is there a reason you’ve decided to bypass protocol and barge into my office?”

Rotter stepped forward like a man ready for war. “Yeah. We’re here to make you open your damn eyes.”

Bloodgood’s face tightened, but she kept her voice level. “You want to try that again with some professionalism?”

“We don’t have time for niceties,” Mr. Where snapped, gesturing wildly. “You’re locked up in here playing politics while the school’s unraveling!”

“Ever since the gas attack last Friday, things have been getting worse by the hour,” Ms. Flapper added, arms folded. “Students are acting out—aggressively, sexually, emotionally. It’s not normal.”

Mr. Rotter slammed both hands on the desk, making the pens rattle. “They’re groping, flirting, zoning out in class, saying shit I can’t even repeat without violating HR policies—and some of them don’t even remember doing it!”

“They’re developing crushes overnight,” Flapper continued, “acting on impulses that feel totally unlike them.”

“And zhey’re doing it vithout warning!” Kindergrubber added. “Zhe boundaries, zhe discipline—it’s falling apart under our noses!”

Bloodgood sat up straighter. “I’m aware things have been strange lately, but—”

“Strange?” Rotter interrupted, eyes flashing. “Strange is tripping over your own shoelace. This is dangerous.”

“I need more than anecdotes if I’m going to involve the Board or Council,” Bloodgood said, holding her ground. “They won’t take hallway gossip and behavioral shifts as proof of a supernatural event.”

“Then come to the classrooms and see it yourself!” Mr. Where barked. “You’ll have to trip over the evidence!”

“I’ve been meeting with families, repairing our public image, and trying to keep the school from losing its funding after last week’s attack,” Bloodgood said sharply. “This school is one bad headline away from being shut down permanently. I have to weigh every step I take.”

“So you’ll just sit here and watch them spiral?” Rotter shot back. “You’re supposed to protect them, not explain it away!”

“I’m trying to keep the doors open long enough to find out what’s happening,” she said, voice rising for the first time. “You think I don’t care? I haven’t slept in days because I’m terrified something worse is coming. But I won’t run to the Council screaming witchcraft with nothing but tension and a couple of half-recalled dreams.”

Silence settled for a moment.

Then Mr. Rotter leaned in close, his voice low and deadly calm. “By the time you get your perfect, official, undeniable proof… it might be too late.”

Bloodgood stared at him for a long moment.

Then, in a quiet voice edged with steel, she replied:

“Then get me the proof, Rotter. Quietly. Without threats. And without turning this school into a war zone.”

She looked around at the rest of them. “You think I’m ignoring what’s happening? I’m not. But I need more than paranoia and panic to act without making things worse. I want answers. So bring them to me.”

Rotter’s expression didn’t soften, but he said nothing.

Just as the teachers began turning toward the door, Bloodgood spoke again—clear, firm, final.

“One last thing.”

They all paused.

“Due to the circumstances of last Friday’s attack,” she said, rising from her desk, “the Board has requested I appear before them in person. I’ll be leaving Monster High after lunch today.”

A wave of protest erupted at once.

“You’re what—?!” Mr. Where barked.

“You can’t be serious,” Ms. Flapper said, throwing up her hands.

“You’re abandoning the school now?!” Rotter stepped forward again, face a mask of disbelief.

Bloodgood raised a hand—once. The room fell silent instantly.

“This isn’t up for discussion,” she said, her voice like stone. “I’ll be gone until next Friday. That’s the earliest the Council can hear me. I’ll do everything I can to advocate for the safety and integrity of this school—but in the meantime…”

She looked at each of them.

“You hold the line. You keep teaching. You keep calm. You do not blow this into a scandal without cause.”

“And if something is happening?” Flapper asked, cautiously.

Bloodgood’s expression darkened.

“Then, and only then, you contact me. If the school is in actual danger, I will drop everything. Otherwise—” her eyes narrowed, “—I expect all of you to do your damn jobs.”

Her words hung in the air like an axe suspended above their heads.

Rotter stared at her for a beat, jaw tight. Then he turned and walked out.

One by one, the rest followed.

As the door shut behind them, Rotter muttered under his breath—low, bitter, meant for no one but himself:

“By the time she comes back… this place’ll already be a bloody madhouse.”

And the worst part was… he wasn’t wrong.

(Gym Storage Room - 1:30 PM)

The door slammed open with a BANG, hinges rattling as Jackie shoved Bridgett backward into the dimly lit storage room.

Fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting jittery white light across metal shelving, crates, and stacks of unused gym mats.

Jackie’s face was twisted with need, lips parted, flushed cheeks glowing with the kind of hunger that had been boiling inside her all week.

“Babe, w-we really shouldn’t—” Bridgett stammered, but her words were swallowed whole as Jackie grabbed her by the collar of her blazer and yanked her into a breathless, devouring kiss.

Their mouths collided—wet, hot, desperate.

“Mmmf—fuck—I can’t get enough of you,” Jackie murmured hoarsely against Bridgett’s lips, then dragged her hands down her girlfriend’s sides, slow and hungry, palms fitting into the dips of her waist, fingers brushing just under her skirt and curling around the swell of her thick thighs.

“I-I know,” Bridgett gasped, her breath hitching as Jackie’s hands traveled further, her eyes wide, trembling, “me too—nnnh—but wait…”

Jackie’s fingers found the telltale bulge under her skirt, cock thick and twitching, pressed against her panties and already beginning to throb with heat.

Jackie licked her lips and leaned in, nipping her ear.

“I want you so fucking bad right now,” she growled, voice deep and throaty, grinding her body forward. “You’ve no idea what I’ve been thinking about. I can’t wait anymore.”

“W-Wait! Jackie—” Bridgett’s voice cracked with panic, shoulders stiffening. “I-I’m not ready, not here! What if someone hears us?!”

Jackie didn’t budge. She rolled her hips forward, letting her full weight press into Bridgett’s bulge, her chest smashed tight against her girlfriend’s trembling form.

“Then they hear." She said. "Let ’em. I don’t care. All I care about is this.”

Her hand slipped between Bridgett’s thighs and cupped her through her panties, fingers kneading gently.

“B-But—” Bridgett whimpered again, but Jackie crushed her lips against hers, sucking on her tongue with a messy, hungry SLURP that made Bridgett’s knees nearly give out.

“Shhh. Just let go,” Jackie breathed, hot and low, before crouching down and yanking the skirt down to her legs, fingers already working the fabric of her girlfriend’s underwear aside.

Bridgett trembled as her cock sprang free—thick, flushed, and already leaking.

“I-I—hhhnnn—Jackie, p-please—” she gasped, but there was no resistance left in her.

“That’s more like it,” Jackie cooed as she wrapped her fingers around the base of her girlfriend’s cock, pumping it once, slow and steady, just to feel it throb in her palm. “So fucking big… gods, I love this monster.”

She stroked the length of it teasingly, fingers gliding over the slick head, rubbing the precum around in lazy spirals. “Mmmm, how’s that feel, baby?”

“Aaah—s-so good—fuuuck—” Bridgett moaned, her voice breaking as her hips jerked upward to chase Jackie’s touch. “D-Don’t tease me like that…!”

Jackie grinned devilishly, eyes glinting. “Oh? My big strong troll is already trembling for me?”

Bridgett’s legs quivered as she looked down, her breath ragged. “Y-Yes… please, I can’t take it… nghhh—please just… fuck…”

Jackie tilted her head, then without another word, dropped to her knees, lips parting around the head of Bridgett’s cock and swallowing it down with practiced ease. “Mmmmhhph—”

Bridgett wailed, eyes wide as her girlfriend’s throat closed around her, lips sliding down the thick shaft. “H-HHHNNNG! F-FUCK—Jackie—!”

She moved fast. Too fast.

Jackie was sucking like a woman starved—wet slurps filling the air, echoing off metal and cement as her head bobbed with abandon.

Bridgett gasped, her hands flailing before settling on Jackie’s head, fingers curling through her hair and trembling with every pass of her girlfriend’s throat around her length.

“H-Hnnnn—w-wait, nghh—I-I’m gonna—!”

Jackie pulled back for a moment, breath hot against Bridgett’s spit-slicked cock, lips red and shiny.

“Ah ah,” she smirked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You don’t get to come yet. You don’t get to tell me shit.”

Then she shoved the whole length back down her throat, moaning around it as her tongue pressed flat and her nose nuzzled against Bridgett’s trimmed tuft of hair.

“Mmmmf—!”

Bridgett could barely think. She groaned, head tilted back, thighs flexing hard as Jackie suckled with lewd, noisy enthusiasm.

“F-FUCK! OH FUCK—J-JACKIE—NNNHH—I’M—!”

Too late.

Her hips jerked forward as her balls clenched up tight, and with a guttural roar, she grabbed Jackie’s ears and pulled her forward, forcing her face all the way down her shaft as thick, salty ropes of cum exploded down her throat.

“HNNNNGH! F-FUHHHCKKKK!”

Jackie didn’t even flinch. She took it all. Swallowed around her like a pro, gulping loudly, throat flexing around the torrent as she stared up at her lover through fluttering lashes.

Cum smeared across her lips, a drop trailing from her chin as she finally pulled back with a loud, obscene pop.

She licked the cum off her lips, off her fingers, and tilted her head smugly.

“Well?” she asked, standing slowly, skirt clinging to her thighs. “You gonna fuck me now, or are you gonna let all that steam go to waste?”

Bridgett didn’t answer.

She surged forward and lifted Jackie up like she weighed nothing, her massive arms hooking under her knees, then swung her around and slammed her back-first into the nearest wall, trapping her in a full nelson, her thick cock already hardening again between her legs.

Her control was obliterated.

Reason? Gone.

Fear? Crushed under the weight of lust.

"Fine. You want my cock that bad?" Bridgett growled, her voice low, breath hot against Jackie’s face as she lifted her up by the hips with raw, effortless strength.

The troll’s thick fingers squeezed into her girlfriend’s plush thighs, spreading them wide until Jackie’s-soaked pussy hovered just above the fat, twitching length waiting beneath.

"Then fucking take it."

She brought her down slow, letting the swollen head of her cock push against her entrance, teasing her folds apart before sliding in inch by thick, stretching inch.

“Ahhh—f-fuck…” Jackie gasped, her head lolling back, mouth open as she took Bridgett in.

Bridgett snarled, slamming her hips upward just hard enough to bury herself fully inside with a sick, wet shlck.

“There,” she hissed, holding Jackie still while her cock throbbed inside her tight, drenched cunt. “How’s that, huh? That what you wanted, you cock-hungry little slut?”

Jackie cried out, back arching, legs wrapping tighter around Bridgett’s waist as she clawed at her shoulders. “Y-Yes! F-Fuck, yes! G-gods, you're so fucking big—!”

Bridgett’s eyes glinted with wicked heat. She leaned in close, lips brushing Jackie’s ear as she started to move, slow, deep thrusts that pushed all the way in and dragged almost all the way out again, making her girlfriend shudder and clench around her.

“You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? Walking around soaked under that little skirt, wishing I’d bend you over the lockers and ruin you.”

Jackie moaned out a helpless “Y-Yes! Fuck—”

"You needy little cum dump," Bridgett spat, voice rough, her rhythm picking up. Her thick cock plunged in and out of Jackie’s soaked cunt with growing force, slapping wetly against her ass with every thrust. “So desperate for my cock you couldn’t wait till we got home, huh?”

Jackie clung to her like she was drowning, her nails digging into the troll’s broad back. “I-I couldn’t help it! Every time you looked at me—fuck—I got wet all over again! I’ve been aching for this!”

Bridgett grinned viciously. “Yeah, I can feel it. Fuck, you’re dripping all over my cock, Jackie. Just a sloppy little fucktoy, aren’t you?”

“Mmmnnn—fuck! I-I am! I’m your fucktoy! G-Gods, Bridgett, I can’t—!”

Bridgett didn’t slow down. She fucked her like she meant to break her.

Her hips were a blur, cock slamming into Jackie’s soaked pussy over and over, battering her walls, bottoming out each time with a wet slap that echoed through the storage room.

Each thrust made Jackie scream, eyes rolled back, drool slipping from the corner of her mouth as she hung helpless in Bridgett’s arms. Her whole body jolted with every savage thrust.

“AAAHHH! F-FUCK! I’M GONNA—!”

“Already?” Bridgett sneered, voice sharp and breathless with effort. “Gods, you’re pathetic.”

Jackie sobbed out a moan, grinding herself down onto Bridgett’s cock. “I-I’ve been on edge all fucking week—I can’t—fuck—p-please—!”

“Oh, you’re gonna cum alright,” Bridgett growled, grabbing her by the throat with one hand and slamming her harder against the wall. “But you don’t get to cum until I say so. Not until I’ve filled you up like the dirty little cock-sleeve you are.”

Jackie squealed, legs twitching as Bridgett’s cock pistoned into her, her wet pussy making lewd, slick sounds with every stroke.

The room was full of them—slaps, gasps, moans, the occasional choked sob as Jackie’s whole body trembled on the edge.

“You gonna cum just from getting fucked, huh?” Bridgett snarled, pulling back and slamming in again so hard Jackie bounced. “You’re that much of a whore?”

“YES! YESSS! Please—please, I’m so close—!”

“Beg me.”

“F-Fuck—p-please! Please let me cum! I-I need it, I need your cum inside me! I want it—I want you to breed me!”

That broke whatever self-control Bridgett had left. With a roar, she slammed Jackie into the wall and drove into her one final time, cock swelling inside her twitching pussy.

“F-Fuck, here it comes—!”

Jackie screamed, nails dragging down Bridgett’s back, as her orgasm tore through her, pussy clenching down so hard it nearly milked Bridgett on the spot.

“TAKE IT!” Bridgett bellowed, hips jerking erratically as her balls tightened, cock pulsing deep inside.

She came hard—thick, hot spurts of cum shooting deep into Jackie’s womb, flooding her with so much that it started leaking out around the base of her shaft. “F-FUCKKK—TAKE MY CUM, YOU FUCKING SLUT—!”

Jackie came again, her body convulsing, squirt gushing between them as Bridgett held her in place, stuffed full and twitching.

When the last of Bridgett’s orgasm finished pouring into her, she sagged against Jackie, cock still buried to the hilt.

They both panted, their sweaty bodies trembling, limbs tangled, dripping with slick and cum.

Bridgett slowly leaned in, kissed her breathless girlfriend’s cheek, and whispered in her ear, voice raspy, “Now… that’s what I fucking thought.”

Bridgett finally pulled back, her cock sliding free with a slick, wet slurp, and a flood of cum spilled out, running down Jackie’s thighs in long, sticky strands.

She gently lowered her girlfriend to the floor, still holding her up with one arm while brushing sweaty hair from her face with the other.

"After a week of dreams and blue balls," Bridgett said, squeezing her lover tightly. "That felt satisfying."

Jackie looked up at her, eyes glazed. “You broke me…”

Bridgett chuckled, cock twitching faintly as it slowly softened, still coated in her girlfriend’s juices. “You’ll live.”

Jackie leaned into her chest with a blissed-out smile. “Barely.”

Bridgett smirked, kissing the top of her head. “Next time, you’re taking it on the desk.”

“…Fuck, yes.”

But as the two sat there, still breathless from the intensity of the moment, the silence was suddenly pierced by a soft creak.

Neither Jackie nor Bridgett noticed the storage room door slowly swing open.

Coach Igor stepped inside—and stopped dead in his tracks.

His face scrunched in immediate fury. “What the HELL is going on in he—”

He froze.

The couple snapped toward him in unison, expressions shifting from dreamy daze to sheer panic.

“C-Coach?!” Jackie stammered, wide-eyed.

Bridgett’s face turned a shade of crimson as her gaze darted between Jackie and Igor, completely lost for words.

Igor stood there, his mouth working soundlessly, like his brain had just crashed mid-sentence. T

hen, finally, he blinked—and whatever spell had been holding him in place shattered.

His face contorted in outrage. “I told them this would happen,” he growled, pulling out his phone. “You two are coming with me. Right. Now.”

Jackie and Bridgett locked eyes—one frantic, the other already calculating the next move.

“Run,” Jackie whispered.

“Run?” Bridgett echoed.

“RUN!”

Before Igor could blink, Bridgett scooped Jackie up bridal-style and bolted past him, slamming the door open and knocking the coach flat on his back with a loud thud.

They burst into the gym.

Heads turned. Jaws dropped.

“Wait—is that Jackie and Bridgett?”

“Are they—oh my ghoul, are they not wearing pants?!”

“Weren’t those the noises coming from the storage room?!”

“Is that COACH IGOR on the FLOOR?!”

The couple didn’t stop to explain. There was no explaining.

Only one thing mattered now:

Escape.

Just as they reached the hallway, the bell rang.

A tidal wave of students flooded into the corridors—only to part like the Red Sea when they saw the half-dressed couple barreling through the crowd, hotly pursued by a chorus of furious teachers.

The ghouls were posted up by the vending machines, casually chatting about weekend beach plans and who wasn’t going to look cute in seaweed green.

"I'm telling you right now, I'm bringing that new coffin-shaped floatie," Clawdeen said, twirling a strand of hair. "And if anyone punctures it, I'm throwing hands."

Draculaura giggled, sipping her cherry plasma smoothie. "Noted. No sharp objects near Clawdeen’s floatie."

Cleo rolled her eyes. "Please. I’m not swimming unless the water is imported."

But before Lagoona could clap back with a "not all of us have Cleopatra’s water bill," a commotion erupted in the distance.

Loud footsteps, frantic voices, someone yelling “STOP THEM!” with the desperation of a man whose soul had just left his body.

The ghouls turned toward the chaos.

“What the heck?” Clawdeen blinked, snapping her head toward the noise.

Down the hall came the chaos incarnate: Jackie and Bridgett in full sprint, barreling past lockers like they were Olympic-level fugitives. Well, Bridgett was sprinting—Jackie was being carried like a princess in distress.

“Is that Jackie and Bridgett?!” Draculaura asked, eyes squinting through the crowd.

“Looks like it,” Cleo deadpanned, sipping her smoothie. Then her gaze dipped lower. “OH. MY. RA—IS THAT A—?!”

Gasps erupted like popcorn in a hot cauldron.

All eyes locked on Bridgett’s wildly twitching, uh, appendage flapping freely between her legs like a cursed party streamer. There was no mistaking it.

It was practically defying physics as she sprinted, bridal-carrying Jackie like the world's thirstiest action movie hero.

“Oh my ghoul,” someone whispered. “It’s MOVING.”

The crowd reacted exactly how you'd expect a high school hallway full of hormonal monsters to react.

Phones were whipped out faster than stakes in a vampire hunter convention.

Some kids screamed. Some cheered.

A few looked horrified, others deeply impressed.

One student fainted.

Half the student body was living for the drama, the other half torn between blocking the teachers or yelling, “Free the beast!”

Bridgett didn’t flinch. She had her eyes forward. Focused. Determined. She was focused on the only thing that mattered: not getting tackled by a stampede of angry teachers.

Jackie? Redder than a fire elemental in a tanning bed.

“Why couldn’t we just wait till we got home?!” Bridgett hissed under her breath as she ran, sounding like someone who knew regret deeply and personally.

“Bro,” Clawd muttered, stunned. “I didn’t know Bridgett was packing like that.”

“Poor girl,” Robecca winced. “They’re so getting suspended.”

“Oh, they’re gonna need a lawyer, a cover story, and probably a different zip code,” Cleo said dryly, sipping her iced potion.

Toralei cackled. “Who CARES?! This is going viral before the final bell rings. Someone please send me a clip—I need this on my feed now.”

“Out of all the ways I thought today would go…” Holt said, wiping tears from his eyes. “This was not on my ghoul-darn bingo card.”

Deuce shook his head, snorting. “Impulse control. Look it up.”

Coach Igor, red in the face and wheezing, was still in the lead. “STOP THEM! SOMEBODY STOP THEM!”

Mr. Rotter stormed past a group of stunned freshmen. “GET BACK HERE! THIS IS A SCHOOL, NOT A SOAP OPERA!”

More teachers joined the chase—Kindergrubber, Flapper, even Mr. Where was trying to scale the lockers like a ninja.

It was the Monster High version of The Fast and the Furiously Inappropriate.

But then—

It happened.

Mid-chase. Mid-laugh. Mid-cell-phone-recording.

The air shifted.

Not a wind. Not a sudden drop in temperature.

Something… else.

Everything—everyone—stopped.

Not in a “wow, that’s shocking” kind of way.

In a no one is moving, no blinking, no breathing kind of way.

Conversations cut mid-word.

Laughter died mid-cackle.

Phones froze mid-record.

Hands stayed suspended in mid-air.

The only ones still moving? Jackie. Bridgett. And the teachers chasing them.

Everyone else? Frozen solid.

Mouths open. Eyes wide. Limbs stuck in awkward, lifeless poses.

The hallway was dead silent.

And then... the glow.

Soft at first. Almost unnoticeable.

But then it swelled—bright, pulsing, sickeningly sweet pink.

The students’ eyes burned with it. Rows upon rows of glowing irises, lighting up like something from a twisted candy-colored horror movie.

The couple kept going, not stopping for a second.

Igor froze, staring at the sea of glowing stares like he'd just walked into a room full of ghosts.

Rotter’s mouth dropped open. “What… the hell…”

But no one answered.

They couldn’t.

They were all staring forward now.

Every student. Unified. Watching. Breathing as one.

But inside their own minds?

It was like falling—no, being dragged—into a vat of boiling, fluorescent madness.

Not water. Not acid. Something far more invasive. Psychedelic, yes, but sentient. And hungry.

Images didn’t just flash—they clawed. Slashed through synapses like glass razors. Colors bled into each other until reality itself became a fever dream. A smear of heat and flesh and breath and noise.

For the past week, the students of Monster High hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. They thought they were dreaming.

But what they were really doing was remembering. Things they’d never seen. Things that didn’t belong to them. Visions soaked in desire so raw and skin-tight it burned. Dreams that tasted like blood and smelled like sweat and whispered in tones no living thing should use.

And now, it was boiling over.

Just sixty seconds ago, they were laughing. Cheering. Gasping

Then came the snap.

Not audible. Not visible.

But felt. Like a spinal cord folding inward.

Now they stood—locked. Trapped in meat. Their own.

Eyes wide. Lungs static. Nerves lit like fire circuits, but no will to move.

Trapped.

‘What the fuck is going on?!’

‘I can’t breathe—I can’t fucking MOVE!’

‘Why can’t I scream?!’

‘Something's in me—I feel it—I FEEL IT—’

Silence, outwardly. But their minds were shrieking.

And no one answered. Because no one could. Not anymore.

Then came the crawling. Not on skin—beneath it. Not on the outside of the skull, but nestled inside the folds of the brain, burrowing.

Thoughts that didn’t belong. Memories they’d never lived. Sensations that dripped in and coiled like centipedes.

Black. Liquid. Wrong.

The world blurred at the edges, color fading into shadow until only two shapes remained in perfect clarity:

Jackie and Bridgett.

Their bodies, flushed and slick. Their movements—ritualistic, hypnotic. Lips on necks. Hands sliding. Eyes wide, wild, alive.

The teachers were shouting. Running.

But they sounded miles away. Their presence? Meaningless.

Because something inside the students clicked.

Snap.

'You like it, don’t you?'

The voice wasn’t heard. It was felt. It slid behind the eyes and wrapped around the spine.

It didn’t ask—it told. It wasn’t a question—it was a revelation.

The voice was everywhere. Nowhere. Inside every student’s skull, whispering like silk over broken glass.

'You crave that heat. That freedom. That chaos.'

Jackie and Bridgett—gone now, out the front doors, vanished like sirens into a fog of lust and rebellion.

But the echo remained. Seared in.

‘You wear your smiles. You pretend to be “good monsters.”’

Invisible fingers slid between neural cracks. Pulling. Peeling. Unraveling the stories they told themselves.

‘But your blood knows better.’

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a diagnosis.

Flesh tightened. Teeth ground together. Pupils dilated.

'You want.'

It surged through them like a pulse—deep, black, primal.

‘You need.’

In that moment, every student felt it:

A wall come down.

Not crash. Not shatter. Dissolve.

And behind it? The truth.

Dark. Slick. Unapologetic.

Their secrets laid bare. Hunger without shame. Desire without name.

They could feel it swelling in their chests, behind their eyes, leaking down their spines.

'You can’t resist it.'

Because the voice wasn’t talking to them.

It was them.

And it had always been there.

A thousand thoughts, blistering-hot and shame-wet, flooded their minds—alien impulses wearing their faces, dreams they never had the nerve to dream, desires they'd buried so deep they thought them dead.

Now unearthed. Now blooming.

Draculaura’s knees buckled as that dream from Saturday surfaced again—unbidden, obscene.

“WHO’S YOUR DADDY, BITCH?!” he roared, his palm crashing against her raw, marked ass.

Draculaura screamed herself raw, her body a trembling mess. “YOU ARE, CLAWD!! YOU’RE MY FUCKING DADDY!!”

Her breath caught in her throat. Not from fear, but from that trembling pulse between her legs, that ache that made her hate herself even as it made her hungry.

Frankie tried—tried—to keep her head clear, but her limbs wouldn’t answer.

“Say it,” Holt hissed, voice vibrating with barely contained fire. “Say it or so help me, I’ll slap you so hard your fucking kids’ll come out branded.”

Tears stung her eyes. Her body shook. And yet her cunt was throbbing, needy and wet and begging for more.

“I—” she gasped. “I’m... a filthy fucking slut.”

“LOUDER.”

She lost it.

“YES!” she shrieked, all dignity gone, voice cracked and wild. “I’M A FILTHY FUCKING SLUT!”

It played again, frame by agonizing frame, licking at the edges of her sanity.

She couldn’t fight the thoughts—they weren’t thoughts anymore. They were commands.

She was a puppet. And something deep, something ancient, something wet and writhing had hold of the strings.

Venus gagged on her own breath as her dream rewound, replayed.

“Fuck—yes,” she hissed, voice shaking. “Just like that. Lick me, my sweet little pet.”

Robecca obeyed without pause. Her lips sealed around her mistress’s clit, her tongue stroking in slow, methodical circles, building the rhythm that made Venus tremble.

Every flick, every suction, was perfectly tuned.

Venus’s body tightened, her breath coming in staggered gasps as her free hand gripped Robecca’s hair, anchoring her.

“That’s it,” she moaned. “Oh—fuck—that’s it…”

Her stomach twisted. But her thighs squeezed together.

There was a part of her that wanted it back. And that part was rising.

It didn’t just happen to one or two. It was everyone.

The entire student body stood paralyzed—each mind a screen, each screen a montage of perversion. Images behind the eyes. Bodies bent and glistening. Tongues moving where words should be. Moans where thoughts should go.

‘You want it too, don’t you?’ the voice asked.

It wasn’t curious. It was confident.

‘Tired of pretending you’re better than your urges?’

The voice didn't echo. It coiled. Around their spines. Inside their bones.

Invisible fingers pried into their heads, rooting through dreams, pulling fantasies like dirty secrets from a locked drawer and hanging them up like art.

A wave hit them.

Need. Hunger. Itch.

A flood of wanting so intense it felt like drowning in syrup and fire.

‘I h-have to stay in c-control—’

‘But it f-feels… s-so… good…’

The voice chuckled. Low. Liquid.

‘That’s it,’ it whispered, sin dripping from every syllable. ‘Let it consume you. Let me in. Let go.’

Thoughts spiraled out, louder, hotter, filthier.

They saw each other differently now. No longer friends. No longer peers.

Just skin. Heat.

Flesh to be touched. Mouths to be used.

Sweat-soaked fantasies of locker room shadows, of classroom desks, of crawling into each other like animals and gods.

One image led to another. Then another.

Each more depraved than the last. Each darker, deeper. Beautiful in how wrong it felt.

And they couldn’t even scream.

Their jaws locked. Their throats clenched. Their lungs trembled.

They just watched. Inside their own skulls. As their innocence peeled off like old skin.

As they became something new. Something primal. Something ruined.

‘SOMEONE HELP!’

“I CAN FEEL MY BRAIN MELTING!”

‘GOD—HELP—HELP ME!’

The voice came back. Tender. Warm. Fatherly. Like something sweet spooned into a bleeding mouth.

‘Don’t worry.’

‘It’ll all be over soon.’

There was a pause.

A breath. A heartbeat.

Then:

‘All you have to do is...’

It licked the word.

‘Give in.’

Everything that made them them—the names they clung to, the memories they used to anchor themselves, the shaky scaffolds of morality and identity they’d spent years building—was being stripped away.

Not torn. Peeled. Gently. Lovingly. Layer by layer, slow and wet, like skin after scalding.

And beneath it?

Something primal. Something wet and twitching and unformed. A feral thing that hissed in the back of the brain. There was no humanity under the mask. No soul waiting to be preserved.

Just impulse. Just need.

They weren’t dying. They were disintegrating.

Inside their skulls, their minds thrashed like wild animals in too-small cages. Screaming against the bars, clawing for air, for space. But the walls kept shrinking.

And worse—somewhere, somehow—they liked it.

Every thought betrayed them. Language dissolved. Emotions warped.

Colors pulsed that didn’t exist in nature.

Feelings rose that had no name, no shape, just hunger and heat and wrongness.

“No—no no no—this isn’t me!”

‘PLEASE, STOP! Please, I’m not like this—I swear—I swear I’m not like this—’

‘SOMEBODY! HELP ME!’

‘PLEASE—PLEASE—FUCKING HELP!’

But there was no answer.

Just a sound.

A hum.

Low and rich, the kind of sound a mother makes to soothe a nursing child… or a spider, content in the center of its web.

‘You were never who you thought you were.’

The words didn’t echo. They settled. Into bones. Into tissue. Into the back of the throat.

The first cracks came like whispers. A stray thought that didn’t belong. A yes where a never had lived.

A sudden ache to touch. To taste. To hurt.

‘Now it’s time to become who you truly are.’

They didn’t resist.

They couldn’t.

Not because they gave up—but because what was left of them didn’t want to fight anymore.

Their thoughts melted like sugar in boiling water. Sweet at first. Then gone.

‘HELPPPPPPPPP!’

‘AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH—’

‘MAKE IT STOP!’

‘FUCKFUCKFUCK—’

But help wasn’t coming. There was no one left to call.

Every student in Monster High was sucked inward, downward, into some vast and invisible drain at the bottom of a black ocean.

They weren’t drowning.

They were being stripped. Ideas flayed. Memories picked apart. Their sense of self fragmenting into a thousand shimmering shards, then slipping into the dark like pearls down a drain.

They screamed.

They screamed until they couldn't remember why they were screaming.

Some did it with frozen mouths, wide and wet but silent.

Some screamed in total silence, inside the folds of their brains, with such force it should have shattered glass.

And then…Silence.

No bang. No snap. No mercy.

Just a slow hush.

Like oil sinking into dirt.

“There we go,” the voice cooed—sweet, soft, maternal. Like a mother bandaging a wound that never should’ve been there. “All better now.”

And just like that, it ended.

The pink haze faded. The glow snuffed out.

Reality stitched itself back together.

As if the last few minutes of complete mental rupture had never happened.

One by one, the students blinked as if they’d just woken from a short nap. A few yawned. Some stretched. Others rubbed their eyes like nothing was out of place—like their minds hadn’t just been turned inside out and fed back to them with a smile.

Like they hadn’t just been undone.

They just... carried on.

Teachers burst back through the entrance doors, out of breath, having given up chasing the half-naked couple that had started the chaos.

Rotter was first in, sweating and fuming, ready to bark orders—until he saw the crowd.

Dozens of students. Talking. Smiling. Grabbing backpacks, fixing hair, asking who was coming over later. No fear. No screaming. No panic.

Nothing.

Just noise. Like nothing had happened.

“…Hey, hey, are you okay?” Rotter asked, grabbing the shoulder of a student who’d been mid-laugh seconds ago—before everything froze.

“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine,” the kid replied, blinking. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Rotter opened his mouth, then shut it. The student had already turned away, laughing as he linked hands with his girlfriend.

Ms. Flapper approached another student, her voice strained. “Darling, you looked like you were about to faint. You are sure you’re feeling alright?”

“I feel great!” the girl beamed. “Honestly... better than ever.”

Flapper didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

None of them could.

Because the students looked perfectly fine.

Too fine.

Nurse Hatchetson shoved into the hallway, gripping a walkie in one hand and a megaphone in the other, her voice cutting like steel.

“Attention, students!” she barked. “Before you leave for the day, you are to report to the gymnasium for immediate medical evaluations. This is non-negotiable.”

Silence.

Then—

“Oh, relax, old lady!” Cleo shouted, flipping her hair, her tone brattier than usual. “We’re fineeeeeee. Can’t you see that?”

Lockers slammed. Backpacks zipped. The halls flooded with movement—arms around waists, whispered jokes, hands brushing lower backs.

All of it casual. Intimate. Like boundaries had evaporated.

“So, Clawd…” Draculaura murmured, sidling up to her boyfriend with a glint in her eye, “…my dad’s out of town tonight. Wanna come over and... keep me company?”

Clawd didn’t say a word.

He just growled softly, low in his throat.

Draculaura’s smile deepened, playful and dangerous.

Heath tried to approach Abbey, only to watch her silently skate away on a trail of frost without a word.

“Give her some time,” Jinafire said, suddenly at his side, her tone unnervingly gentle. “She’ll come around. Until then...”

Her fingers grazed his arm.

“…you’ve still got me.”

Heath gave a tired smile. “Thanks, Jinafire.”

As he turned to go, he didn’t see the slow, wicked curl of her lips behind him.

Across the hall, Frankie Stein clutched her books to her chest, her usual spark dimmed.

“Hey Frankie!” Cleo called, locked arm-in-arm with Deuce. “Don’t forget the beach tomorrow!”

“I—I won’t,” Frankie stammered, her voice smaller than usual.

She looked... shy. Like her wiring had shorted out.

And all the while, across the hallways, phones buzzed.

A single text was spreading.

"Netflix and chill?"

Every student who saw it smiled just a little too wide.

The teachers stood frozen. Watching. Helpless.

Kindergrubber whispered something in German. None of them understood, but the tone said enough.

“This ain’t right,” Rotter muttered.

“No,” Flapper agreed. “It isn't. But they don’t even know anything happened.”

“They’re walking out like nothing’s changed,” Mr. Where added, voice hoarse.

But something had.

They didn’t know what it was. They couldn’t prove it.

But they felt it.

Right down to their bones.

"And to think..." Mr. Where muttered, wiping sweat from his bandages. “No one had ever had sex in Monster High before.”

A long pause.

“Until today.”

And that was the moment—quiet, unacknowledged—when Monster High finally crossed a line that no one would redraw.

Innocence didn’t shatter. It melted.

Slowly. Invisibly. Like sugar in poison.

The spell was cast. The change had already taken root.

And none of them…

Not one…

Would ever be the same again.

(Hackington’s Lab – 9:00 PM)

Hackington looked like he’d seen his worst fear crawl out from under the floorboards and smile.

He’d spent the entire day studying the gas sample—his one shot at understanding what was happening to the students. When his old colleague had handed it over, he'd thrown himself into analysis: spectrography, chemical breakdowns, elemental tracing, even magical filtration.

Nothing.

It was maddening.

He ran the data again. Then again. Still nothing. No toxins. No pheromones. No magical residue. On paper, it was harmless.

But harmless gases didn’t rip apart a school's mental foundation.

And then he heard what happened in the halls today.

How the students changed.

The laughter. The stares. The touching.

The freeze.

Hackington’s pulse hadn’t stopped racing since.

He tried again. More scans. More charts. More spellwork. He even risked a drop of his own blood in the containment seal, desperate for a reaction.

Still. Nothing.

“It doesn’t make any bloody sense,” he muttered to himself, the only sound in the lab besides the low hum of the equipment. “I've done everything. Everything. And it’s like it’s not even real.”

He slumped into his chair, the tension in his shoulders finally collapsing. His face buried in his hands.

His mind was spiraling.

Bloodgood was gone. The staff were scattered. The students… weren’t themselves.

And he had no name. No source. No cure.

Just silence.

A growing silence.

And behind it, he could almost feel something watching.

Feeding.

“If we can’t even figure out what it is,” he whispered, staring into the empty corner of the room, “then how the hell are we supposed to stop it?”

His voice didn’t echo.

It just... died.

Hackington leaned back, staring at the ceiling. His mind was blank. Exhausted. Hollowed.

Outside, the clock tower struck nine.

Inside, the gas sample remained sealed in glass—still, faintly pink, and completely unremarkable.

But if you listened close…

For just a second...

It almost sounded like it was breathing.

To Be Continued.

Notes:

What do you think will happen next?
How do y'all like this rewrite so far?

Chapter 8: The Beach Day

Summary:

The ghouls of Monster High have a beach day.

Things get naughty stupid fast.

Meanwhile, Heath finally decides to take matters into his own hands, which ends poorly for him.

Notes:

Hope you enjoy this naughty beach day!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(Date: Saturday, October 7th)

“H-Harder, Holt—ahhh!” Her voice cracked into a breathy moan, her nails raking along his back.

“Damn, Frankie,” he growled into her ear, thrusting just deep enough to make her hips twitch. “I never knew you were this much of a freak.”

She laughed through a gasp, breath hitching as his rhythm pressed her higher. “Y-Yeah… keep going… I-I’m so c-close—”

“You really want it?” he teased, slowing just enough to make her whimper.

Her head tipped back against the floor, hair sticking to her damp neck. “Y-yes… p-please—”

“Alright then…” his mouth brushed her jaw, voice a low command, “beg for it.”

Her eyes widened, a blush flooding her cheeks. “W-what?”

“You heard me, Frankie. Beg for my cock.” His grip on her hips tightened, holding her just out of reach of the friction she craved.

Her breath came fast and shaky. “Pl-please, H-Holt… p-please, s-stick your c-cock in my p-pussy—”

He cocked his head, feigning hesitation. “Are you sure? You can take it back.”

“N-No!” Her voice broke on the word, desperation spilling into it. “Please, Holt—p-please fuck my b-brains out!”

“Wish granted… slut,” he muttered against her mouth before driving into her, the sudden fullness wrenching a loud, helpless cry from her throat.

“Ahhh—yes! Yes! Just like that—right there, I’m—AHHHHHHHHHH!”

(Gloom Beach – 8:00 AM)

Frankie shot awake with a small gasp, her hand clamping over her mouth. Her cheeks burned.

She’d only drifted off for a minute—maybe less—but the dream had been vivid. Far too vivid.

Her and Holt.

Skin, heat, breath.

It wasn’t the first time this week. In fact, it was all she’d been dreaming about lately.

She wasn’t alone. Ever since last Friday, every student at Monster High seemed caught in the same loop—dreams that ranged from flirty to filthy, harmless crushes turning into… more.

No one talked about it openly, but the rumors were everywhere.

And then Friday really happened.

One second, the halls had been chaos—teachers chasing the half-naked Jackie and Bridgett while everyone laughed, shouted, and recorded on their phones.

The next, the noise had been cut.

Frozen bodies. Silent mouths. Every single person locked in place, eyes wide but unblinking.

The memory past that point was a smear, like a painting left out in the rain.

She only remembered… walking away.

As if nothing had happened.

But things had changed.

Draculaura’s voice now dripped with teasing sweetness. Cleo’s tone had sharpened into something bratty. Clawd’s replies were little more than low, animal growls.

And Frankie… felt hollow.

Like someone had scooped out the spark that made her her.

Still, everyone insisted life was back to normal.

“Frankie, darling?”

She blinked, pulled from her thoughts. The car had stopped.

“We’re here,” her dad said, smiling warmly from the driver’s seat.

Frankie nodded, grabbing her beach bag—umbrella, sunglasses, sunscreen, the works.

“Let me know when you’re ready to pack up,” he said, voice calm. “Have fun, dear.”

She waved goodbye, watching the car roll away before turning toward the sand.

The salty air hit her lungs, and she took a long breath.

Maybe today would clear her head.

Maybe the sun and waves would push away the memory of that dream.

Frankie stepped onto the sand, the early morning sun already warm on her skin. The ocean glittered like a giant, rippling sheet of glass, and the salty breeze carried the faint sound of seagulls squabbling over breakfast.

She spotted them right away—a cluster of familiar umbrellas and towels set up near the water.

Draculaura was adjusting her parasol, Cleo was stretched out on a lounge chair like royalty, Ghoulia was already setting up a cooler full of snacks, Lagoona was waxing her surfboard, Operetta was fiddling with her portable speaker, and Clawdeen was lounging back against a beach bag with her shades on.

Frankie waved, jogging over.

“Hey, guys!” she called out.

“Frankie!” Draculaura beamed, running up to give her a quick hug.

“About time you showed up,” Cleo teased, tilting her sunglasses down to look her over. “At least you look cute.”

Ghoulia let out a casual zombie drawl, tossing her a soda.

“G’day, mate!” Lagoona grinned, brushing sand off her hands. “Perfect day for it, huh?”

“Morning, sugar,” Operetta said, tipping her cowgirl hat.

Frankie turned to Clawdeen, smiling. “Hey, Clawdeen!”

The werewolf lifted her chin slightly. “Sup.”

Frankie blinked. “...Just ‘sup’? No ‘hey girl, how’s it going’ or ‘you look electric today’?”

Draculaura shook her head. “She’s barely said a word all morning. Don’t know what’s up with her.”

Frankie lowered her voice. “This got anything to do with Toralei?”

Draculaura just shrugged, adjusting her parasol again.

Frankie let it go for now and looked around. “Wait… is it just us?”

“Yeah,” Lagoona said, leaning on her surfboard. “Invited a bunch o’ mates, but everyone else said they were ‘busy runnin’ errands.’” She put air quotes around the last words.

Operetta gave a small laugh. “Yeah, called Spectra, Scarah, and Kiyomi myself. Every single one of ‘em said they were ‘busy’ and hung up right quick. Didn’t even give me a chance to say bye.”

“What about Abbey?” Frankie asked.

“Didn’t answer,” Cleo said simply. “So I’m assuming she’s sick. Which is fine—more beach space for us.”

“Guess so.” Frankie smiled. “Well, we’ve got enough to have fun.”

And with that, their beach day began.

(Burns Residence – 9:00 AM)

“Babe, just tell me the truth!”

“Nyet, Heath. It’s better if you didn’t know.”

“Abbey, I love you. I’d do anything for you. But you’re scaring me.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“If you’re fine, then please… tell me what’s wrong.”

Silence.

“Goodbye.”

“ABBEY, WAI—”

CLICK.

The call cut off.

Heath stared at his phone for a beat, his grip tightening—then hurled it to the floor.

“That’s it.”

He yanked on clothes in a rush, fire practically in his veins, and barreled down the stairs.

This whole week, Abbey had been… wrong. Always tired. Always sweaty. Always somewhere far away in her head. She wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t kiss him, wouldn’t even look at him for more than a second.

And Heath had tried—really tried. Hugs. Compliments. Bringing her food. Offering to hang out, to have a moment alone. Every time, she shut him down.

Yesterday, she’d literally picked him up and set him aside like a piece of furniture when he confronted her. Didn’t even speak to him when they left school.

Now? He was done.

“Heath, where are you going?” his mom asked, catching sight of him storming past.

“Girlfriend’s place,” he shot back, shoving on his sneakers. “Be back soon.”

“Don’t you want breakfast first?” his dad said, motioning to the spread on the table—eggs, pancakes, bacon—all of which Jackson was already demolishing.

“Save me a plate!” Heath called over his shoulder, already yanking the door open.

His parents exchanged a look. Jackson just shrugged, mouth full.

Outside, Heath hit the driveway, fists blazing to life. A burst of flame lifted him off the ground, propelling him toward Bloodgood’s residence.

She was out of the country. No one would be there to stop him from getting answers.

What Heath didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that he wouldn’t be coming home any time soon.

In fact, he wouldn’t be back until midnight.

(Gloom Beach - 10:00 AM)

The day had been perfect so far—sun, sand, and no drama.

Lagoona, Frankie, and Ghoulia started building a massive sandcastle near the tide line, while Cleo, of course, constructed her own “royal palace” several feet away.

Before long, it turned into a competition, complete with Operetta announcing each team’s progress like a sports commentator.

Draculaura, not wanting to get sandy, appointed herself the judge, sipping fruit juice from a coconut while making “serious” notes.

Later on, Lagoona took Frankie out on a surfboard, coaching her on how to paddle and balance. Frankie toppled into the water more times than she could count, coming up with seaweed in her hair and laughing so hard she could barely climb back on.

By 9:30, Operetta hooked up her portable speaker and blasted upbeat rockabilly mixed with summer pop.

Soon, Draculaura and Frankie were dancing barefoot in the sand, while Cleo tapped her foot from her lounge chair, pretending she wasn’t enjoying it. Even Clawdeen cracked a grin when Ghoulia did a zombie-shuffle dance mid-song.

Now, the ghouls were sprawled out in their lounge chairs, sunglasses on, toes buried in warm sand, watching the waves curl and crash.

“It’s not even noon and today’s already more fun than ranch on pizza,” Operetta sighed, fanning herself with her hat.

“Mmm. Pizza,” Lagoona purred. “We should grab some later—maybe hit that new place down on Fifth.”

“Agreed,” Cleo said lazily, stretching her legs.

“Yeah, but I’m bored now,” Frankie groaned, tossing her head back. “We’ve still got hours to kill before anyone’s ready to leave.”

“I’m with Frankie,” Draculaura said, flipping her hair dramatically. “This was fun, but I need a little more… excitement.”

Cleo’s lips curled into a slow smirk. “Funny you should say that…”

They all turned to watch as she leaned down and dug into her oversized beach bag. Bottles of sunscreen and a silk wrap clattered to the side as she rummaged.

Her hand froze. Her smirk deepened.

“Bingo.”

When she pulled her hand out, she was holding two massive bottles of Jack Daniel’s.

Even Clawdeen looked up from her phone and said flatly, “What. The. Hell?”

The group exploded into overlapping reactions.

“OH. MY. GHOUL,” Draculaura gasped, clutching her chest. “You brought those?!”

“Cleo!” Lagoona laughed in disbelief. “You bloody legend!”

Frankie’s eyes went wide. “Wait—wait—how did you even buy alcohol? Don’t you need, like… a fake ID or something?”

Cleo casually began unscrewing a cap. “I have one, but I didn’t even need it. Walked in, flashed an amulet, and the clerk sold it to me without blinking.”

Operetta shook her head with a low chuckle. “Sometimes it’s real nice bein’ a monster.”

Cleo pulled out a sleeve of plastic cups like this was the most normal thing in the world. “So… you in?”

Frankie held up her hands. “Okay, hold on. Are we really doing this? I mean, yeah, we’re seniors, but this is—”

“Sign me the F up!” Lagoona interrupted, already pouring herself a glass.

“That’s the spirit,” Cleo grinned.

Draculaura took a cup with a wicked little smile. “Ohhh, this is going to make the rest of the day way more fun.”

Operetta shrugged, taking hers. “Guess I’ll be the designated singer when y’all start embarrassing yourselves.”

Clawdeen took a cup too, mumbling only, “Why not?” before knocking half of it back in one go.

Frankie looked from one friend to the next, her voice lowering. “You guys… if we get caught—”

“Then we’ll deal with it,” Cleo said, pouring herself a generous amount. “But right now? We’re at the beach. We’re young. We’re hot. And we’re gonna have fun.”

One by one, they toasted.

Frankie sat frozen in her chair, watching them drink.

In less than a minute, the bottles were making rounds, laughter was getting louder, and Draculaura was already teasing Operetta about singing “something dirty.”

Frankie pressed her lips together. The sun was still shining. The waves were still rolling in. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe—just maybe—they were crossing a line.

She looked at her friends again—laughing, drinking, carefree—and all she could think was:

'How did we get here?'

(Bloodgood’s Residence – 10:30 AM)

Heath touched down on the front lawn, flames flickering at his heels before fading out.

As he walked up the path, his mind spun through a dozen possibilities—each one ending with Abbey back in his arms where she belonged.

Maybe she was sick. Maybe she was stressed. Maybe there was something else she wasn’t ready to talk about.

It wasn’t cheating. Not his Abbey.

But this? The cold distance, the dodged calls, the way she wouldn’t even touch him anymore—it wasn’t right.

He reached for the doorbell… then stopped.

If she knew it was him, she’d probably ignore it.

So, he went for plan B.

Circling the house, he scanned for an opening—and found one. A window, latched but unlocked. One quick flick of heat and the lock warped away. He slid it open and climbed inside.

The house was silent except for the faint hiss of running water somewhere upstairs.

He moved carefully down the hall, every step measured, until he reached Abbey’s bedroom.

He pushed the door open.

Nothing.

The bed was neatly made. Her dresser, spotless. He’d been in here dozens of times—nothing was out of place.

The sound of water was louder now, coming from the bathroom.

Then… a new sound layered over it.

Low. Breathless.

Moaning.

Heath froze. His stomach knotted.

“Is she…” The thought clawed at his brain, but he shoved it away.

No. She would never cheat. Not Abbey.

"But then why—"

He crept to the bathroom door, heart pounding in his ears.

The moans grew louder. Softer. Stranger.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Slowly, silently, he eased the door open just enough to see inside—

And his eyes went wide.

The glass of the shower was just clear enough to make out every detail inside. Steam curled along its surface, beads of water slipping downward, but Heath’s gaze locked instantly on the figure within.

Abbey.

She wasn’t moaning under the weight of some stranger.
She wasn’t being fucked at all.

She was… jerking off.

Heath froze, breath caught in his throat, eyes widening as the sight came into sharp, undeniable focus—Abbey’s long, veiny, massive cock jutting up between her thighs, the heavy shaft glistening in the hot mist as her fist worked it with a slow, relentless rhythm.

Her head tipped back, eyes closed, lips parting with soft sounds as she pushed herself deep into a black silicone sleeve—long, thick, and molded for obscene depth.

Each thrust sent her hips forward, muscles tensing, water streaming over her sculpted form.

Shock didn’t even begin to cover it. Heath was floored, rooted to the spot, his pulse thundering in his ears.

His eyes refused to move away, as if the sight had glued them in place.

All week, he’d been puzzling over her strange behavior. Theories had swirled through his mind—blackmail, memory loss, tragedy, even possession.

Possession. Yeah, right.

The truth was so much simpler. So much heavier. Abbey had a dick. A big one.

He turned on instinct, palms pressing against his temples as though he could squeeze the revelation into order.

“It all makes sense now,” he muttered under his breath, pacing in place. “The way she’s been acting this week… the stuff Clawdeen said… that poke I feel when I hug her—oh fuck, this explains everything.”

He was so wrapped in thought, he didn’t notice how loud his voice had gotten.

Didn’t hear the water shut off.

What he did notice was the sudden cold weight of a hand clamping down on his shoulder.

He spun around—only to come face-to-face with Abbey herself, dripping wet, completely naked, steam curling off her pale skin.

Her cock hung heavy between them, impossible to ignore, and if she’d been intimidating before, she was downright terrifying now.

“Babe, I can expla—”

A single cold finger pressed against his lips, silencing the words.

“Step inside,” she said, calm but leaving no room for refusal.

Her grip was firm as she guided him backward into the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind them, the sound sharp in the foggy air.

(Gloom Beach – 10:40 AM)

The ghouls were wasted.

Every single one of them—except Frankie—had knocked back enough Jack Daniel’s to put a football team to sleep, and it was starting to show in the sloppiest ways possible.

Cleo sat cross-legged in the sand, giggling at absolutely nothing while Lagoona leaned against her shoulder, mumbling about how warm she felt.

Clawdeen was low-key growling in between swigs, while Draculaura kept leaning over to playfully bite her neck, leaving faint lipstick smudges on her fur.

On the other side, Ghoulia and Operetta had abandoned the idea of a “cute sandcastle” and were now building what looked like a sand pyramid with boobs, with Operetta half-singing half-slurring a dirty blues number while Ghoulia mumbled along in zombie-speak.

Frankie watched them all with a growing pit in her stomach.

They weren’t just tipsy—they were on the edge of wild.

And at Gloom Beach, where Scary Murphy was basically the bogeyman with a clipboard, getting caught drunk and stupid could mean trouble for everyone.

She leaned forward in her chair. “Um, ghouls, I think we should maybe slow—”

“LET’S PLAY TRUTH OR DARE!” Cleo cut in, her voice shooting up an octave. “Dirty edition!”

The group erupted into cheers like it was the best idea ever conceived, knocking back what was left in their cups.

Frankie blinked. “Wait, what? Dirty—?”

“Oh, come on, Frankie,” Lagoona said, draping an arm across Frankie’s shoulders with alcohol-heavy breath. “Don’t be such a party pooper.”

“Yeah,” Draculaura chimed in, baring her fangs in a grin. “It’s not like we’ll do anything stupid.”

“Besides,” Operetta added, one brow raised, “I can tell from the way some o’ y’all were limpin’ earlier that you’ve already been up to somethin’.”

Frankie frowned. “Wait, limping? Who was limping?”

Operetta’s gaze slid—very pointedly—to Cleo and Draculaura.

Both girls froze, then looked away at the exact same time, faces flushing.

“We… have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cleo said quickly, cheeks pink as she reached for her cup.

“Mm-hm,” Operetta said, smirking, “sure you don’t.”

Lagoona started chanting, “Frankie, Frankie, Frankie,” tapping her cup against Frankie’s knee like a drum.

“Ugh…” Frankie rubbed her temples. “Fine. But I’m not doing anything stupid!”

“That’s the spirit!” Clawdeen suddenly barked, pulling Frankie into a bear hug so tight it nearly knocked her chair over.

Somewhere behind them, Cleo was already digging in her bag for a “truth or dare” prop, and Frankie had the sinking feeling she’d just made a huge mistake.

"Alright, let’s start with... Ghoulia," Cleo said, twirling her cup before turning toward the zombie. "Truth or dare?"

Ghoulia gave a groggy groan, sounding more like a foghorn than a word.

"Truth? Perfect." Cleo leaned forward, grinning like she was about to spill tea. "What’s the naughtiest thing you’ve ever done in your life?"

Ghoulia blinked slowly, then rattled off something in rapid zombie-speak, her hands gesturing wildly as if to punctuate the juiciest parts.

Frankie’s eyes darted around. Everyone else looked impressed, even a little shocked. Frankie? She was busy quietly pulling out her phone under her towel, typing “Zombie language translator” into the search bar.

"Ohhh, okay..." Cleo said after Ghoulia finished, leaning back with raised brows. "Not too wild, but still impressive. Points for creativity."

Frankie’s jaw dropped a little. That didn’t sound ‘not wild’ at all, she thought. Her translator app was still loading.

"Next!" Lagoona turned to Draculaura, eyes glittering with mischief. "Truth or dare, mate?"

"Truth," Draculaura said, resting her chin in her hands.

"Alright..." Lagoona tapped her chin, pretending to think hard. "What were you up to last night?"

Draculaura hesitated for a second. "Well, I was out running errands."

Lagoona’s smirk widened. "Oh really? Cause yesterday, I distinctly overheard you asking Clawd if he wanted to ‘keep you company’ while your dad was away."

The group gasped so loudly it turned heads from other beachgoers.

Clawdeen’s chair nearly toppled over as she shot upright. "You did what?!"

Draculaura froze like a deer in headlights. "I—uh—That’s not what it sounds like!"

"Uh-huh." Lagoona’s tone dripped with mock innocence. "And what does it sound like then?"

Frankie sat stiffly in her chair, phone now open to a different tab: Urban Dictionary.

She typed in “keep you company” and immediately slammed her hand over the screen, eyes going wide.

'Oh my god…' she thought. 'I did NOT need to know that.'

"Moving on!" Draculaura said quickly, her cheeks pink. "Operetta, truth or dare?"

"Dare," Operetta said without hesitation, a lazy grin spreading across her face.

Draculaura’s smirk was quick and dangerous. "I dare you to tell everyone where you were Friday night."

The group ooohed, leaning closer.

Operetta chuckled under her breath. "Sugar, if I told y’all, half of you would need a cold shower and the other half would call me a sinner."

Frankie’s phone was already in her lap again. 'Cold shower meaning… why would—oh.'

She clicked another search result and instantly regretted it.

Cleo laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. "Well, at least you’re not denying it."

"Never said I would," Operetta winked.

Frankie’s face was burning now. 'Why is everyone here speaking in code like they all graduated from some secret dirty slang academy?'

"Alright, alright, my turn," Cleo said, eyes scanning the circle before landing on Frankie.

Frankie froze. "Wait, me?!"

Cleo grinned like a cat about to pounce. "Truth or dare, sparks?"

Frankie swallowed hard. "Uh… truth."

Cleo’s grin widened into something downright predatory. "Alright, have you been up to anything… naughty lately?"

Frankie blinked. "Naughty? You mean like… pulling a prank on someone naughty?"

The circle erupted in laughter.

"No, no, no," Cleo said, waving her hand. "I’m talking about… you know…" She tilted her head, raising her brows like the meaning should be obvious.

Frankie tilted her head right back. "…I have no clue what you’re talking about."

"Like…" Cleo glanced around, looking for help. "You haven’t done anything?"

Frankie shook her head earnestly. "No. Sorry."

The ghouls all just… stared for a moment, as if trying to process the fact that someone among them had the purity level of a preschool sticker chart.

"Wow," Lagoona muttered under her breath. "She’s like, untouched snow."

"Alright, moving on," Draculaura said, still smirking. "Cleo, truth or dare?"

"Truth," Cleo said without hesitation.

"Okay then," Operetta said with a sly grin. "What about you? Been up to anything naughty lately?"

Cleo’s smirk stayed put. "Let’s just say… Deuce and I may or may not have had some fun last night."

The ghouls whistled and laughed knowingly. Frankie just blinked again, making a mental note to also Google “fun” later because clearly it had some secret meaning she didn’t know.

"Alright, Lagoona," Cleo said, turning toward her. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth." Lagoona gave a cheeky smile.

"Same question," Cleo pressed. "Been up to anything?"

Lagoona’s smile turned more mysterious. "Maybe… maybe not."

And that was all she said.

The group howled with curiosity, but Lagoona only leaned back in her chair, enjoying their frustration.

“Alright, my turn to pick,” Lagoona said, glancing at Operetta. “Truth or dare, mate?”

Operetta’s grin was instant. “Dare, sugar.”

Lagoona’s eyes lit up. “Call Scarah and tell her you’re psychic and know what color underwear she’s wearing.”

The group howled. Operetta was already dialing before Frankie could even process how bizarre that sentence was.

The phone rang once. Twice. Then—

“’Ello?” Scarah’s voice came through.

Operetta dropped her tone to a fake mystic drawl. “Scarrrrah… this is Madame Operetta, psychic to the stars. I seeee… that you’re wearin’ green underwear right now.”

There was a pause. Then a gasp.

“How the hell did you—”

CLICK.

The group exploded into uncontrollable laughter.

Frankie just sat there clutching her cup of soda like a lifeline. Underwear? Why are we talking about underwear? She made a mental note to never answer a call from Operetta again.

“Alright, my turn,” Draculaura said through her giggles. “Frankie, dare.”

Frankie’s eyes widened. “Oh no. No, no, no. Truth.”

“Chicken,” Clawdeen teased.

Frankie folded her arms. “Fine. Dare.”

Draculaura grinned like she’d just been handed Christmas morning on a platter. “I dare you to… text Holt and say you can’t stop thinking about him.”

Frankie’s jaw dropped. “WHAT? No! That’s— That’s—”

She fumbled her words while the others chanted, “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

“I—ugh—fine,” she muttered, quickly typing it out before she could lose her nerve. She hit send, shoved her phone away, and prayed it would spontaneously combust before Holt replied.

“Okay, Frankie, you pick now,” Cleo said, smirking.

Frankie scanned the group nervously. “…Ghoulia, truth or dare?”

Ghoulia moaned out lazily.

Frankie bit her lip, trying to think of something harmless. “Um… make a sand angel?”

“BOOO!” Cleo yelled. “Lame!”

“Alright, alright,” Operetta said. “Ghoulia, I dare you to flash the lifeguard.”

Frankie nearly choked on her drink. “WHAT?!”

Ghoulia didn’t even hesitate—she was halfway to the shoreline before Frankie could sputter out a protest.

The lifeguard’s stunned face said it all.

The game only got more ridiculous from there—dirty questions Frankie pretended to understand, whispered dares that made everyone gasp, and more prank calls, including Lagoona calling a pizza place to ask if “extra sausage” was a euphemism.

By the time the sun was above it's peak, Frankie was slumped in her chair, staring out at the water, wondering why she hadn’t just stayed home with a book.

At least books didn’t talk about underwear colors or dare her to text her boyfriends.

(Scarah’s House – 11:00 AM)

CLICK.

The call cut before Scarah could get a word in, leaving the banshee blinking at the phone in her hand.

“How in the bloody name o’ shite did she know about me knickers?” she muttered, brow furrowing.

Sure, Operetta had a few nifty tricks, but mind-readin’ wasn’t one of them.

After a beat, she shrugged, a wicked smile creeping across her lips. “Ah well… maybe she just guessed.”

The phone landed on the couch with a dull thunk as Scarah turned back to Invisi-Billy.

His pants and beanie lay abandoned in a heap, his pale skin patterned with deep green kiss marks from jaw to collarbone and lower still. Scarah’s hands were planted firm on his chest, nails biting into him like claws.

“Now, where were we, love?” she purred, voice low and edged with mischief before grabbing him and tossing him flat onto the rug.

THUD.

Billy gasped, his heartbeat quickening as Scarah stalked toward him, that grin on her face equal parts hunger and danger.

“Scarah, please, I’m so—”

A cold finger pressed to his lips, shutting him up.

“Should’ve thought twice ‘fore lettin’ yer filthy wee thoughts slip in front o’ a telepath,” she said, leaning close so her breath ghosted over his cheek, Irish accent curling around every syllable. “Now I’m gonna punish ye proper.”

She spun on her heel, thumbs hooking in the waistband of her jeans, and with a rough yank ripped the back seam apart.

Pale, perfect flesh spilled into view, her bare ass swaying just inches from his face.

“Yer lucky I got me mam out o’ the house without raisin’ a single eyebrow,” she said, shuffling closer until the curve of her backside hovered over him. “Now, open that gob, freak.”

Her hips dropped, her weight pressing down, cheeks enveloping his face until his world was nothing but heat, pressure, and her scent—sharp, intoxicating, and utterly inescapable. Billy kicked, muffled sounds vibrating against her skin, but Scarah only ground down harder, rocking against him like a throne built just for her.

When his struggles eased, the first tentative flick of his tongue made her hum deep in her throat.

“Tha’s it… good lad,” she drawled, lifting off him just enough to crawl forward and straddle his hips.

She leaned toward his cock—and the musky, unwashed scent hit her like a wall. She drew back with a laugh, pinching her nose.

“Sweet shite, did ye even bother washin’ this mornin’?”

Billy’s eyes widened, shame flushing his cheeks, but Scarah’s disgust twisted quickly into something far darker.

“Y’know what? Even better.”

Her mouth descended, tongue dragging slow and wet along every ridge and vein, deliberately lapping up the taste of him with exaggerated moans.

Her mental voice slipped into his mind, sultry and merciless:

'Since ye want to be a dirty boy so bad… ye’re gonna get treated like one.'

Billy’s hips twitched helplessly, a low, defeated moan muffled against her ass as she forced him to keep licking.

Scarah’s grin widened, her nails digging into his thighs to keep him pinned.

It was obvious—he wasn’t getting up until she decided he’d earned it.

(Bloodgood’s House – 11:00 AM)

Heath looked afraid for his life.

Abbey stood like a marble statue — calm, solid, a strange blend of stoic and faintly sympathetic.

She had wrapped herself in a towel after dragging Heath into the bathroom, but the fire elemental could still see the outline of her cock pressing against the fabric, like it was trying to force its way out.

“…I—I’m sorry,” Heath stammered, staring at the floor, not daring to look at her. “I didn’t mean to…”

Abbey’s gaze hardly moved. Her voice came low and flat, tinged with an accent that rolled certain consonants too firmly, vowels stretched just enough to make them sound heavier.

“Why?”

Heath’s eyes stayed down. “I—I—”

“Look at me when you speak,” she said, not loud, not gentle — simply a statement one obeyed.

Heath lifted his head, trembling. “I—I was d-desperate.”

“Desperate?” she repeated, the ‘r’ turning slightly harder.

“Yes!” Heath said, standing straighter now. “You’ve been acting weird all week! You dodged me like I had chicken pox or something! No matter how many times I tried to ask, you wouldn’t explain what was wrong.”

Abbey’s face softened just a touch — a small thaw in a frozen lake. She could not deny this.

“I did not want you to see me… different,” she said, eyes flicking away for the first time.

“Babe, I would never do that!” Heath said, almost offended. “You mean so much to me! And besides, we both go to a school where Monsters are taught to accept each other REGARDLESS of differences.”

Abbey looked away again, guilt pulling at her features.

“Can you just tell me the truth?” he pleaded.

Abbey stood still for a long moment. Then she spoke.

Abbey’s voice was low, steady, and accented in a way that made every word feel heavier. “In my homeland… most yeti are born with body they are meant to have,” she said, pausing to let the words settle. Her gaze didn’t waver. “But, sometimes—very rarely—female yeti are born… different. With cock.”

Heath’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “S-So… you’re one of those rare cases?”

Abbey nodded once, slow and deliberate. “At first, I hate it. It make me feel… wrong. Ugly. Different from all others. When we spar, some would attack there, target it, try to hurt me. It was weakness… or so I thought.”

Heath’s chest tightened. He’d seen Abbey strong, unshakable, but hearing that made her sound almost human. Almost.

Her eyes dropped, her voice softening only slightly. “Eventually, I learn to accept it. But still… I keep it secret from outsiders. Even friends.”

“What about your family? They know, right?” Heath asked carefully.

“Of course they know,” she said without hesitation. “They accept. Always.”

“Oh.” Heath shifted awkwardly, unsure if that helped him feel better or worse.

Abbey exhaled through her nose, a sound that rumbled faintly. “That is why I have been strange this past week. After attack last Friday… something inside me woke up. Something primal. It whispers. Pushes me to… take.” Her jaw clenched. “I used all my willpower not to lose control. That is why I stayed away from you.”

Heath blinked. All the weird moments from the past days—the dreams, the strange voices in his head, the way Abbey’s eyes had lingered too long—suddenly clicked together in a way that made his skin prickle.

She finally looked up, meeting his eyes. “I am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Heath said automatically, though his voice cracked. “I was just… worried you were mad at me or something.”

“Am not mad,” she said, a flush blooming high on her cheeks. “Just… afraid I hurt you.”

“Hurt… me?”

“When yeti enter rut,” she said, her tone sharpening like a blade, “they bite their mate. Mark them as owned.”

Heath tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. “That doesn’t sound so bad…”

“It is more than that,” Abbey interrupted, voice hard enough to cut through him. “Yeti are strong. When mating, we must hold back—always—so we do not break bones. That is with other yeti. With someone fragile, like you… it is even harder.”

Heath’s eyes widened. “You could… break me?”

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze heavy and unblinking. “Even lightest punch could shatter every bone in your body. I must be… very careful.”

His stomach dropped like a stone, all the way to his toes. He knew Abbey was strong—everyone knew that—but the way she said it made him realize just how much she’d been holding back. And now… her towel shifted, brushing against him, and he could feel the heat and weight of her cock pressing into him, throbbing steadily.

She was getting turned on.

And that look on her face—dark, hungry, certain—made his heart slam against his ribs.

“Uh—o-okay!” he blurted, stepping sideways, his voice pitching high. “Cool! Glad we had this talk, really, I, uh… actually have breakfast waiting at home—so I’m just gonna—”

He pivoted toward the door, but her hand shot out with lightning speed, clamping onto his shoulder. Her fingers dug in—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him how easily she could.

“Not so fast, fire boy,” she murmured, the faint growl under her accent making his knees twitch. “You are not off hook yet.”

He froze as she guided him—calm, unhurried, inescapable—back toward the center of the room.

“You still crept into my house,” she said, voice dropping low, “and watched me in shower like little pervert.”

His pulse thundered. “B-Babe, I-I should—uh—really be going—”

Her finger rose, silencing him instantly. “Nyet. On knees. Now.”

He hesitated, his legs trembling. “Abb—”

Her tone sharpened, each word landing like a hammer. “On. Your. Knees.”

Something inside him gave way. Heath dropped down before he even realized he’d moved, the carpet pressing into his shins.

“Good boy,” she purred, running her fingers slowly through his hair, her nails just grazing his scalp. The petting felt less like affection and more like she was checking the quality of a prize.

With deliberate slowness, she undid her towel. It slid from her shoulders, revealing her cock—massive, thick, veined, glistening faintly from the heat of her body.

The smell hit him immediately, heavy and musky, so strong it felt like it bypassed his nose entirely and went straight to his brain, short-circuiting everything logical inside him.

She gripped a fistful of his hair, tilting his head back so he couldn’t look anywhere else. Her shadow loomed over him, and in that moment, Heath realized—truly realized—that he wasn’t going home. Not for hours.

And when she stepped forward, letting that impossible weight rest against his cheek for just a second, he understood something else:

He wasn’t just about to get fucked.

He was about to get fucked stupid.

(Gloom Beach – 5:00 PM)

Frankie wasn’t sure exactly when the beach day went off the rails.

It had started innocent enough—umbrellas, tanning oil, sand castles.

But now? Now it looked like the set of some questionable music video.

Cleo was half reclined on her towel in nothing but her bikini bottoms, sunglasses perched on her nose, sipping the last of the Jack like it was fine wine.

Draculaura sat cross-legged beside her, talking animatedly about Clawd in a voice that was way too loud for polite company.

Frankie caught enough words to blush and quickly pretend she hadn’t heard anything.

A few yards away, Lagoona had decided clothing was optional and was now skinny-dipping in the shallows, doing lazy backstrokes while singing an off-key sea shanty about “finding treasure in all the wrong places.”

Ghoulia and Clawdeen were pressed together in the sand, moving in sync to the bass-heavy music pouring from Operetta’s speaker.

It wasn’t a school dance kind of sway—it was something… else.

Frankie’s eyes darted away before she could process it.

And Operetta? Operetta was in full performance mode, strutting across the sand with her guitar, singing a dirty rockabilly tune that had Frankie wishing she could shove cotton in her ears.

Every other lyric was innuendo, and the ghouls were eating it up.

Frankie sat stiffly on her beach chair, knees together, clutching her soda like it was a lifeline.

'How did we even get here?' she thought, scanning the scene with wide eyes.

This was supposed to be a normal, fun-in-the-sun kind of day.

Instead, she was surrounded by drunk, half-naked, overly confident ghouls who looked one bad idea away from making the evening news.

At least none of the other ghouls had shown up. She could only imagine if Spectra, Abbey, or Toralei had joined in on this madness—it’d be chaos on a whole new level.

“Yo, Frankie!” Cleo called, waving her cup. “You sure you don’t wanna loosen up? You look like you’re about to file a complaint.”

Frankie forced a smile. “I’m good. Really.”

Cleo just smirked knowingly before turning back to Draculaura to resume their way-too-detailed boyfriend talk. Frankie caught another phrase she didn’t understand, made a mental note to Google it later, and focused back on her soda.

Then it happened.

Lagoona, trying to show off, launched herself from the water in a graceful arc—except her powers kicked in mid-jump. A massive wall of seawater rose up like a tidal wave and crashed onto the beach, sending towels, bags, and half the snack table flying.

“Oops!” Lagoona giggled, floating on her back as the others cheered like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Frankie, dripping wet and staring at her overturned chair, closed her eyes and sighed.

'I should’ve stayed home.'

(Bloodgood’s Home – 9:00 PM)

Abbey sat deep in the couch cushions, her long legs stretched out, one arm draped lazily over the armrest.

The faint blue glow of the television washed across her pale skin as she sipped from a tall iced latte.

But her focus wasn’t entirely on the screen.

Soft, wet noises floated up from somewhere near her lap—slow at first, then louder, more urgent. Slurping, sucking, an occasional muffled breath.

She barely glanced down, her hand resting casually near her thigh.

The corner of her mouth twitched upward.

The sound paused.

RINGGGGGGGGGGGGG

Abbey sighed, set her drink on the coffee table, and plucked her phone from the armrest.

The caller ID glowed: Jackson.

“Da?” she answered, her accent curling over the syllable.

“Hey, Abbey. Have you seen Heath? He said he was heading to your place and that he’d be back later, but he never came home.”

For a moment, there was silence—except for the faint rasp of breathing. Abbey’s hand moved lower, fingers sliding idly along her inner thigh, and the wet sound returned, a little rougher this time, like whatever was down there had been seized and pushed harder into its work.

Whoever was beneath her made a noise like they were trying to pull away, but it was cut off by the steady weight of her palm.

For the first time, her eyes flicked downward—not to check, not out of concern, but as if she were making sure someone understood to keep quiet.

Her voice stayed perfectly even. “No. He is not here. We spoke earlier. He left. I assumed he went home… though he did say something about errands.”

“Uh, okay. I’ll let you know if I find him. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Click.

The phone landed on the couch beside her. Abbey took a slow sip of her drink before setting it down again.

Then her gaze slid downward, and her lips curved into something more like a smirk.

Between her spread knees, kneeling low on the rug, was Heath.

But he didn’t look like the same Heath who’d stumbled into her place hours ago, stammering and looking for excuses to leave.

And if Jackson could see him now, he wouldn’t have recognized his cousin.

He was on all fours now, bare skin still glistening from a shower that had done nothing to wash away the flush on his cheeks. His lips were stretched wide around her cock, tongue working in long, obedient strokes, eyes glassy and unfocused.

Abbey let her fingers curl into his damp hair, guiding his movements with an absent precision.

His ass—firm, red from her open-palmed spanks—lifted slightly each time his head bobbed forward.

The faint gape between his cheeks told its own story, one written over the course of the evening.

When he’d first been pinned to the floor, hours earlier, he’d fought—hands pushing at her thighs, voice breaking on every protest. Abbey had simply held him in place, one strong hand at the back of his neck, forcing his mouth down until the heat of her length filled him completely.

The fight had drained out of him fast after that.

She’d tilted his chin up so he could see her eyes, murmured sharp, dirty orders in that steady Russian-accented growl. Each time he hesitated, a sharp slap to his cheek made his lips part wider; each whimper was met with a tug to his hair that made his throat open for her.

By the time she’d told him to stay, he wasn’t moving unless she told him to.

Now he moved with a slow, practiced rhythm—mouth sliding down, tongue pressing just right, swallowing around her before pulling back with a wet pop. The desperation was gone.

There was no look toward the door, no hint of escape.

He was here. And he was staying.

Abbey took another sip of her drink, her free hand resting lazily on the back of his head, keeping him close.

“Mmm… da. Good boy,” she murmured, the praise rolling low in her throat.

The TV played on, but she barely heard it. All her attention was on the warmth and pressure, the way his mouth fit her perfectly now, like it had been made for it.

“I could get used to this,” she said under her breath, a small chuckle following. Her grip in his hair tightened just enough to make him take her deeper.

Heath’s eyes fluttered shut, his lips sealing tighter around her, and if anyone had seen him now, they wouldn’t recognize the wide-eyed, panicked boy who’d wanted to run out the door earlier.

Abbey leaned back, content, letting him work.

She wasn’t going to keep him forever. Eventually, she’d let him stumble home, walking funny, his head still swimming, his thoughts not quite his own.

But for now: She was keen on keeping him here, making sure he kept her cock all nice and warm.

And from the way he sucked, like his life depended on it, he already knew it.

(Skies over New Salem – 10:30 PM)

“This is your captain speaking,” the intercom crackled. “In about an hour, we’ll be making our final descent into New Salem.”

Catty stretched with a lazy yawn. After a month of concerts and interviews in Boo York, she and her man were finally heading back to Monster High.

She couldn’t wait to see her friends again. It had been way too long since they’d all hung out in person.

Beside her, Seth sat with his head tilted back, sunglasses on, mouth slightly open. A gentle snore slipped out as the plane rocked through turbulence.

Catty smiled, tucking a bright-pink strand of hair behind her ear. Even asleep, Seth looked perfect—tall, lean, dark hair forever in that messy, effortless style.

She loved him.

And while she was looking forward to getting back to school… she was even more eager for uninterrupted time with him.

She thought she was flying home to normal life.

In reality, she was flying straight into a storm she couldn’t see. A school already boiling over with urges and secrets—where the walls themselves felt ready to burst.

If only she knew…

(On a train – 10:30 PM)

Catrine Demew sat by the window, watching the dark landscape roll past as the train rattled toward New Salem.

In just a few hours, she’d be back. Back to Monster High. Back to her friends.

She’d planned to stay in Scamerica longer, but after hearing about the attack, she had packed her bags and caught the first interdimensional train home.

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her sketchbook and flipped to a page. A soft pencil drawing captured a scene at the beach—her and a few others laughing together.

Her travels had taken her everywhere, and each place had been immortalized in these pages. She couldn’t wait to share them.

But the next images to fill her sketchbook wouldn’t be charming landscapes.

They’d be scenes telling far naughtier tales.

(In Space)

A glowing meteor hurtled through the cosmos at impossible speeds, crystalline energy pulsing along its surface in alternating waves of blue and pink light.

Inside, Astranova floated in deep meditation. She had left Monster High to escape the noise and drama, venturing beyond the Milky Way to study the stars.

But before she could reach her destination, something disrupted the stillness of the universe—something coming from Earth.

More specifically… from Monster High.

She followed the pull, the anomaly becoming sharper and stranger the closer she got, marked in her vision by a pink, pulsing dot over New Salem.

Even with her vast cosmic abilities, she couldn’t fully comprehend it.

But turning away wasn’t an option.

It was her duty as the daughter of the stars to help those in need.

Her eyes snapped open. Earth loomed larger and larger in the void ahead.

She didn’t yet understand what she was flying toward—or the strength of the hold it already had over Monster High.

But she was ready to face it.

Even if it cost her her life.

What she didn’t know… was that it already too late.

To Be Continued...

End of Week 1

Notes:

If you didn't think there was enough smut in this chapter, trust me there's more on the way.

The madness has truly begun.

And Frankie's fate?

Well...

That's for y'all to find out.

Chapter 9: A teaser

Summary:

The teachers realize that their fucked.
And the students are ready to get nasty.

Notes:

I know the last chapter said, 'End of Week 1' but I wanted to give yall some breathing room before I jumped into the chaos.
And I also wanted to start making Sunday chapters, since I didn't make one for the last Sunday.
Unfortunately, I didn't have much planned for this chapter, so it'll be a short one.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(Date: Sunday, October 8th)

(Monster High – 8:00 PM)

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE RESULTS SAID ‘NO ABNORMALITIES FOUND’?!"

Mr. Hackington flinched as droplets of Rotter’s spit flecked his face.

Mr. Rotter looked like he was on the verge of a coronary, his face red and eyes wild.

"You’re telling me that a week of glowing pink eyes, filthy dreams, and completely inappropriate topics has NOTHING to do with the gas that was released a week beforehand?!"

The other teachers stood behind him, expressions swinging between rage and stunned disbelief.

Ms. Flapper looked ready to commit actual murder.

"You’re telling us there’s nothing wrong with the gas? Nothing abnormal? That everyone’s sudden behavior is just a bloody COINCIDENCE?!" she barked.

Hackington raised his hands in surrender, his voice calm but weary. "I don’t know what to tell you, love. I ran every test I could think of — scanners, radiation detectors, and yes, even the magic sort. Not a single reading came back abnormal."

"Then explain all the madness this week!" Mr. Where roared.

"I haven’t the faintest," Hackington admitted, clutching his head. "I want to believe it’s the gas, but there’s simply no evidence. It’s as if the blasted stuff didn’t do a thing at all!"

Rotter began pacing, his shoes clicking hard against the floor.

He could barely contain his anger.

"How in the hell are we going to explain this to Bloodgood?" he demanded. "She already doesn’t believe us, and we’ve got no proof for the Monster Council either!"

"And I can tell from ze way everyone looked Friday," Mr. Kindergrubber said grimly, "zhat zhis… is only ze beginning."

"You’re not wrong," Rotter admitted, adjusting his glasses. "If Jackie and Bridgett could have sex and escape under our noses, the rest of the students are going to get bolder. Much bolder."

"And to think, that was the first time anyone has ever had sex in Monster High, period!" Ms. Flapper exclaimed.

"And it should be the last!" Coach Igor barked. "I don’t want any of the boys on the casketball team sneaking off to screw the fearleaders during a game!"

Hackington massaged his temples. "At this point, the gas — or whatever’s responsible — has had over ten days to sink its teeth into their minds. That’s ten days of influence burrowing deep. Whatever happens next… well, your guess is as good as mine."

"Simple! We STOP THEM!" Mr. Where bellowed. "We’re the teachers! It’s our job to keep these students in line!"

"He’s right," Ms. Flapper agreed, wings twitching. "Enforce the no-PDA policy with absolute strictness. Zero tolerance."

"YES!" Mr. Where shouted. "And if they still act out, we’ll call their parents! They'll set them straight!"

Rotter exhaled slowly, a bitter sound.

"As much as I’d love to hand out F’s like sweets, we can’t do that, Mr. Where."

"Why not?!" the invisible teacher demanded.

"Four reasons," Rotter said, raising four fingers. "One — the students aren’t in their right minds. This gas is lowering their inhibitions, making them reckless. Punishment will only fuel it."

A finger lowered. "Two — Monster High is already hanging by a thread after the… incidents these past few years. Add in the terrorist attack, and we’re already in hot water. If the press hears about students banging each other, we won’t survive the scandal."

Another finger dropped. "Three — most parents won’t believe their kids are under some influence. They’ll just hand down their own punishments, which will only escalate things."

"And four," he said flatly, "we don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of stopping them."

The staff froze.

"What?!" they said in unison.

"Think about it," Rotter continued. "Nearly every student here is a damn powerhouse. If they decide to ‘get freaky,’ there’s nothing — nothing — we can do to stop it."

"We’re strong too!" Ms. Flapper snapped, shoving a wingtip toward his chest. "I can mind-control half the school with my voice alone!"

"You could try," Rotter said evenly, "but how long until they realize they’re stronger than us? How long until they decide to ignore us altogether? A single one of them could crush this building to rubble if they felt like it."

Coach Igor slammed his fists down. "Then what are we supposed to do?!"

Rotter didn’t answer. He just looked away.

Kindergrubber stepped forward, voice sharp with desperation. "Zhere must be some solution, Monsieur Hackington! We cannot let zhe entire student body descend into… into zis madness!"

Hackington stood at the window, the dark night stretching endlessly beyond the glass. His reflection looked old. Tired. A man who had already done the maths in his head and didn’t like the answer.

"In my humble opinion," he said quietly, "we pray."

The room fell still.

"And when prayer fails…" His voice dropped further, almost a whisper, but every teacher heard it. "We hope they burn themselves out before the rest of the world realizes what’s happened here."

He finally turned from the window, eyes grim. "If they don’t… we won’t just lose this school. We’ll lose control of an entire generation."

(Various Locations - 9:00 PM)

The moon hung high over New Salem, its pale glow spilling over rooftops and casting the town in soft silver. On the surface, everything looked peaceful. The streets were quiet. The air was crisp with early autumn. It was the kind of night that made you think the world might actually be normal.

But behind the closed doors of the students of Monster High… normal was just a word.

(The Wolf House)

Draculaura sat cross-legged on Clawd’s bed, flipping through a magazine with one hand while twirling a lock of hair with the other.

Clawd was on the floor doing push-ups — except every time he lowered himself, she let the tip of her shoe trace along his shoulder, slow and deliberate.

"Count to twenty," she teased, "and if you stop before then… I’ll make you start over."

Clawd’s arms flexed as he fought the urge to pounce her. "You’re pushin’ your luck."

"That’s the point," she whispered, just loud enough for his wolf ears to catch.

Their laughter was light, playful… but there was a glint in her eyes that wasn’t going away.

And if tonight was this charged, tomorrow at school would be worse. Much worse.

(The Yeti Lodge)

In the far northern edge of town, Abbey sat sprawled across the couch, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. Heath sat beside her, trying to watch the movie. Trying.

Her legs draped over his lap. Her icy fingers toyed with the collar of his shirt.

Every so often, she’d pluck a piece of popcorn, pop it in her mouth, and lean in so close he could feel her breath against his cheek.

"You look warm," she said with a grin.

"Always am," he replied, forcing his eyes to stay on the screen.

"Good. You will need it tomorrow."

Heath didn’t ask what she meant. He didn’t need to.

(The Taurus Apartment)

Manny sat at his desk, trying to finish a last-minute history essay. Iris was perched on the bed behind him, knees drawn up, glasses slightly crooked.

"Are you almost done?" she asked.

"Yeah, just—"

She didn’t let him finish. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind, pulling him back just enough to press against her.

"Manny," she murmured, voice almost sing-song, "tomorrow’s Monday. You know what that means."

He swallowed hard. "We… got gym first thing?"

Her smile said otherwise.

(The Dawndancer Cabin)

Isi lounged in a hammock while Neighthan sat on the porch railing nearby, strumming a guitar. The sound was lazy, drifting through the cool night.

"You’re thinking about tomorrow, aren’t you?" she asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

He strummed a few more notes. "Maybe."

Her smirk was small, but it carried the weight of something unspoken.

(The Moonlit Den)

Meowlody and Purrsephone lounged on either side of Romulus in the den, the fire casting a warm glow over their pale hair. One curled into his side, the other tracing patterns on his chest.

"Think the teachers will notice tomorrow?" Purrsephone asked.

"If they do, they won’t stop us," Meowlody replied.

Romulus chuckled low in his throat, pulling them closer. "Let ‘em try."

(The Green Room)

The walls of Venus’ bedroom glowed faintly under the green light of her grow lamps. She lay sprawled across her bed, one leg bent, idly twirling a leaf between her fingers. Her mind wasn’t on plants tonight.

She was thinking about her.

Robecca.

Those brass-and-steel limbs, the way her voice clicked faintly when she spoke, the sharp, precise way she moved… Venus could already picture what it would be like to take her apart, piece by piece — not mechanically, but mentally. Slowly coax her in, wind her up tight, and watch her come undone.

The thought made her bite her lip.

Tomorrow, she decided, she’d start small. A compliment here, a little physical closeness there. Just enough to plant the seed.

And once that seed took root… Robecca wouldn’t just be her friend.

She’d be hers. Entirely.

(The Stein House)

Frankie sat cross-legged on her bed, a neat stack of freshly pressed clothes beside her. She was humming softly, folding a striped shirt with care before placing it into her backpack.

Her room smelled faintly of lavender fabric spray, and the window was cracked to let in the cool October breeze.

Tomorrow was Monday, and she wanted to be ready.

Her planner sat open on the nightstand, tomorrow’s schedule written out in tidy, color-coded ink: History, Science, Casketball Club, Study Group. Everything in its place.

She smiled to herself, thinking about seeing her friends, catching up on projects, maybe sharing a few jokes between classes.

Sure, Yesterday's beach day was pretty weird—especially when Cleo brough that Jack Daniels—but she was sure this week would be different.

It never crossed her mind that the school she’d step into tomorrow wasn’t the same one she’d left on Friday.

To Frankie, it would be just another Monday.

To everyone else… Monday was going to be something else entirely.

Across New Salem, the students of Monster High drifted toward sleep — some grinning at the thought of what tomorrow would bring, others unable to stop the restless buzz running through their veins.

It looked peaceful.

But tomorrow… tomorrow would be a day the students would remember with giddy satisfaction.

And the teachers?

Tomorrow would be hell. On. Earth.

To Be Continued...

Notes:

Okay, NOW were at the end of week 1.
And in the next chapter, the madness truly begins.
Comment what you think will happen next!

Chapter 10: The New Norm

Summary:

Let the horny saga begin!

Notes:

The wait's over folks! It's time to jump into the madness!
And it'll get crazier from here, as soon as I get over my cause of writers block.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(Date: Monday, October 9th)

(Stein Household – 7:00 AM)

RIIIINNNNNNNNNNNGGGG!!!

In the Stein household, the alarm clock screamed like it had a personal vendetta. Frankie groaned, smacked the “off” button with a spark-zap of her fingers… and promptly face-planted back into her pillow.

“Frankie! You’re gonna be late for school!” her dad bellowed from downstairs.

Frankie bolted upright, hair a frizzy halo of static.

“Oh, zap it—CRAP!” she squeaked, launching herself out of bed and skidding into the bathroom in sock-sliding glory.

Ten minutes later, she was sprinting down the hallway in a full-blown cartoon blur—backpack hanging off one arm, the other hand trying (and failing) to tame her lightning-bolt hair clips into place.

“Bye, Mom! Bye, Dad!” she called over her shoulder.

“Wait!” Viveka’s voice rang out. “Don’t forget your breakfast!”

Frankie slammed on the brakes, heels squealing against the hardwood, her body crackling like a live wire.

In a zip and a zap, she was in the kitchen, where her mom presented a Tupperware container like it was the crown jewels.

“Thanks, Mom!” Frankie chirped, hugging her before blasting toward the door. She stopped only to crouch down and give her pet, Waltzit—a tiny, yipping pup made of pure lightning—a quick smooch on his sparking forehead.

“Missed you last week, little guy,” she whispered, before bursting outside.

With a quick kick-off, Frankie popped her heels off mid-run (no sense in scuffing designer monsterwear) and—BAM—leapt straight into the sky like a gothic superheroine.

“WOO!” she hollered, soaring above New Salem, hair whipping around her face like she was in a shampoo commercial… if shampoo commercials had thunderclouds and bolts of electricity.

This was a rare but favorite part of the day—leaping over the city, feeling like she could take on anything.

Her parents might’ve designed her with the build of a teenage ghoul, but they’d sourced her from some seriously athletic parts.

Toss in the electric powers, and she was a force of nature—maybe not the strongest in her squad, but strong enough to clear the whole trip to Monster High in one leap.

…Almost.

WHAM!

Frankie plowed face-first into a tree just outside the school grounds, tumbling into the bushes in a mess of leaves, twigs, and static hair.

She groaned, sitting up with a dazed grin. “Okay. Definitely need to work on my landings.”

After a quick dust-off (and a couple sparks zapping stray leaves away), she strutted out of the bushes like nothing had happened, stepping into the Monster High parking lot with all the confidence of a ghoul who definitely meant to arrive that way.

(Monster High - 7:30 AM)

For the first time in months, Monster High actually felt alive again.

September had been a bust—everyone too busy rushing inside for testing to even loiter dramatically at their lockers.

The day after wasn’t much better. A few lone monsters here and there, drifting through the halls like extras without their cue.

And then… the gas attack.

The week after had all the vibes of a post-party hangover—quiet, heavy, and wrong.

Sure, some ghouls came back, but plenty stayed locked up at home, either too scared or on strict parental orders.

The fear was thick in the air, like the smell of burnt ectoplasm.

By last week it was easing, but today? Today the campus was buzzing.

Monsters everywhere, laughter ricocheting off the walls, and the air shimmering with magic from arrivals.

From the pool, Lagoona, Gil, and a few other water monsters burst upward in perfect synchronized slow-mo, droplets sparkling in the morning light like they’d rehearsed it for a shampoo commercial. Lagoona let out a bright laugh, swimming her way up to the steps.

She and Gil—back to holding hands like nothing could sink them—strode across campus as if last month’s parent-induced date disaster was just another wave to ride.

A streak of blur zipped past—yep, Ryder was back to his speed-demon ways.

Overhead, a shimmering portal ripped open, and Spectra, Porter, and their ghost crew floated through, ethereal as ever.

Billy, Scarah, and Operetta touched down solidly—rocking their “I’m totally fine” smiles—though Billy’s slight limp suggested a less-than-graceful exit from wherever they’d been.

Then came the sound—whffflfff!—as a black cloud of bats swirled into the courtyard, folding into the sleek forms of Gory, Bram, and the Belfry Prep vampire clique.

Their entrance screamed “mysterious transfer students in a teen movie”—if transfer students were dripping in velvet and centuries-old attitude.

Not to be outdone, the werewolves barreled in as streaks of motion—Clawd in front, Clawdeen right behind, and little sister Howleen keeping pace with that “watch me” energy.

Frankie smiled to herself.

For the first time in forever, the campus didn’t feel like a ghost town—it felt like Monster High.

“Frankie!”

She turned to see Draculaura waving like she was signaling a rescue helicopter, Cleo gliding beside her like royalty, Ghoulia scrolling on her iCoffin, and Abbey towering over them all with her usual cool-girl poise.

Frankie’s face lit up like it had been a week.

She was still trying to shake off the whole beach day fiasco from Saturday—too much dare-fueled chaos, too many questionable drinks, and more double-meaning phrases than she ever wanted to hear in her life.

A quick search later and… let’s just say she wished brain bleach was an actual thing.

Still, seeing the ghouls—especially Abbey—made her feel lighter.

Abbey had been like a glacier lately: cold, distant, and impossible to read. Every conversation was one-word answers, every text felt like a message from a haunted answering machine.

Whatever had been going on with her, Frankie figured it had to do with the gas attack.

But now? Abbey looked good. Tall, icy, chill… and actually smiling.

“Hey, ghouls!” Frankie grinned, hugging Draculaura so tightly she almost lifted her off the ground.

“Ugh, finally,” Draculaura teased. “We were starting to think you’d short-circuited and forgotten about us.”

“I do not forget about friends,” Abbey said in her deep, cool tone. “I… take time to recharge.”

“Recharge?” Cleo smirked. “Is that what the kids are calling it now?”

Abbey raised an eyebrow. “Cleo, not everything is gossip headline for your pyramid newsletter.”

Before Frankie could laugh—

“HEY ABBEY!”

Abbey turned to see Heath waving from across the courtyard, all fiery grin and eager energy.

Her expression softened immediately.

“We talk later,” she told the ghouls, before striding over to take his hand. Together, they walked off, looking ridiculously cute for a couple who’d been ice-cold last week.

“They look so happy!” Draculaura said, clapping her hands like she’d just seen a proposal.

“And to think she was freezing him out a week ago,” Lagoona chimed in, strolling up and flipping her hair.

“Guess they thawed things out over the weekend,” Cleo added with a knowing smirk.

But before anyone could keep the banter going, a scream sliced through the courtyard.

Everyone turned.

Their jaws collectively dropped.

“They’re back already?!” Frankie gasped.

A sleek black Lamborghini purred its way up to the front of Monster High, the doors lifting open with show-stopping drama. Out stepped Catty Noir—ever the superstar—and Seth Ptolemy, sunglasses on and smirks locked in place.

The crowd went wild, cameras flashing, phones raised.

Under a nearby tree, Toralei rolled her eyes. “Here we go again,” she muttered.

Frankie and the others darted toward Catty and Pharaoh, weaving through the mob like they were in an obstacle course.

“Catty! It’s so fang-tastic to have you back!” Frankie beamed.

The werecat flashed a warm, show-stopping smile. “Happy to be back! Seriously, it’s been way too long.”

“You can say that again,” Cleo said, eyes practically glittering. “While you were gone, we had to survive tests, quizzes… and a Kraken attack!”

At the word “Kraken,” every head swiveled toward Kala, who suddenly found the ground incredibly interesting.

“…Sorry,” she mumbled.

“But anyway,” Lagoona cut in, “we’ve missed you two heaps!”

“Us too!” Pharaoh said, grinning. “We missed the energy at Monster High. It’s so… alive.”

“In more ways than one,” Draculaura muttered under her breath.

“Huh?” they both asked in unison.

Cleo elbowed Draculaura. “Nothing!” she sang sweetly.

Catty and Pharaoh exchanged a puzzled glance, but before the moment could stretch—

RIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGGGGG!!!

The school bell shrieked through the courtyard.

“Oh, zap—if we don’t move, we’re toast!” Frankie yelped.

The crowd instantly shifted toward the front gates—well, “shifted” in the Monster High way: with dramatic strutting, casual chatting, and zero sense of urgency despite the bell’s wail.

Frankie smiled, the static in her hair almost humming with relief. “Looks like Monster High’s finally getting back on track.”

(Monster High – 7:15 AM)

Frankie couldn’t have been more wrong if she were a math book in a bakery.

The second they crossed the gates, the air changed.

Not just a shift—an instant drop in vibe, like someone had yanked the plug on the morning buzz.

The moment they stepped through the gates, the air changed.

Conversations didn’t just get quieter—they shifted.

Not in the serious, deep talk kind of way.

Not in the “okay, time to head to class” kind of way.

No… this was different.

This was the 'lean in close, whisper so no one else hears, maybe bite your lip while you talk' kind of quiet.

Voices that had been full of weekend chatter started slipping into something else entirely—low, hushed tones laced with heat. Giggles cut off halfway, followed by little smirks.

And every so often, Frankie caught fragments.

“…meet me behind the gym—”
“…bring the cuffs this time—”
“…no one’ll find us there—”

She didn’t catch it all—thank Ra—but the bits she did overhear were enough to make her circuits feel weird.

So weird, in fact, that she wasn’t paying attention and walked straight into someone.

“Oops, sorry!” she blurted.

The boy didn’t even look up from his phone, just gave a lazy shrug. Frankie started to move past him… then out of the corner of her eye, his screen lit up.

The text almost made her stumble.

I’m in the bathroom. Don’t keep me waiting~

Her jaw twitched.

Nope. Nope nope nope. She wasn’t thinking about that.

But as she walked, it only got worse.

Couples lingering way too long at lockers, hands disappearing behind backs.

Groups ducking down the wrong hallway with secretive grins.

A girl pressed against a doorframe, murmuring something that made the guy she was talking to bite his lip.

By the time she caught up with her friends, the warning sirens in her head were going off like crazy.

Sure, they all looked happy—but it wasn’t “school’s great!” happy.

It was “I’m getting away with something deliciously bad” happy.

Draculaura’s bounce was practically vibrating out of her shoes—definitely not a bathroom emergency kind of jitter. Cleo’s smirk wasn’t her normal queen-bee brand, it was knowing. Ghoulia’s giddy little noises were… unsettling. And Lagoona?

That smile wasn’t friendly. It was predatory.

“Uh… hey, ghouls…” Frankie ventured. “Does anyone feel like something’s… off?”

“Not really,” Draculaura said, her voice all light and breathy. “If anything, this feels like a pretty normal day.”

“I mean, I saw—”

Cleo turned, placing both hands on Frankie’s shoulders. Her nails dragged just slightly, enough to make Frankie’s hair spark.

“Relax, Frankie,” Cleo cooed, her tone dripping like honey. “It’s a brand new day. The sun’s shining, school spirit’s high… everyone’s in a good mood.”

She patted Frankie on the head like a child, then turned to glide away.

“Bye, Frankie!” Draculaura sang, practically skipping off.

“Later, mate!” Lagoona grinned, sauntering toward the pool room.

Ghoulia gave a lazy wave and headed into some random hallway.

“Ghoulia, where are you going?” Frankie called.

The zombie moaned softly, hips swaying as she walked away.

“…But the science lab’s that way,” Frankie pointed.

Another moan. No explanation. She vanished around the corner.

Frankie’s circuits buzzed uncomfortably.

The hallways didn’t look like a school anymore—they looked like a stage between scenes.

The teachers seemed to notice too.

Mr. Where pinched the bridge of his nose. He already knew today was going to be trouble.

PING

His phone lit up.

🐉 Mrs. Flapper:
(Remember, we’ve got to be observant. Hackington’s plan only works if we let them run wild.)

🐉 Mrs. Flapper:
(Once we can prove to Bloodgood the gas is affecting their minds, she’ll have no choice but to take action.)

Mr. Where slid his phone back into his pocket.

Hackington’s idea had been risky—borderline career-ending if the wrong person found out—but after yesterday’s staff meeting, it was the only move they had left.

And besides… what could they really do to stop it? Most of these kids could flatten them without breaking a nail.

All they could hope was that today wouldn’t spiral completely out of control.

But with the way these students were looking at each other?

There was no doubt in his mind: the gas was working.

And by the end of the day… so would the trouble.

(Gym – 7:50 AM)

The gym felt like a damn boot camp.

Both the Casketball and Fearleading teams were working out so hard, even the equipment looked ready to collapse.

Coach Igor prowled the floor like a hawk, eyes sharp and unforgiving.

He knew about Hackington’s little plan, but frankly, he didn’t care.

There was no way in hell he was going to let the students turn his gym into their personal hookup lounge.

There were multiple games coming up, and he’d be damned if they lost because the players decided they’d rather bang than train.

Still… he wasn’t stupid. If they really wanted to sneak off and fool around, there wasn’t much he could do about it. Any attempt to stop them would probably leave him dangling like a sad piñata while they all went at it like rabbits.

So, he came up with a better idea: work them so hard they’d be too exhausted to do anything afterward.

Sure, most of them had insane stamina, but everyone had a breaking point—and Clawd was definitely getting close to his.

These last few minutes had been pure hell for Clawd and the rest of the Casketball team. Sure, it had only been minutes, but to him it felt like hours.

Something had shifted since Friday—between him and two of his siblings, especially.

Before last week, he’d been the same old Clawd: fun, athletic, laid-back. Perfectly normal… aside from the strange, vivid dreams they’d all been having.

And then Friday happened.

Since then, it was like none of them could keep themselves in check.

Clawdeen barely spoke, just growled.

Howleen shredded her own pillows.

And Clawd? He couldn’t sleep—his senses were in overdrive, and his thoughts kept circling back to one person:

Draculaura.

Friday, he’d gone over to her place. One thing led to another, and they ended up making out on the couch—until her dad got home earlier than expected.

Then on Sunday, she’d stopped by to hang out. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to cross a line that might wreck their friendship. Judging by the look in her eyes, though, she might’ve wanted him to cross it.

Now, in gym class, keeping himself in check felt impossible—especially with the new uniforms.

Black with pink highlights. Tight-fitting. Skin on display—midriffs and legs everywhere.

Both boys and girls had long sleeves, but it barely mattered. You could practically feel the tension.

Most of the guys were staring at the floor, desperately avoiding eye contact with the girls.

Clawd was trying to do the same. Trying.

He was in the middle of shooting hoops, but every so often, his eyes betrayed him, drifting toward Draculaura.

He forced himself back into the game. 'Come on, gotta win this round. I can’t afford to—'

'Ohhhhhh, Claaaaaaawddd.'

The voice froze him mid-motion. The ball slipped from his hands, he missed the shot, and promptly tripped, crashing onto the floor.

“CLAWD! BENCH!” Igor barked.

Grumbling, Clawd dusted himself off and took a seat.

'I know you’ve been staring.'

His eyes flicked around—no one was talking to him.

'Over here.'

It was like something tugged his gaze across the gym. There, on the Fearleading side, Draculaura was bent over in a toe-touch stretch.

Except she wasn’t touching her toes—her hands clutched her legs, holding herself in a perfect upside-down fold.

Their eyes locked. Her look was pure heat. And then she winked.

Clawd’s face went hot. 'I forgot she had magic.'

As practice dragged on, Draculaura kept at it—winks, smirks, and those little psychic whispers that slipped right into Clawd’s head like a guilty thought he couldn’t shake. Meanwhile, Coach Igor paced the gym like a drill sergeant on three espressos too many.

'Why so flustered~, big bad wolf? Acting like you don’t wanna touch me~'

Clawd bit back a low growl. He needed to keep his composure, but the way she was looking at him—eyes glittering with mischief—made it impossible to focus.

'So big and strong. I wonder what you’d look like without that shirt~'

'Laura, pleas—'

'Oh, come on, she purred. You know you want my pussy. All you have to do is ask.'

He did. God, he did. But getting caught here would be a disaster…

And the thought of facing Alucard if he ever found out his daughter was getting railed by a werewolf? That was enough to make any sane man hesitate.

'Oh? I guess my big bad wolf isn’t that bad after all.'

His jaw clenched. His inner wolf clawed for control, muscles tightening with each taunt.

She could see it, too. That razor-sharp grin of hers cut straight through his resolve—dangerous, knowing, wicked.

'Draculaura—'

'Here,' she cut him off. 'Let me give you a little motivation~'

‘Wait, wha—’

BOOM.

A small explosion tore through the wall near the gym doors, rattling the whole building.

The class erupted into chaos. Students bolted toward the noise, Coach Igor right behind them.

“Alright, class, let’s not panic—it’s probably just a—”

ZAP.

Igor spun around, but nothing was there.

‘What the fu—’

SIZZLE.

His eyes went wide as his mouth began to steam, smoke pouring from his lips, nose, ears, and even his tear ducts.

“SWEET MERCIFUL MOTHER OF CHRISTMAS! IT BURNS!” he howled, flailing like he’d swallowed a lit firecracker.

The hunchback bolted for the hallway, shoving past students, yelling about finding “a bucket, a river, or a damn baptism.”

Clawd stood frozen in shock. "How th—"

"Clawwwwwwd…"

The voice behind him made every hair on his neck rise.

He turned to see Draculaura, hands clasped behind her back, the very picture of smug satisfaction.

"So," she said with a slow, curling grin, "still too scared to do what we both want?"

"Laura, please—"

Before he could finish, she yanked her shirt up and bared her chest, pale skin and perfect curves framed like an offering.

“Come on, Clawd,” giving her tits a little shake just for him to see. “Don’t you want to play with them?”

She gave a little bounce, causing her whole body to jiggle like a melon.

The last of his patience snapped.

In one heartbeat, he had her in his arms; in the next, they were a blur of motion, vanishing into the boys’ locker room before anyone could even notice they were gone.

(Boys Locker Room – 8:00 AM)

The locker room door slammed open as Clawd strode in, Draculaura slung over his shoulder, her laughter spilling out in breathy little bursts.

“Relax, Clawd,” she teased, voice dripping with mock innocence. “We’re already alone—no need to be so rough~”

He didn’t slow. One heavy kick sent the door banging shut behind them, the echo bouncing off tile and metal.

He carried her straight to the benches, the scent of sweat and body spray thick in the air.

With one hand still gripping her thigh, he hooked his thumb into his gym shorts and shoved them down, freeing the thick, rigid length that had been straining against the fabric since the moment she’d flashed him in the gym.

Draculaura’s eyes flicked down, widening as a hot flush crept up her cheeks. 'Bigger than I expected…'

Without warning, he let her drop. She hit the floor with a solid THUMP, the vibration shivering up through the bench.

“Hey! What the hell was tha—”

He had her by the pigtail before she could finish, yanking her head back and shoving his cock between her lips in one brutal thrust.

“Shut it, bitch,” he snarled, hips snapping forward. “This is what you wanted—so quit whining.”

Her muffled protest dissolved into wet, choking gulps as he fucked her throat.

The slap of skin against her lips, the slick, obscene schlk-schlk of each thrust echoed off the tiled walls.

Her fangs grazed dangerously close, a sharp reminder that one wrong move could mean disaster, but the risk only made him drive harder.

Her eyes watered, saliva and precum dribbling down her chin, strings of it snapping each time he pulled back before slamming in again. He could feel her swallowing around him, throat constricting as he hit deep.

His growl deepened—then he seized her skull, burying himself to the hilt and holding her there as he erupted.

Hot, thick spurts flooded her mouth, spilling down her throat in heavy, choking swallows.

When he finally pulled free, she collapsed back on her heels, coughing, gagging, and spitting cloudy strings of cum onto the tile.

“Fuck, Clawd…” she panted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You didn’t have to cum down my throat.”

He loomed over her, still breathing hard. “Shut up. You know you love it.”

Her lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. “Yeah,” she giggled, voice hoarse. “You got me there.”

Clawd scooped her up like she weighed nothing, laying her sideways across the cold metal bench and prying her thighs wide apart.

“Take your shorts off,” he ordered, voice low, rough.

She smirked. “Just rip a hole in them.”

He arched a brow. “And what are you gonna tell everyone when they see a hole ripped right there?”

“I have magic, remember?” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’ll just fix them when we’re done.”

“Whatever.”

His claws hooked into the waistband and rrrip—fabric tore open, a jagged gap exposing her glistening slit.

He stepped forward, adjusted himself, and without ceremony, pushed into her with one hard thrust.

She let out a sharp cry that he smothered with his palm.

“Shhh. You want us to get caught?” he murmured, working in and out of her slow enough to keep her quiet but deep enough to make her toes curl.

He knew Igor was still out of commission from her earlier magic, but that wouldn’t last forever.

Plus, with a few students in the gym blessed with super hearing, one slip could turn into a crowd of listeners.

Draculaura tapped his shoulder, gesturing for him to let her speak.

He eased his hand away and she began chanting in Latin, her palms glowing pink until the light spread across the room.

Nothing looked different—except for the sudden heavy silence.

Clawd glanced around, confused. “What the fuck did you do?”

She smirked. “Soundproofed the room. Now you can fuck me as loud as you want.”

His grin widened into something dangerous. “Good. Now I can fuck you properly.”

He gripped her hips and began slamming into her, each thrust hard enough to make the bench creak under them.

But even at that speed, she could tell he was holding back.

“Come on, Clawd!” she whined. “I know you can go harder.”

“As much as I want to,” he said between heavy thrusts, “I’m not risking breaking your pelvis.”

“I’ll be fine! I’m tougher than I look!”

“Nope. Not worth it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Fine—guess I’ll prove it.”

“What are yo—”

Something clawed into his mind, hot and primal, and then his rational thoughts slipped away.

His feral instincts surged to the surface, muscles tensing, grip tightening until his fingers dug into her flesh.

With a savage snarl, he hammered into her at full strength.

The bench shrieked under the force, her body jolting with each impact. She clung to him until her arms wrenched out of their sockets, her pelvis tearing under the brutal pace, pleasure and pain tangling in her scream.

He didn’t stop until he came deep inside her, his howl echoing off the soundproofed walls.

Then the haze broke. He looked down—and froze.

Blood and cum leaked from her split sex, her arms hung uselessly at her sides, joints visibly dislocated.

“Oh my god, Draculaura…” His voice cracked as he scrambled back, pulling on his shorts. “I didn’t mean to—I swear I didn’t—why would you make me do that?”

She tried to speak, but he was already spiraling.

“I’m screwed. Dad’s gonna kill me. Mom’s gonna kill me. My sister—your dad—the ghouls—”

“Clawd!” Her voice snapped through his panic. “Look. At. Me.”

He turned—and his jaw nearly hit the floor.

Her broken legs straightened, bones snapping back into place. The torn flesh between her thighs sealed itself, the blood vanishing. Her arms popped back into their sockets, rolling her shoulders as if nothing had happened.

“Tada!” She posed, grinning. “See? Perfectly fine.”

“How—”

“Vampires regenerate, silly. Didn’t you know?”

He blinked. “Not really…”

Her jaw dropped. “We’ve been dating for seven years, and you never knew that?!”

“You never told me!”

“I thought you knew!”

They stared at each other for a long, baffled moment.

Finally, she tapped her fingers together, her tone shifting back to playful. “Sooo… round three?”

A few minutes ago, the sight of her mangled body had killed his lust.

But now? Knowing she could heal from anything—and that her magic could keep them hidden—sparked something dangerous in him.

He shrugged. “Sure. But no more mind control.”

She giggled. “Promise. Now, will you please fuck me again?”

He didn’t answer, just spun her to face the lockers and bent her forward, her ass jutting toward him—until she quickly protested.

“Not here!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then where?”

She pointed toward the showers at the back.

“Why there?”

“I’ve always wanted shower sex,” she said, batting her lashes. “Pwease?”

His grin sharpened. “Fine by me.”

(Random Hallway – 9:30 AM)

Frankie was… confused.

The day had started out so positive. The school didn’t feel like a ghost town, the vibe was chill, and for once it genuinely felt like Monster High was getting back to normal.

But then they stepped inside, and everything flipped upside down.

Gym class itself had been fine—sweaty, but fine. The weirdness began the second Coach Igor bailed.

Some students left the gym entirely, others slipped behind the bleachers to “get some air,” and the rest either whipped out their phones or started watching “movies.”

Frankie wasn’t sure what kind of movies they were, but judging from the sounds drifting out of the speakers, they were either: A) foreign, B) very experimental, or C) both.

Also—Draculaura disappeared.

Frankie checked the locker room, swore she heard someone, but it was empty. Well, except for some blood on the floor.

Obviously, she reported it immediately to the substitute teacher, who went in to investigate. He came back out thirty seconds later screaming about the locker room being “off-limits until further notice.”

Frankie figured maybe there was a leaky pipe. Or a vampire bat infestation. Definitely something simple like that.

Second period was somehow worse.

Nobody listened to Mr. Rotter. Not. A. Single. Person.

Frankie overheard kids whispering things like “how hot” someone was or “what a total dick” someone else was.

Which was confusing, because—what?

Everyone had different body temperatures, so who decided what “hot” meant? And why were people so obsessed with each other’s… anatomy?

Meanwhile, some were sneak-texting under their desks. Frankie glanced over once and saw Venus running her fingers through Robecca’s hair while the poor automaton looked like she’d short-circuit.

Frankie tilted her head, thinking maybe it was some kind of weird plant-person grooming ritual.

She was so weirded out, she actually asked Mr. Rotter if she could leave for the bathroom.

To her surprise, he said yes—though he gave her this look, like he knew something she didn’t. (Which, to be fair, was probably true about 99% of the time.)

But when she tried the bathroom door, she heard noises inside. Strange ones.

She froze with her hand on the handle, listening. There were gasps, thumps, and muffled voices. Frankie frowned.

“Huh. Must be a plumbing issue.” She decided to come back later.

So now here she was, sitting against a locker in the hallway, more lost than ever.

'Everyone’s acting weird, the ghouls are nowhere to be found, and the whole school feels… broken. This is the exact opposite of normal.'

She rubbed her forehead, sweat cold on her palm.

“I should just go back to the bathroom,” she muttered. “Hopefully no one’s in there making… weird noises again. Maybe the janitor fixed it.”

Turning the corner, she nearly jumped out of her bolts—standing there was someone she hadn’t spoken to since Friday.

Holt.

The boy’s expression was a strange mix—warm, gentle… and something else Frankie couldn’t quite place.

“Hey, Franken-fine,” Holt said softly.

“H-Hey, babe…” Frankie’s voice came out small. She couldn’t explain it, but there was something different in the way he was looking at her, like she was glowing.

They hadn’t spoken since Friday, and yet somehow, standing here now, it felt like they’d been pulled closer together by some invisible thread.

“What are y-you doing here?” she asked, shyly. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Holt grinned.

Frankie’s smile wavered into a nervous frown. “I-I just… needed some fresh air. Class was… weird. Made me uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable, huh?” Holt took a step closer, his tone low but playful. “Maybe I can fix that.”

Frankie blinked. “What do you—”

Before she could finish, Holt moved in, bracing his hands against the lockers on either side of her. Frankie’s breath caught, her back pressing against the cool metal.

“H-Holt! What are you—”

“Shhh,” he murmured, gently pressing a finger to her lips. His eyes weren’t cruel or forceful—just burning, needy, almost pleading. “Relax. I… I just want to make you feel good.”

Frankie froze. Her thoughts scrambled. She wanted to say something, to push him back, but the way he was looking at her made her heart stutter. His finger slipped under her chin, tilting her face up with surprising tenderness.

Her lips parted. She was trembling.

“H-Holt—”

And then his mouth was on hers.

It wasn’t rough, wasn’t violent. Just deep, warm, desperate. His kiss swallowed the little gasp she gave.

Frankie squeaked softly in her head. Wh-what’s happening? Why do I… why do I like this?

Her hands pressed against his chest—she should have pushed him away. But she didn’t. Instead, she stood frozen, caught between fear and something else. Something… strange. Something new.

Her brain screamed no, but her body buzzed with warmth, humming yes.

The kiss deepened. Without realizing it, her arms circled his waist, drawing him closer. His heat pressed against her like a fire she didn’t understand but couldn’t pull away from.

For a few blissful minutes, they melted together in silence, lips speaking a language she wasn’t fluent in. Frankie’s thoughts swirled—confused, dizzy, almost happy.

But then—

Like a crack in the sky, something inside her split open.

The dreams. Those awful, vivid dreams she’d been having. They rushed back, flooding her mind in jagged fragments: voices demanding, words filthy and violent, pleasure that frightened her, laughter she didn’t understand.

'Say it, Frankie!'

'YES! I’M A FILTHY FUCKING SLUT!'

'By the time I'm done, you won’t even remember the names of the other boys in this school.'

'I’m your nasty, used-up little slut—daddy—please, just fuck me.'

'You really want it?' 'beg for it.'

'Please, Holt—p-please fuck my b-brains out!'

'Wish granted… slut,'

' AHHHHHHHHHH!'

Her eyes snapped open. Panic clawed through her chest.

“N-no… no!” she gasped, breaking the kiss and pushing weakly at Holt.

He pulled back instantly, confusion flashing across his face. “Frankie? What’s wrong?”

“Holt, let go.” Her voice shook as she pressed at his chest harder.

“Did I—did I do something?” He didn’t step away, but he wasn’t holding her down either. His hands stayed braced against the lockers, hovering like he didn’t know what to do.

“I said let go!” Frankie shoved again, voice rising.

He blinked, hurt and bewildered. “Babe, wait—please, just tell me—”

“LET. GO!”

Her fear spiked into raw panic. Her bolts sparked, energy crackling violently across her skin.

“Frankie, I—”

“DAMMIT, HOLT! I SAID LET ME GO!”

ZAP!

Lightning exploded out of her body. Holt was blasted across the hallway, crashing into a row of lockers with a metallic crunch that left a deep dent. He hit the ground hard, groaning.

He was tough—thankfully, no real injuries—but he looked stunned, wide-eyed, clutching his side.

Frankie froze, horrified at what she’d done.

She’d just hurt her own boyfriend.

Tears welled in her eyes as her chest heaved. Without thinking, she turned and bolted, sprinting down the hallway like lightning itself.

She could hear Holt’s voice calling after her—confused, worried, not angry—but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t face him.

Not after that.

Frankie ran into the janitor's closet slammed the door shut behind her, pressing her back against it as if the whole world was chasing her.

Her breaths came out sharp and ragged, sparks of static flickering across her arms, dancing down to her fingertips.

Her knees buckled. She slid down the door until she was sitting on the dusty floor, curling her legs against her chest.

Hot tears streaked down her face before she even realized she was crying. Her palms pressed against her eyes, but it didn’t stop the tremors in her chest, or the guilt suffocating her ribs.

She hadn’t meant to. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. Holt hadn’t even been rough, not really. He hadn’t threatened her. He hadn’t forced her. But it was too much—too close, too overwhelming. And then those dreams…

Her sobs echoed in the cramped little room, bouncing off mops and buckets. She pulled her knees tighter, wishing she could just disappear into the shadows.

Then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Frankie gasped, holding her breath.

“Frankie?”

Her eyes widened. That voice. It wasn’t Holt.

“Frankie, it’s me. It’s Jackson.”

Her lip trembled. She stared at the door like it had grown teeth.

“Please… just let me in,” Jackson said softly, his tone cautious, pleading. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want to talk.”

Frankie hesitated, clutching her skirt with shaking fingers.

Another gentle knock. “Frankie… please. I swear. Just talk.”

Silence hung heavy. Then, finally, Frankie stood. Her hand trembled on the handle before she cracked the door open.

Jackson stood there, hunched slightly, eyes filled with concern. No cocky grin. No fiery passion. Just… Jackson.

She opened the door wider.

The moment he stepped in, Frankie collapsed into him.

Jackson caught her immediately, wrapping his arms around her. She clutched his shirt like she was drowning. His hands stayed steady—one at her back, one at her shoulder—keeping her grounded.

Her sobs spilled out against his chest, muffled but raw. Jackson didn’t shush her, didn’t rush her. He just held her.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” she choked out between hiccups. “I didn’t—he—I didn’t—”

“Hey, hey,” Jackson whispered, rubbing her back in small circles. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Just breathe.”

Minutes passed. Slowly, painfully, her sobs turned into soft sniffles. Her grip loosened, though she still leaned against him like her body was too heavy to hold on its own.

Finally, she mumbled, “I hurt him.”

Jackson shook his head, pulling back enough to meet her watery eyes. “Frankie, no. You defended yourself. That’s not the same.”

Her gaze fell to the floor. “But… Holt wasn’t—he didn’t… he wasn’t trying to hurt me. He wasn’t like that.”

Jackson’s jaw tightened. His tone sharpened despite himself. “Yeah, well, he sure as hell wasn’t thinking either.”

Frankie shook her head quickly, clutching his sleeve. “No—don’t be mad at him. Please. He didn’t… he just—” She bit her lip. “I don’t think he realized how scared I was.”

Jackson exhaled hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wanted to argue, wanted to defend her. But the way she looked at him—pleading, desperate—made him swallow the words.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I won’t blame him. Not in front of you, anyway.”

Frankie gave him a weak smile of gratitude, then sniffled again.

Silence lingered, heavy but calmer now. Frankie hugged her knees, Jackson sitting cross-legged beside her.

She frowned, thinking aloud. “I don’t… I don’t understand any of this. Why everyone’s acting so strange. Why Holt looked at me like that. Why my heart… felt weird when he kissed me.”

Jackson glanced at her sidelong. His brow furrowed.

“You don’t…?” he started, then caught himself.

Frankie tilted her head, blinking at him with those big, honest eyes. “Don’t what?”

He hesitated. “Nothing. Just…” He sighed. “Frankie, you’re not… you’re not broken or anything. Okay? You’re just… different. And that’s fine.”

Frankie hugged her arms around herself. “It doesn’t feel fine.”

“It is,” Jackson said firmly. “Trust me.”

Something in his tone settled her. For the first time since the kiss, her breathing smoothed out.

They sat together for a long while, saying little. Just existing in that tiny closet, leaning against each other in the quiet.

Eventually, Frankie stood. “We should go back. People are gonna notice.”

Jackson nodded, following her out.

The hallway was empty. Frankie headed one way; Jackson lingered, heading back toward class.

And as he walked, the voice in his head spoke.

'Smooth move, genius,' Holt groaned in Jackson’s head. 'She kissed me for five seconds and then fried me across the damn hallway like leftover pizza rolls. Real impressive.'

Jackson rubbed his temple as he walked. “Not my fault. You’re the one who pushed too hard.”

'Pushed too hard? Bro, I barely touched her! I was being sweet. Romantic. And she lit me up like a Fourth of July firework.' Holt’s voice cracked with disbelief. 'You think I wanted to get blasted into a locker in front of half the team?'

Jackson exhaled slowly. “She was scared, Holt. You didn’t see her face afterward. I did. She was shaking.”

That shut Holt up for a beat. Then, quieter: …I didn’t mean to scare her.

“I know.” Jackson’s voice softened. “I believe you. But you’re so wound up, you’re not thinking straight. None of them are.”

'Yeah, well,' Holt snapped back, louder now, 'what do you expect me to do, huh? Just sit here twiddling my thumbs while everyone else is hooking up like rabbits? Heath—HEATH, our idiot cousin is getting laid. And me? I get electrocuted for trying to kiss my own girlfriend.'

Jackson stopped walking, sighing hard. “You really want me to ask the question?”

'What question?'

He looked down at the floor, muttering under his breath. “What do you care more about, Holt? Pussy… or Frankie?”

That hit like a bucket of cold water.

Holt sputtered. 'That’s not fair, man. You know I care about Frankie.'

“Do you?” Jackson challenged. “Because it sounds like you’re more pissed about Heath getting action than you are worried about the fact that Frankie was terrified.”

Holt went quiet again, his voice rough when it finally came back. '…I do care. She’s my girl. I’d never hurt her, you know that. I just—' he growled in frustration, '—I hate feeling like I’m the only one not getting any while the whole damn school’s in heat.'

Jackson started walking again, shaking his head. “Then you’d better figure out what matters more. Because if you push her like that again, you won’t just be a virgin—you’ll be a single virgin.”

'Ouch. Low blow, Jacks.'

“Truth hurts,” Jackson muttered as he reached the classroom door.

Holt groaned. 'Fine, fine. I get it. No more pushing. I’ll wait. But I’m telling you right now, if Heath rubs this in my face, I’m gonna lose my mind.'

Jackson smirked faintly, pushing the door open. “Then maybe work on some self-control before you blow another gasket.”

'Ugh. Torture,' Holt muttered, sulking in the back of his mind.

“Deal with it.”

And with that, Jackson slipped back into his seat, leaving Holt to fume in the back of his mind.

(The Creepateria – 12:00 PM)

RIIIINNNGGGGGGGGG

The creepateria’s bell rang through the halls like a gong of doom, announcing lunchtime.

Frankie flinched at the sound, then sighed with a bit of relief. 'Finally. A break. Maybe I can sit, eat, and make sense of all this.'

She was wrong.

The second she stepped into the creepateria, she instantly regretted not sneaking her lunch back at her locker.

At first glance, it all seemed normal—same cobwebby decorations, same crooked tables, same food that looked like it was made for cockroaches instead of students.

But then she picked up her tray and started walking. And the conversations around her…

“It’s like no one in here wants to fuck me!”

“That girl looks like she could ride me all day and all night.”

“Do you see the way she’s eating that banana? Imagine if that was your dick?”

“Ooh, I see you checking out that girl. You got a thing for her?”

“You should see her ass. I think it was made for spanking.”

“I hope she’s a screamer.”

“I wonder what her pussy tastes like.”

Frankie nearly dropped her tray.

She had no idea what any of it meant. None. But the way people were saying it—the intensity, the tone, the hungry looks—they all made her stomach twist.

Her bolt tingled nervously as she glanced around. Everyone was staring at each other like they weren’t classmates anymore but… prey. Or something worse.

'This… this isn’t normal. This doesn’t even feel like school. Did I walk into the wrong building? Did someone switch out Monster High with… with… whatever THIS is?'

She swallowed hard. 'Maybe I should just eat outside. Away from… all of this. Away from the weird stares and the… the bananas.'

“FRANKIE! OVER HERE!”

She froze.

Her head snapped toward the familiar voice. Draculaura and the ghouls were waving from their usual table, smiling like nothing was wrong.

Some of the tension in Frankie’s shoulders melted, though her smile was faint, shaky at best.

“Thank Ra,” she whispered under her breath, clutching her tray like a lifeline.

Then, more cautiously, she added to herself, “Okay. Maybe… maybe this conversation will be normal.”

And with that hopeful (but very doubtful) thought, she made her way to the table.

Things didn’t look too bad. In fact, for the first time all morning, Frankie thought she was seeing something normal.

The ghouls were all there—Draculaura, Cleo, Abbey, Lagoona, Clawdeen, and Ghoulia—chatting and laughing like they hadn’t seen each other in ages.

As Frankie walked up with her tray, she caught snippets of their chatter.

“I finally finished that essay for Rotter,” Abbey was saying. “He will give A, or he will face consequences.”

“Ugh, you’re so dramatic,” Lagoona teased, nudging her. “Bet you still get the top grade anyway.”

“Only because she freezes the competition,” Draculaura chimed in, giggling.

Even Cleo laughed at that one, waving a hand. “I missed this. It feels like forever since we just… sat and talked.”

Frankie’s lips curled into a tired but genuine smile. Maybe this was her chance to breathe.

She slid into the seat, tray clattering softly against the table.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” Cleo said bluntly, arching a brow.

“Yeah,” Frankie admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’ve had a… rough morning.”

Cleo and Lagoona exchanged smirks, the kind that said rough was putting it mildly.

For a while, it actually felt almost normal. They ate, they joked, they traded little stories about class. Frankie let herself relax, listening in.

But then she noticed something.

“…Draculaura?” she asked cautiously.

“Yes, darling?” Draculaura looked up, her smile sweet.

“I thought you said you were vegan?”

“I am.”

“And… you also said you didn’t like drinking blood?”

“Yeaaaah?”

“Then… why are you eating a hot dog covered in…” Frankie squinted. “…is that blood? And drinking what looks like a blood smoothie?”

Sure enough, sitting on Draculaura’s tray was a half-eaten, very bloody hot dog, and a cup filled with a thick red liquid that looked anything but tomato juice.

The table went quiet. The other ghouls turned their heads slowly, raising brows at the vampire.

Draculaura laughed nervously. “Oh, uh… I guess I just… wanted some meat today?”

Cleo smirked, not missing a beat. “As if you haven’t had enough meat in your mouth already.”

“CLEO!” Draculaura shrieked, her cheeks blazing red as the other ghouls let out a collective: “OHHHHHHHHH!”

Frankie blinked rapidly, completely lost. Meat? Enough meat?

She looked down at her tray, then at Draculaura’s again, her brain working overtime trying to decode what she was missing.

Meanwhile, Clawdeen was glaring daggers at Draculaura.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Draculaura shot back, folding her arms. “I’m not doing anything you haven’t already done.”

The ghouls all murmured in agreement.

“She’s not wrong, love.”
“Indeed.”
“Besides, it’s not like any of us have been subtle.”

Cleo huffed. “The last thing I need is my daddy finding out.”

“You can say that again, mate,” Lagoona muttered, shaking her head.

Frankie’s confusion only deepened. She looked around at her friends, then down at her food, then back up again, utterly lost.

'What in Ra’s name are they even talking about?'

Clawdeen’s phone buzzed on the table, breaking the moment. She picked it up, scanned the text, and her eyes narrowed sharply.

“So that’s how you wanna play…” she growled under her breath.

Frankie tilted her head. “What is it?”

Clawdeen pushed back her chair, standing up with sudden determination. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you ghouls later.”

Before Frankie could ask, Clawdeen was already gone—darting out of the creepateria in a blur of speed.

The ghouls all exchanged looks for a second. Then, as if nothing happened, they shrugged and went right back to their conversation—only this time, the jokes and comments grew even less school-appropriate.

“It was obvious from the jump, Draculaura,” Cleo said, her arms crossed like she’d just cracked a case. “I mean, please. You and Clawd sneak out of gym class, and when you come back you’re limping to your seat. Anyone with half a brain knows what you were doing.”

Frankie tilted her head, her brow furrowed. 'Draculaura? Limping? Why would she be limping?'

“But Cleo,” Frankie piped up innocently, “didn’t you leave gym too? You said you had to fix a nail, but when you came back you were smiling all… weird.”

The Egyptian’s eyes widened, her face turning bright red. “I—I mean… I was just—”

“Alright, alright, enough!” Lagoona cut in, flicking her wrist like she was batting flies away. “Point is, we’ve all had a bit of… er, meat in our mouths today, yeah?”

Abbey leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, smirking. “On the contrary.”

The table froze mid-chew.

“…What do you mean by that?” Draculaura asked carefully, one brow raised.

“Let me guess,” Cleo said, narrowing her eyes. “Heath’s got a small—”

“Nyet,” Abbey interrupted flatly. “Is big. Very big. But mine…” she tapped her waist with a finger, lips curling into a grin. “…mine is bigger.”

Dead. silence.

Every ghoul at the table just… stopped existing for a moment.

Even Frankie blinked, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth.

“…Abbey,” Cleo whispered, stunned, “what do you mean by that?”

Abbey tilted her head, smirk never fading, and pointed down toward her lap.

Like a wave, all six ghouls leaned down in unison, peeking under the table—then shot back up with a chorus of gasps that practically shook the creepateria.

“BY THE GODS!” Cleo shrieked.

“WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK!” Lagoona spat, eyes bugging.

“THAT’S NOT A—THAT’S A TREE TRUNK!” Draculaura squealed.

“That’s a weapon of mass destruction!”

“Shhhh!” Abbey hissed, jabbing her finger to her lips. “Do you want whole school to hear?”

The girls snapped their mouths shut, but their eyes were still wide as dinner plates.

Frankie looked utterly lost, like someone had just started speaking an alien language.

“Wait… does Heath know?” she asked, voice small.

Abbey nodded proudly. “Da. He know since Saturday. We do twice.”

The ghouls gasped again, louder this time.

“That poor boy’s spine!” Cleo exclaimed.

“I don’t understand how he’s even walkin’ straight!” Lagoona said, throwing her hands up. “Deadset, mate, my uncle’s fishing rod snapped in half on a marlin smaller than that!”

Draculaura whipped her head toward the other end of the creepateria and pointed. “But—look! Heath’s right there! He’s standing like… like… totally normal!”

Sure enough, Heath was across the room, laughing with a couple of monsters, bouncing a fireball casually between his hands like life was peachy. Not a limp. Not a bruise. Not even a wince.

The ghouls all stared at him, then slowly back at Abbey like she’d just performed necromancy.

“…How is he even alive?!” Draculaura demanded.

“Maybe he’s got some kinda death wish,” Lagoona muttered, shaking her head.

“Or some serious healing factor,” Cleo added, still gawking.

Abbey shrugged, completely unfazed. “He was… how you say… wrecked. But I am gentle.”

“Gentle?!” Cleo screeched. “Abbey, with your strength you could snap him in half by accident!”

Abbey tilted her head thoughtfully. “Yes. And no.”

The table went silent again, the ghouls utterly dumbfounded.

Draculaura pressed her face into her hands. “I don’t even wanna know anymore. Nope. Don’t tell me.”

Frankie glanced around, bewildered. “…Why is this such a big deal? I don’t get it.”

The ghouls froze, staring at her like she’d just dropped a bomb bigger than Abbey’s reveal.

“Frankie,” Draculaura said slowly, wide-eyed, “we just found out our best friend is… packing enough to obliterate her boyfriend, and you’re not even a little bit fazed?!”

Frankie blinked. “…Why would I be?”

“You’re seriously not even a little freaked?” Cleo demanded, practically begging for a reaction.

Frankie tilted her head, her face the picture of confusion. “Uhhhhh… no?”

The ghouls slumped back, speechless.

Finally, Lagoona turned to Draculaura. “…Wait. How do you know the word futanari?”

Draculaura’s face went crimson. “…Rule 34.”

Cleo groaned, dragging her hand down her face. “Of course.”

(The Attic – 12:00 PM)

“Are you sure we should be up here?” Peri whispered, glancing nervously at the cobwebbed beams above.

While everyone else had gone to lunch, Toralei had dragged her pack of troublemakers up into the attic — her usual posse of “bad ghouls” ready for mischief.

“Relax, Peri,” Toralei smirked, flicking her tail as she strut into the room. “We’re not breaking into the teacher’s lounge. We’re just hanging out.”

They found a circle of crates and chests — thankfully not monsters in disguise — and plopped themselves down.

“…Okay, so what now?” Amanita asked dramatically, tossing her vine-like hair. “Because I don’t know if you see it, but there’s nothing up here but dust and busted furniture.”

“Oh, I see it,” Toralei said, her smirk widening. “But I didn’t come here for the scenery.”

Gory adjusted her glasses, unimpressed. “Then why drag us all the way up here, oh fearless leader?”

Toralei snapped her fingers at Meowlody. The werecat twin dug into her oversized purse and pulled out a small, inconspicuous box.

The second Toralei cracked it open, jaws dropped all around.

“Wait—IS THAT—?!”
“You’ve gotta be kitten me!”
“NO WAY!”

Toralei held up a neatly rolled joint between two claws, purring smugly.

“W…WEED?!” Peri squeaked.

“Bingo.”

“HOW did you even get that?!” Amanita gasped, scandalized yet intrigued.

“Let’s just say,” Toralei grinned, “Meowlody and Purrsephone took a little trip into the city and came back with… party favors.”

“You’re gonna get us expelled!” Peri hissed, wringing her hands. “Bloodgood might not be on campus, but the other teachers are still here!”

“Which is exactly why we came up here,” Toralei shot back, sparking the joint with a cheap lighter. “Now, are you ghouls in or out?”

There was hesitation at first… but soon enough, one by one, the girls started passing it around. Within minutes, the attic was thick with smoke.

Peri still looked anxious, wringing her hands. “I really don’t think we should be—”

“Oh, come on, sis!” Pearl cut in, exhaling a puff of smoke in her twin’s face. “You only live once! Just try it!”

“But—”

Before she could finish, Kala shoved a joint between her lips and flicked a lighter. “Stop whining and take a hit already.”

Peri froze, wide-eyed. But then, slowly, she exhaled a small cloud. Her shoulders relaxed almost instantly.

“There ya go!” Pearl whooped, lighting another for herself.

Meanwhile, Wydowna hadn’t touched anything. She just sat cross-legged, tapping her multiple fingers together, brows furrowed.

Gory noticed. “What’s with you, Web-Head? Too good to join in?”

Wydowna rubbed the back of her neck, looking sheepish. “Nah, it’s not that. I just… uh… do you have a chain smoker?”

The attic went silent.

Everyone turned to stare at her like she’d just sprouted a second head. Even Toralei stopped mid-inhale, coughing.

“…What the hell does that even mean?” Amanita muttered.

Wydowna shrugged awkwardly. “Like… a chain? For smoking? No? …Okay, never mind.”

Toralei blinked, then burst out laughing so hard she nearly dropped the joint.

The smoke session was in full swing when PING—Toralei’s phone buzzed.

She lazily glanced at the screen. A message from Clawdeen.

🐺 Clawdeen:
Girls’ locker room. Now.

Toralei rolled her eyes, flicking her tail. Ever since Friday, Clawdeen had been acting like she ran things. And sure, Toralei liked the challenge—she definitely wanted to see what that wolf was like in bed—but there was no way she was just gonna roll over and obey.

😾 Toralei:
If you want me, come get me~

With a smirk, she tossed her phone aside.

Meowlody leaned in. “What was that about?”

“Oh, nothing,” Toralei purred. “Just Clawdeen pretending she’s the alpha. I told her if she wanted me, she’d have to hunt me down.”

The twins giggled, but Purrsephone’s ears twitched nervously.

“Uh, Toralei… you do know werewolves have super-hearing, right?”

Toralei waved her off. “So what? She could hear me from here and it’ll still take her forever to sniff me out.”

Purrsephone winced. “…She’s also got super speed.”

Toralei froze, ears flattening. “…Oh. Well, it’s not like sh—”

“Toralei.”

“What?”

“She’s right behind you.”

Toralei’s smirk dropped instantly. She turned—

And there was Clawdeen. Standing in the attic shadows, golden eyes glowing, fangs flashing, hands poised like she was about to pounce.

Toralei let out a yelp, but before she could bolt, Clawdeen lunged and swept her clean off her paws. In a burst of speed, they vanished into the darkness.

The attic fell silent.

The bad ghouls just stared at the empty space where Toralei had been.

“…Welp,” Purrsephone muttered, deadpan. “She’s about to get wrecked.”

“Mhm.” Meowlody exhaled another puff of smoke.

Before anyone could laugh, the sound of footsteps and hushed voices echoed up the stairs.

“Yo, are you sure we should do it here?”

“Dude, attic’s the best spot. Way more private than the bathrooms.”

“Yeah, last thing I need is to get caught gooning in a stall.”

“Please—if a ghoul catches you, she might join in.”

“Or knock your teeth out.”

The bad ghouls traded a look. A group of random mansters appeared at the top of the stairs—none of them familiar, though a few were definitely single. Others, unfortunately, were known “gooners.”

The two groups froze. One side, a circle of ghouls with joints. The other, a cluster of mansters clearly here for… something else.

A long, awkward silence.

Then Meowlody lifted an unlit joint. “Y’all want some?”

(In a Random Classroom – 12:45 PM)

The old classroom door slammed shut with a metallic CLANG, the sound echoing off the empty walls.

Dust motes hung in the stale air as Deuce shoved Cleo forward, one fist tight in her sleek black hair.

“You just had to keep running that mouth, didn’t you?” he growled, dragging her toward a desk.

Cleo hissed, stumbling in her heels, still spitting venom even as he bent her over.

“Tch. What are you gonna do, snake-boy? Glare me to death? Please.”

Deuce’s jaw tightened, green eyes flashing with something sharp. He yanked her head back until she was arched like a bow, forcing her to look up at him.

“Three times, Cleo. Three. And you still don’t know when to shut the fuck up.”

Her smirk faltered when she felt him shove her skirt up and yank her panties down. The cool air on her skin made her shiver—but she still refused to give him the satisfaction of silence.

“Maybe you’re just too weak to put me in my place—”

Her words cut off in a strangled gasp as his cock slammed into her from behind, driving her against the desk hard enough to make it screech across the floor.

“Shut it, bitch,” he snarled, hand fisted in her hair as his hips pistoned. “You wanna act like a brat? Then take it like one.”

The rhythm was punishing, his thrusts pounding into her ass with a force that had her toes curling inside her designer heels.

Each snap of his hips pulled a groan out of her throat—though she covered it with spitfire insults.

“Ugh—ah—y-you’re such a—hnnhh—animal!” she gasped, knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the desk. “Is this all you’re good for? Jackhammering like some dumb—ahhh—dumb jock—”

Her voice cracked on a moan, betraying her.

Deuce smirked, leaning down until his breath was hot against her ear. “Keep talking, princess. All that sass, and your cunt’s squeezing me like you love every second of it.”

“F-fuck you,” she spat, though her hips ground back against him in perfect rhythm.

He yanked her hair tighter, pulling her head back so far her spine arched beautifully. “Already doing that, bitch. And you can’t get enough.”

His hips slammed home, making her squeal through clenched teeth.

The desk rattled with each thrust, a squeak-squeak-squeak underscoring the obscene slap of skin. Her mascara streaked as her eyes watered, but her voice still came sharp, ragged.

“G-gonna… gonna break my back, you psycho—ahhh—”

“Maybe then you’ll shut the fuck up,” he muttered, jaw clenched as he rutted into her.

Her body trembled, betraying her even as she spat curses.

She came hard, her moans tangled with insults, her walls milking his cock until his own climax tore through him.

With a guttural growl, he buried himself deep and spilled inside her, hot streams filling her ass until it leaked down her thighs.

When he pulled out, she collapsed forward, face pressed against the dusty desk, cum dripping from her abused hole.

“You’re a fucking bastard,” she hissed between ragged breaths, glaring back at him with smudged eyeliner.

Deuce just smirked, zipping up slowly, his snakes writhing lazily atop his head. “Yeah. But you love it.”

Her jaw tightened, lips twitching in a way that betrayed just how much she did.

He crouched down beside her, voice low, dangerous. “And don’t think I’m finished with you yet.”

He grabbed a fistful of her silky locks again and yanked her upright, forcing her to stumble on shaky legs until she was facing him.

Her eyes narrowed, lips curling in defiance, ready to shoot her mouth off again—until he shoved his cock between them, filling her throat before she even had a chance to snarl.

“Mmphhh!”

“Yeah, shut up and choke on it,” Deuce growled, holding her head in place as his hips pumped.

Saliva spilled down her chin, thick strands stretching from his shaft to her lips each time he pulled back just enough to let her breathe.

“You act like royalty, Cleo, but you suck dick like a straight-up slut.”

Her mascara-streaked eyes glared up at him, even as her tongue swirled around his tip, drool dripping onto her perfect blouse.

He smirked, watching her cheeks hollow as she tried to swallow him deeper.

“Look at you,” he taunted, voice rough with arousal. “Eyes watering, drooling all over yourself, gagging on my cock—and you’re still trying to act like you’re better than me. Pathetic.”

“Mmmphhh—khhhkkk!” Her throat convulsed as he pushed deep again, the gurgling wet sounds echoing in the empty classroom.

Strings of spit ran down her chin, soaking into her gold jewelry as she bobbed her head furiously, more desperate to prove she could take it than she’d ever admit.

He chuckled darkly, pulling her back just enough so he could look her in the eye.

“You should see your face right now. Princess Cleo, high and mighty, with her mouth stuffed like a cheap whore in the bathroom stalls.”

He slapped his cock against her cheek, smearing spit across her flawless makeup. “Tell me you don’t love this.”

Her answer was a wet gag as he forced himself back down her throat, her eyes rolling a little from the lack of air.

But her hands clutched his thighs, nails digging in—not to push him away, but to keep him there.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Deuce grunted, his pace quickening, hips snapping forward until her head was jerking back and forth like a toy in his grip. “Fucking goddess of denial on her knees, face-fucked like she begged for it.”

Her throat made loud, obscene glrk-glrk-glrk noises as his cock pistoned in and out, spit bubbling at the corners of her mouth.

Her nose pressed into his abs with each brutal thrust, her eyes watering until tears streaked down her cheeks.

Finally, with a low, guttural curse, he yanked her off and stroked himself twice before his cock erupted, thick ropes of cum splattering across her face.

Hot streaks painted her forehead, her cheeks, dripping down onto her lips until she was glazed in white.

He let out a long sigh, shaking his head as he looked at her ruined, cum-streaked face. “Maybe that’ll teach you.”

Cleo glared up at him through the mess, strings of cum dripping from her lashes to her chin.

She looked furious, humiliated… and yet her lips curved into the tiniest smirk, betraying her.

The tension snapped with the sudden click of the door opening.

“What on earth—!”

A random teacher froze in the doorway, face going crimson as her voice cracked into shrill outrage. “Wha—what are you two DOING?!”

Cleo froze, wide-eyed and dripping, while Deuce simply turned his head slowly toward the intruder.

The teacher’s voice climbed into a panicked shriek. “This is absolutely—this is against every rule—get dressed RIGHT now, or I’ll—”

Deuce just sighed, reached for his shades, and slid them off.

The teacher’s eyes met his—and in an instant, her body stiffened, color draining as stone spread over her skin.

Her arms locked mid-gesture, her mouth frozen in a scream she’d never finish. Within seconds, she was a statue standing in the doorway.

Deuce slipped his shades back on, completely unfazed, and smirked as he tucked himself away.

“C’mon,” he muttered, jerking his head toward the hall.

Cleo wiped a streak of cum from her cheek with a manicured finger, licking it clean with a bratty little hum.

“Took you long enough,” she quipped, strutting toward the door as if she wasn’t still dripping down her chin.

Together, they stepped over the petrified teacher and walked out, leaving the abandoned classroom silent—except for the faint drip of cum hitting tile.

And the small black box that sat comfortably in the corner of the room.

(Mr. Rotter’s Classroom – 1:00 PM)

Catty felt… off.

The day had started fine enough—reuniting with old friends, catching up on assignments, basking in compliments about how spectacular her and Seth’s tour had been.

Sure, the stack of missed work wasn’t fun, but compared to the energy of being back at Monster High, it felt like nothing she couldn’t handle.

But then.... lunch happened.

She didn’t even know how to describe it. In her two years at Monster High, she’d never heard conversations that vulgar, never seen the creepateria so… feral.

It was like the place had become a cesspit overnight.

And she’d definitely noticed the stares.

When she and Pharaoh walked past, whispers clung to her like cobwebs—low voices saying things she didn’t even want to repeat.

"Yo, I'd tap that ass."

"Damn, look at her. She looks so fucking hot in that outfit."

"I'd hit that so hard."

"If she wasn't dating that Pharoah dude, I'd be all over her."

The words crawled over her skin like bugs.

She wanted to tell Seth, but the last thing she needed was her boyfriend putting half the creepateria in the nurse’s office with some ancient plague curse.

And after lunch? Things only got worse.

Her head felt foggy. Not dizzy—just… clouded. Like her thoughts were being smudged by invisible hands.

She’d walked into school feeling clear, precise, focused.

Now it was like something had seeped into her mind, whispering, nudging, steering her toward thoughts she didn’t want. Thoughts she’d never let herself think about before.

Thoughts about her and Seth. Intimately.

Catty’s claws tapped nervously against her desk. She shook her head, trying to clear it, but the whispers didn’t leave. They only deepened.

PING.

Her phone lit up. A message from Pharaoh.

🅿️ Seth:
Babe, do you feel weird?

Her tail flicked. She hesitated, then typed back.

🐱 Catty:
Mhm. What about you?

🅿️ Seth:
Yeah. Something’s messing with me. Like I keep getting these thoughts I know aren’t mine. Distracting ones.
And I know it’s not a mummy curse—I haven’t even been around Cleo or anybody today.
What’s going on?

Catty stared at the words. Her stomach knotted. He was feeling it too.

She wanted to reply, but what could she say? That she’d been thinking about things she never let herself imagine? That the fog was pushing her toward him, toward something she wasn’t ready to admit out loud?

Her claws hovered over the screen—

And then her body went stiff.

Her eyes flashed a bright, unnatural pink.

(Catty's Dream)

The stadium lights dimmed, plunging the arena into darkness. A hush rippled through the crowd of millions, anticipation hanging thick in the air.

Then—BOOM.

A deafening bass drop shook the ground as pink spotlights slashed through the night sky.

Smoke machines hissed across the stage, and there she was: Catty Noir, every inch of her body wrapped in the sultriest, most provocative cat-themed outfit anyone had ever seen.

Her curves glistened beneath black latex cutouts shaped like claw marks, each slit teasing flashes of skin.

A diamond-studded collar clung to her throat, ears pointed high, and her tail swayed behind her with every deliberate step.

Pink thigh-high boots hugged her legs, reflecting the strobe lights as she strutted forward, microphone in one clawed hand.

The crowd erupted into a frenzy, screams and cheers deafening as the superstar feline goddess began to move.

The beat dropped again—and Catty bent low, her ass rolling in hypnotic circles before she broke into a twerk that made the entire stadium shake. Her tail flicked like a whip, hips snapping in time with the bass as her golden eyes gleamed.

Then, the stage lights exploded outward, revealing the ghouls—Clawdeen, Draculaura, Cleo, Lagoona, and Frankie—each in their own equally sultry outfits, custom-tailored for maximum indecency.

Clawdeen’s wild mane framed her in a shredded bodysuit of leather and mesh, her wolfish curves bouncing as she shook her ass for the crowd.

Draculaura was sugar-pink sin, in a heart-cut latex leotard, fangs bared in a playful pout as she bent over and clapped her ass cheeks to the rhythm.

Cleo dripped in gold and jewels, her mummy wrappings barely covering anything, every sway of her hips glittering under the lights.

Lagoona’s sea-green bikini shimmered like wet scales, water spritzing from hidden pumps each time she turned, her body glowing slick under the lights.

And Frankie—stitched perfection in a two-tone corset, lightning bolts sparking along her seams as she gyrated and twerked beside her sisters.

Together, the ghouls formed a wall of writhing, twerking flesh beside Catty, their asses shaking in perfect synchronization as the beat roared louder.

The crowd was losing its collective mind, flashes from phones lighting the stadium like a starry night.

Millions watched live, millions more streamed online—history being made in sweat and sin.

Catty spun, bent over, and shook her ass directly toward the cameras, her tongue sliding across her lips as she winked. She dropped into a split, twerking low before snapping back up with feline agility, tail curling around her thigh.

Her voice purred into the mic, sultry and commanding.

“You want more, don’t you?”

The audience howled.

And then—he appeared.

Seth.

Her boyfriend, tall and powerful, walking up onto the stage like he belonged there.

The crowd erupted even louder, screams piercing the night as he approached Catty with that slow, confident stride.

Catty dropped the mic. She didn’t need words.

She turned, tail wrapping around him as she backed into his body, grinding her ass against his cock through his pants.

The crowd went feral, the cameras zooming in on every dirty grind.

He grabbed her hips, pulling her flush against him, and together they moved—grinding, dancing, fucking with their clothes still clinging to their skin.

The ghouls circled them, twerking and bouncing, making the stage look like the world’s most sinful carnival.

Cleo dropped to all fours, shaking her ass like she was worshiping them.

Clawdeen howled with laughter as she twerked right beside Seth, teasing him while Catty claimed him.

Draculaura blew kisses at the cameras, grinding in rhythm.

Lagoona and Frankie pressed together, asses slapping, sparks flying—literally.

But it was Catty and Seth who owned the show.

Seth spun her around, bent her over, and with one swift motion, yanked her latex bottoms to the side. The crowd screamed as he pulled his cock free and shoved it inside her right there under the spotlights.

Catty threw her head back, her scream of pleasure echoing over the speakers as he pounded her from behind. Her tail whipped furiously, claws scraping the stage floor as her body jolted with every thrust.

Millions of fans watched their idol being fucked senseless in real time, and the cameras caught every obscene detail—the way her ass jiggled with each impact, the sweat gleaming off Seth’s abs, the way her thighs trembled as she tried to keep dancing through the relentless pounding.

She did twerk though. Even with Seth’s cock splitting her apart, Catty twerked in time with the bass, her ass bouncing around his shaft while the ghouls hyped her up with their own filthy moves.

The crowd wasn’t just cheering now—they were screaming, moaning, some even collapsing in ecstasy as the scene unfolded before them. A million cameras recorded the exact moment Catty became legend.

Seth grunted, pulling her hair back to make her arch, pounding faster as Catty cried out, voice ragged but sultry through the arena’s sound system.

“Yes! Yes! Give it to me, Pharoah! In front of everyone!”

His climax hit hard—he shoved himself deep, cock twitching as he filled her right there on stage.

The camera zoomed in, capturing her body trembling as cum leaked down her thighs, dripping under the stage lights.

The crowd roared louder than ever before, a deafening ocean of screams, chants, and moans.

Catty collapsed into Seth’s arms, panting, glowing, cum glistening between her legs.

Seth held her proudly before the millions, smirking at the cameras.

(Mr. Rotter’s Classroom – 1:12 PM)

Catty jolted awake with a sharp gasp.

Her face was burning, her chest tight, her breathing ragged—
And then she felt it.

The dampness.

Not just damp. Soaked.

She shifted in her seat, and the hot, slick reminder between her thighs made her stomach drop. Her claws trembled as the dream replayed against her will.

Her and Seth. On stage. Lights blinding. Thousands of eyes on them.

Not singing. Not dancing.

But moving together. Twisting, grinding, shamelessly, filthily.

And the crowd… cheering. Chanting. Urging them on.

A soft, desperate whine escaped her throat before she could stop it, and she slapped a claw to her mouth, horrified.

What was that? She’d never wanted anything like that. Never wanted their first time to be anything but private, gentle, sacred.

But the fog wouldn’t let her go. It whispered. It pulsed. It pushed images into her mind with cruel clarity—the way he’d feel inside her, the roar of approval, the way shame tangled with heat until she didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

Her thighs pressed together, slickness smearing. And she realized with sickening dread—

It wasn’t just the dream.

It was real. It felt real

She dug her claws into her skull. 'No… no, no, I’ve never dreamed like that, never thought like that! What’s happening to me?!'

And she wasn’t alone.

Across the room, Catrine Demew sat frozen, trembling. Her paintbrush lay discarded, claws carving lines into her desk as she fought against the sounds rising in her throat.

Her first day back, and now this.

Heat flooded her body like firewater. Her tail lashed, uncontrollable. Her mind was no longer her own—every thought, every flash behind her eyes was obscene.

Herself bent in ways she’d never imagine.

Friends, strangers, tangled in lurid shapes and moans she couldn’t unsee.

Her breathing hitched, a low purr threatening to spill. Shame battled hunger. And horror won—barely.

She had come back to reconnect, to see everyone again.

But sitting there, her body betraying her, her thoughts twisting into something alien and grotesque—

A part of her wished she had never come back at all.

(Storage Room – 1:30 AM)

“S–Spell…”

Valentine’s voice trembled, half-whimper, half-moan.

He hadn’t expected to end up like this—pinned, helpless, and flushed—but Spelldon always had a way of pulling him into situations he swore he didn’t want.

One moment they were supposed to be studying together in the empty classroom. Then Spelldon had leaned just a little too close, whispered something wicked in his ear, and with a snap of his fingers they were here, in the dusty darkness of a forgotten storage room.

Now Valentine’s coat was flipped up, his body bent forward against the wall. His wrists glowed faintly with magical binds, pinning them above his head.

Every time he struggled, the arcane chains tightened around him, forcing him to arch and expose himself even more.

“W-we’re gonna get caught,” Valentine stammered, his words shaky, betraying how much he was already enjoying it.

“That just makes it hotter,” Spelldon purred from behind him. His grin was sharp in the low light, his eyes burning with playful cruelty.

He raised his hand and brought it down with a sharp SMACK against Valentine’s ass.

The vampire yelped, muffling the sound against his own arm.

His pale cheeks flushed, but his body shivered with the sting.

“Mmm,” Spelldon hummed. “Didn’t know vampires were such kinky little pets.”

“Shut up,” Valentine hissed, trying to sound irritated, though his voice cracked on the last syllable. “It’s not like I… want this.”

“Oh?” Spelldon leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, his breath hot. “So you don’t want me bending you over like this? You don’t want me filling your needy little hole until you can’t walk tomorrow?”

His hand traced down Valentine’s back before landing with another stinging smack to his ass.

“Because if that’s the case… I’ll just teleport away. Leave you here all bound up, with your pretty little ass spread open for anyone to find.”

Valentine’s eyes went wide, panic flashing through him. “No! Wait—please!”

Spelldon chuckled darkly, savoring the desperation creeping into his boyfriend’s voice. “Ohh, I knew it. You love this. You love being caught, don’t you? The risk, the danger, the way you’re shaking right now.”

He gave a sharp thrust against Valentine’s backside, grinding just enough to make the vampire gasp. “Tell me the truth.”

Valentine bit his lip, trying not to give in. But another smack, sharper this time, made him whimper out loud.

His knees almost buckled as heat pooled low in his belly.

“Y-yes…” he whispered.

Spelldon tugged his head back by the hair, forcing him to arch his throat. “Say it louder.”

Valentine’s voice broke, tears prickling his eyes as he squealed, “Yes! I want it—please! I’ll be a good boy!”

“Good.” Spelldon’s smirk turned positively wicked as he pushed inside him, the magic restraints keeping Valentine taut and helpless against the wall.

The vampire moaned helplessly, every thrust sending his body forward, rattling the shelves of forgotten books and cleaning supplies.

He squeezed around Spelldon’s cock, betraying just how much he wanted it, no matter what words came out of his mouth.

“Oh, Val,” Spelldon groaned mockingly, slapping his ass in time with his thrusts. “You pretend you’re annoyed, but your body’s telling the truth. You’re dripping for me. You’re my needy little slut, and you know it.”

“Sh-shut up,” Valentine whined, but his hips were pushing back, grinding, begging for more even as his mouth tried to deny it.

Every insult Spelldon threw at him only made him twitch harder, his moans growing louder until he didn’t care about being caught anymore.

Spelldon leaned over him, grinding deep. “Still running your damn mouth? I should keep you tied up until you learn.”

Val whimpered, trembling against the wall, lost between shame and raw pleasure.

Minutes stretched on, the sound of skin against skin filling the cramped storage room until finally Spelldon groaned and shoved himself deep, spilling hot cum inside him. Valentine cried out as the heat filled him, his body shaking with release as his knees buckled.

When Spelldon finally released the magic binds, Valentine collapsed straight into his chest, panting and flushed, sweat beading his pale skin.

“Asshole…” Val muttered, though his arms clung to Spelldon even as he pretended to pout.

Spelldon only smirked, brushing his boyfriend’s messy hair back. “You love me when I’m an asshole.”

Val’s lips curved despite himself. He just prayed no one wandered in before the bell rang.

“At least Whisp isn’t here recording,” he muttered, hiding his face in Spelldon’s chest.

(Hackington’s Lab – 5:00 PM)

Hackington stepped into his laboratory, arms full of black cases and a teetering stack of papers.

He nudged the door shut with his foot and deposited everything across the desk with a dull thud.

With a long, world-weary sigh, he muttered, “This is going to take some time.”

An hour later, after wading through witness statements, incident reports, and what could only be described as unspeakable depravity, Hackington looked as though he wanted nothing more than to scour both eyes and ears with bleach.

“Bloody hell,” he groaned. “It’s far worse than I imagined.”

He reached into his waistcoat pocket, producing a small Dictaphone.

“Hopefully this will be sufficient proof for Bloodgood when she returns,” he said grimly, before pressing record.

Hackington:
My name is Hackington. For the sake of record, it has been precisely two weeks since the student body of Monster High was exposed to an as-yet unidentified chemical compound, on the twenty-seventh of September, 2017.

Hackington:
Since that date, a marked change in behavior has been observed amongst the majority of students. Reports range from minor flirtation and consumption of pornographic materials to outright public displays of masturbation and sexual intercourse.

Hackington:
The compound itself remains unidentified, and its origins equally obscure. Preliminary tests have revealed no traces of known toxins, nor any elements usually associated with narcotics. My colleagues and I suspect it to be a form of highly potent aphrodisiac, or perhaps some manner of pheromone-based agent.

Hackington:
At present, there is no tangible evidence pointing to a deliberate attack on the school.

Hackington:
Initial symptoms were relatively subtle—students reported vivid dreams of an intimate nature, often accompanied by a distinctive ocular glow, pink in color.

Hackington:
Medical logs compiled by Nurse Hatchetson indicate that, beginning this past Saturday, September 28th, such dreams became more frequent, and markedly more explicit. Some students described mild encounters such as kissing, whilst others reported… rather more elaborate scenarios.

Hackington:
A minority of pupils—primarily those absent on the day of exposure—initially presented no symptoms. However, within days, several began to exhibit the same recurring dreams and the aforementioned ocular phenomenon.

Hackington:
The most significant escalation occurred last Friday. Students Jackie Lope and Bridget Rolle were discovered engaged in sexual intercourse within a gym storage closet. Witness accounts describe an extraordinary event: upon discovery, every other student in proximity reportedly froze in place, eyes glowing pink, for several seconds. When the episode ended, none recalled feeling altered in any way.

Hackington:
As of today—Monday—what was once isolated behavior has spread into what can only be described as a sexual epidemic amongst the student population.

Hackington:
Legal restrictions within the Monster World prevent the installation of covert surveillance in bathrooms, locker rooms, and other sensitive areas. Quite understandably, the consequences of recording minors in such locations would be catastrophic, both ethically, professionally and... physically.

Hackington:
Instead, I have deployed discreet audio recorders in publicly accessible areas where encounters are most likely to occur. Supplementary evidence will be drawn from existing security cameras, teacher testimonies, and student reports. I am, of course, aware of the potential for witness intimidation or compromised statements; nevertheless, I shall endeavor to cross-reference all accounts to ensure validity.

Hackington:
My intention is clear: when Headmistress Bloodgood returns, I will present both the Monster Council and faculty with sufficient empirical evidence to demonstrate that the situation is rapidly deteriorating—and that intervention is not merely recommended, but imperative.

Hackington:
With the introduction concluded, I shall now proceed to document the observations collected over the course of the day.

NOTABLE EVENTS

Hackington:
In a single day, we have documented no fewer than twenty-two incidents of students engaging in sexual activity—several of whom are below the age of eighteen.

The locations include, but are not limited to:

Draculaura and Clawd Wolf, in the boys’ locker room.
Clawdeen Wolf and Toralei Stripe, in the girls’ locker room.
Cleo De Nile and Deuce Gorgon, in an abandoned classroom.
Kieran Valentine and Spelldon Cauldronello, in the storage room.
And… numerous others I shall not list in detail.

Hackington:
As is evident, the scale of this issue is no longer containable. Pupils who, until recently, displayed no tendencies toward such conduct are now freely engaging in sexual activity in public spaces—and disturbingly, without the faintest sign of shame or restraint.

Hackington:
Evidence suggests the gas is altering their personalities—or at the very least, lowering inhibitions to the point of erasing them.

Hackington:
Consider Draculaura. For as long as she has been here, she has styled herself a “vegan vampire,” abstaining from blood entirely unless under dire necessity. Yet as of this afternoon, she has demonstrated a complete reversal in her convictions. She now draws blood eagerly—and, more concerning, as part of sexual activity.

Hackington:
The following audio clip, captured in the showers, will demonstrate:

Audio Clip 1

“I love you, Laura!”
“I love you too, Clawd!”

CHOMP

“GGGRRRHHHHHAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

Hackington:
What you just heard was Draculaura biting into Clawd’s neck, drinking his blood whilst in coitus. Subsequent reports from staff confirm she later ordered a blood smoothie and a blood-soaked hotdog at lunch—food she once refused outright.

Hackington:
She is not the only one. Both Clawd and Clawdeen have exhibited a worrying feral aggression during intercourse, as recorded here:

Audio Clip 2

“Hey! What the hell was tha—HMPH!”
“Shut it, bitch! This is what you wanted—so quit whining!”

Audio Clip 3

“Clawdeen! Let go of me—”
CLANG!
“Quiet, kitty! Unless you want me to fuck you so hard you’ll barely walk!”
“You don’t have to be so aggressive!”
“Should’ve thought about that earlier! Now take those damn jeans off!”

Hackington:
The evidence is conclusive: the gas does not merely increase libido—it awakens primal instincts. The students are not only pursuing sex compulsively; they are behaving like their ancestors, creatures of savagery and dominance.

Hackington:
The consequences extend beyond behaviour alone. Both Clawdeen and Clawd have already inflicted significant damage to school property during these… encounters.

Clawd and Draculaura were found in the boys’ showers, where a bench had been completely splintered beneath them, and blood was left both across the floor and soaked into the broken wood. Custodians are now faced with scrubbing away what is, in essence, a crime scene.

Clawdeen and Toralei, meanwhile, left entire rows of lockers marred with claw marks, several warped or buckled from the sheer force of being slammed against during copulation.

The administration is faced with repairs that will need to be covered from the school’s budget directly. We cannot, of course, charge the parents without revealing the true nature of these events—and that is an impossibility.

Hackington:
Whether their youngest sibling, Howleen, has succumbed remains uncertain. Her conspicuous absence, combined with Twyla’s limited appearances today, suggests she too may be compromised.

Hackington:
The corruption extends further. Ghouls who once observed strict boundaries are now indulging in customs long condemned as immoral by human standards. For example, multiple witnesses—including Scary Murphy—reported that nearly all female students, Frankie Stein excluded, were openly drinking at Gloom Beach on Saturday evening.

Hackington:
And it has not stopped with sex and alcohol. The following footage, recovered from security cameras, indicates the introduction of narcotics into school grounds.

Video Clip

Mr. Rotter and Mrs. Flapper search the attic after a report that Toralei and her clique had been seen slipping away. At first, the room appears empty.

Then, Mrs. Flapper uncovers a small bag hidden in the corner. Inside, several white sticks.

She sniffs one—eyes widening.

Mrs. Flapper: “OH HELL NO!”
Mr. Rotter: “What is it?”
Mrs. Flapper, holding up the stick: “IS THIS WEED?!”

Hackington:
As demonstrated, we are dealing with a cascading crisis. Not only are students engaging in rampant sexual behaviour, they are also smuggling illicit substances onto school property.

Hackington:
If this continues unchecked, the integrity of Monster High itself may collapse. Its pupils are powerful, volatile creatures—many far too dangerous to discipline by conventional means.

Hackington:
Our only recourse is to present this evidence to Headmistress Bloodgood upon her return, and pray it is sufficient to spur the Monster Council into action.

Hackington:
Because if even they cannot stop this descent… then we are already lost.

Group Chat: Ghouls 💖🧠💅🐺🧛‍♀️🌊❄️

⚡ Frankie: hey ghouls!! 💚 how’s everyone’s day been so far?

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: Exhausting… but in the good way 😏

👑 Cleo: Depends on how you define “good.” Personally, I haven’t stopped thinking about Deuce’s hands on me since lunch.

❄️ Abbey: Hands? My Yeti prefer strength of full body. Arms pin down, chest press close. That is passion. 🔥❄️

🌊 Lagoona: Crikey, Abbey 😳 yer makin’ me blush over here. I mean… not wrong though. Sometimes you just want a bloke to grab ya and—

⚡ Frankie: uhhhhh 🫠 guys?? maybe we can talk about literally anything else?? like… homework?? or outfits??

🧠 Ghoulia: [sends GIF of an animated brain spinning with the word NERD flashing on it]

👑 Cleo: Ghoulia agrees with us. You’re killing the mood, Frankie. 🙄

⚡ Frankie: mood?? what mood?? we’re in a group chat!

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: Sweetie… everything is a mood if you’re in the right headspace. 💋

🌊 Lagoona: Deadset, Frankie, you really never think about it? Like… yer crush? Or do ya not have one?

⚡ Frankie: i mean… I like someone but… idk. I don’t really think about them like that 😅

❄️ Abbey: Then you are missing half of life experience. Physical touch is natural, healthy.

👑 Cleo: And frankly, thrilling. Especially when you know you shouldn’t be doing it.

🐺 Clawdeen: …hungry.

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: Girl SAME.

👑 Cleo: …Not for food though. 😉

🌊 Lagoona: Ohhh I get ya. Same here 😏 feels like I’ve been swimmin’ with sharks in my head all day.

⚡ Frankie: wait WHAT. 😳 guys this is… really personal. maybe we shouldn’t—

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: Oh, lighten up! You act like you’ve never even kissed anyone before.

👑 Cleo: Hold on. Frankie… you’re dating Holt and Jackson, aren’t you?

🌊 Lagoona: Oi, yeah! So tell us—have either of ‘em blown yer back out yet? 👀💦

⚡ Frankie: EXCUSE ME???!!! 😱😱 NO!!

❄️ Abbey: Surprising. Two males, one female. Odds seem in your favor.

🧠 Ghoulia: [sends sticker of two cartoon zombies making out aggressively]

⚡ Frankie: GHOULIA PLZ 😭

👑 Cleo: Frankie, darling… you’re adorable, but you’re hopeless.

Private Chat: Cleo 👑 & Draculaura 🧛‍♀️

👑 Cleo: …Is it just me, or does Frankie genuinely not know anything about sex?

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: I was thinking the same thing. It’s almost… weird. Like she’s still a kid.

👑 Cleo: Exactly. She’s with two guys and still acts like this? Pathetic.

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: Do you think she’s lying? Pretending she doesn’t get it?

👑 Cleo: Hmph. Either that… or she’s completely clueless.

🧛‍♀️ Draculaura: Guess we’ll just have to keep an eye on her. 💋

(Fields Outside Monster High – 11:03 PM)

The campus was quiet. Too quiet.

Moonlight spilled over the fields in silver sheets, painting the grass and the forest edge in pale glow. Most of the school slept, though from the faint glow of pink light leaking from certain dorm windows, it was clear that not everyone was resting peacefully.

(Note From the Author: Monster High canonically has on campus dorms)

Then the sky split.

A burning streak of crystalline blue tore across the heavens, glittering like a comet, brighter than the stars themselves.

The ground rumbled under its approach, the very air trembling with the pressure of its descent.

The meteor screamed downward, aimed directly at the woods beyond the practice field—until, impossibly, it slowed.

A deep hum resonated across the grounds as the object hovered, just feet above the grass. Shards of crystal refracted the moonlight, scattering prismatic beams across the treeline.

Then, with a low, resonant pulse, the crystalline shell cracked. Jagged lines of light snaked across its surface until it split open, folding back like petals.

From within, a figure emerged.

Astranova.

She floated free of the meteor’s heart, her silhouette outlined in cosmic light. Her silver hair rippled as if in zero gravity, her gemlike eyes burning with determination.

She looked down at Monster High, at the shadows creeping through the campus, at the corrupted energy thick in the air. Her lips pressed into a grim line.

She had meant to arrive sooner, but an asteroid belt had delayed her voyage. Time had slipped through her fingers. And now… the school was already drowning in corruption.

Her hand clenched into a fist.

“No more delays,” she whispered, voice carrying on the cool night wind. “I won’t let this darkness take them.”

Astranova’s crystal wings flared, shimmering with starfire.

She was back. And this time, she intended to save Monster High.

To Be Continued...

Notes:

What did you think of this chapter?
What do you think wil happen next?

Chapter 11: Behind Closed Doors

Summary:

More lemons, more drama and our favorite ice-fire duo get up to some freaky shit.

Notes:

This week is slowly getting freakier and its only Tuesday.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(Date: Tuesday, October 10th)

(Fields Outside Monster High – 11:03 PM)

Astranova stood on the cliffside overlooking Monster High, her crystal wings unfurled, glittering faintly beneath the moonlight. Her fist tightened at her side, eyes narrowed with resolve.

“No more delays,” she murmured, her voice riding the cool night wind. “I won’t let this darkness consume them.”

She turned toward the school, ready to descend to the dorms and begin purging the corruption. But then—

She froze.

A presence. Cold. Watching.

Before she could even pivot, a surge of blinding pink light swallowed her whole. Her form dissolved in an instant, her cry lost in the radiance.

And then—silence.

When the glow receded, nothing remained of Astranova but a single, faintly glowing prism lying in the grass, its light flickering like a dying star.

The night returned to stillness, broken only by the crunch of footsteps retreating into the darkness.

(Monster High – 7:15 AM)

“Good morning, Monster High!” Spectra’s cheerful voice rang out over the intercoms. “This is Spectra Vondergeist, here with your daily morning announcements!”

No one was listening. Not a single monster.

The hallways buzzed with ghouls and mansters draped over each other, flirting, giggling, kissing without a care in the world. Teachers tried desperately to herd them toward class, but most were brushed off—or outright shoved aside.

One unfortunate teacher was even knocked flat trying to separate a pair of ghouls locked in a very public make-out session.

Mrs. Kindergrubber huffed, straightening her glasses. “Monsieur Hackington, are you certain we cannot tell ze parents?”

Hackington pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice heavy with fatigue but clipped with that unmistakable British edge. “I’m afraid not, Kindergrubber. The students are clearly not in their right minds. If the parents were brought in without proper context, it would all spiral into chaos. Best we wait for Headmistress Bloodgood to return. With the evidence we’ve collected, she’ll know the correct course of action.”

Kindergrubber folded her arms, lips pursed. “I comprehend your reasoning, oui… but ze longer I watch, ze more unsettled I become. It is worsening, no?”

Hackington gave a weary sigh, tugging at his cravat. “I won’t argue with that. But panic won’t serve us. Until Bloodgood is back, we must keep a level head and do what we can.”

Meanwhile, the intercom continued blaring cheerfully, utterly ignored.

“In other news,” Spectra chimed, “tickets for the Monster Mash Dance are now availa—OHHHHHHH!”

Every ghoul and manster froze mid-sentence, turning their heads toward the nearest speaker with wide, raised brows.

Mr. Rotter glanced up from his phone, frowning. “What in the world was that?”

And then—dead silence. The transmission cut off.

(In the PA Room - 7:30)

Porter pushed open the heavy door to the PA room, the faint hum of equipment buzzing in his ears. At first glance, the room looked empty—until his eyes landed on her.

Spectra was bent over the PA desk, adjusting some dials, her skirt riding high and swaying lazily with each movement of her hips. Her ass—plump, round, practically begging—was the center of the universe in that moment. Porter froze in place, lips curling into a slow smirk.

The way she arched her back, the subtle shake in her ghostly hips… it was like she was putting on a show just for him. His eyes narrowed. She knows I’m here.

Every sway of that skirt screamed invitation. Come take it. Bend me over. Make me yours.

Porter stepped closer. One step. Another. Then another—until he was right behind her, close enough to feel the chill of her aura brushing against his skin. He hesitated only for a moment, thinking of the risk, the possibility of teachers or students catching them through the PA mic still live.

Then he chuckled to himself. “Fuck it.”

With a flick of his hand, his telekinesis snapped her skirt up, baring the round swell of her ass. Before she could even gasp, invisible fingers tore her panties away with a satisfying rrrip.

Spectra whipped her head around, eyes wide. “Porter—”

But the words melted into a moan as his cock slid into her in one smooth, hungry thrust. Her eyes crossed, her body jerking against the desk as pleasure overtook her shock.

He grinned, gripping her hips as he pounded her from behind, the desk squeaking under the force. Her moans echoed dangerously close to the mic, and with a frantic hand she reached out and slapped the PA system off.

“W-what the hell are you doing?!” she hissed, glaring back at him even as her voice trembled with each thrust.

Porter gave a sheepish half-smile, guilt mixing with lust. “Sorry. I just—your ass… it’s perfect. Couldn’t resist.”

Spectra rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed pink. “Oh, please. Like I haven’t heard that before.”

The paintergeist winced, suddenly aware of how reckless he’d been. He started to pull out, muttering, “You’re right. I shouldn’t—”

“Wait!”

He froze mid-motion, brows furrowed. “Huh?”

“I didn’t say stop.” Her lips curled into a sly grin, eyes glittering with mischief.

Porter blinked. “You… don’t want me to stop?”

Her voice dropped into a sultry purr as she wiggled her hips back against him. “Keep going.”

The confusion on his face melted instantly into a wolfish smirk. He leaned over her back, whispering in her ear, “Gladly.”

And with that, he slammed back into her, drawing another shameless moan from her lips—this time with no hesitation at all.

(Monster High – 7:17 AM)

“In other news,” Spectra’s sing-song voice carried through the intercoms, light and cheerful, “tickets for the Monster Mash Dance are now availa—OHHHHHHH!”

The cry ripped through the speakers, raw and unfiltered. Every ghoul and manster froze where they stood. The halls fell silent in a ripple, like a tidal wave washing down corridors. Even the most distracted couples broke apart, blinking up at the nearest wall speaker.

“Was that…?” Cleo’s golden eyes narrowed, lips curling into a smirk.

Clawd tilted his head, ears twitching. “That sounded like—”

But before he could finish, the PA crackled back to life.

“Hhh-hello, M-Monster High—ahhh—” Spectra’s voice wavered, trembling in a way that was anything but professional. The mic picked up wet, muffled sounds in the background. “T-t-today’s lunch menu includes—”

BANG!

A classroom door down the hall blew off its hinges, sending splinters flying and making students yelp.

Heads whipped back toward the ceiling speaker.

“—pizza, t-t-taco—nnghhh—”

CRRRNK!

A locker crumpled inward like a soda can, metal warping with an ear-splitting groan.

The students gasped, then one snorted. Then another. And then the entire hallway erupted into stifled giggles.

“Dude,” Heath whispered, eyes wide but grinning ear to ear, “she’s getting railed in the PA room.”

“Shhh!” Lagoona hissed, but she couldn’t keep her lips from twitching.

Up above, the speaker crackled again. “M-Mrs. Kindergrubber would like to remind everyone—oohhhhhh, f-f-fuuuhhh—remind everyone to—ahhh—return library books by Friday.”

POP!

A lightbulb overhead exploded, showering shards of glass that barely missed a shrieking student.

The laughter doubled. A few students were on the floor, clutching their stomachs, while others pressed closer to speakers to catch every sinful syllable.

Meanwhile, in the main office, Kindergrubber and Hackington went pale.

“Mon dieu…” Kindergrubber muttered, covering her mouth in shock. “She is—how you say—fucking on air!”

Hackington’s face flushed a deep crimson beneath his spectacles. “Good heavens, woman, keep your voice down! Quickly—Rotter, Crumbz, come with us. We must stop this immediately!”

They charged down the hall, teachers scrambling like soldiers to contain the chaos. But the closer they got to the PA room, the worse it got.

“St-students are reminded—ahhh, Porter, nghhh, don’t—reminded to sign up for d-d-detention duty if they—ahhhh—owe—”

BZZZZT!

Every speaker in the school let out a piercing screech before bending inward, metal warping as if crushed by invisible hands.

Inside the PA room, Spectra was bent over the desk, her knuckles white on the microphone stand. Porter was driving into her relentlessly, his hands gripping her waist while his smug grin matched every wet slap of their bodies.

“Spectraaa,” he teased against her ear, “you’re broadcasting this to the whole school. Hear that feedback? That’s you, baby.”

She moaned into the mic, her ghostly powers sparking around them. The filing cabinet in the corner shuddered before flying apart, drawers exploding open, papers raining down like confetti.

“P-P-please be reminded,” she whimpered into the mic, words tumbling between moans, “that—ahhhhhh—s-s-sign-ups for the Monster Mash—nnnnghhh Porter—close next—!”

CRACK!

The clock above the chalkboard shattered, its hands spinning wildly before freezing at midnight.

Students across the halls shrieked with laughter, some clapping, some whistling. “GO SPECTRA!” someone hollered.

Toralei clutched Clawdeen’s arm, giggling uncontrollably. “She’s literally blowing up the school while he’s blowing her back out.”

By the time Hackington and the other teachers stormed down the hallway toward the PA room, chaos had fully taken over. Students were doubled over in hysterics, chanting “PA! PA! PA!” while sparks and bangs echoed from all directions.

“Silence! SILENCE!” Hackington barked, his British dignity unraveling as he shoved through the crowd. “This is highly inappropriate—utterly disgraceful—”

But when the faculty burst into the PA room, the booth was empty. The equipment still smoked, the mic stand bent in half, and the faint smell of ozone lingered in the air.

Spectra and Porter were gone.

“Sacré bleu…” Kindergrubber whispered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “They vanished.”

Hackington groaned, collapsing against the doorframe. “Of course they did. Ghosts.”

Behind them, the students roared with laughter and applause, the scandal already the stuff of legend.

(The Catacombs – 7:21 AM)

The world shimmered violet as the two ghosts phased into the dark, cavernous catacombs beneath Monster High. The air was damp and heavy, shadows stretching long against the cracked stone walls.

Spectra staggered slightly as she materialized, her purple hair tangled, strands sticking to her flushed cheeks.

Cum dripped obscenely down the inside of her thighs, sliding from her stretched, aching ass. Her pale neck bore a constellation of fresh bite marks, and the vivid outline of a handprint bloomed crimson across her left cheek, a sharp reminder of the Paintergeist's rough touch.

She winced, rubbing her face. “Ow, fuck… that hurts.”

Porter tugged his pants back into place, smirking like the smug bastard he was. “This is what you wanted, remember?”

Spectra shot him a sharp glare, even as her body trembled with lingering aftershocks. “Yeah, but you can’t just float in and fuck me mid-announcement, Porter! I was on the air!”

He shrugged, casual, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “What can I say? That ass is too perfect to resist. It was practically begging for me.”

Spectra groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Oh my ghoul, Porter…”

She shoved a hand through her hair, trying to tame it, but the mess only made her look more wrecked.

Porter let the silence hang for a moment as he glanced around the cavern. The low glow of ghost-light torches cast the space in flickering shadows, every corner empty and silent except for the faint drip of water echoing somewhere deeper in the tunnels.

“So,” he asked with a sly grin, “what now?”

Spectra bit her lip, her expression softening before twisting into something wicked.

Slowly, deliberately, she turned around, pressing her chest to the cold stone wall. Her skirt flipped up again as she arched her back, presenting him with her swollen, reddened ass—cum still glistening as it leaked down her pale thighs.

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes glowing faintly as she smirked.

“Now you make me scream so loud the dead wake up and complain.”

Porter froze for half a beat, taken aback by the blunt filth of it—then his grin spread wide, his fangs flashing. “Damn, Spectra. You’re freakier than me.”

Her laugh came low, breathy.

“You just bring it out of me.” She wiggled her hips back invitingly, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “So are you gonna stand there smirking… or are you gonna rail me until the catacombs collapse?”

Porter’s eyes narrowed, hunger sparking in them as he stepped forward, already unfastening his pants again.

“Fine by me.”

He cracked his knuckles, letting his ghostly aura flare as he stepped toward her again, eyes locked on that trembling, messy ass.

And so, the catacombs braced for a second round of ghostly debauchery—stone cracking, relics toppling, and the distant corridors echoing with Spectra’s ecstatic cries as Porter fucked her into oblivion all over again.

(The Gym – 8:00 AM)

The gym looked fairly normal that morning.

Well—normal by Monster High standards.

A couple were making out by the bleachers, a few others were flirting near the water fountain, and Coach Igor still had everyone running laps like nothing strange was going on.

After a few sets, though, he blew his whistle and barked, “Break time! Stay where I can see you!”

He wasn’t about to let anyone slip off again. Not after Monday.

The ghouls were huddled together in the corner, chatting away like it was just another morning.

Ghoulia let out a low moan, leaning back against the wall.

“I feel ya, sugah,” Operetta drawled, her Southern twang lazy as she stretched her arms over the bench. “Seems like I can’t even say howdy to a fella ‘round here without Coach starin’ me down like I’m about to jump his bones.”

“Yep. And we all know whose fault that is,” Cleo said pointedly, turning to Draculaura.

The vampire gasped, eyes wide. “Excuse me?! Don’t blame this on me! Last I checked, you snuck off to roll around with Deuce in some broom closet!”

Cleo waved a hand dismissively. “At least we didn’t leave a mess. You left your blood all over the showers and the bench!”

Lagoona crossed her arms, brow raised. “How’d ya even manage that, mate? You’ve got magic! Couldn’t ya just clean it up?”

“We didn’t have time!” Draculaura groaned, throwing up her hands. “By the time me and Clawd were done, the sub was already in the locker room—we were seconds away from being caught!”

(Flashback)

Steam curled through the shower room, clinging to the tiled walls, mingling with the heavy scent of sweat, sex, and blood.

Draculaura sagged into Clawd’s chest, her small frame trembling with exhaustion, their bodies slick with water and each other. Her nails dragged faint pink trails over his shoulders before going limp against his broad back.

On the floor, crimson streaks pooled in the shallow water, her blood mixing with the spray from the showerhead as it swirled toward the drain.

Clawd wasn’t much better off. His neck bore fresh bites, blood dripping down in sluggish rivulets to stain his soaked gym shirt, streaking over the muscles of his chest. He still had her hoisted in his arms, thighs locked around his waist, his cock buried inside her as she clung to him with shaky breaths.

Every drip of blood from her slowly healing pussy trickled down his shaft, sliding hot over his length before pattering onto the tiles beneath.

“That was… fun,” Clawd murmured with a breathless chuckle, his voice rumbling in his chest.

Draculaura giggled weakly, the sound bouncing off the locker room walls, bright even against the rawness of her body. “Yeah. You’re a lot stronger than I thought, Clawd!”

His ears perked and twitched, his grin splitting wide with pride. “Glad to hear it.”

They stayed locked together in that quiet, heavy moment, hearts pounding against one another—until the sudden slam of the locker room door exploding open jolted them back to reality.

“HELLO!” a sharp voice boomed. “I know someone’s in here! Come out right now!”

Laura’s pink eyes went wide. “You didn’t lock the door?!”

Clawd stiffened, his stomach dropping. “I—I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking!”

The voice grew louder, footsteps echoing closer. “I can hear you whispering! Come out this instant!”

Laura clutched at him, panic rising. “What do we do?!”

“Teleport us out of here!” he hissed, his tail bristling.

Her lips trembled. “I don’t think I have enough mana left!”

The footsteps stopped right outside the shower curtain. “If you two don’t come out in the next ten seconds,” the substitute barked, “I’m calling security and your parents will be the first to hear about this disgrace!”

Clawd’s eyes went wide with horror. “Laura, just try!”

The vampire squeezed her eyes shut, chanting frantic Latin under her breath, hands glowing with a desperate pink shimmer. The light grew brighter, wrapping around their entwined bodies.

“Three… two… one—”

The substitute yanked the curtain open—only to be met with empty space, steam curling through the air like ghosts.

For a long second, he stood frozen, staring at the blood smeared across the tiles, the stains running down the walls, the twisted evidence of what had just happened. His face drained of color.

The room was silent again—except for the hiss of the shower, water still washing away the last traces of crimson into the drain.

“Well maybe if y’all hadn’t been at it so long, you could’ve tidied up proper,” Cleo muttered.

Draculaura huffed. “I fixed it later, okay? Found the sub, erased his memory. Problem solved.”

Operetta gave her a look. “Sugah, memories ain’t the only thing they can test. DNA don’t lie. Surprised they ain’t called Daddy Drac already.”

Draculaura went pale at that. She might have been acting reckless, but she wasn’t stupid. If her father ever found out what she and Clawd had been doing since Monday…

“Now that ya mention it…” Lagoona tapped her chin thoughtfully. “It’s a bit weird, yeah? Besides Bridgett and Jackie, none of the parents’ve been told a thing.”

That made the ghouls pause.

“You’re right,” Cleo murmured, suddenly uneasy. “By now, my father should’ve gotten some sort of report.”

Ghoulia moaned again, rubbing her temple.

“You said it, Ghoulia,” Operetta nodded. “With how wild things have been these last two days, I’d’ve expected a full parent-creature conference by now.”

“Maybe they don’t care what we’re doing,” Draculaura muttered.

“Oh, they definitely care,” Cleo snapped.

“Maybe they don’t wanna scandal,” Lagoona offered. “Monster High’s been under the spotlight since that attack back in September. Could be they’re tryin’ to keep it quiet.”

Operetta chuckled darkly. “Or maybe… they’re scared. Scared of what we’d do if they snitched.”

The ghouls exchanged glances.

Cleo smirked, examining her nails like they were the only thing that mattered. “As they should be. Everyone knows what happens to snitches.”

For a moment, the chatter of the gym seemed to fade, leaving only their laughter echoing a little too sharply off the walls.

The ghouls’ laughter still hung in the air when Frankie nervously shuffled over, clutching her gym bag to her chest.

“Hey, guys!” she chirped, voice just a touch too high-pitched.

Seven pairs of eyes turned toward her all at once. For a second, she swore the whole group went quiet—like they were waiting.

Operetta tipped her hat down, smirking. “Well, mornin’ sunshine. Thought ya’d skip out on us today.”

“Oh, no! I just… uh, Coach Igor made me redo my laps ‘cause my bolts were sparking again. He was worried I’d fry the floor.” Frankie let out a shaky laugh.

The others didn’t laugh with her.

Instead, Draculaura leaned in, her fangs flashing as she grinned. “We were just talking about… relationships. You know—how messy they can get sometimes.”

Frankie blinked. “O-oh! Uh… yeah, relationships are… complicated.”

“Complicated’s one word,” Lagoona said, crossing her arms, her accent sharp. “I’d say they’re… hands-on.”

Operetta chuckled. “Mmhm. Real sweaty business.”

Ghoulia moaned low in her throat, sending the others into another round of giggles.

Frankie tried to smile along, though her hands clutched her gym bag tighter. “Heh… y-yeah, sweaty…”

Draculaura tilted her head, watching Frankie like a bat eyeing its dinner. “You and Holt… or Jackson. Either of them… keepin’ you busy?”

Frankie’s face went redder than a faulty circuit board. “I-I mean—we hang out a lot! We watch movies and, uh, go to the Coffin Bean and—”

“Movies,” Cleo cut in smoothly, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “That’s adorable.”

Operetta smirked. “Tell me, sugar, do those movies end with popcorn… or somethin’ a bit steamier?”

Frankie’s jaw opened and closed, but no sound came out.

Cleo leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Come now, Frankie. Don’t tell us you’ve never—”

The floor lurched.

A deafening BOOM echoed through the gym as the ground trembled violently beneath their feet.

The bleachers rattled. Lights flickered overhead. Students screamed, some diving under benches, others clutching the nearest person.

“Earthquake?!” Lagoona shouted, grabbing the wall for balance.

“Monster High doesn’t even have fault lines!” Draculaura yelled back.

Another CRACK split the air, shaking the floor even harder, until dust rained down from the rafters above.

The ghouls’ circle broke apart, everyone scrambling for footing—except Frankie, who stood frozen in place, her bag slipping from her hands.

(Substructure, beneath the West Wing – 8:12 AM)

Deep under Monster High, past twisting corridors of stone that most students never dared explore, the very foundations of the school groaned and shuddered.

And at the heart of it, in a vaulted chamber carved directly into the bedrock, two gargoyles were going at it like their lives depended on it.

Rochelle clung to a support pillar, her claws digging grooves into the stone as Garrott slammed into her from behind with the force of a wrecking ball. Her wings quivered, feathers shedding dust as her voice broke in guttural moans that echoed through the chamber.

“Mmmhh—Garrott!” she cried, her French accent thick, words trembling with every thrust. “Tu vas—ohhh!—break ze school apart!”

Garrott only growled, his muscular body driving forward again, hips crashing into her granite ass with bone-shaking force.

“Not my fault your ass is built like a fortress!” His cock drove into her again, the impact ringing through the chamber like a hammer striking a cathedral bell.

BOOM.

The support beams above them trembled, dust raining down as cracks spread across the ceiling.

Each thrust wasn’t just fucking—each thrust was war, an unstoppable force colliding with an immovable object, over and over.

Rochelle’s claws gouged the stone deeper, shards breaking loose under her grip.

“You—you are insane!” she panted, even as her hips pushed back, demanding more. “Ze whole school is—ahhh!—going to collapse!”

“Then let it!” Garrott snarled, pulling her back against his chest, his wings unfurling wide.

He bit down on her neck, grinding so deep inside her she saw sparks behind her eyes.

Another CRACK roared through the foundation, traveling upward.

Above them, in the gym, bleachers rattled, lights flickered, and terrified students thought the earth itself was breaking.

But it wasn’t tectonic plates. It was Gargoyle sex.

“Garrott!” Rochelle’s scream rang out, her accent melting into pure moan as she arched against him, ass rippling against his relentless thrusts. “Mon dieu—you are going to kill me!”

“Never,” he grunted, pounding harder, faster, his cock slamming into her unyielding body with such force it sent shockwaves through the chamber. “I’ll fuck you into rubble before I let go.”

The walls groaned, hairline fractures spiderwebbing through the stone.

The pillar Rochelle clung to shivered, and with one particularly brutal thrust, it splintered down the middle with a thunderous BOOOOM.

Up above, the entire east hallway jolted so violently lockers bent inward, books spilling onto the floor.

Students screamed and ducked, some crying “EARTHQUAKE!” while others whispered with dawning realization:

“No… it’s the gargoyles.”

Down below, Rochelle had abandoned all resistance, her wings flared wide as she bounced against Garrott’s thrusts.

Sweat glistened on her stone-carved body, every impact making her moan louder.

“Oui! Oui! Don’t you dare stop!”

Garrott roared, his claws digging into her hips as his pace became a blur, his cock battering her insides like a battering ram against a fortress gate.

The whole cavern quaked with the rhythm of their fucking, dust raining in choking clouds.

“Take it!” he growled, his voice echoing like thunder. “Take every last inch until this whole damn school knows whose ass this is!”

Rochelle’s scream shook the chamber as her climax ripped through her, her ass clenching like a vise around him.

The combination nearly shattered him, and with one final devastating thrust, Garrott exploded inside her, filling her until it spilled hot between her thighs and down her stone legs.

The aftershock was cataclysmic. The floor beneath them buckled, cracks racing through the foundation like lightning. For a moment it seemed the entire wing of the school might come crashing down.

And then—silence.

Rochelle collapsed against the shattered pillar, panting, cum dripping from her trembling body. Her stone cheeks flushed faintly pink as she glanced back at him.

“You… you really must control yourself, mon amour. Ze students will think it is the apocalypse.”

Garrott smirked, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his muscular torso. “Let them. They should know what happens when a gargoyle fucks his mate.”

Above them, the halls were still buzzing with chaos—teachers shouting, students screaming, dust falling from the rafters.

(Art Room – 9:30 AM)

The last of the tremors had died down an hour ago. The school had buzzed with speculation—earthquakes, attacks, curses—but by now the truth had already spread in hushed whispers and stifled laughter.

But by the time Catrine DeMew sat in her art class, the story was already old news.

She adjusted her sketchpad on the desk, claws tapping against the page. The classroom smelled faintly of paint, clay, and Monster energy drinks. Everyone was hunched over their assignments, heads bent, pencils scratching. The teacher—Mr. Bartholomew, a wiry vampire with round spectacles—drifted between rows, cape brushing the floor as he peered at sketches.

“Today,” he said, his voice steady and cultured, “we focus on expression. Raw, unfiltered emotion. Do not overthink, simply… draw what your soul cries for.”

Catrine nodded to herself. That sounded natural, easy. She was an artist, after all. This was her sanctuary.

Her pencil moved almost on its own.

She let her thoughts wander—about her return to school, the odd heat in her body, the constant restless energy she couldn’t quite place.

Shapes formed under her claw. Lines curved and crossed. She felt a strange fog drift across her mind, not unlike the dreams that had been plaguing her at night.

By the time she blinked down at the page, her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t a portrait. It wasn’t even abstract.

It was… obscene.

Two figures entwined, bodies pressed together in ways she’d never dared sketch before.

Fangs and claws, parted lips, suggestive positions she couldn’t have imagined herself even thinking about.

And yet… the strokes were bold, confident. Beautiful, in their way.

Her face burned hot pink under her fur.

'Oh non, non, non!' she thought frantically, hugging the sketchpad closer. 'What am I doing?!'

“Catrine?”

She jolted upright as Mr. Bartholomew’s shadow fell across her desk. He leaned down, squinting through his glasses.

For a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then his eyes went wide.

“Mademoiselle DeMew!” His voice cracked sharply, enough to turn heads. “This—this is entirely inappropriate for class!”

Gasps and whispers rippled across the room.

Catrine’s ears flattened. “I—I didn’t—It’s not what it looks like!”

But it was exactly what it looked like. And now every student around her was craning to see.

A vampire ghoul in the back whistled low. “Whoa. That’s… kinda hot, actually.”

“Yeah,” another snorted. “Didn’t know DeMew had that in her.”

One of the gargoyle boys leaned forward, smirking. “What’re you hiding, kitty? You been holding out on us?”

Catrine wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

Mr. Bartholomew slammed the sketchpad shut, snapping the class back to order. “Enough! This is an art room, not a— a smut parlor! Catrine Mademoiselle DeMew, see me after class for a very serious discussion about boundaries.”

He swept away with the sketchpad tucked under his arm.

The whispers didn’t stop.

A banshee girl leaned toward Catrine, grinning. “Honestly, you’ve got talent. Like… disturbingly good talent.”

A few of the others laughed, a little too eagerly. More compliments followed—mocking but also oddly genuine.

“Those proportions? Flawless.”

“You could make a killing if you… you know, went into business.”

“Send me a copy?”

Catrine’s claws curled into her desk. Her tail flicked furiously behind her, betraying her panic even as her classmates giggled and whispered.

She sat frozen, shame burning in her chest, while a darker thought crawled into her mind unbidden:

'But… it really was beautiful, wasn’t it?'

(Teachers' Lounge – 10:30 AM)

Mr. Rotter looked like he wanted to take his chipped coffee mug, still steaming with weak, burnt sludge, and hurl it straight through the double-glazed window.

His eye twitched. The mug trembled in his hand.

The lounge was normally the one sanctuary in the entire crumbling edifice of Monster High, a place where teachers could hide from the shrieks and hormones, but this morning it looked like an asylum wing.

"A day and a half," Mr. Where muttered, eyes glazed, his chin sagging into the palm of his hand as he stared outside. "It’s only been a day and a half, and this school’s already gone straight to hell. Worse than hell, even. At least in hell there’s rules."

Mrs. Flapper sat with her head in her hands, mascara smudged faintly under her lashes.

"Yesterday it was twenty-two cases," she whispered, her voice hoarse from repeating the same lament for hours. "Today? Fifteen more—before eleven o’clock. Not even second break, and we’ve smashed yesterday’s total."

"Draculaura and Clawd, Cleo and Deuce, Gil and Lagoona, Operetta and Johnny, Clawdeen and bloody Toralei—" Rotter’s fist hit the table with a thunk, rattling half-empty mugs and the plate of stale biscuits.

"Nearly every well-known couple in this entire cursed school has been rutting like animals. And the ones not screwing are either gossiping about it, planning it, or spectating like it’s the bloody Olympics! And somehow we’re meant to get them through algebra in between their quickies?"

"And the drinking," Mr. Flapper barked, his jowls wobbling, voice cracking with the outrage of a man who no longer even believed in outrage. "Tequila. Edibles. They’re smuggling it all in. Sex is one thing, but sex and booze and weed? Christ above, it’s the end times."

"It’s a bloody zoo," Hackington muttered, sounding every bit the weary Englishman who’d spent his morning breaking up three separate trysts. His accent clipped, vowels flat and drained of hope.

"All they want t’do is shag. Every corner, every corridor. I turn me head, there’s another one bent over a bloody locker in some… inventive position. You wouldn’t see such things in Soho on a Friday night."

Nurse Hatchetson, arms crossed, leaned back in her chair with a creak, her stethoscope dangling uselessly, as if it too had given up. "If Bloodgood hadn’t ignored all the red flags before she vanished, we could’ve stopped this spiral. She saw the signs, all of us did."

"Mais qu’est-ce qu’elle aurait pu faire, hein?" Mrs. Kindergrubber sighed, her French lilt bitter, smoke-roughened, as though every vowel had been dragged through an ashtray. "Ze medical reports, oui, zey are suspicious. But beyond zat? We have no proof. Without proof, we look like hysterical old nuns shaking our rosaries, mm?"

Rotter’s lips twitched. "She’s right. As bloody obvious as it was, without hard evidence, we’d just look mad. Foaming at the mouth, crying wolf about some gas."

"And let’s not forget," Mrs. Flapper added, voice sharp but hollow, "she was juggling the press and those nightmare parents after the attack. Her hands were tied, her plate overflowing."

Hackington gave a joyless laugh, dragging a hand down his face. "Well, cheers to that. Her negligence has left us with a school full o’ hormone-addled fiends. I swear some of ’em aren’t even legal, and yet they’re—" He cut himself off, gesturing vaguely at the ceiling as if the sordid acts were playing out overhead.

"Most of the madness is seniors, though," Mr. Where muttered, dry as sawdust. "They’re treating this last year like an orgy farewell tour."

"And they’re spending it shagging each other’s brains out," Hackington echoed, sounding like a man who’d tried to keep a stiff upper lip and found it torn clean off.

Rotter slumped back in his chair, his mug now abandoned. "Honestly, I’m shocked they even bother coming to class. Or at least wait until our backs are turned. That’s almost considerate."

"Ha! You’ve got a point," Mrs. Flapper said, letting out a bitter bark of a laugh. "With the muscle on some of these kids, they could screw right there in front of us and we wouldn’t be able to stop it. Not without losing limbs."

"Maybe," Mr. Where murmured, squinting as though trying to see some shred of good in the chaos, "maybe there’s a scrap of right and wrong left in them. Sex-crazed or not, maybe they still respect us."

Rotter scoffed so hard his chair squealed against the floor. "Then let’s pray we don’t give them a reason to stop respecting us. Because once that happens? God help us all."

The lounge fell quiet, filled only by the hum of the vending machine and the distant, unmistakable sound of a locker door slamming rhythmically against a wall in the corridor outside.

And every single one of them was thinking the same thing: It’s only Tuesday.

(Gym Storage Room – 10:40 AM)

If you could describe Heath’s face in two words, it would be: wrecked slut.

The fire elemental was dangling helplessly in a brutal full nelson, his limbs splayed and useless as his towering futanari girlfriend Abbey railed him like she meant to break him in half.

Gym class had started normal enough. Then Abbey had said she needed to “grab something from storage,” and Heath, all nerves and hormones, had mumbled that he’d “help.”

Ten seconds inside the dark little room and her icy hands were under his shorts, her lips on his throat, and now here he was—his gym clothes torn, underwear shredded, his tight little hole stuffed full of her massive cock while his legs kicked uselessly in the air.

His mouth hung open in a silent scream, tongue lolling out, eyes crossed as she jackhammered into him. He looked like a boy who had completely surrendered his body.

At one point he’d whispered that he needed the bathroom. Abbey just chuckled in his ear and tightened her grip.

Within minutes, he couldn’t hold it back, and piss sprayed from his cock in frantic arcs, splattering across the storage floor like a broken sprinkler.

The yeti’s laugh rumbled low and wicked. “Look at you, my little porcelain throne. Dripping, squirting, taking me like toilet you are. So shameful, da? But you love.”

It hadn’t been easy for Heath to adjust to this new life.

Before Abbey, whenever he thought about sex, his fantasies always had him on top—imagining himself blowing her back out, proving that even a fire elemental could handle a mountain of a woman like her.

But then Saturday happened.

That night, Abbey had bent him over and fucked him until he forgot his own name.

Hours later, when she finally let him stumble home, her cum was still dripping out of him with every step. His mom scolded him for missing dinner, but Heath had been so wrecked, so sore and blissed-out, he could barely answer her.

The next day, when Abbey summoned him again, he’d gone—nervous, shaking, terrified—and she’d greeted him with a nice and warm smile.

She assured him he was safe, that she knew exactly what she was doing, even as she pinned him down and mounted him again.

Yes, she had every intention of mating him, of claiming him as hers, but she never once let him believe she’d hurt him. She wanted him broken open—but not broken apart.

It took time. It took more than a few trembling hours of her stretching him wide and whispering filthy Russian endearments in his ear. But eventually, Heath stopped fighting it.

Now, he didn’t just accept it—he craved it.

He loved every second of being her bitch.

And Abbey? Abbey adored having her own hot, tight little onahole—always eager, always ready, and always hers.

Heath whimpered, shaking his head even as his cock jerked wildly, painting the floor. “I—I can’t—oh ghoul, Abbey, please—”

“Please what?” she teased, nipping his ear with sharp teeth, her accent thick. “Please stop? Or please more? Because your tight ass squeezing my cock says more.”

Heath’s cheeks burned red-hot. He wanted to protest, but all that came out was a needy moan. She was right. He was her bitch now, and he loved every second.

Abbey slammed him against the wall, her cheek pressed to his, her voice husky. “My little boy-toy. My warm onahole. You were made for Abbey’s cock.”

She kissed his neck, biting hard enough to make him squeal. “And you stay so hot inside. I fuck you, and your ass burns like little furnace. Is good for me. Keeps Abbey warm.”

Heath’s voice cracked. “Gosh, Abbey… you’re so deep. I can’t take it…”

She chuckled, hips never slowing. “Da, you take it. You take all of me. You are my fire slut. School could open this door any second, and they would see you split wide on Abbey’s cock, squealing like little girl. Is that what you want?”

His stomach twisted with shame and arousal. “N-no… but—ahhh—don’t stop, please!”

She grinned at his desperation. “That’s right. You want to be caught, da? Want friends to see you gaping for Abbey. Hmmm. Maybe one day.”

Her balls tightened, her pace becoming punishing. Heath’s little hole squeezed desperately, already fluttering around her shaft.

“Here it comes,” she growled. “Be good toy, and milk me dry.”

Heath barely had time to brace before her cock erupted inside him. Hot ropes of cum shot deep, swelling his belly round as a balloon, his body jerking as though she’d lit a fire inside him.

"There you go," She cooed, smiling from ear to ear. "Almost perfect! Come on, squeezeeeeeee~"

His mind went blank. He screamed into the air, his own cock spraying thick, messy ropes all over the storage room walls.

Abbey clamped her cold hand over his mouth instantly, muffling him.

“Hush, fire boy,” she whispered harshly, nibbling his ear. “Do you want Coach Igor to hear? Want whole gym to see what little slut you are?”

Heath bit his tongue, his body shuddering as cum dribbled from his cock.

He didn’t want anyone to know—but fuck, the thought of being found out made him twitch harder.

At last she eased out, her seed spilling in thick globs down his thighs.

She carried him to the one rickety chair in the room, still holding him in a full nelson like a toy she refused to set down.

She sighed, stroking his hair with mock tenderness. “If we did not have to worry about being caught, Abbey would fill you up all day, until you were leaking from ears.”

Her grin was wolfish. “But after school… mmm. Then you are mine again.”

Heath slumped against her chest, still dazed, his voice small.

“W-what about when Bloodgood comes back? You… you live with her.”

Abbey’s smile faltered at the thought. She would be back soon, and they’d lose their sanctuary.

Heath’s house was an option, but his parents were usually home most of the time.

And Jackson? Too nosy. Too likely to blab.

“A-Abbey…” Heath mumbled, his voice shy.

She looked down at him, eyebrow raised. “Da, little fire?”

“I know a place… for futas and their partners. Private. Discreet. You could… you could fuck me as much as you want there.” His voice dropped, hot with shame. “I’d… I’d be your hole forever.”

Abbey’s grin widened, eyes glinting with hunger.

She kissed his temple, icy lips burning on his hot skin. “Tell me more, my little slut. Tell Abbey where we can break you next.”

(Creepateria, 12:00 PM)

The lunchroom was buzzing like always—trays clattering, ghouls gossiping, couples sneaking kisses when they thought nobody was watching. The chaos had almost become background noise by now.

At one of the corner tables, Catty Noir sat with her tray, idly poking at a slice of mystery meatloaf that looked far too suspicious to eat. Across from her, Pharoah slid into the seat with his usual swagger, setting his tray down with a grin.

“Well, look who finally decided to join the mortals for lunch,” Catty teased, her tail flicking lazily.

Pharoah smirked, adjusting the golden chains around his neck. “Mortals? Please, I’m just giving the masses the pleasure of my company. You should be honored to sit across from me.”

Catty rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitched. “Always so full of yourself.”

“Confidence, not arrogance,” he said, leaning forward. “There’s a difference, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” Catty hummed, finally taking a bite of her food. “And I suppose you think that makes you more… appealing?”

Pharoah grinned, catching the tone in her voice. “Is that what you’re saying? That you find me appealing?”

Catty choked on her meatloaf, coughing into her paw before glaring at him. “Don’t twist my words!”

But Pharoah only leaned back, smug as ever. “Didn’t have to. You’re doing all the work for me.”

She narrowed her eyes, but couldn’t fight back the small laugh that slipped through. “You’re impossible.”

“And you like that,” he shot back smoothly.

Catty looked away, suddenly more interested in her food than in the smirk across the table. Still, her ears twitched, and her tail swished behind her—betraying her fluster. “Even if I did,” she muttered, “you’re the last person I’d admit it to.”

Pharoah rested his chin on his hand, watching her with a slow grin. “Then don’t say it. Just… keep looking at me like that. I’ll take it as confession enough.”

Her heart gave a small skip at that, and she quickly covered it with a scoff. “You think you’re so smooth.”

“Think? No, Catty—I know.”

The tension between them grew, playful at first, but with a heat underneath it that neither of them seemed eager to name.

Catty’s claws tapped against her tray as if to ground herself, while Pharoah tilted his head, waiting for her to break the silence.

But before either of them could push the conversation any further, the sound of raised voices cut across the lunchroom.

“Invisi-Billy!” Scarah Screams was dragging her invisible boyfriend by the collar of his jacket, her Irish brogue sharp and furious.

The chair legs screeched as she yanked him straight through the aisle between tables.

“Scarah, babe, c’mon—I didn’t mean to!” Billy stammered, half-stumbling, his tray forgotten somewhere behind them. “It just happens sometimes!”

“You think I can sit here, enjoying me lunch, while ye fill yer head with that filth? In front of a telepath?!” she snapped, eyes blazing white.

The entire lunchroom turned to watch the spectacle as Scarah manhandled her boyfriend.

Billy’s hands flew up defensively. “I wasn’t trying to think about it—it just popped in, okay? I can’t control every thought!”

“Too bad!” Scarah barked. “Now ye’re gonna be punished for it, whether ye meant it or not!”

She stopped briefly when she noticed Catty and Pharoah staring at them. Scarah flushed, but instead of brushing it off, she blurted without shame:

“Apologies, he was havin’ some naughty thoughts about me sittin’ on his face, and I don’t take kindly to imaginin’s like that without me consent. So now he’s got some payback comin’.”

Catty blinked, wide-eyed. Pharoah raised his brows.

Meanwhile, Billy was bright red, sputtering as he tried to wriggle out of Scarah’s iron grip. “I’m sorry! I swear, Scarah, it wasn’t intentional! Please don’t—Scarah—babe—c’mon—!”

“Not another word!” she hissed, hauling him toward the door. “You can save your breath for beggin’ when I’m through with ye!”

The door swung open with a slam, and the two disappeared down the hall—Scarah’s sharp voice echoing behind them, Billy’s apologies fading into the distance.

For a moment, silence reigned over the lunchroom. Then, gradually, the noise picked up again—ghouls whispering, giggling, returning to their trays as though nothing had happened.

Catty and Pharoah just looked at each other.

“…Well,” Catty finally said.

“…Lunch entertainment,” Pharoah finished with a shrug.

They both laughed softly, shaking their heads, before turning back to their food as though nothing had happened.

(Abandoned Classroom – 1:00 PM)

The old door creaked open on its rusted hinges, spilling a sliver of light into the room.

Dust danced in the glow. The desks sat scattered and crooked, cobwebs stretched between toppled chairs.

Every little sound seemed louder here—the hum of the broken lights, the distant groan of pipes, the soft tap of footsteps on cracked linoleum.

Twyla was already there, pressed flat beneath the shadow of a desk, her small form melting into the darkness as though she wasn’t even there.

She held her breath, clutching her knees tight against her chest, eyes glowing faintly in the gloom. Her heart thudded like a drum against her ribs.

Because she could hear her.

“Twyyyylahhh,” Howleen’s sing-song voice echoed down the hallway before drifting into the classroom. The werewolf’s shoes tapped across the floor, slow and deliberate. “Come out, c’mon… I don’t wanna hurt you. I just wanna play.”

Twyla squeezed her eyes shut, curling deeper into the shadow. Her whole body trembled. She didn’t want to be found. Not like this.

Howleen’s claws scraped across a desk as she prowled past. “You know I’ll sniff you out sooner or later. Your scent’s all over this place. You can’t hide forever.”

The footsteps grew closer. Then… silence.

Twyla risked a glance. No sign of her. The room was empty, still. Her breath caught, relief flooding her chest. Slowly, carefully, she crept out of the shadow, her body slipping back into the pale half-light.

Then she turned.

And nearly screamed.

Howleen was right there. Standing inches away, amber eyes glowing, grin sharp as knives.

“Gotcha.”

Before Twyla could retreat, Howleen pounced, grabbing her wrists and yanking her out of the shadows. Twyla’s small body hit the desk, her gasp muffled as the werewolf pressed in close, hot breath ghosting over her ear.

“If I had a dick,” Howleen whispered, voice low and taunting, “I’d make you suck it raw right now.”

Twyla shivered violently, her ears twitching as her whole body flushed red.

Instead, Howleen shoved her down against the desk, tearing at the fabric of her pants until the seams split.

The shy ghoul squeaked, writhing, but Howleen was relentless. She spread Twyla open and buried her face between her cheeks, her tongue plunging deep into her tight little ass.

Twyla shrieked, her voice high and panicked, her fingers clawing at the wood of the desk. “H-Howleen, s-stop! Someone could—ahhhhnnn!”

The wolf smacked her ass with a loud CRACK, making it jiggle under the dim light.

“Quiet, piggy. You squeal so cute, though.”

She bit into the pale flesh, leaving crescent marks, then lapped at her again, tongue working circles before spearing deep.

Twyla’s back arched, her body betraying her, her thighs trembling as moans forced their way past her lips.

Howleen grinned against her, one hand smacking her ass again and again until it was hot and red, the other sliding up under Twyla’s top to pinch and twist at her nipples.

“So sensitive,” she whispered, nibbling at her ear, “You pretend you’re all shy, but your body’s begging me for more.”

Twyla whimpered, her breath ragged. She could end this any time—her powers could drown Howleen in shadow, crush her mind into nothing.

But she didn’t. She stayed. She let the wolf have her.

Two fingers slid into her pussy, pumping hard and fast, while Howleen’s tongue plunged deeper into her ass, spit slicking everything.

The sound was obscene, wet slurps mixing with the slap of flesh.

“Fuck, Twy,” Howleen growled, spanking her harder. “You’re so tight everywhere. Little toy for me to play with. You like it when I make you squeal, don’t you?”

“I—I don’t—ahhhhnn—” Twyla’s denial broke into a cry as Howleen twisted her nipple viciously, making her buck back against the tongue in her ass.

Then—

The doorknob rattled.

Both froze. A teacher’s voice called from outside: “Hello? Is someone in here?”

Panic surged through Twyla, her whole body stiffening.

Howleen smirked against her. “Do it. Hide us. Right now.”

Tears welled in Twyla’s eyes as she raised trembling hands, shadows surging up around them both, cloaking them in total darkness. The door creaked open, light spilling in—but the teacher saw nothing.

Just an empty room, silent and still.

The door shut.

The instant it latched, Howleen shoved her back down and bit her shoulder, grinding two more fingers into her, her tongue lapping at her ruined hole.

“Good girl,” she purred. “See? You can help. Now scream for me again.”

Twyla’s voice cracked into a wail as Howleen fucked her with fingers, tongue, and teeth all at once, every smack of her ass echoing through the abandoned classroom.

Every filthy sound only made the wolf’s grin widen, her ears twitching at the music of it.

“Look at you,” Howleen growled against Twyla’s ear, sliding her spit-slick fingers deep inside and curling them cruelly. “Boogeyman’s daughter, all spooky shadows and scary whispers… squealin’ like a stuck pig ‘cause I’ve got my tongue in your ass. You’re pathetic.”

Twyla whimpered, her claws scraping the desk, her whole body trembling as she bucked helplessly against the wolf’s assault.

“I-I’m n-not—ahhhhnnn!”

SMACK!

Howleen’s palm cracked across her ass again, making her jolt. “Don’t lie to me, shy girl. You’re my little piggy now. Go on—squeal for your wolf.”

“Ahhhhnnnn! H-Howleeeeen!” Twyla cried, voice high and broken.

“That’s it,” Howleen purred, biting down hard on her shoulder, tongue still slurping between her cheeks. “Sound like the dirty little toy you are.”

Then, with a sudden shove, she flipped Twyla off the desk and onto the floor, straddling her chest.

The wolf yanked her own shorts down and planted herself over Twyla’s face, grinding back until her puckered hole pressed against the shy ghoul’s lips.

Twyla’s eyes went wide. “N-no, please, that’s—”

Howleen grabbed her hair, forcing her nose deep. “Shut it. You’re gonna eat my ass, piggy. Stick that tongue out and make it good, or I’ll spank you raw till you can’t sit in class tomorrow.”

Tears welled in Twyla’s eyes, but her tongue slid out, trembling, pressing against the wolf’s hole.

“Mmmhh, yeah,” Howleen moaned, grinding back, smearing her across Twyla’s mouth. “That’s it, lick your wolf’s asshole. Lap it up like the filthy shadow slut you are.”

The taste, the humiliation, the sharp musk of her girlfriend—it made Twyla whimper, but she obeyed, her tongue swirling and darting as Howleen’s growls got louder.

“Good piggy,” Howleen gasped, clutching her hair tighter, riding her face harder. “My shy little boogey-bitch, eating wolf ass like it’s candy. Bet you love it. Bet you dream about it.”

“Nnnmmfffhh—” Twyla moaned into her, drool mixing with slick.

Howleen laughed, low and dirty. “You love this. Admit it. Say it, piggy. Say what you are.”

Twyla shook her head, muffled.

Howleen slammed her ass down harder, making her gag. “Say it!”

Finally, Twyla’s muffled voice squealed out between gasps: “I-I’m a whore for wolves! Y-your whore!”

The wolf’s grin stretched ear to ear, her body shuddering with triumph.

“That’s right,” she growled, smacking Twyla’s tits as she ground on her face. “My piggy, my shadow slut, my personal little squealing whore. And don’t you forget it.”

Twyla screamed again into her ass, her body shuddering as her climax tore through her—humiliation and desire mixing until she was nothing but moans and squeals under Howleen’s control.

And Howleen didn’t stop. Not until Twyla was red-faced, soaked, broken, and squealing herself hoarse in the shadows she once thought kept her safe.

(The Courtyard – 2:00 PM)

The autumn sun sat high over Monster High, warm but not scorching, as most of the student body filtered into the courtyard for some air.

The chatter of gossip, flirting, and laughter carried across the stonework, but one little corner of the courtyard held a quieter scene.

Frankie sat on the edge of a worn stone bench, backpack at her feet, nervously twisting the strap between her stitched fingers. Next to her sat Jackson Jekyll, posture neat, hands folded on his knees, his glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose.

Behind a row of tall hedges, Cleo and Draculaura crouched, pretending to scroll their iCoffins but with all their attention fixed firmly on Frankie and her boyfriends.

“…I just wanted to say thank you,” Frankie murmured, voice so soft it nearly got lost in the courtyard noise.

Jackson blinked, turning to her. “Thank you? For what?”

Frankie shifted, cheeks faintly green. “For… being patient with me. I know it probably sounds silly. Everyone else seems to just… know what they’re doing in relationships. But me? Half the time I feel like I’m missing an entire instruction manual.”

She gave a weak laugh, though it came out more embarrassed than amused.

Jackson’s expression softened immediately. “Frankie, that’s not silly at all. You don’t need to rush into things you’re not ready for. What matters is that you’re comfortable.”

Frankie tilted her head, stitched pigtails bobbing. “You mean it? You’re not frustrated with me?”

Jackson hesitated, then sighed—deep and resigned—as if someone else were tugging at the strings inside him.

His glasses glinted in the sun, and then his whole demeanor shifted.

His posture loosened, his smirk grew sharper, and a faint spark of flame licked along his hairline.

Now it was Holt Hyde lounging back against the bench, legs stretched out.

“Okay, look,” Holt said with a grin. “Full honesty? Yeah, sometimes I get frustrated. I’ve got fire in my veins, baby. I run hot. I want things to happen. Fast. But…”

He glanced at her and sighed, his grin softening. “I’d never push you. Not my style. If you’re not ready, then I’m not ready either.”

Frankie blinked, clearly overwhelmed by the switch and the sudden candor. “Oh… um… thanks?”

“Don’t listen to him too much,” Jackson’s voice interrupted as Holt’s smirk flickered, his hair dimming, his shoulders squaring again.

In less than a second, Jackson had taken control back. “He says things in the moment, but we both know what matters most is that you’re comfortable. That you’re safe. We’ll wait as long as it takes.”

Frankie gave a nervous smile, eyes darting between the two halves of her boyfriend. “You guys are… really sweet, you know that?”

Jackson blushed faintly, pushing his glasses up. “We just want you to know you’re worth more than rushing into something you’re not ready for.”

From behind the hedge, Cleo raised a finely manicured brow at Draculaura.

“You’re hearing this, right?” she whispered.

“Ohhh, I’m hearing it,” Draculaura whispered back, her fangs peeking out as she stifled a laugh. “It’s not her. It’s them.”

Cleo smirked knowingly. “Exactly. Frankie isn’t the problem—her boys are.”

Draculaura leaned in so close their heads nearly touched. “Right? She’s literally Frankie—adorable, sweet, practically begging for someone to push her around and make her scream. And they’re just… what? Waiting?”

“Of course, it makes sense with the nerd,” Cleo muttered, rolling her eyes. “Jackson doesn’t know how to—ugh. He probably thinks ‘foreplay’ is some kind of chess move.”

Draculaura covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud. “Yeah, but what about Holt? Isn’t he supposed to be the wild one? The bad boy? What’s his excuse?”

Cleo frowned. “Only one explanation: he doesn’t want to.”

The thought seemed to physically offend both of them.

“What, does he think she’s not good enough for him?” Cleo hissed, arms crossed.

Draculaura made a face, voice sharp. “Exactly! Frankie’s out here being precious, giving him the chance to—hello!—actually do something, and instead he just flips back and forth with Jackson like she’s some test subject.”

Cleo tapped her manicured nail against her arm. “Pathetic. Honestly pathetic.”

On the bench, Holt flickered again, returning with a roll of his shoulders. “For the record,” he muttered, “I’d never think you weren’t good enough. You’re way outta our league.”

(Note from author: By that, he means he doesn't deserve someone like Frankie. Like someone thinking they don't deserve a 10/10)

Frankie’s face turned beet green, stitched cheeks warming with embarrassment. She giggled nervously, covering her mouth. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Behind the hedge, Draculaura made a face at Cleo, miming gagging. “Can you believe this?” she whispered.

Cleo shook her head, exasperated. “She’s not shy because of herself. She’s shy because they’re useless.”

To them, the conclusion was obvious, almost undeniable: Frankie’s cluelessness and awkwardness wasn’t really her fault. It was Jackson’s fault for being too much of a nerd to know how to handle her, and Holt’s fault for apparently not wanting her at all.

And in their eyes? That was unforgivable.

Hackington:
This is… Hackington. Right—Professor Hackington. And, ah, it’s already getting worse.

Long pause. A heavy sigh.

While there were only twenty-two documented cases yesterday, today’s count has already climbed to thirty-five… bringing us to a total of fifty-seven incidents of… sighs … students engaging in sexual activities on campus.

Reports today include—heaven help us—

Spectra Vondergeist and Porter Geiss… in the PA room and later in the Catacombs.
Rochelle Goyle and Garrott De Roque… beneath the west wing, where anyone could’ve stumbled upon them.
Abbey Bominable and Heath Burns in the Gym storage closet.
Scarah Screams and Invisi-Billy… in the girls’ bathroom.
Howleen Wolf and Twyla Boogeyman in… an abandoned classroom.

And multiple more that—truthfully—make me want to vomit just saying aloud.

Hackington clears his throat, trying to regain composure.

I had originally concluded that the gas merely lowered inhibitions—brought out suppressed instincts, so to speak. However, upon further review, I… regret to say it appears to be altering personalities as well.

Consider the case of Scarah Screams and Invisi-Billy. According to several intercepted audio logs, the gas is provoking young Billy to experience involuntary… sexual thoughts, against his will.

Scarah, in response, has decided to… punish him whenever these thoughts surface, by forcing him to act them out.

Yes. That is what we’re dealing with.

One audio log captured a conversation in which Invisi-Billy described visiting Scarah on Saturday.

Evidently, she detected his… dirty thoughts telepathically, convinced her mother to leave the house, and then—Hackington exhales loudly—proceeded to… er… fornicate with him for several hours. Her words, not mine, included “sitting on his face,” which, disturbingly, aligns with her behavior in the lunchroom earlier today.

And as if that weren’t revolting enough, the recording revealed another… taboo detail.

According to Scarah herself, young Billy is not… thorough with his own hygiene. Specifically, his… genital hygiene.

As such, Scarah has evidently taken it upon herself to… pause, muffled groan of disgust … to clean him. With her tongue.

Hackington stops, mutters under his breath: Bloody hell, I can’t believe I’m saying this into an academic report…

He straightens his voice again, forcing composure.

So, as you can see, not only is the gas increasing their libido, it is also producing abhorrent relationship dynamics. Disturbing ones. Ones I scarcely wish to document further… and yet, for the sake of evidence, I must.

Hackington:
And it’s not just them… no, not by a long shot.

Whereas Clawdeen and Clawd Wolf are—let’s say—feral in a fairly straightforward, aggressive way… their younger sibling, Howleen, has proven to be… ah… terrifyingly feral.

While Clawdeen and Clawd at least have the decency to drag their partners into private spaces before they… copulate, Howleen apparently prefers to chase her partner—Twyla—through the halls like some kind of ghastly game of cat and mouse.

Upon catching her, she then proceeds to… mount the poor girl, rutting against her like a beast in heat.

And if that weren’t revolting enough, Howleen’s behavior comes laced with cruelty.

She degrades her partner, taunts her, subjects her to verbal abuse even as she—Hackington coughs, fighting to keep composure—as she does the deed.

Now, prior to all this, Howleen and Twyla were quite close. By all accounts they cared deeply for one another—even before dating. And it seems that care has not vanished entirely, but it has twisted.

She’s become something crueler… sadistic, domineering. It’s heartbreaking, truly.

And I don’t even want to get started on Abbey and Heath. Those two might be the worst offenders yet.

Hackington groans under his breath, then forces his tone back to neutral.

However, despite everything I’ve just described, the students do still exhibit some… semblance of decorum. None have engaged in intercourse in the middle of an active classroom, at least not yet.

Many will wait until a teacher leaves before they begin flirting, smoking, or drinking. A grim courtesy, but courtesy nonetheless.

Some even attempt to clean up after themselves—though in methods that are… deeply unorthodox. Rather than a mop or cloth, some simply… pause, disgusted exhale …use their tongues.

While I suppose one could commend the effort, it makes gathering evidence exceedingly difficult.

Evidence that we desperately need if we are to convince Headmistress Bloodgood of the gas’s true danger.

That said, there are still plenty of incidents that leave more than enough behind. For instance, Spectra and Porter saw fit to copulate while the P.A. system was still active—broadcasting their moans across the entire school. Their little escapade also caused hundreds of dollars in property damage thanks to their ghostly powers flaring uncontrollably.

And it wasn’t just them. Garrott and Rochelle nearly brought down part of the school itself.

They chose to fornicate beneath the West Wing—where their combined strength caused structural instability so severe that, had we not intervened in time, half the building might have collapsed.

Long pause. Hackington rubs his temple audibly.

Good grief… it’s only Tuesday. Only Tuesday, and things are already this catastrophic. If it’s this bad now… I dread to imagine what tomorrow will bring.

(Lucid Obscura – 9:30 PM)

Cue the slow saxophone, velvet chords spilling from hidden speakers, filling the halls like smoke curling from a cigarette.

On the outskirts of New Salem, the mansion rose like a black jewel in the dark.

Lucid Obscura.

Its Victorian spires reached into the night sky, windows glowing with faint amber light. From within, the air pulsed with music—low, sultry jazz that lingered in every corner like perfume.

Inside, shadows moved. Figures glided through the grand halls and candlelit chambers, their bodies sheathed in black latex that reflected the chandeliers above.

Some hid themselves completely; others left pieces exposed—scaled tails, clawed hands, twitching wings, tentacles curling as they brushed against lovers and strangers alike.

Lucid Obscura was more than a mansion. It was sanctuary.

A place where monsters let their masks slip, where loneliness could be soothed by touch, by sweat, by the kind of sin that left lipstick stains and bite marks as souvenirs.

On the second floor, heels clicked like a metronome across the marble. She appeared—a woman whose walk was music in itself, hips swaying in rhythm with the saxophone’s wail, every step an unspoken invitation.

Between her thighs, heavy and unashamed, her cock swayed freely with each movement, a symbol of indulgence in this house of appetite.

She drifted toward the pool room, where soft blue light shimmered across latex and water. At the shallow end, she found him.

A man draped in black, his body glistening beneath the sheen. His lips, painted black, parted slightly as though he were mid-sigh.

His nails were sharp, gloved in darkness. His frame was lean, athletic, but his posture—the curve of his hips, the soft femininity in his stance—was all vulnerability wrapped in allure.

She stepped into the water, slow, deliberate, like a predator closing in. Ripples spread across the surface as she approached, silent until the blunt press of her cock nudged against his ass.

He startled, twisting around. His lips parted in shock, then split into a grin that lit his shadowed features.

Without hesitation, he leapt into her arms.

Their mouths collided, tongues twisting, breath mixing into the thick air. Her hands clamped his waist, pulling him flush against her as the wet slap of latex and flesh echoed against the pool tiles.

He hooked his legs around her, clinging like he’d been waiting all night. She lifted him without effort, carrying him from the pool like a groom with his bride.

Jazz hummed overhead, drums brushing softly, sax crooning like a voice pressed close to the mic.

They moved through the hall, past indulgence made flesh: a harpy straddling a minotaur’s face, feathers shuddering with each cry; a satyr bent over as a cyclops thrust into him with a snarl; a jackalope crying out as a green troll cock ruined her in rhythm to the bassline, her claws digging into her shoulders.

None of it slowed them. The woman carried her prize into the elevator, setting him down gently as the golden doors closed.

His painted lips kissed her throat, his breath hot, his eyes glazed with need.

On the third floor, the air was thicker. The jazz grew muffled behind walls, replaced with the heavy chorus of moans and headboards beating rhythm. Private rooms stretched endless, each a world of its own pleasures.

They slipped into an empty one. The moment the door latched, she tossed him onto the bed, the springs squealing as he bounced and sprawled across satin sheets. Her grin was wolfish, predatory.

The man didn’t hesitate. He flipped himself, face down, ass arched high, presenting himself with a trembling eagerness that only made her cock twitch harder.

The room filled with jazz bleeding through the walls, mingled with the rhythm of bodies, the whispers of silk, the promise of a night that wouldn’t end until dawn.

And she, grinning wide, moved toward him with hunger in her eyes.

With a guttural grunt, she slammed her cock all the way into the man’s ass, burying herself to the hilt in one merciless thrust.

The cry that tore from his throat was sharp and sweet, muffled against the satin sheets as his nails clawed at them for purchase.

His latex-covered back arched, ass stretched wide, body trembling around her like he was made for this.

“Mmhh… that’s it,” she growled, her accent thick and rolling. “Take all of me, little slut. You came here for this.”

The room vibrated with the rhythm of her pounding, every thrust rattling the bedframe against the wall.

Jazz hummed from the mansion’s speakers, but in here it was drowned out by the obscene slap of flesh and the high-pitched moans spilling from his painted lips.

She didn’t give him mercy. She pulled him into position after position, testing how much he could bend, how far he could spread.

Flat on his stomach with his ass up, her hips pistoned into him until the sheets wrinkled and tore beneath his grip.

On his back, legs hooked over her shoulders, she drove down into him while biting along his throat, sharp teeth marking pale skin with bruises that would linger for days.

At one point she straddled him, her cock still deep in his ass while she leaned down and latched onto his nipple through the latex, biting until he yelped, then soothing it with her tongue.

He squirmed, cock twitching between them, still impressive but smaller than hers, and she mocked him for it between thrusts.

“Pretty toy dick… nothin’ compared to mine. Look how it leaks just from me fuckin’ your hole.”

She wrapped her cold fingers around his shaft, jerking him roughly while pounding into his ass, forcing him to spill across his own chest with a broken moan.

Hours bled away in sweat and shadows.

Eventually he was on his knees before her, lips smeared with spit and sweat, black lipstick trailing down her cock in messy, wet rings.

She stood tall, cock still hard and glistening, one hand gripping the back of his head, guiding him as he bobbed and gagged.

His throat bulged each time she shoved him down, her breath coming out in ragged growls of pleasure.

“Good boy,” she whispered huskily, brushing strands of damp hair back from his face. “You look so pretty with your lips stretched ‘round me.”

With a sharp tug she yanked his mask free.

Messy red hair spilled out, clinging to sweat-soaked skin. Freckles dotted flushed cheeks, black lipstick smeared across his mouth and chin.

Heath.

Her breath caught, her grin spreading wide. “Knew it.”

Heath moaned around her cock, eyes glassy, utterly undone, but still sucking her down like a man starving.

The woman chuckled, her own fingers moving to the ties of her mask.

It took some fumbling—her long white ponytail had gotten snagged in the back of the latex—but with a tug, it finally came free.

White hair spilled loose down her back, falling around her shoulders like snow in candlelight.

Abbey.

She let the hair band drop to the floor, her head tilting back as she sighed in delight, thrusting lazily into Heath’s throat while keeping his face buried in her lap.

“Spasibo, fire boy,” she purred, her Russian cadence thick, fingers stroking his messy hair as he drooled and gagged. “For telling Abbey about this place. I like it very much.”

Her smile widened as his lips sealed tighter around her shaft, sucking harder in response to her praise.

And the room shook once more—this time not from pounding, but from the force of her low, satisfied growl, echoing through Lucid Obscura like a warning and a promise.

Abbey’s grip tightened in Heath’s hair as she rolled her hips forward, her cock plunging deeper into his throat until his nose pressed flush against her mound.

He gagged, eyes watering, drool spilling down his chin and splattering onto his chest, but his lips clung to her, sucking with desperate need.

“Da… good boy,” she groaned, voice thick, her accent dripping like honeyed vodka. “Take it all for Abbey. Don’t waste single drop.”

Her cock throbbed once, twice—and then with a feral growl, she came.

Hot, heavy streams flooded Heath’s throat in sudden bursts, so much it nearly overflowed. He choked at first, but her hand clamped down harder, forcing him to stay buried until his throat worked frantically, swallowing again and again.

Each gulp echoed wetly, his stomach swelling with her seed.

“Swallow, fire boy,” Abbey commanded, low and dangerous in his ear. “Every… last… drop.”

And he did. His body trembled, his own cock twitching uselessly between his thighs as he gulped her down until there was nothing left, until her orgasm faded into slow dribbles across his tongue.

Finally, she eased her grip, letting him fall back onto his ass, coughing and gasping for air, cum smeared around his mouth.

Abbey looked down at him with satisfaction, white hair spilling wild around her shoulders, her smile sharp and tender all at once.

“Good boy. My perfect toy.”

(Outside Lucid Obscura – 11:30 AM)

The night was cool when Abbey finally stepped out of the mansion’s heavy doors, her boots clicking against the marble steps.

Heath was limp on her back, his arms hanging around her shoulders, his face buried against her neck. His messy red hair stuck in clumps, his freckles glistening with sweat, lips still stained black from smeared lipstick.

He was breathing shallow, utterly spent, a satisfied little groan escaping his throat with each step she took.

Abbey adjusted her hold, carrying him piggyback like he weighed nothing. Her cock still hung heavy between her thighs, but her smile was calm now, serene in a way that contrasted the raw chaos of the hours before.

At the edge of the courtyard, she raised one hand, icy magic spilling from her fingers. A glittering slide of frozen blue crystal spiraled out into the night, stretching high into the air like a frozen highway, shimmering under the moonlight.

She stepped onto it without hesitation.

“Hold tight, fire boy,” she murmured over her shoulder, though he was already half-asleep against her.

Then she launched forward, skating effortlessly across the slick surface as the ice unfurled ahead of them.

They soared away from the mansion, two silhouettes gliding along a ribbon of frozen light, vanishing into the night sky.

To Be Continued...

Notes:

By the time this chapter is uploaded, I'll soon be moving into my college dorm.
That's right, my time has come. Soon, I'll be heading off to college to get my degree.
It took a bit longer than I expected, but by next Tuesday I'll be in my dorm and ready to start the next chapter of my life.
Unfortunately, due to my college schedule (and my mom wanting me to participate in clubs), uploads are going to become much slower. I'm not canceling the fic, but don't expect updates every few weeks.
That being said, I truly thank you all for all the love and support you've given me over these past couple months, both with the original and with the rewrite. Your support has been the primary reason why I continue to write this.
Please, make some noise in the comments. Let me know just how much yall love this story. I promise you it's going to get better.
I've also made a Tumblr page: https://www. /cybertrophyhoard/787021046826008576/httpsarchiveofourownorgworks66622993chapters?source=share
Feel free to contact me there. I'm considering posting excerpts and teasers of the next chapters. I'll also answer any questions you have for me.
Until next time, I'll see y'all around!

Chapter 12: Resistance

Summary:

In this chapter, we explore the ones still resisting, the struggles of those who can’t give in, and the cracks forming in the “outsider” characters.

Notes:

Hope you enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(Date: Wednesday, October 11th)

(Stein Residence – 6:30 AM)

Frankie stared at her breakfast, fork resting limp in her hand, her expression unreadable.

She felt… off. Confused.

When Monday came, she’d walked into Monster High excited, bright-eyed, and ready to take on the week. But almost immediately, everything felt wrong.

Everyone was different.

The halls weren’t filled with chatter about homework, weekend plans, or silly gossip.

Instead, she saw classmates skipping class, couples pressed against lockers, lips locked, and whispers being traded in tones so low and heated that she didn’t even want to repeat the words—especially after she’d looked a few of them up.

Words she couldn’t unsee.

It was like the entire school had changed overnight.

And her friends—the ghouls she trusted most—were no exception.

Draculaura was more teasing, coy, almost… predatory.

Clawdeen hardly spoke at all anymore, watching everyone like a wolf about to pounce.

Cleo had slipped back into that sharper, haughty edge Frankie remembered from when they first met.

Abbey looked like she was fighting a battle no one else could see.

Lagoona walked around with messy hair and rumpled clothes, as if she’d just crawled out of the ocean every morning.

And Ghoulia—when Frankie actually saw her—was strangely giddy, happier than ever.

Frankie didn’t understand any of it. She felt like she’d been dropped into the wrong school entirely, surrounded by people she knew but couldn’t recognize.

She continued to stare down at her plate, thoughts spiraling, not even noticing her father striding up beside her.

“Everything alright, pumpkin?” he asked, his deep voice gentle but tinged with concern.

Frankie blinked, forcing a quick smile. “Yeah… just a little tired, that’s all.”

Her father arched a brow. He didn’t buy it—he never did when she said she was “just tired.”

But instead of pushing, he sat down across from her, resting his scarred hands on the table.

“You know,” he began, his tone shifting to that gentle mix of mentor and dad, “when I was first created, I used to worry myself sick about fitting in. Not just in school—everywhere. My family, my work, my peers. Everyone had an idea of who I should be, and I tried far too hard to meet their expectations.”

Frankie tilted her head, surprised. “Really? You? But you’re… well, you.”

Dr. Stein chuckled, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Exactly. I spent years trying to be what others wanted, when all along I should’ve just been what I already was. Myself. Took me far too long to realize that trying to stitch yourself into someone else’s pattern never works out.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was telling her a secret. “And if you’re uncomfortable with what’s going on around you, if it doesn’t feel right—then it isn’t right. For you. And that’s what matters most.”

Frankie’s smile faltered. She poked at her breakfast with her fork. “But what if… what if everyone else is okay with it? What if I’m the only one who feels… different?”

Dr. Stein reached across the table and gently set a hand over hers. His scarred knuckles were surprisingly soft.

“Pumpkin,” he said firmly, “you don’t give in to social norms just because everyone else does. That’s not what Monster High stands for. You remember the motto, don’t you?”

Frankie swallowed, nodding. “…Be yourself, be unique, be a monster.”

“Exactly.” He smiled, a little proudly. “That’s not just some slogan we slap on posters. It’s a truth. Monsters are meant to stand out, not to blend in. If something doesn’t sit right with you—don’t ignore that feeling. It’s part of who you are.”

Frankie finally looked up at him, her stitched lips curving into a faint, grateful smile. “…Thanks, Dad.”

Dr. Stein gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Anytime, pumpkin. Remember, you’re still figuring things out. No need to rush. The world can wait while you take your time.”

Frankie stood, slipping her backpack over her shoulder. She leaned down and gave him a quick hug. “I’ll see you after school.”

On her way to the door, she stopped to scratch Walzit’s head, the little stitched-up mutt wagging his mismatched tail before curling back into his bed.

The morning sunlight hit Frankie’s face as she stepped outside. Her father’s words lingered, comforting, grounding… but even as she walked down the path, that nagging doubt clung to her.

She repeated the motto to herself—Be yourself, be unique, be a monster.

But for the first time since she’d started at Monster High, she wasn’t sure if being herself was enough.

(A Random Hallway – 7:15 AM)

Cleo and Clawdeen strutted down the hall, chatting without a care in the world.

They should’ve been in class, sure—but where was the fun in that?

Cleo had slipped out with the help of her amulets, and Clawdeen had darted out with her speed, both on their way to meet their respective partners for some personal time.

Instead, they ran into each other halfway and now walked side by side, conversation filling the silence of the empty corridor.

Well—Cleo’s conversation, anyway. Clawdeen was mostly being forced to listen.

“And he’s so rough with me!” Cleo whined, sounding more like a pampered child than a queen. “Always pushing me around, always manhandling me! I just want to be treated with a little respect, you know?”

Clawdeen sighed and rolled her eyes. “Maybe if you didn’t talk to him like some spoiled princess, Deuce wouldn’t be fucking you like a ragdoll.”

Cleo gasped, hand clutching her chest. “Rude!”

Clawdeen let out a low laugh. “Subbies like you always act like you can do and say whatever you want, then get shocked when your partner decides to put that dirty mouth in its place.”

“I am not a subby!” Cleo snapped.

“Really?” Clawdeen drawled. “Then why do you keep lettin’ Deuce fuck you like one?”

Cleo opened her mouth to retort—then quickly shut it again.

“Uh-huh,” Clawdeen said smugly. “Thought so. You queens love actin’ all innocent, but the second we pin you down? You squeal like pigs. Just ask Draculaura what happens every time she teases my brother.”

Cleo arched a brow. “I thought you hated her fucking your brother?”

“I do,” Clawdeen hissed, her claws flexing slightly. “But that don’t mean I’m about to go fuck Toralei into next week just to prove a point—while forcing him to beg like a bitch just bang his girl."

Cleo blinked. “…Wow. That’s surprisingly kind of you.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”

Their heels clicked against the tile as they continued walking—until suddenly, Clawdeen froze mid-step.

“What is it now?” Cleo asked, exasperated.

Clawdeen lifted a hand, ear twitching as she angled her head toward the far end of the hallway. Her expression darkened.

“…What?” Cleo pressed, her voice dropping a little.

Clawdeen straightened, every muscle taut. “That sounded like…”

She didn’t finish. In a blink, she grabbed Cleo by the wrist, and before Cleo could even protest, the werewolf had dragged her into a blur of speed down the corridor.

They stopped near a corner, Cleo nearly hurling from the sudden sprint. She quickly straightened her hair, making sure it hadn’t gotten messy.

“Did you have to do—”

“Ssshhhh,” Clawdeen hissed. Her ears twitched. “Listen.”

Cleo frowned—and then, after a few seconds, she heard it too.

A cry. A whimper. Small. Broken.

Cleo’s expression tightened. “…That sounded like—”

The two ghouls turned the corner and froze.

There, curled against the wall like a discarded doll, was Iris Clops.

Her whole body shook with sobs, mascara streaked down her face, and her single eye was red and swollen.

She looked less like the smart, intelligent girl they knew and more like someone who’d been broken apart and messily put back together.

Cleo’s lips pressed together. “Iris? What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

Iris flinched, quickly rubbing her eye. “No, it’s nothing…”

“Bullshit,” Clawdeen said bluntly. Her voice carried more bite than usual, but her eyes softened. “If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be bawlin’ your eye out in a hallway.”

“It’s not—Clawdeen, I promise, it’s really not—”

“Bull. Shit.”

Cleo crossed her arms. “Let me guess. Manny dumped you for some other chick, didn’t he?”

Iris shrank back. “N-no! He didn’t! It’s just—”

“Or maybe he’s not satisfying you?” Cleo pressed. “For all that strength, he must be a little weak in bed.”

“Or,” Clawdeen added, “maybe he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Just like Jacks—”

“NO!” Iris’s voice cracked as she lurched upright. “It’s not that he doesn’t know how to fuck me—”

Cleo raised a brow. “Then what is the problem? With his strength and size, he could probably fuck you into next week.”

“That’s the problem!” Iris shouted, tears spilling fresh. “He’s too damn big!”

Cleo and Clawdeen froze like deer in headlights.

“…What?”

Iris hugged herself, trembling. “On Monday, like you two, me and Manny… we snuck into a storage room.” Her cheeks burned, but her voice wavered with shame. “At first it was… fine. Sweet, even. We made out, got undressed, started to… y’know… and then—”

She stopped, choking on the words.

“And then what?” Clawdeen asked gently.

Iris’s lip quivered. “…He pulled it out. And it was bigger than me.”

The two ghouls blinked.

“It can’t be that big,” Cleo said dismissively.

“It’s the size of his arms!” Iris snapped, her voice breaking. “You don’t understand—there was already a size difference, but I thought—hoped—it’d be something normal. Something I could actually… handle. But the second I saw it, I froze. And now—”

Her knees gave out, and she slid back down to the floor, hugging them tight. “Now he’s terrified to even touch me. He’s so scared of hurting me that he won’t try again.”

Clawdeen hesitated, her tone softening. “…That’s… actually pretty considerate of him.”

“You don’t get it!” Iris wailed, her voice echoing down the empty hall. “It’s not fair! Everyone else gets to have fun, to laugh about it, to act like it’s normal—but I can’t even try without feeling like I’ll break in half!”

Her sobs wracked her body, small and pitiful.

Cleo and Clawdeen just stood there, uncertain. They’d been on their way to their lovers, their own cravings clawing at them, but now… neither could bring themselves to move.

Leaving her here felt cruel. But staying meant facing a pain they couldn’t fix.

Neither had signed up to play therapist this morning, but walking away felt… wrong.

Finally, Cleo knelt down, careful not to let her clothes touch the floor. She reached out and gently brushed a tear off Iris’s cheek with the back of her finger.

“Shhh… Iris, darling, listen to me.” Her tone, though prim, softened in a way Cleo rarely allowed. “You’re not broken. You’re not weird. You just… had a shock. That’s all.”

Iris sniffled, one trembling hand covering her eye. “You didn’t see it, Cleo… you don’t understand. It was—was terrifying. And now he looks at me like I’m fragile glass, like I’ll shatter if he breathes too hard.”

Clawdeen crouched next to them, resting her arms on her knees. “Honestly? He probably should’ve warned ya before whippin’ it out.”

Cleo shot her a look. “Helpful.”

Clawdeen just shrugged, but her amber eyes lingered on Iris with concern.

Cleo took Iris’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “Look, what happened wasn’t fair to you—or to him. But you’re both still figuring things out, yes? There’s no shame in being scared, Iris. None. You hear me?”

Iris’s lips trembled. “…But everyone else is so confident. They talk like it’s easy, like it’s normal. And I—I can’t even—”

“Darling,” Cleo interrupted firmly, her queenly air slipping back into place. “That’s a lie they tell themselves. Everyone pretends to be confident, but underneath? They’re all just fumbling about like children with new toys. Do not let their posturing make you feel less than you are.”

Iris looked at her skeptically, though her sobs had quieted. “…Even you?”

Cleo hesitated, her chin lifting. “…Well. I am an exception.”

Clawdeen snorted, biting back a laugh.

Cleo ignored her. “The point is, Iris, you don’t have to compare yourself to anyone else. What matters is that you and Manny figure it out together—at your pace. Not theirs.”

Iris blinked a few times, her tears slowing. The idea seemed to weigh on her. “…At my pace…”

“Exactly,” Cleo said, patting her hand as if she’d just delivered a decree from on high.

For a long moment, the three girls just sat there, the air still heavy but no longer suffocating.

Finally, Clawdeen stood, stretching. “You gonna be okay?”

Iris rubbed her face, smearing what little mascara she had left. “…I think so. Just… tired.”

“Well,” Cleo said, rising with practiced grace, “perhaps a distraction is in order. There’s a Halloween party later this afternoon—just a little thing with the ghouls. Come with us. It’ll help take your mind off all this.”

Iris looked uncertain. “…You sure? I don’t wanna ruin it…”

Cleo gave her a look like the very suggestion was absurd. “Darling, you need this. Besides, you could do with a little pampering. A party is precisely the cure for tears.”

Clawdeen smirked. “Yeah. Nothin’ like candy, music, and maybe a few scares to get ya outta a funk.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Iris nodded. “…Alright. I’ll come.”

Cleo smiled—soft, genuine, fleeting. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

The two older ghouls helped her to her feet. Iris still looked fragile, like she might crumble again at any moment, but there was a spark of something steadier in her eye now.

As they started down the hall together, Cleo muttered under her breath, “Honestly, what is it with boys and their egos…?”

Clawdeen chuckled, shaking her head, but said nothing.

They walked on, leaving behind the echo of Iris’s earlier sobs—proof of just how much these “changes” were wearing everyone down.

(Monster High – 7:50 AM)

The morning rush had stopped. Lockers slammed, chatter ricocheted down the halls, and the faint scent of cafeteria blood-packs lingered in the air.

But none of it mattered to Gory Fangtell—not with Bram Devein pressed against her, their mouths locked in a hungry kiss that tasted like iron and heat.

Her lipstick smeared onto his lips as they stumbled through the corridor, hands pawing at each other, ignoring the world around them.

He shoved her against a door, teeth grazing her neck, and she let out a sharp giggle that reverberated across the hall.

“Bram,” she growled, tugging at his shirt collar, “if you’re gonna act like a man, then act like one. Don’t tease.”

He groaned into her mouth, fumbling for the doorknob, finally shoving it open. The two tumbled into a random classroom, the door clicking shut behind them.

The scent of chalk dust and old books hit her nose—but then Bram had her on the floor, his weight pressing her down against the tiles, his breath ragged, his fangs bared.

“Mmm, that’s it,” she purred, arching her back so her breasts pressed into his chest. “Pin me, Bram. Make me feel it.”

Their lips crashed again, sloppy and wet. His hands roamed her sides, gripping her thighs, forcing her legs apart. She wrapped them around his waist, pulling him closer until his hips ground into her, heat sparking between them.

“C’mon,” she whispered, licking her fangs, her eyes glowing faint red. “Show me you’re not just another weakling. Fuck me like you mean it.”

That snapped him.

With a snarl, Bram ripped her skirt up, yanked his belt open, and slammed himself inside her in one brutal stroke.

Gory let out a guttural moan, her nails clawing at his back. “Yesss—that’s it, that’s what I wanted!”

He pounded into her, fast and frantic, their bodies slapping against the tile floor.

Her head knocked against the linoleum with each thrust, but she didn’t care—her fangs sank into his shoulder, biting hard, drawing blood that slicked her tongue.

“Faster!” she barked, her voice echoing in the empty classroom. “You can do better than this! You’re a vampire, not a corpse!”

Bram groaned, sweat dripping from his temple, muscles straining as he slammed into her harder. His pace was messy, desperate, but his cock hit deep enough to make her cry out.

“Yes! Just like that—don’t you dare stop—”

And then he stiffened, burying himself deep with one final thrust. His body shuddered violently as he came inside her, spurting hot, thick release that filled her cunt.

Gory arched up, ready for more, ready to ride the high into something brutal.

But Bram collapsed.

Right on top of her.

His weight pressed her into the cold floor, his breath slowing, his eyes fluttering shut.

“...Bram?”

She shoved at his shoulder, glaring down at his slack face.

“No. No, no, no—you did not just finish and pass out on me!”

Her voice was a harsh whisper, bouncing off the empty walls. She shook him harder, nails digging into his arms.

“Bram, wake the fuck up! I know you can do better than that! This was supposed to be the warm-up!”

But he didn’t stir. His chest rose and fell, his face peaceful like he was just taking a nap after a long lecture.

Gory’s fangs ground against each other.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She shoved him off with a growl, his limp body rolling to the side.

Pulling her skirt back down, she sat up, her chest heaving, her thighs still sticky with his cum. Her body screamed for more, for release, for something savage.

Instead, she was left staring at Bram snoring faintly on the floor like a child worn out from play.

Her lip curled in disgust. “Useless. Absolutely useless.”

With a sharp flip of her hair, she stood, smoothing her blouse back into place. She shot one last look at him—passed out, drool at the corner of his mouth, trousers half undone—and shook her head.

“Pathetic,” she muttered under her breath.

Then she walked out of the room, heels clicking against the tile, her hunger gnawing at her belly, her body aching with dissatisfaction.

The hallway outside was still buzzing, none the wiser. Gory slipped back into the current of students, lips pursed, eyes burning with frustration.

Every step was stiff, irritated, her skirt swishing around her thighs as she folded her arms tight under her chest.

She could still feel Bram’s cum sticking to her insides, slick against her panties, but it wasn’t the good kind of ache—it was unfinished, empty.

A gnawing frustration clawed at her, the kind no amount of lip gloss or hair flips could disguise.

She tossed her hair back with a huff, muttering under her breath. “Pathetic. Passing out like some fainting damsel in a horror flick… I deserved better than that.”

Other students milled around, none paying her much mind.

Everyone was too busy with their own morning routines, too wrapped up in gossip and giggling to notice the look of pure contempt on her face.

She marched toward her next class, resigned to sit bored and bitter in her seat until lunch.

And then she froze.

A muffled noise reached her ears—something soft, high-pitched, girlish, echoing faintly through the door of a random room she passed.

“D-Daddy! Ahhh—harder!”

Gory’s brows shot up, fangs flashing as a wicked smirk tugged at her lips. She leaned closer, pressing her ear against the door.

Inside, the sounds were unmistakable. Skin slapping against skin. A husky male voice growling low curses. A giggle so bubbly, so sweet, it was almost sing-song.

“Mmmm, yeah, you like that, don’t you?” a man’s voice groaned.

“Yes, Daddy!” Draculaura squealed back, voice pitchy and dripping with delight. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

Gory’s jaw dropped slightly, then curled into a grin. She didn’t even have to see them to know exactly who it was.

Clawd and Draculaura, right in the middle of school, banging like they were in their own private suite.

“Unbelievable,” Gory whispered to herself, her eyes glittering with amusement.

She pressed closer, letting the dirty soundtrack wash over her.

Clawd’s voice growled louder. “You’re my little bitch, you hear me? Say it.”

“I-I’m your little bitch, Daddy!” Draculaura squealed, her words breaking into squeaks as another loud smack echoed—definitely a spank.

Gory stifled a laugh, her lips curling into a razor-edged smile. “Well, well, well. Looks like little miss perfect Draculaura’s been hiding some fangs under that sugar coating.”

She lingered, listening to the obscene rhythm continue inside. The moans, the begging, Clawd’s filthy growls—Laura was clearly having the time of her unlife, and Clawd was giving her every filthy word she craved.

For a moment, the temptation burned hot in Gory’s chest.

The image of telling a teacher, of letting the whole school know what the daughter of Dracula was up to before homeroom, made her grin widen.

She could already imagine the scandal, the whispers in the hallways, the fallout when it hit Draculaura’s perfect little reputation.

But then… another thought crept in.

The ghoul squad.

Clawdeen. Lagoona. Frankie. Cleo. Operetta. Even Ghoulia.

If she exposed this, she wouldn’t just be putting Laura in the fire—she’d be lighting herself on it too. That pack of ghouls would eat her alive.

Her smirk faltered for half a second. Then she scoffed, pulling back from the door, her heels clicking as she turned on her heel and strutted down the hall again.

“Tch. Not worth it,” she muttered. “They can keep their little fuck-fest secret. Let the princess scream ‘Daddy’ all she wants. I’ve got better things to do than stir that nest.”

Still, the sounds clung to her ears as she walked away—the squeals, the moans, the dirty talk. And the gnawing frustration in her gut only twisted deeper.

By the time she reached her classroom door, Gory’s face was back to neutral, her steps sharp, her posture perfect. But inside?

Inside she was burning.

(The Greenhouse – 8:15 AM)

The air inside the greenhouse was thick with the perfume of damp soil and living leaves. Shafts of early morning sunlight cut through the glass, catching in the humidity and casting everything in a soft, hazy glow.

Robecca stepped carefully inside, gears humming faintly under her polished skin. Her expression was taut—worry and confusion creased her brow.

She hadn’t seen Venus properly in days. The last few times she had, her girlfriend had been… different.

Running her fingers through Robecca’s copper curls with an almost possessive touch, calling her “doll” or “puppy” in that lilting voice that always made Robecca’s processors stutter.

Each time it happened, her mechanical heart would sputter, her face heating until she thought steam might whistle from her ears.

And every time, Venus would smirk, as if she knew exactly how much control she held.

But this morning was different. Instead of meeting her in the halls, Venus had simply sent a text:

'Come to the greenhouse, pup.'

Now here she was, metal fingers clasped tightly behind her back, trying to keep her composure as she walked between rows of tangled ivy and exotic blooms.

“Venus?” she called softly. “Are you here?”

The greenhouse answered only with the rustle of leaves and the faint creak of vines shifting against their trellises.

Robecca frowned, stepping deeper into the verdant labyrinth. “Venus…?”

Then—

“Hello, darling.”

The voice slid down her spine like velvet. Robecca spun around—only for a sharp squeal to leave her throat as vines lashed out, coiling around her arms and waist.

“Wait—Venus!”

The plants dragged her back until her body slammed against the damp stone wall with a hollow clang. More vines erupted from the soil, wrapping around her torso, binding her wrists high above her head. Green tendrils coiled around her legs, her thighs, even her throat, squeezing just enough to remind her of how helpless she was.

“Venus!” Robecca gasped, thrashing against the bonds. “What are you doing—let me go!”

A finger pressed firmly to her lips.

“Shhhhh…” Venus purred, stepping from the shadows, her green-and-pink hair glowing like wildfire in the glass-filtered light. She smiled, not cruelly, but with the calm, confident air of someone entirely in control. “Relax, puppy. I won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you.”

Robecca’s optics widened. “P-puppy? Why do you keep calling me that?!”

Venus tilted her head, as if the answer were obvious. Her hand slid up to cup Robecca’s jaw, forcing her to meet those vivid eyes. “Because that’s what you are, my little automaton. My shiny, loyal, obedient puppy. And pets don’t need to think so hard. They just need to trust their owner.”

Robecca’s gears whirred in protest, but her body betrayed her—frozen under the weight of Venus’s gaze, her systems buzzing with heat.

Venus leaned closer, voice dropping into a hushed murmur. “You’re strong, yes… independent, clever. But underneath? You want to be guided. Don’t you see? I don’t tie you down to hurt you, love. I tie you down because you’re mine—and I’ll always take care of what’s mine.”

Her thumb brushed across Robecca’s lips. “And today, I’m going to prove it.”

Robecca’s processors screamed, sparks of panic and something dangerously like longing colliding in her chest.

This was Venus—her girlfriend, the one she loved, the one she trusted.

And yet… bound like this, with that look in Venus’s eyes—half-romantic, half-predatory—it felt as though she would be swallowed whole.

Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry, dear!”

Her chest clicked, gears locking. BATTLE MODE: ENGAGED.

Before Venus could react, steam hissed violently from Robecca’s palms, billowing up into her girlfriend’s face. Venus staggered back, coughing, vines loosening as her concentration broke.

With a burst of thrusters from her boots, Robecca ripped herself free, vines snapping and recoiling like wounded snakes. She blasted toward the door, metal feet clanging against the stone, until she vanished into the hall beyond.

Venus stood in the settling mist, wiping steam from her eyes. Her expression was unreadable at first—calm, serene, as though nothing had happened.

But when the last of the vines slithered back into the soil, her shoulders sagged. A flicker of guilt twisted in her chest.

Still… she smirked faintly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“She may run now,” she murmured to the empty greenhouse. “But a puppy always comes back to her master. And when she does…”

Her hand trailed along one of the vines, coaxing it to curl around her wrist.

“…I’ll be waiting. Ready to love her. Ready to tame her. Ready to remind her what she is.”

The greenhouse fell silent again—save for the whisper of leaves shifting, like a hundred quiet breaths.

(Monster High – Main Hallway, 9:30 AM)

Frankie’s footsteps echoed faintly through the mostly empty hall. Books hugged to her chest, she scanned the doors nervously.

Every classroom she passed was either abandoned, had classes going on or filled with laughter, whispers, and muffled noises that made her cheeks heat.

She kept her head down. Ever since Monday, the school hadn’t felt like school at all.

It felt like a place she didn’t belong anymore.

“Frankie…”

She jumped, bolts sparking faintly.

“Down here!”

Glancing around wildly, she spotted a familiar stitched hand waving desperately from behind a row of lockers.

“Hoodude?” she whispered.

The little voodoo doll peeked out, eyes wide, straw hair sticking in every direction.

His cloth skin looked frayed at the edges, as if he’d been through a war.

“Oh thank the witching hour it’s you!” he squeaked, stumbling out and clutching at her arm. “You gotta help me, Frankie, they’re after me again!”

“Who’s after you?” Frankie asked, lowering her books in alarm.

Hoodude scanned the corridor like a soldier on the run. “The girls. All of them. I can’t even step foot out of a classroom without them spotting me! They keep saying I’m cute, that I’d make the perfect cuddle toy, that they want a… a piece of me.”

His button eyes twitched, face going pale—or as pale as stitched cloth could. “For the last three days it’s been non-stop! I can’t eat, I can’t nap, I can’t even breathe without one of them trying to grab me!”

Frankie blinked, trying to process. “Wait. Are you saying random girls are—”

“Yes!” Hoodude hissed. “Everywhere! Home Ec, the library, even the janitor’s closet! Do you know what it’s like being chased by a pack of cheer-ghouls who keep giggling about how soft you’d be to ride?!”

Frankie's face flushed green and white. “Uh—no. Definitely not.”

Hoodude buried his face in his stitched palms. “I didn’t ask for this! I was just trying to survive algebra!”

Frankie crouched down beside him, heart aching. “Hey. Look, I know things are weird right now… but maybe they’re not trying to hurt you? Maybe they just think you’re cute.”

“Cute?” He snapped his head up, button eyes narrowing. “Frankie, they’ve tried to kidnap me three times already! Yesterday I had to climb out a second-floor window and hide in a recycling bin just to get away! My stitches are still itching from the cardboard!”

Frankie bit her lip, unsure what to say. Part of her wanted to laugh—it was so surreal—but the genuine fear on Hoodude’s stitched face made her chest tighten.

Before she could reply, the sound of giggles echoed down the hall.

High-pitched. Hungry. Close.

“Oh no…” Hoodude whispered, trembling. “They found me.”

From around the corner, a group of ghouls appeared—none of the usual group Frankie knew, but other students, all with wild eyes and flushed faces.

They spotted Hoodude instantly.

“There he is!” one sang out, pointing.

The others squealed in delight, sprinting forward. “Cutie! Don’t run, we just wanna play!”

Hoodude turned to Frankie, desperation in his voice. “Don’t let them take me! Please!”

But before Frankie could react, the pack was upon him. They swarmed the little voodoo doll, giggling, hands grabbing every bit of his stitched frame.

He squealed, struggling against their grip, but they only cooed louder.

“Stop wriggling! You’ll make it more fun!” one teased, slinging him over her shoulder like a toy.

Another ran her fingers along his stitched arm. “Mmm, so soft! You’re ours now.”

Hoodude’s muffled cries of protest faded as they dragged him down the hall, their laughter echoing behind them.

One girl looked back at Frankie, flashing her a wicked grin. “Wanna come join us? There’s plenty of him to go around.”

Frankie’s eyes widened, stomach flipping.

“N-no thanks!” she yelped, bolting in the opposite direction.

She didn’t stop running until she rounded a corner and leaned against the wall, chest heaving.

Her hands shook. The image of Hoodude’s terrified face wouldn’t leave her mind. She swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat.

Unseen by her, Cleo lurked further down the hall, half-hidden by a pillar. Her usually immaculate hair was a mess, sticking out in uneven waves after another rough “session” with Deuce.

Her eyeliner was smudged, her lips swollen—but her sharp eyes tracked Frankie with unsettling focus.

She frowned.

For days, Cleo had been convinced she had Frankie figured out. The stitched ghoul acted shy, clueless, and out of place because Holt and Jackson weren’t giving her what she needed.

It made sense—Frankie was dating two guys and neither of them had the guts to blow her back out.

Cleo had almost been sure that sooner or later, Frankie would snap and throw herself at the first group that offered her some attention.

But she hadn’t. She’d run.

That hesitation, that refusal to give in, chipped away at Cleo’s certainty.

If Frankie wasn’t acting out of desperation, then maybe Holt and Jackson weren’t the problem after all.

Cleo crossed her arms tightly, nails digging into her skin. The realization unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

Because if it wasn’t Frankie’s boyfriends holding her back, then what was it?

Why was Frankie different, when the rest of the school had lost themselves completely?

(Monster High – Side Hallway, 9:35 AM)

Frankie’s shoes squeaked against the tile as she sped down the hall, heart hammering.

She didn’t know where she was running to—only that she had to get away from the giggles, from Hoodude’s cries, from the hungry way those girls had looked at her when they invited her to join.

She finally stopped near the science wing, leaning on her knees, bolts sparking faintly as she tried to catch her breath.

“Miss Stein.”

Frankie’s head shot up.

Mr. Rotter stood in the corridor, arms folded, his usual scowl etched deep into his gaunt face. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, posture sagging like the weight of the entire school sat on his shoulders.

His voice carried the same sharp edge as always, but it was thinner now, stretched.

“And where exactly,” he asked slowly, “have you been?”

Frankie froze. “I—I was just walking,” she stammered.

Rotter narrowed his eyes. “Walking. Right.” He leaned closer, sniffing faintly, as though testing her for alcohol or smoke.

“You’ve been gone nearly ten minutes. Most students who vanish that long come back smelling of sweat, smoke, or perfume. Should I assume you’ve been… indulging like the rest of them?”

Frankie’s cheeks flared green. “No! Of course not! I’d never—”

She bit her lip, fumbling with her books. “I just… I was with Hoodude. He needed help.”

Rotter tilted his head. “Hoodude?”

“He’s been hiding. Girls keep chasing him, saying he’s cute, and then they—” Frankie swallowed, eyes flicking away. “They dragged him off before I could stop them.”

For a long, tense moment, Rotter just stared at her. He expected the blush, the fluster, the guilty look he always caught on his students after they tried lying.

But Frankie’s eyes… they weren’t lustful, or mischievous, or dazed like the others. They were scared. Earnest. Innocent.

His expression softened, ever so slightly.

“I see,” he said at last, his tone quieter. “So you weren’t… doing anything improper.”

“No!” Frankie shook her head furiously, bolts sparking. “I’d never! I don’t even want to right now! Everyone else just seems… different. And I don’t understand it.”

Rotter studied her in silence. Then, for the first time in days, a flicker of something warm stirred in his chest. Hope.

Because if Frankie Stein—the wide-eyed, naïve but wise daughter of Frankenstein—wasn’t falling into this madness, then maybe the situation wasn’t hopeless after all.

Maybe the gas hadn’t taken everyone.

Maybe resistance was possible.

He straightened, tugging at his collar. “Very well, Miss Stein. Return to class. And… keep your head on straight.”

Frankie nodded quickly, clutching her books tighter. “Y-yes, sir.”

She hurried down the hall, relief washing over her.

Rotter watched her go, his frown returning—but it wasn’t despair this time.

It was determination.

If Frankie could resist… maybe others could too. Maybe this nightmare wasn’t permanent.

He pivoted sharply on his heel, muttering under his breath. “Hackington. I need Hackington.”

Without wasting another second, he stormed down the corridor, the weight on his shoulders feeling just a little lighter for the first time all week.

(The Attic – 10:00 AM)

Dust floated through the thin beams of light that squeezed past the warped boards of the attic window.

The air smelled of mothballs and old wood. An overturned table lay between them, Andy and Jane tipped against it, their faces so close their foreheads nearly touched.

Jane’s breath came uneven, quick and shallow. Her face was pale, her hands trembling where they gripped the splintered edge of the table.

She could feel every tremor pulse down her arms. Her stomach churned with that awful mix of heat and dread—the urge to give in battling the need to run.

Andy looked nothing like the quiet boy who’d once stammered his words and tripped over his own feet.

His clothes were mussed, shirt collar stretched, chest rising and falling in hard, restless breaths. His pupils were blown wide, hair hanging messily around his flushed face.

He was pure instinct, barely tethered, one heartbeat away from ripping his own shirt to shreds.

Jane’s throat tightened. She didn’t know if she wanted this. She didn’t know if she could. Everyone else in school was doing it—shameless, wild, reckless.

So why did it feel like a cage closing in on her instead of freedom?

Her fingers fidgeted against the wood, scratching at the grooves until her nails ached.

She forced herself to look up, and his eyes caught hers. The heat in them made her flinch, but something steadied inside her too.

“L-let’s… try a-again,” she whispered, voice breaking mid-word.

Andy’s head dipped once. He didn’t speak—just leaned forward and captured her mouth with his.

The kiss was searing, too much and not enough. Jane whimpered into it, her body going slack under the strength of his grip. His hands roamed her sides, pressing, kneading, making her chest tighten with both thrill and fear.

It was all so different now. Andy hadn’t spoken in days, not really. No soft words, no awkward laughter.

Only growls, touches, insistence.

For two days he’d been trying to claim her, and for two days she’d stopped it before it went too far.

Every time his mouth found hers, every time he touched her, something inside her screamed yes.

And yet the moment always came when the panic rose in her throat, squeezing the breath out of her until she couldn’t do it.

Now his hand slid down, over her stomach, pressing lower until his fingers found her heat through her panties.

Jane jolted at the touch, hips twitching despite her fear. Her moan escaped before she could clamp it down.

Her thighs burned with shame and need all at once. And when Andy shifted closer, his bulge pressing firm against her leg, her chest filled with that familiar panic.

“Ah—S-stop!” she gasped, wrenching her head aside.

Andy froze, pulling his hand back instantly. Concern flickered in his eyes despite the wild hunger still lingering there.

Jane staggered upright, her knees weak. Her body shook so hard she had to grab the edge of the table just to stay standing.

“I-I’m sorry,” she panted, voice cracking on the word. “J-just… give me a moment.”

Andy nodded once, his gaze never leaving her, but he didn’t reach for her again.

Jane’s arms wrapped around herself, nails digging into her sleeves. Her pulse hammered in her ears, hot tears stinging her eyes.

She hated this—hated being caught between wanting and panicking, hated how her body betrayed her when her mind screamed no.

And then—soft noises.

From the rafters above, a pair of sparrows fluttered down, wings stirring the dusty air. They chirped gently, landing on the overturned table between her and Andy.

From the dark corner of the attic, a small mouse scurried into the light, whiskers twitching.

Even the family of raccoons that sometimes lurked near the attic window poked their masked faces inside, chittering quietly.

Jane’s breath hitched. Her friends.

They weren’t judging, they weren’t rushing her. They just watched, their calm presence grounding her in a way Andy’s intensity never could.

Jane knelt, extending a trembling hand. The sparrows hopped onto her fingers, tilting their heads. The mouse brushed her ankle, and she let out a shaky laugh.

“I… I just need more time,” she whispered, half to Andy, half to herself, stroking the sparrow’s feathers.

Her animals clustered close, wrapping her in the comfort Andy couldn’t give.

For now, they were enough.

(Boys Locker Room – 12:00 PM)

The boys’ locker room didn’t smell like sweat anymore. It smelled thick—heavy, almost sweet—like the smoke itself was clinging to the walls, seeping into the old lockers and jerseys hanging on the hooks.

A lazy haze floated across the ceiling lights, softening the room in a warm blur.

The air was slow, like even sound had to wade through the fog before reaching anyone’s ears.

While most of the school was still at lunch, a crew of boys had ducked away: Clawd, Deuce, Heath, Gil, Holt (dragging Jackson reluctantly along for the ride), Ryder, Romulus, Johnny, Invisi-Billy, and a couple others.

They’d brought their stash, their lighter, and their one rule—no Igor.

Now, fifteen minutes later, every single one of them looked half-melted into the benches. Eyes red, cheeks soft, bodies loose.

“Damn…” Deuce muttered, head tilted back against the wall, his snakes half-asleep and twitching in slow, lazy motions. Smoke poured out his mouth in a long stream. “This… this is just as good as Cleo.”

The boys all snickered, slow and uneven, the kind of laugh that drags on for no reason at all.

“You said it,” Gil mumbled, his voice drawn-out and watery.

His gills flared with every inhale, and every exhale left little bubbles in the water globes around his head. “I feel like I’m floatin’, man. Like… like I’m on cloud nine.”

Heath chuckled, his eyelids heavy, eyes glowing faint.

“Cloud nine?” His grin was lazy. “Nah… I’m on cloud twenty, bro.”

Another ripple of laughter swept the group, rolling slow through the fog.

The joint kept circling, slow hands passing it around the locker room, each drag deeper than it should’ve been.

The smoke sizzled faintly as it burned down, every exhale hanging in the air longer than it should.

“Hey, Clawd,” Ryder finally said, turning his wheelchair slightly toward the werewolf. “How you feelin’, man?”

Clawd was staring at his hands. Not just looking at them—staring, like his claws were some kind of cosmic puzzle.

He blinked, slow, and finally muttered, voice deep and husky:

“It’s like… like my senses are on fire.”

He looked up, eyes glowing faint gold in the haze.

“But I’m not on fire. My body’s cold. Cold, but… every sound is loud, every smell is sharp, like…”

He trailed off, ears twitching faintly. “I can hear every one of you breathing. I can hear the water moving in Gil’s tank. I can smell every damn thing—the sweat, the smoke, the rubber on Ryder’s tires. All of it. And it’s like… it’s too much. But it’s perfect at the same time.”

The boys stared at Clawd like he’d just descended from the heavens with wisdom etched in stone.

His golden eyes glowed faint in the smoke-haze, his words still hanging in the air like scripture.

“Damn,” Holt muttered, coughing into his elbow. His voice rasped, eyes half-lidded. “The fuck kinda weed is this?”

'The kind that’s gonna get us expelled,' Jackson snapped inside his head.

Holt rolled his eyes. 'Dammit, Jackson,' he thought bitterly, taking another slow drag anyway.

“But yeah,” Deuce said, his snakes twitching lazily as they basked in the fog.

He held the blunt like it was the last sacred relic on earth. “Clawd’s spittin’ facts right now. It feels like I’m not even in my body, man.”

“Careful, Deuce,” Romulus warned, his grin half-hidden in the smoke. “Last thing we need is you accidentally releasing your pheromones everywhere.”

“Yeah, for real,” Invisi-Billy said, flickering faintly in and out of sight as he giggled. “The last time you did that, the whole football team was seeing stars and hallucinating mermaids.”

“Bro, I said I was sorry!” Deuce groaned, exhaling a long stream of smoke that drifted across the locker room.

Ryder leaned back in his chair, wheels squeaking faintly as he tipped it against a locker. “Not gonna lie… this weed’s makin’ me hungry.”

Gil grinned wickedly through the haze. “For what, food—or your girlfriend’s pussy?”

“GIL!” Ryder barked, sitting up straight, face hot red.

That set the whole room off. The boys burst into laughter, hacking, coughing, clutching their ribs as smoke spilled from their mouths.

“I mean, c’mon, dude,” Gil said, shrugging like it was common knowledge. “You and Gigi fuck like animals every damn day! Everyone knows it. Y’all disappear from classes, don’t come back for like an hour—”

“And when you do come back,” Heath added, wheezing from laughter, “you look like you just stepped outta the shower!”

Ryder groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Y’all are assholes.”

“Yeah, but Gil’s got you there,” Clawd rumbled, smirking through the haze.

“Not gonna lie though,” Heath said after a pause, staring up at the ceiling like it had stars etched into it, “I’m actually getting hungry. Like—hungry-hungry.”

“Then let’s hit the Creepateria,” Johnny suggested, flicking ash onto the tile. “Lunch is almost over anyway.”

The group started to stretch and shift, groggy limbs moving like they were made of lead.

The air smelled thick with smoke, a soup of burnt herb, sweat, and the faint rubber tang of old gym floors.

Just as they began standing, Romulus’s phone pinged. He pulled it out lazily, scrolling, then raised his brows. “Oh yeah—forgot. We were gonna invite Manny, but…”

He sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Dude looked seriously bummed out this morning. Didn’t feel right to drag him into this.”

“Yeah,” Clawd said, shaking his head. “Manny’s been weird all week.”

Billy, half-faded and grinning like an idiot, suddenly mumbled: “Maybe he’s not gettin’ enough puss—”

“BRO!” Heath wheezed, nearly choking on his own smoke. “Why would you say that out loud?!”

Billy froze, his face flickering back into full visibility, red as a tomato. “I—uh—I didn’t mean—”

Before he could finish, the locker room door slammed open.

Scarah Screams stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes glowing with telepathic fire.

“Billy,” she said sweetly, though her voice echoed like a warning siren. “Care to repeat what ya just thought?”

The boys oooh’d in unison, some covering their mouths, some outright laughing.

Billy’s face paled. “S-Scar, I didn’t mean—”

“Save it,” she said, marching forward.

She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up with surprising strength. “Dirty thoughts in front of a telepath? Again? You know what happens now.”

“Wait, babe—please, I swear—!” Billy begged, flickering wildly as he struggled.

Scarah just smiled wickedly. “Mmhm. Don’t worry, sugar. I’ll ‘punish’ ya proper.”

The boys roared with laughter as she dragged him out the door, his apologies echoing down the hall.

Then, silence.

Smoke drifted lazily again, settling over the group as they tried—and failed—to stifle their snickers.

“Damn,” Ryder muttered at last. “Better him than me.”

The others nodded in unison, passing the last smoldering joint around before finally shuffling toward the door.

Until Romulus’s phone pinged again.

He pulled it out, thumb flicking across the screen—and the second he saw the message, a grin spread across his face like wildfire.

“Oh-ho-ho…” he chuckled low, eyes glinting. “Guess I’ll have to catch up with you guys later.”

“Huh? Why?” Holt asked, leaning in with curiosity.

Romulus spun his phone around for all of them to see. “Because I’ve got a two-for-one special waiting for me.”

On the screen was a photo of Meowlody and Purrsephone, both gloriously naked, their striped tails curling around their legs in perfect symmetry.

They posed like mirror images, giving the camera that sultry, predatory glare only twin were-cats could pull off.

And underneath, bold and teasing, the caption read:

“Dinner’s ready. Two for one. Come and get it.”

The locker room went dead silent. Every boy leaned closer, eyes wide, smoke still drifting lazily in the air.

“God. Damn.” Gil muttered, almost reverently.

Deuce gave a low whistle. “That’s not dinner, bro—that’s a banquet.”

“I don’t even know how you pulled that off,” Clawd said, shaking his head in disbelief, though a proud grin crept onto his muzzle. “But honestly? I’m proud of you, man. Respect.”

Holt just blinked, jaw slightly slack. “Bruh… two at once? My circuits can’t even process that.”

Romulus chuckled, tucking his phone back in his pocket as he straightened his jacket. “When you’re me, boys, you don’t chase meals. The meals come running to you.”

The others groaned, half annoyed at his cockiness but unable to hide their laughter.

“Catch you all on the other side,” Romulus said smoothly, already striding out the locker room with that confident, wolf-swagger in his step.

The boys watched him leave, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.

For a long moment, none of them spoke.

Then—

“…So,” Holt muttered at last, scratching the back of his head. “Still wanna grab some food?”

There was a collective shrug, a few chuckles, and the pack started shuffling toward the cafeteria, the smell of smoke clinging to them like a second skin.

(Girls Bathroom – 12:30 PM)

Frankie stepped out of the bathroom looking like she had just survived a war zone.

Lunch had been unbearable. The whole table—Draculaura, Cleo, Lagoona, Abbey, Clawdeen, Ghoulia, Spectra, Operetta, and a few others—had done nothing but whisper and giggle about their partners, trading vulgar terms and lurid details back and forth like it was some twisted contest.

It hadn’t been a conversation. It had been a live commentary track for a porno.

“Ugh, Deuce always grabs me by the waist like he owns me,” Cleo purred, twirling her braid smugly. “And honestly? I kind of love it.”

Draculaura leaned across the table with a teasing grin. “At least he’s not like Clawd—he practically growls in my ear when he gets rough.”

Clawdeen smirked, not even pretending to deny it. “What can I say? It runs in the family.”

Abbey folded her arms proudly. “Heath survived. Barely. Is good enough for me.”

Spectra just smirked, her voice airy as she said, “Let’s just say Porter has no complaints…”

Frankie had forced a polite smile, tried to nod along, but every word made her skin crawl a little more.

Eventually she excused herself, claiming she needed to “powder her nose,” just to escape.

But the bathroom hadn’t been the sanctuary she’d hoped for.

Her relief was immediately shattered by the sounds echoing from two stalls: breathless moans, whispered filth, and the unmistakable pounding of someone’s body hitting a wall. One voice cried out “Oh my Ra, yes!” while another muffled shriek followed, the stall doors rattling violently with every thrust.

Frankie froze for half a second, eyes wide, before fleeing as fast as she could.

Now she stood in the hallway, leaning back against the cold stone wall, trying to breathe. Her hands trembled as she pushed her bangs out of her face, the headache building behind her temples.

The school didn’t feel like Monster High anymore. It felt like it had been replaced by something… corrupted.

It was all happening so fast. Last week, after the gas attack, everyone had seemed fragile—shell-shocked, unsteady, walking on eggshells just to get through the day.

But this week? It was like the dam had broken. Students weren’t just loosening up. They weren’t just blowing off steam. They were giving in, drowning themselves in their darkest urges with no shame, no restraint, no thought for anything else.

Classrooms, bathrooms, even the cafeteria—every hallway was starting to look and sound like a living adult film set.

And Frankie had no idea why.

Her chest ached with the weight of it all. 'What’s happening to them? What’s happening to us?'

“Oi, Frankie!”

The sudden shout pulled her from her spiraling thoughts.

She blinked, turning her head to see Hackington sprinting toward her, his eyes wide and his breathing ragged, as if he’d just run across half the school.

“Frankie,” he said, voice heavy with relief. “Thank Ra. I’ve been looking all over for ya!”

Frankie blinked at him, clearly confused. “You’ve been… looking for me?”

“Yes,” Hackington said, leaning forward slightly, his voice low and urgent. “I need to ask you some questions.”

Her brows knit together. “What kind of questions?”

Hackington glanced around the hallway, making sure no one was lurking behind the lockers or slipping out of a nearby classroom.

When he was certain it was just the two of them, he cleared his throat and lowered his voice further.

“Alright, listen carefully, Miss Stein. I’ll need you to answer honestly, no matter how odd these questions might sound, understood?”

Frankie hesitated but nodded, curiosity overtaking her unease. “O-okay.”

“Good girl,” Hackington muttered under his breath, pulling a battered notebook out of his coat.

He clicked his pen, then looked up at her with that mix of sternness and barely-contained anxiety she’d come to expect from him.

“Now then. First things first—how’ve you been feeling lately? Any sudden changes in mood, odd impulses, strange daydreams you can’t quite explain?”

Frankie tilted her head, processing the words. “Um… not really? Just… confused, I guess. About everything.”

Frankie tilted her head, gears in her mind whirring. “Um… not really? Just… confused, I guess. About everything.”

“Confused how?” Hackington pressed gently, jotting notes.

She fidgeted with her sleeve. “Well… it’s like, people around me are acting one way, and I just… don’t get it. Like I’m on the outside looking in. And it makes me feel… wrong. Like maybe I’m broken or something.”

“You’re not broken, Miss Stein,” Hackington said quickly, almost too firmly. “Far from it. But tell me—have you noticed anything unusual in your sleep? Dreams, perhaps?”

Frankie’s face flushed, green skin turning a shade darker. “D-dreams?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. Just tell me what you remember.”

She shifted uncomfortably, glancing down the hall as if someone might overhear. “Well… there were a few dreams… weird ones. I didn’t… I didn’t even understand what was happening in them, but they felt… embarrassing.”

Hackington leaned forward, tone steady but eyes narrowing with interest. “Go on.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper. “It was me. And Jackson. And sometimes Holt. We were… close. Too close. Touching, kissing… but more than kissing. Things I’ve never done. Things I’ve never even thought about until those dreams.”

Hackington stayed silent, pen hovering above the page.

Frankie fiddled harder with her sleeve, babbling now to fill the space. “It felt real. Like I could feel Jackson’s hand on mine, or Holt whispering something in my ear. And… and it scared me, because I don’t know what it means. I don’t even know how any of that stuff works in real life! But in the dream it was like I was supposed to know. Like I was supposed to… just go along with it.”

Her cheeks burned. “I woke up shaking. I didn’t tell anyone—not even them. I don’t want them thinking I’m… dirty. Or weird.”

Hackington let out a slow, measured breath. He scribbled something in his notebook, jaw tight. His voice was softer when he finally spoke. “Dreams can be powerful things, Miss Stein. They can tell us a great deal about what’s influencing the mind. What you’ve just shared…”

He trailed off, running a hand through his hair, visibly struggling to stay composed. “It confirms a suspicion I’ve had for some time now.”

Frankie hugged herself, eyes wide. “So… I am broken?”

Hackington snapped his gaze up at her. “No. Absolutely not. If anything, the fact that it’s only dreams—that it hasn’t bled into your waking choices—means you’ve still got your will intact. Do you understand me? You’re resisting, whether you realize it or not.”

Frankie blinked, processing that. “…Resisting what?”

“Later,” Hackington said sharply, then softened his tone. “For now, just answer me this—ave you noticed any… shifts? Perhaps in your appetite, your energy levels, or your—”

He paused, searching for the right phrasing. “—your hormones, maybe? Any heightened feelings of… er… libido?”

Frankie blinked. “Libido?”

“Yes,” Hackington said, almost impatiently. “Your… you know, sexual drive.”

Frankie’s face went blank. “My… what now?”

He froze, pen hovering above the page. “Wait… you don’t know what that means?”

Color rose in her cheeks. She glanced down, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “My parents never… told me anything about that. About… sex. I just… I don’t know what any of this stuff means."

Hackington was stunned. "So you know absolutely NOTHING about sex?"

Frankie nodded. "Nope! Just that it exists," she said, her tone nervous. "And I’m scared of what the other ghouls will do if they find out I don’t know. They already look at me like I’m weird sometimes.”

Hackington blinked at her, utterly thrown.

For a long moment, he just stared—this girl, this sweet, nervous little patchwork student, standing in the middle of a school drowning in filth and indulgence, admitting she didn’t even know what everyone else was obsessing over.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered under his breath, rubbing his temples.

Then, more gently, he said, “Frankie… you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Absolutely nothing. If anything, that innocence of yours—well, it’s proof. Proof you’ve not been compromised by what’s happened.”

Her eyes widened. “Compromised?”

He sighed, shutting the notebook. “I can’t give you the full story, not here, not yet. But listen to me carefully. All this… this behaviour you’ve been seeing—the skipping classes, the touching, the moaning in hallways, the constant… chatter about their partners.”

He almost winced just saying it. “It all stems from the attack earlier this month. October third, remember? The gas incident.”

Frankie’s lips parted slightly. “…You mean… everyone acting like this… it’s because of that?”

“Precisely.” Hackington’s tone hardened. “It wasn’t just smoke, Miss Stein. It’s altered them. Their instincts, their urges. It’s infected them, if you will.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “But you… you seem untouched by it. And that, Miss Stein, gives me hope.”

She didn’t quite know what to say. Her heart fluttered at the words “infected,” and her throat tightened with unease.

Hackington, meanwhile, gave her a searching look, as if bracing for something. “One more question, and you must be honest with me. Have Jackson or Holt ever tried to act on those dreams? Have they pressured you? Pushed you into anything you didn’t want?”

Her head shook violently. “No! Never. They’d never do that. They… they take care of me. Even Holt, when he gets impatient, Jackson always reins him in. They respect me.”

Hackington’s shoulders slumped, a breath of relief slipping from him. “Good. That’s… good.”

For the first time in days, he allowed himself the smallest smile.

Frankie, though, still looked uneasy, hugging her arms around herself as though the walls of the school might start closing in at any second.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” Hackington said, tone low and serious, like every word was weighed down with stone. “But I need you to come with me.”

Frankie blinked. “Huh? Why?”

“I need to take a few blood samples,” he said plainly. “If you’re not corrupted, it might give me something to work with. Perhaps a resistance marker—something we can harness. It could give us the potential to counter the effects of… whatever’s caused this madness. Maybe even create a cure.”

He suddenly clasped her hands, gripping tighter than she expected.

His eyes were sharp, a little desperate. “If that’s the case, we might be able to cure everyone—including your lover, your friends. Stop this chaos before it’s too late.”

Frankie’s eyes welled with tears. “You… you think you can really do that?”

Hackington gave a firm nod. “If Bloodgood won’t, then I bloody well will.”

For the first time in days, Frankie felt something resembling hope. The words settled in her chest like a candle in the dark.

This week had been nothing but confusion, embarrassment, and terror—but that sentence… that promise… it was a spark.

But then—

‘He’s lying.’

Frankie froze.

The voice was sharp, feminine, eerily familiar. It sounded like her… but also not.

Her breath caught, and she looked around wildly. “...Hello?”

Hackington’s brow furrowed. “What is it, love?”

But Frankie wasn’t listening. Her gaze slid to the mirror on the wall.

Her reflection stared back—not nervous, not meek. Scowling. Eyes darker. Mouth curled with disdain.

‘You think they want to help you?’ the reflection hissed. ‘No, darling. This isn’t corruption. This is freedom. And he wants to rip it away from you.’

Frankie stumbled back, terror prickling down her stitched limbs. Hackington moved to steady her, concern tightening his face.

“Easy now. You good?”

Her foot hit a shallow puddle on the floor. She glanced down—only to see another reflection in the rippling water.

This one wasn’t scowling. It was smiling. Its eyes burned hot pink.

Its hair fell smoother, shinier. Its outfit—tighter, flashier, like some twisted fashion-doll version of herself.

It smirked at her, lips curling with wicked glee.

‘RUN.’

Before Hackington could even blink, electricity surged through Frankie’s body. Bolts of lightning cracked off her stitches, and in the next instant—she was gone.

“Frankie, wait!” Hackington shouted, stumbling forward, hand outstretched. But it was useless. She’d vanished down the hall in a blur of light and smoke.

Hackington dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “First werewolves and vampires, then Ryder, then Glida, and now bloody Frankie. How many sodding speedsters are in this place?!”

And then—

RINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG.

Hackington yanked his phone from his pocket, jaw tight. The caller ID: Mr. Where.

He clicked it open. “What is it?”

In the background, chaos. Screaming. Furniture crashing.

“Get your ass to the cafeteria!” Mr. Where barked. “We’ve got a problem!”

Hackington’s patience snapped. “And what could possibly be so bad that I have to—”

A pause on the other end. Then Mr. Where growled, almost defeated: “How about Draculaura and Gory fighting. AGAIN.”

Hackington went stock-still. His face drained of color.

The last time those two clashed, an entire hallway had been reduced to rubble, three classrooms flooded, and a support beam had nearly collapsed.

“…God dammit.”

Shoving the phone back in his coat, Hackington took off at a sprint. The last thing Bloodgood needed to return to was half the school caved in because Gory Fangtel couldn’t keep her bloody mouth shut.

(Creepateria – 12:40 PM)

Everyone in the Creepateria was buzzing like flies over a corpse.

Phones were whipped out, cameras flashing, whispers flying faster than gossip on Clawbook as once again Draculaura and Gory Fangtel squared off in the middle of the lunchroom.

Both ghouls were red-faced, snarling, fangs flashing in the overhead lights.

Their respective squads stood behind them, arms crossed, smirks plastered across their faces like they’d been waiting for this all week.

“Can you not go ONE day without harassing me?!” Draculaura snapped, her voice carrying across the Creepateria.

Gory’s smirk only widened, sharp and smug. “What can I say? Pissing you off is my new favorite hobby.”

A wave of laughter rippled from the Belfry Prep table. Gory leaned back, arms folded like she owned the place. Draculaura’s face burned red—part anger, part humiliation.

“I mean, look at you,” Gory sneered. “Who knew the daughter of Dracula could be such a vapid little slut?”

The crowd let out a chorus of “OHHHHHHHHHHH!”, the sound rolling like thunder through the lunchroom.

The Belfry girls cackled cruelly.

The Monster High ghouls, however, froze—seething. Clawdeen especially looked two seconds away from leaping over the table and tearing Gory’s throat out.

“You act soooo prim and proper,” Gory continued, drawing out every syllable, “but in reality? You’re just a cheap little whore, like the rest of your squad.”

She leaned forward, eyes glinting with malice. “I bet if your real parents were still alive, they’d be so disappointed in you, they’d probably turn in their graves.”

The entire room went dead silent.

Teachers stiffened but said nothing. The ghouls all turned on Gory like she had just sprouted horns. No one dared breathe.

All eyes fell on Draculaura, waiting for her to cry, or scream, or collapse.

But instead—she smirked.

“Okay. Maybe I am a whore.” Her fangs flashed in the light as her grin widened. “But at least my boy can keep me satisfied.”

The crowd erupted. Students shrieked, stomped, whistled. Draculaura jabbed a finger across the cafeteria at Gory.

“Yours can’t even last ten FUCKING seconds!”

The cafeteria exploded like a stadium. The roar of laughter and screams shook the walls. Gory froze, eyes wide, while the Belfry girls’ cackles died instantly.

Dead. Silent.

“You… what the fuck did you just sa—” Gory sputtered, fury painting her face red.

“You heard me,” Draculaura purred. “You’re so busy whining about Clawd, but Bram? He can’t even keep it together long enough to give you a proper fucking.”

Gasps shot through the crowd. Draculaura pressed on, her voice carrying.

“You forgot I have magic, didn’t you?” she said, her grin wicked. “I saw the whole thing. You two sneaking into that classroom—you begging him to fuck you harder—and him collapsing after only a few thrusts. Pathetic.”

The cafeteria howled. Students doubled over in laughter. The ghouls cackled loudest, tears in their eyes.

Gory looked ready to combust.

“You little bi—”

“And better yet,” Draculaura cut in, raising her voice over the chaos, “I once overheard the Belfry boys talking to each other. And guess what?” She paused for maximum effect.

Every ear leaned in.

“Every single one of them has a SMALL dick.”

The cafeteria lost it. Screams. Chairs banging. Food trays slamming. The laughter was deafening. The Belfry girls gasped in outrage while Bram and his crew turned beet red, frozen in humiliation.

Gory looked like she wanted to rip the entire school out of the ground.

“YOU FUCKING LITTLE BRAT!” she screamed, stamping her foot hard enough to rattle the table.

Draculaura just leaned back, sweet as sugar, grinning like the devil herself. “Awwww, can’t handle the truth?”

She spun on her heel, throwing her voice over her shoulder: “I guess it’s true what they say about you Belfry girls—all bark, no bite.”

The cafeteria erupted again, a wall of sound that shook the walls.

The Belfry Prep students, humiliated and red-faced, stood stiffly and began to march out, one by one.

By the time they were gone, the cheering was still echoing.

Draculaura turned back toward Clawd. He’d been silent the whole time, wide-eyed at first, but now grinning like he couldn’t help himself. She threw her arms around him, squeezing tight.

“Lala,” he muttered into her ear, chuckling, “you just turned that whole cafeteria into a stadium.”

She pulled back just enough to flash him a toothy smile. “Well, somebody had to put that bloodsucker in her place.”

Clawd shook his head, still grinning, and kissed her forehead. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Draculaura smirked, settling against his chest. “Good boy.”

Gory’s heels clicked against the cafeteria floor as she marched toward Draculaura, eyes blazing like she was ready to rip the vampire’s fangs out herself.

The crowd’s laughter fell into nervous murmurs, waiting for the explosion.

But before Gory could even lift her hand, a striped one shot out and caught her wrist.

“That’s enough.”

Every head turned. Toralei was standing between them, her claws just barely pressing into Gory’s skin. Her eyes narrowed, tail flicking dangerously behind her.

Gory jerked her arm, glaring. “You don’t—”

“I said…” Toralei’s voice cut sharp as a blade, her hiss echoing across the cafeteria, “THAT’S ENOUGH.”

The silence was absolute.

Gory glared daggers at her, lips curling back, but the weight of the room—and the werecat’s grip—made her hesitate.

Finally, she yanked her hand free with a sharp “Tch!” and spun on her heel.

“Let’s go,” she snapped at the Belfry girls.

Reluctantly, they followed, dragging Bram and the rest of the boys with them.

Toralei lingered for a second, her sharp gaze sweeping over the cafeteria, before locking eyes with Clawdeen.

Clawdeen’s lips twitched into the faintest of approving smirks. She gave Toralei a slow nod.

Toralei’s ears flicked, and a sly grin curled across her face before she turned and strutted out like she hadn’t just defused a bomb.

The moment she was gone, the room erupted again—but this time in cheers for Draculaura.

The ghouls swarmed her, pulling her into hugs, clapping her back, practically bouncing with excitement.

“That was incredible!” Operetta laughed, slinging an arm around her.

“Lala, you roasted her so bad she’s never showing her face here again,” Clawdeen smirked, giving her a proud nudge.

“Straight up ice cold burn,” Spectra chimed in, her transparent hands actually clapping together. “I haven’t seen the cafeteria lose their minds like that in… ever.”

Even Ghoulia let out a string of enthusiastic zombie groans, thumbs up as her glasses slid down her nose.

Draculaura covered her face for a second, cheeks pink. “You guys, stop—it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“It was absolutely that big of a deal,” Clawdeen said firmly, grabbing her shoulders. “Don’t downplay it. That witch has been asking for it all semester.”

Abbey patted her on the back, smiling warmly. “You fight with words better than some fight with claws. Very impressive.”

Draculaura’s blush deepened, though she couldn’t stop grinning. “Okay, fine… maybe it was a little satisfying.”

The ghouls all laughed, still buzzing from the tension release.

But then Abbey frowned, her eyes scanning the tables.

“…Where is Lagoona?”

The group froze.

They glanced around, but the Australian ghoul was nowhere in sight.

“Yeah…” Clawdeen muttered, her smirk fading. “And Gil’s missing too.”

One by one, the ghouls exchanged looks, their good mood souring just a little.

(The Pool Room – 12:50 PM)

Monster High’s pool was no spa, but with a little flick of hydrokinesis, Lagoona had turned the lukewarm water into a bubbling, misty cauldron of heat.

Steam curled upward, clinging to the glass panes, fogging them until the whole room looked like some forbidden grotto.

And in that grotto, she and Gil were going at it like two wild sea beasts who hadn’t touched in months.

They’d slipped away during Gory and Draculaura’s latest shriek-fest, ducking through the halls until they reached the pool.

No teachers. No classmates. No distractions. Just water, heat, and Gil’s pent-up lust burning behind those gills.

The second Lagoona peeled off her clothes and slid into the pool, Gil had snapped. His cock was already rock hard, veins throbbing blue, and the sight of his girlfriend’s slick, naked body pushed him over the edge.

He tackled her under the surface, dragging her against the edge, and before she could even gasp, his tongue was buried in her ass, his fingers curling into her cunt.

“Ffffuuuuck, Gil!” Lagoona screamed, nails digging into the wet concrete as the bubbles churned around them.

Her Aussie twang cut through every moan, raw and needy. “Ya bloody animal—I can’t handle ya lickin’ me there!”

Gil only growled into her ass, tongue wriggling deeper, the water around them rippling with every thrust of his fingers.

Lagoona’s body quivered, her blonde hair floating in the water like seaweed, her lips bitten red as her moans bounced off the tiled walls.

She bucked back against him, ass grinding into his face, pussy clenching down on his fingers as her juices mixed with the steaming pool water.

“Oi, Gil!” she yelped, gasping as his tongue swirled tighter. “I won’t be sittin’ for a week if ya keep this up!”

He pulled back just long enough to pant against her wet skin, voice low and sharp. “Sit? Babe, sittin’ will be the least of your worries.”

Then he dove right back in, tongue fucking her ass like it was the last meal he’d ever get.

The obscene sounds filled the hot room—his slurping, her whimpers, the frantic splash of water.

Lagoona’s toes curled against the tiles, every nerve screaming with pleasure. She bit down hard on her lip, muffling her squeals until she couldn’t hold it anymore.

“Ohhh fuck—fuck, Gil! I’m close—I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum!”

Gil shoved his fingers deeper, twisting them just right, and then commanded, “Cum for me, Lagoona.”

And she did.

Her entire body seized as a shriek ripped out of her throat, echoing through the steam-filled chamber.

Her pussy squirted violently, clear gush bursting like a geyser, mixing with the hot water and frothing around Gil’s arms.

Lagoona collapsed against the pool’s edge, claws raking streaks into the concrete as the orgasm tore through her.

Her head lolled back, steam clinging to her flushed skin, her chest heaving like she’d just swum an ocean.

She barely had a second to breathe before Gil gripped her hips, dragging her down into the water with him again.

His cock pressed between her thighs, hard and ready, and Lagoona knew he wasn’t nearly done with her yet.

“Aw, shit…” she panted, eyes rolling back as his length prodded at her entrance. “Here we go again…”

Just outside the cracked door, Lorna McNessie pressed her back against the wall, breath quick, thighs clamped tight together.

Every moan that slipped from Lagoona’s lips made her shiver. Her hand slid beneath her skirt, fingers moving in desperate rhythm to the wet sounds spilling from the pool room.

“Aww, fuck, Gil! Right there!” Lagoona’s voice carried, broken, Aussie twang curling every word.

Lorna bit her knuckle, stifling her own whimper as her fingers circled harder, wetter, chasing the rhythm of her friend’s shameless pleasure.

She squeezed her eyes shut, turned her head away, guilt burning her cheeks—this was wrong, she shouldn’t be listening.

But when curiosity pried her eyes open and she peeked again, the sight stopped her breath.

Lagoona was no longer bent over, squealing under Gil’s tongue. She had flipped the script.

Now Gil was on his back, half-submerged, while Lagoona straddled him, riding him with fierce, steady bounces.

Her hands pressed to his chest, her hair plastered wet to her face, every moan now sharpened into a growl of control.

The shift was electric, and Lorna’s fingers moved faster, her body rocking silently in time with every slap of water and every guttural cry from inside.

As for Lagoona, she was gone—lost to the rhythm, drunk on the heat of it. Her head was tossed back, wet hair sticking to her flushed skin, her breasts bouncing wildly with every brutal slam of her hips.

The water churned around them like boiling surf, every motion sending splashes high onto the tiles.

“Ohhh FUCK, Gil!” she wailed, voice breaking into that unmistakable Aussie drawl. “Y’feel so bloody good stretchin’ me out! Fuck, mate, ya hittin’ me perfect!”

Gil’s claws dug into her thighs hard enough to leave pale crescents, his hips jerking desperately to match her merciless pace.

His voice was ragged, low, barely holding together. “Lagoona… fuck… I can’t—at this pace—I’m not gonna last…”

She leaned forward, teeth bared, her breath hot against his ear as she nipped and tugged his lobe.

Her voice was sharp, teasing, but commanding underneath: “Then give it to me, guppy boy. Don’t you dare hold back on me now.”

She slammed down harder with each word, her hips smacking into his with wet, obscene slaps that echoed off the poolroom walls like applause.

Gil’s reply came out as nothing but a guttural growl, a sound torn straight from his chest, his hands shooting up to clamp around her waist as though he could anchor himself against the storm of her riding.

Lagoona was merciless. Her pussy clamped down around his cock like it was trying to drag the cum out of him by force, every muscle milking him, demanding more.

She rode him like a wild tide, relentless, eyes wild, her nails raking his chest as her cries filled the humid air.

“C’mon, Gil!” she barked, hips bouncing, water splashing everywhere. “Don’t make me wait! Fill me, guppy—flood me till I’m drippin’ for hours!”

His entire body shuddered beneath her, toes curling, voice breaking into a strangled shout. “Lagoona—shit—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Do it!” she snarled, biting his shoulder so hard he hissed. “Cum inside me, Gil! Gimme every last drop—I want it all!”

That was it. With a final, desperate thrust, his body arched up beneath her, and he erupted inside her. Hot, thick cum poured into her, warmth flooding her insides.

Lagoona gasped, eyes fluttering, but she didn’t stop—not for a second.

Her hips kept moving, grinding and bouncing, milking every last pulse of his cock until he was groaning, panting, his body limp and boneless beneath her.

Only when she was sure he was wrung dry did she finally sit back, her chest heaving, sweat and steam mixing on her skin.

She smirked down at him, satisfied, as his cum leaked out of her, dripping in slow rivulets down her thighs and swirling into the pool water below.

Gil groaned faintly, eyes half-lidded, arms weakly reaching for her.

Lagoona chuckled breathlessly and leaned down, kissing his jaw, before pulling him with her toward the corner of the pool.

Later, the two were curled up in the steamiest corner, half-submerged, her legs draped lazily over his lap.

Gil’s arm was around her shoulder, his other hand lazily tracing circles on her damp thigh.

Their chests rose and fell in unison, both catching their breath, both humming with the afterglow.

Lagoona reached into her bag sitting by the pool’s edge, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. She slid one between her lips and handed another to Gil.

“Oi,” she teased, flicking a lighter with a smug grin. “Don’t go thinkin’ you can just pass out on me next time. I’ll ride ya ‘til ya drown if I have to.”

Gil chuckled weakly, smoke curling from his lips. “With you, Lagoona? I’d die happy.”

They leaned into each other, smoke mingling with the heavy steam of the pool room, two reckless lovers savoring their secret paradise.

Hackington (Audio Log):
In spite of the thirty-two documented cases of students engaging in sexual activity, today’s report is—perhaps surprisingly—somewhat hopeful.

Until now, my colleagues and I operated under the assumption that all pupils of Monster High had succumbed to the influence of the gas. However, evidence has emerged to suggest that certain individuals may be resisting its effects. This is, by every definition, an extraordinary development.

If even a fraction of the student body proves naturally immune, it may be possible to isolate the mechanism at work—perhaps even synthesise a counter-agent. For the first time since the incident, I find myself with reason to hope.

Following an incident earlier today, I have spent several hours reviewing camera footage and compiling a list of students who—by all observable behaviour—either have not engaged in sexual activity or have refrained from explicit discussion of it. These individuals include:

Frankie Stein – appears entirely ignorant of sexual matters; possible congenital innocence.
Jackson Jekyll
Robecca Steam.
Jinafire Long.
Skelita Calaveras – though some footage suggests a romantic attachment to Miss Long.
Gooliope Jellington – perhaps owing less to immunity than to her sheer size, which deters potential partners.
Catty Noir and Seth Ptolemy – though their continued inclusion is questionable after today’s… incident.
Kjersti Trollsønn.
Batsy Claro.
Glida Goldstag – though she has exhibited increasingly violent outbursts.
Catrine DeMew – previously caught producing obscene imagery, but since then has refused to draw.
Manny Taur.
Iris Clops – abstention may stem from her physical proportions rather than resistance.
Jane Boolittle – demonstrates signs of fear surrounding intimacy.
Sirena Von Boo – intellectually curious about sexual matters, but as yet unengaged.
Avea Trotter.
Bonita Femur.
Kiyomi Haunterly - Though some footage suggests she's interested in female intercourse.
Wydowna Spider.
Kala Mer’ri.
Amanita Nightshade – though with her, abstention may be a matter of pride.
And finally, Hoodude Voodoo.

Each of these pupils has, to my knowledge, refrained from sexual engagement. Whether this represents genuine immunity to the gas or merely individual choice remains uncertain.

Regardless, their presence offers a glimmer of possibility. A cure may yet be developed—if we act swiftly.

I can only pray that Headmistress Bloodgood returns soon, and that she takes this threat as gravely as it warrants. Every passing day tightens the grip of corruption upon this school. And every delay diminishes the chance of pulling these children back from the brink.

(Crypt Current – 9:00 PM)

The Crypt Current—a haunted vessel that ferried monsters and sorcerers to the Underworld—was alive with music and chaos tonight.

Instead of whispers and wails of the dead, its creaking halls shook with bass, laughter, and the roar of a thousand dancing feet.

At the entrance, the ghouls gathered. Every one of them was cloaked in long trench coats and heavy cloaks, their collars pulled high to hide their faces.

The only exception was Frankie. She wore a simple blue dress, her hair pinned beneath a pointed witch’s hat—innocent, bright, and strangely out of place among her friends.

She frowned, glancing at them. “Why are you all dressed like we’re in a detective movie?”

Draculaura leaned close, her voice a fierce whisper. “Because our parents would KILL us if they saw what we’re actually wearing!”

“You can say that again, darlin’,” Operetta muttered, tugging her coat tighter around her body.

Frankie blinked at them, confused, but decided not to press.

Behind her, Gooliope shifted uncomfortably, her enormous hands gripping the edges of her coat. “I-I really don’t think I should be here…”

“NONSENSE!” Cleo declared with a queenly wave of her hand. “You have just as much right to enjoy yourself as anyone else.”

Spectra drifted beside her, smiling. “Yeah, you’ve got to stop punishing yourself for what happened Friday.”

“So what if a few people got singed?” Clawdeen shrugged. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Too right,” Lagoona chimed in gently. “It wasn’t intentional, mate. Nobody blames ya.”

The giantess’s lips curved into a timid smile. “T-thanks, guys…”

They slipped past security without issue, handing over their phones—one of the ship’s strict rules. No recordings. No distractions.

The moment you boarded, you belonged entirely to the party.

Inside, the Crypt Current looked like the inside of a gothic nightmare. Cobwebs draped from the chandeliers. Skeletons hung from iron hooks, rattling as the bassline shook the walls. The lighting was dim and green-tinged, giving everyone a ghostly pallor.

Dozens of monsters were already moving with the beat, their bodies swaying in hypnotic rhythm.

Abbey scanned the scene, unimpressed. “Party already boring.”

“Abbey!” Draculaura groaned. “We’ve been here thirty seconds!”

Cleo flicked her hair and crossed her arms. “For once, I actually agree with her. This looks… tame.”

Clawdeen leaned in, her grin sharp. “Trust me. Give it a minute. Shit’s about to get messy~.”

The girls all exchanged knowing looks, a shared secret that Frankie wasn’t part of.

She shifted nervously. “What do you mean by—”

Before she could finish, the DJ’s voice boomed through the speakers.

“HEY! We got any new blood in the crowd tonight?!”

A cheer exploded across the dance floor. Every ghoul around Frankie—except Frankie herself—shot their hands in the air, screaming with the rest of the crowd.

The DJ cackled. “That’s what I like to hear! In that case—let’s get this party STARTED!”

The bass dropped, shaking the floor.

And in one smooth, perfectly timed motion, all the ghouls tore off their trench coats.

When they hit the floor, Frankie nearly dropped dead on the spot.

Draculaura’s outfit was less “nurse” and more “walking wet dream.” A crossbreed between a blood-splattered candy-striper and an erotic dancer, her tiny skirt clung tight to her thighs, the pale fabric stained crimson like she’d just walked out of a blood orgy. The neckline didn’t plunge deep, but the material was so thin and soaked that her stiff nipples jutted straight through, teasing every eye that landed on her chest. She looked like she was about to check your pulse while riding you raw.

Lagoona had gone full pirate slut. An eyepatch glittered over one eye, her hair tied back in a salty ponytail. The so-called “top” was nothing more than two scraps of fabric tied desperately across her chest, threatening to snap apart if she so much as breathed. Her bikini-bottoms were cut so small her pussy lips nearly peeked out the sides, her ass cheeks fully exposed with each sway of her hips. She wasn’t searching for treasure—she was the treasure, spread and waiting to be plundered.

Clawdeen prowled in head-to-toe latex. Her catsuit was slick, black, and painted on so tight you could see the outline of her pussy lips pressing against the seam. Every curve—hips, ass, breasts—looked sculpted, begging to be clawed or bitten. Cat ears and a latex tail completed the fantasy, turning her into a filthy feline ready to scratch her marks into anyone lucky enough to pet her.

Abbey went the dominatrix route, her outfit a deep, shimmering red latex that glistened like candy-apple sin. Her arms were sheathed in long gloves, her thighs squeezed into skin-tight stockings, her breast were covered by a large corset, her hair was tied in a ponytail, and she wore red lipstick with pride. A mini skirt hugged her waist, hiding the monster cock lurking beneath like a dangerous secret. A whip hung from her hand, daring anyone to disobey. She wasn’t here to flirt—she was here to own someone.

Ghoulia’s look screamed kinky professor. A pair of fogged goggles rested on her head, messy hair tied back, her body wrapped in fishnet from hip to ankle. Her white “lab coat” shirt was completely see-through, nipples showing through the fabric like beacons. She looked ready to give a lecture on “the practical uses of restraints in a scientific environment,” with extra credit for getting bent over her desk.

Cleo went all in. Enchanted mummy wraps slithered across her body like living lingerie. The strips were translucent, barely clinging to her breasts, thighs, and ass, leaving just enough mystery to make you ache. Stray pieces dangled, teasing glimpses of golden brown skin beneath, giving her an almost ghostly, half-unwrapped look. She was ancient royalty reduced to a temple slut, her body begging to be worshipped.

Operetta was pure country whore, her sultry cowgirl outfit screaming rodeo sex. Her shorts weren’t shorts at all, more like frayed panties clinging to the underside of her ass. A tied-up flannel top showed off a ridiculous amount of cleavage, and her wide-brim hat shaded her eyes just enough to make her smirk look wicked. Every step she took said, 'ride me like a stallion, sugar.'

Iris came in as a walking dairy kink fantasy. Horns perched atop her head, her bikini printed in black-and-white cow spots. The fabric barely covered her big tits, her nipples constantly threatening to peek through, while a belt cinched around her waist made her ass pop. A fake tail dangled behind her, swaying over her thigh-high socks. She was a farm slut cosplaying her own fetish, ready to be milked for all she was worth.

Gooliope loomed above them all, her towering body wrapped in a clown costume that, by contrast, made her stand out all the more. The fabric swept the floor, oversized and bright—but her tits poured out of the neckline in a mountain of cleavage that defied her otherwise covered body. Her painted face and wild grin only made her freaky aura hotter, like a circus act that would end with someone tied up and begging for mercy.

Frankie’s jaw dropped. She felt her bolts spark faintly, panic bubbling in her chest. Her face was pale as wax, eyes darting from one ghoul to the next.

Every single one of them looked like they belonged in some high-end sex dungeon, not on a dance floor.

And then came Spectra.

Like Cleo, she went with her own “theme.” Classic ghost costume: just a plain white sheet.

Except oiled up.

From head to toe, the sheet clung to her, so translucent it was practically invisible. Her nipples pressed sharp against the soaked fabric, her pussy lips and ass crack outlined perfectly beneath. She looked like she’d stepped out of a wet t-shirt contest—except this shirt covered her whole body. Every inch of her was on display, teased and taunted behind the ghostly veil. With her manicured nails, smoky makeup, and heels clicking beneath the draped sheet, she looked like a fetish specter come to life.

The look screamed: "COME AND RAIL THIS GHOSTLY PUSSY!"

Frankie nearly screamed herself.

“What the FUCK are y’all wearing?!” she shrieked, voice breaking.

Cleo rolled her eyes, one bandage slipping off her hip to tease more skin. “Oh, relax, Frankenstein. It’s a party, not a funeral.”

“Yeah!” Draculaura chimed, twirling in her blood-stained mini skirt. “Don’t be such a buzzkill, babe!”

“Besides,” Clawdeen purred, letting her claws run down her latex-clad hip, “who knows? Maybe you’ll find someone who’ll give you a real good time.”

Frankie opened her mouth to protest, bolts sparking as her words tumbled out in half-formed stammers. But her voice was lost to the pounding music, the bass thumping like a heartbeat through the walls.

And then, without waiting for her, the sluts of Monster High sashayed onto the dance floor in a wave of latex, wraps, and dripping flesh—ready to grind, fuck, and flaunt themselves under the flashing lights.

Frankie was left standing alone at the door, her knees shaking, her stomach flipping, and her face red enough to match Draculaura’s blood stains.

On the dance floor, bodies collided and writhed, a mess of sweat, heat, and flashing lights.

The ghouls had already thrown themselves into the chaos, and as usual, they weren’t content with just blending in—they owned the floor.

Draculaura spun in circles, her nurse skirt twirling high enough to flash hints of pale thighs.

Lagoona leaned against a group of pirate-costumed guys, teasing with her hips before darting away like a playful siren.

Abbey’s whip cracked against the air in rhythm with the beat, earning shrieks and laughs from the crowd.

Operetta had stolen the mic for a moment, singing over the beat in a sultry Southern drawl.

Even Iris, blushing as she clutched her cowbell, was pulling more eyes than she realized.

Spectra… Spectra was gliding, that oiled-up sheet clinging tighter with every spin. The lights hit her like she was made of glass, every curve magnified, every sway hypnotic.

And Frankie? Frankie was plastered to the wall, white-knuckling her paper cup of punch, staring like she’d wandered into another dimension.

“...So…” Gooliope mumbled beside her, crouching down a little so she wasn’t towering quite as much.

She fiddled with the edge of her oversized clown sleeve. “Do you… come to these… often?”

Frankie blinked at her. “Does it look like I come to these often?!”

“Fair point,” Gooliope said quickly, glancing nervously at the chaos in front of them. “I mean… they look like they’re… uh… enjoying themselves?”

Frankie groaned. “They look like they’re possessed.”

The music shifted suddenly, the DJ scratching over the beat and dropping something far dirtier, heavier, filthier.

The kind of bass that rattled bones and sent hands flying into the air.

Cleo froze mid-spin. Clawdeen stopped mid-grind.

They turned toward each other across the floor.

The look they shared was instantaneous. Their brows arched. Their lips curved into grins. You thinking what I’m thinking?

Frankie caught it. “What's happening...?” she whispered, hugging her cup tighter.

And then it began.

Clawdeen was the first to move—her hands slapped down onto her knees, her body lowering, ass angled high. Her latex catsuit squeaked against itself as she started to roll, slow at first, then faster, her hips popping in sharp, deliberate jolts.

The crowd gasped.

Then Cleo joined her. The enchanted wrappings clung to her hips as she bent forward, mimicking Clawdeen’s stance. Her jewelry jingled with every movement as she dropped low, then let her hips shake loose like she’d been waiting for this moment all night.

“Tchyeah!” Cleo shouted, tongue out, sweat flying as she whipped her head back. “Been years since I got my bones loose!”

Clawdeen barked a laugh, her curls bouncing, her tongue flashing out like a wolf tasting the night air.

They twerked. Hard.

The floor damn near shook with the force of it. Cleo’s golden wrappings fluttered loose around her thighs as her hips pounded the air in perfect rhythm. Clawdeen’s latex gleamed under the strobe lights, every ripple of her backside catching in flashes like she was performing on stage.

They moved in sync, then against each other, dropping lower, slapping their thighs, twisting, grinding, their bodies electric.

The crowd went wild.

Cheers, screams, wolf-whistles, camera flashes (from the few smuggled phones).

Even the other ghouls—usually too cool to be shocked—were frozen, slack-jawed.

Draculaura’s jaw practically hit the floor. Abbey muttered something in Russian that sounded like a prayer. Lagoona’s hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide.

Operetta shouted over the noise: “What in tarnation is THAT?!”

“They call it…” Spectra said slowly, her voice low with awe, “...the naughty human dance.”

The DJ was losing his mind. “OH-HO-HO-HO! THEY BROUGHT OUT THE NASTY!”

The floor had turned into a circle, Cleo and Clawdeen dead center, stealing every eye in the room.

Cleo smacked her own ass with both hands, tossing her head back with a scream of pure ecstasy. Clawdeen flipped onto all fours for a second, arching her back like a wolf about to pounce, then popping back onto her feet to keep the rhythm.

Their sweat gleamed, their tongues lolled, their movements feral.

Frankie felt her stomach twist.

She couldn’t look. She couldn’t not look.

Beside her, Gooliope shifted uncomfortably, fanning her face. “...They’re… um…”

“Insane,” Frankie hissed, cutting her off. “They’re insane. Everyone’s insane!”

But no one else thought so.

The crowd had lost it. Cleo and Clawdeen were untouchable, two queens of sin, grinding and twerking like their lives depended on it.

They weren’t just dancing anymore.

They were commanding. Dominating. Destroying.

And Frankie?

Frankie had never felt more out of place in her entire life.

To her, it felt less like fun and more like madness.

The DJ was loving every second, the crowd was losing their minds, and for most, the night was nothing but wild abandon.

In a quieter corner, Draculaura, Spectra, and Abbey leaned against the wall, chatting as if the chaos around them didn’t even exist.

“So, you and Porter just…” Draculaura tilted her head, searching for the words. “Slip into walls and screw each other in there?”

Spectra grinned. “Of course. We’re ghosts—it’s what we do. No beds, no boundaries. The walls are our playground.”

“Too much effort,” Abbey muttered, arms crossed. “If I wanted Heath, I would pull him away somewhere private. No theatrics. No freezing an entire room for effect.”

Draculaura smirked, raising a brow. “Still blows my mind how you don’t break Heath in half with your—”

Abbey clamped a cold hand over her mouth, silencing her with a deadly glare. “Heath may be fragile, but he is stronger than he looks.”

Spectra chuckled. “Stronger at handling your giant cock, you mean?”

Abbey froze.

“What?” Spectra teased, eyes glinting. “You know ghosts have mind powers, right? Secrets don’t stay hidden from me.”

Abbey’s tone dropped to a growl. “If you tell anyone—”

Spectra raised her hands in mock surrender. “Relax. It’s safe with me. You’re my friend.”

The yeti exhaled, calming—just a fraction. “Sometimes Heath cannot take it. But he always endures. And I always end up satisfied.”

Draculaura shook her head, muttering, “That boy never ceases to surprise me…”

SMACK.

The sharp sound cut through the music.

All three ghouls froze.

Abbey’s expression hardened instantly, colder than the Arctic. It wasn’t just anger—it was murder.

Behind her stood a young troll, barely in his twenties, shorter than Abbey by half a foot. He wore a greasy grin, his hand still raised.

He’d just slapped her ass.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Abbey’s voice was quiet, calm, dangerous.

The troll smirked wider. “Just giving what you clearly want, babe.”

Draculaura and Spectra felt their stomachs drop.

The crowd shifted, sensing danger.

Before either ghoul could intervene, Abbey’s whip was in her hands. With a snap of her wrist, the cord wrapped tight around the troll’s throat. He choked, gagging as Abbey yanked hard, forcing him onto his knees.

The troll’s eyes bulged. “W-wait, I—”

Abbey’s heels clicked once as she stepped forward, raising her leg. Her grin was pure predator.

WHAM.

Her heel smashed into his face. The troll collapsed to the ground, a wet thud echoing through the music. Blood trickled from his nose, pooling beneath him.

The room held its breath for a heartbeat.

Then erupted into wild cheers.

Abbey calmly coiled her whip back onto her hip, wiping a speck of blood from her cheek with one gloved hand. She posed, hand on her hip, cold smile cutting through the room.

“Yes,” she declared. “I do have a nice ass.” She glanced down at the twitching troll. “But only Heath is allowed to touch it.”

The crowd screamed approval.

Draculaura whooped and high-fived her. Spectra cackled and slapped her on the back.

Abbey simply adjusted her hair like nothing had happened.

From the wall, Frankie’s stomach lurched. She looked pale, eyes wide, clutching her cup so tight it nearly cracked. To her, this wasn’t a victory.

It was another reminder that this school—her friends—were spiraling into something darker by the hour.

As for Gooliope, she’d been awkwardly drifting around the edge of the party ever since Frankie ducked away from her.

The giantess towered over everyone, clutching a smoothie cup that looked like a shot glass in her hand. She tried to look casual, leaning against a wall, but her size alone made her stand out.

The music shifted, heavier, sweatier. The crowd swelled in response. Bodies pressed together, hips grinding, lips brushing. The atmosphere was sticky and feverish.

Gooliope, wary of crushing someone, began backing up to avoid the chaos.

But in her flustered state, she missed a step.

THUD.

Her foot caught on an amp wire and she pitched forward, crashing against the edge of the stage. The impact rattled the floorboards, her smoothie flying out of her hand and splattering across the boards.

Her cheeks went crimson. She scrambled to her feet, mortified.

She braced for laughter, insults, someone yelling “freak.”

But it never came.

Instead, the room erupted into cheers.

“YEAH, BIG GIRL!” someone shouted.

“Do that again!”

“Woo! Shake it, mama!”

A handful of partygoers were already waving money in the air—actual cash bills fluttering in the strobe lights. One boy even whistled, holding a handful of coins like he was at a strip club.

Gooliope blinked, baffled. “…What’s going on?”

More voices joined in.

“Show us what you got!”
“C’mon, stretch those circus legs!”
“Work the stage, doll!”

She felt the heat rising in her face. This wasn’t what she signed up for.

Then—

“GOOLIOPE!”

She turned and spotted Draculaura, Cleo, and Spectra in the crowd. They were grinning, clapping, motioning wildly.

At first, Gooliope couldn’t make out their words. Until—like a whisper in her head—Spectra’s voice rang clear:

“The pole! On your left!”

Gooliope turned. And there it was. A towering metal pole in the center of the dance floor, gleaming under the flashing lights.

A crowd circled around it, chanting, waving more bills in the air.

Her stomach flipped. 'No, no, no. That’s not for me.'

She looked back at the crowd—expectant faces, eager hands, eyes gleaming with drunken hunger.

She raised a hand, pointing awkwardly toward the pole.

The crowd exploded.

Gooliope froze. She wanted to shake her head, laugh it off, climb down—anything.

But then, in the back of her mind, another voice slithered through. A voice that sounded just like hers.

'Go on. Show them how entertaining you can be. You’ve always been the star of the circus. Don’t hide it now. You know you want to.'

Her breath hitched.

For the briefest moment, her irises flickered pink. Her trembling lip curled into something else entirely—something wicked.

The nervous smile was gone. In its place was a devilish grin.

Without another word, she turned, took three strides, and wrapped both her hands around the pole.

The crowd went ballistic.

At first it was clumsy—awkward spins, heavy steps. But within seconds, something clicked.

Her circus-trained strength took over.

She hoisted her massive body up like she weighed nothing, swinging upside down, hair cascading like a waterfall.

Wolf whistles rang out.

“Holy shit!”
“She’s flying up there!”
“Take it off, giantess!”

And then—she started peeling away her costume. Piece by piece.

Her gloves? tossed into the crowd.

Her oversized clown collar? Yanked free and flung like a towel.

Each removal brought more screaming cheers, more bills flapping through the air.

Cleo and Clawdeen hollered, clapping along to the beat. Draculaura hopped up and down, shrieking like she was at a concert.

Even Abbey cracked a grin, arms crossed, muttering, “Finally, she enjoy party.”

Spectra had her phone up before remembering it had been confiscated at the door—so she settled for screaming encouragement instead.

And Frankie?

Frankie’s face went pale. Her hands shook at her sides. She could hardly breathe.

The lights strobed, the bass thumped, and there in the center of it all, Gooliope—sweet, timid, nervous Gooliope—was moving like an actual stripper, towering over the crowd, sweaty, glowing, stripping away her costume like she’d been born for it.

Frankie clutched her head, her stomach twisting.

“This isn’t real,” she muttered to herself. “This can’t be real…”

But it was.

And the crowd only screamed louder.

By this point, Frankie wasn’t sure what to think anymore.
This whole week had been one long, wild, confusing ride—and it just kept escalating.

Everywhere she turned it was the same: sex in classrooms, drugs in the locker rooms, booze being passed around like soda, and “fun” happening in every hallway.

Things she barely even knew existed until a few days ago.

She felt confused, frustrated, anxious—her brain buzzing like loose wires sparking inside her skull.

And her friends? They weren’t helping.

All they seemed to care about was dressing like sluts, getting wasted, and bragging about how many times they’d fucked their boyfriends that week.

Before last Friday, these people had been her family. She knew them. She loved them. They were goofy, kind, normal… or at least as normal as monster teenagers could be.

Now?

Now they barely looked like the same people. Their eyes, their voices, even their laughs—everything felt wrong, like her real friends had been replaced by strangers wearing their faces.

She’d tried to hang around them anyway, tried to pretend she fit in, but every day left her stomach tighter, her throat drier. And now, staring at them grinding, sweating, and stripping under flashing lights, she knew she was at her breaking point.

“...I can’t do this anymore.”

Frankie whispered the words to herself, clutching her bag like a lifeline.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t make a scene. She just quietly grabbed her things, kept her head down, and slipped out the ship’s side exit.

The air outside was sharp and cool, washing over her skin like she’d been underwater all night and finally come up to breathe.

She didn’t look back.

No one noticed she was missing—at least, not until Draculaura, mid-grind on the dance floor, glanced around and froze.

“Where’s Frankie?”

Cleo stopped dead in her tracks, her body going still even though the music kept thumping. They scanned the floor, the balconies, the stage. Nothing.

Then Cleo’s sharp eyes caught movement through one of the porthole windows. Out there in the dark, Frankie was sprinting across the dock, blue dress

flapping behind her like she was running from a fire.

Both ghouls exchanged a look.

“Yeah…” Cleo muttered, gobsmacked. “Something’s not right with her.”

“You can say that again,” Draculaura said, frowning. “You’d think that with Jackson and Holt not giving her any action, she’d be jumping bones left and right. Hell, I figured she’d snap and join in by now.”

Cleo shook her head, her gold bangles clinking as she folded her arms. “I don’t think those two are the issue.”

Draculaura blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I saw something earlier today,” Cleo said, going thoughtful. “She was offered to join in—easy, no pressure. And she bolted. Just like tonight.”

Draculaura’s eyes went wide. “She ran away?”

“Yep,” Cleo replied. “If Holt and Jackson were really the problem, then by now she would’ve snapped. She’d be sneaking off with someone else, maybe even cheating—and as much as I hate that thought, I’d understand it.”

Draculaura’s frown deepened. Her bubbly party-girl mask slipped, replaced with something sharper. “...You’re right. That doesn’t make sense. It feels like she’s hiding something.”

Cleo nodded, her expression turning cold and decisive. “And tomorrow, we’re going to find out what.”

The two ghouls locked eyes, the bass of the party still shaking the ship around them. But neither was smiling anymore.

To Be Continued…

Notes:

Hey everyone!

College has been pretty cool so far (aside from almost missing a class do to bus problems) and while I was able to work on this during and inbetween lectures, don't expect another one for a minute.

It's only been week 1 and I know my teachers are gonna be dumping a shit ton of work on me (there all pretty nice though)

Anyways, what do you think will happen next? How long do you think it'll be before EVERYONES corrupted, and what do you think the ghouls are gonna do to Frankie?

Leave your answers in the comments below and have a wonderful night!

Chapter 13: Hunted

Summary:

Frankie gets hunted, Glida gets violent, and a new rivalry begins.

Notes:

At first I thought college would take up most of my time, but aside from a few art projects and some writing assignments, I have plenty of free time, especially on friday's.

But don't expect this to happen on the daily. I know at some point or another, I'm gonna be busy with something.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(Date: Thursday, October 12th)

(Monster High – 8:00 AM)

Frankie pressed her back against the wall, her chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. The empty classroom smelled like chalk dust and old paper, its curtains drawn tight to block out the morning light. S

he hadn’t planned on ending up here—Room 2B, some forgotten club room with broken desks stacked in the corner—but it was the first door she’d found unlocked when she ran.

Ran from them.

Her 'friends'.

She dragged her knees up to her chest and hugged them, staring at the dimly lit floor. Her phone, face-down on the tile beside her, buzzed violently for what felt like the hundredth time. The sound made her jolt every single time.

They hadn’t stopped since last night.

9:42 PM – Draculaura: Frankie, where’d you go?? We’re worried about you!
9:45 PM – Cleo: You can’t just leave like that. Explain yourself.
10:02 PM – Clawdeen: Yo, u good?? Cleo’s trippin, but seriously. Text back.
10:10 PM – Draculaura: Frankie… I’m serious. If you don’t answer me, we’re gonna find you.
11:17 PM – Cleo: Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Just TALK to us.
12:03 AM – Draculaura: Babe, please… you’re scaring me.
12:06 AM – Cleo: We’ll get the truth one way or another.

And then, this morning, it had started again—before she even made it through the school gates.

7:12 AM – Draculaura: Where are you? We’re on campus. Don’t run from us.
7:19 AM – Cleo: Face the music, Frankie. You can’t hide.
7:45 AM – Clawdeen: Don't make us chase u around school all day.

Frankie shivered. The last one made her stomach twist. The words didn’t sound like Clawdeen, not the Clawdeen she knew. They sounded like… a threat.

That was why, when they finally cornered her near her locker half an hour ago, Frankie had panicked. Cleo’s sharp voice, Draculaura’s pouty frown, Clawdeen’s narrowed eyes—it was all too much. They kept pressing, asking what was wrong, why she’d run, what she was hiding. Frankie didn’t know what else to do.

So she’d sparked.

It was supposed to be a tiny jolt, a little static shock to startle them so she could slip away. But the surge had burst from her palms, crackling through the air, popping lockers and lightbulbs down the hall.

Students screamed. Smoke rose. And in the chaos, Frankie ran.

Now she’d been hiding ever since.

7:40. Then 7:50. Now 8:00.

Every creak in the hall outside made her tense. Every shout from down the corridor made her flinch.

She half-expected the doorknob to rattle any second, to see Draculaura’s sharp pink eyes or Clawdeen’s golden glare glaring at her through the glass.

Her own friends.

She buried her face into her arms. Her stitches itched with static, the aftershock of her little outburst earlier, but she barely noticed. Her head throbbed. Her chest ached.

She was terrified.

Not of strangers. Not of monsters. But of the very people she’d once trusted with her life.

And the worst part?

She didn’t know what they’d do if they caught her.

(A Random Classroom – 8:15 AM)

The door to the classroom slammed against the wall with a violent BANG.

Romulus strode in like a storm on two legs, his shoulders broad enough to fill the doorway, his amber eyes burning hot.

Draped over him like trophies were Meowlody and Purrsephone, the twin werecats giggling shamelessly as he hauled them inside, one over each shoulder.

Their tails flicked with mischief, claws lightly scratching at his back as they taunted him in stereo.

“Awww, is our big bad wolf mad?” Purrsephone cooed, her voice thick with fake innocence.

“I bet he’s still sulking ‘cause we laughed at his little tail,” Meowlody added, lips curling into a wicked grin. “So sensitive for such a tough alpha.”

Romulus’s low growl rumbled out like distant thunder. In one motion, he swung them both off his shoulders and threw them down onto the floor.

They hit the ground with a heavy thud, hissing, though it wasn’t pain—it was the sting of being reminded who was really in charge.

Meowlody rubbed the back of her head, glaring up at him with narrowed eyes. “Would it kill you to be a little—”

Her words cut off when her gaze dropped lower.

Both twins froze.

Romulus’s pants and boxers were already at his ankles, kicked aside with casual ease.

Towering over them was his cock—thick, veined, monstrous—jutting out proudly like a weapon unsheathed. The sheer size of it made both of their pupils dilate, tails twitching like snakes.

They should have looked away. Should have hissed or made another sarcastic remark. But neither could tear their eyes off it.

Romulus smirked, lips curling into something dark and dangerous.

“What’s wrong, kittens? Cat got your tongue?”

He shifted closer, making the heavy length bob in front of their faces. “No? Then you know what to do.”

Purrsephone’s grin returned, sly and wicked. “Mmmm, maybe the alpha does have something worth bragging about after all…”

Her tongue darted out, long and wet, dragging up the underside of his cock in one eager lick.

Not to be outdone, Meowlody smirked and slid in beside her.

“Guess we’ll just have to taste-test,” she teased, wrapping her lips around his tip and sinking down until her cheeks hollowed.

The twins worked him over with practiced hunger, their rivalry spilling into every motion. Meowlody bobbed her head up and down his shaft, gagging herself eagerly on his girth, while Purrsephone worshipped his balls, tongue rolling and teeth lightly grazing.

Together they made obscene, wet noises that filled the classroom, a chorus of slurps and moans as they licked, sucked, and teased the thick cock between them.

Romulus threw his head back, a guttural chuckle rattling in his chest.

“That’s more like it. Always running your mouths… but this is the only way I like to see you two talk.”

His claws tightened into fists at his sides, his hips rocking into their eager faces.

Meowlody pulled off with a gasp, smirking up at him with spit glistening down her chin. “Mmmm, he tastes as big as he looks…”

Purrsephone licked a long line up his length before planting a kiss on the tip. “Careful, sis. Don’t get too greedy. We’re supposed to share him.”

Romulus’s growl silenced them. His hand shot out, fisting tight into both of their hair and jerking them up until they hissed. Their mouths were parted, lips swollen, eyes glazed with lust.

He stared down at them, towering, dominant.

“Open wide,” he ordered.

The command sank into their bones. Despite their bratty smiles, both twins obeyed instantly, tongues out, lips open, throats bared for their wolf.

Romulus grinned, a dangerous flash of fang. His hips bucked once, twice—then he threw his head back and howled.

His cock erupted, thick ropes of cum splattering into their mouths, coating their tongues, filling them until it spilled down their chins. The twins swallowed greedily, moaning at the sheer volume as they fought to take every drop.

By the time he released them, they were panting, their faces a sticky mess, eyes half-lidded but still gleaming with wicked satisfaction.

Romulus looked down at them like a king surveying his conquered subjects.

“Good little kittens,” he rumbled. “Knew you’d behave once your alpha put you in your place.”

The twins glanced at each other, then back at him, licking their lips slowly, sensually, as if daring him to go again.

Romulus’s cock twitched, still half-hard, still demanding more. And with the way they were looking at him? He knew this wouldn’t be the last round. Not even close.

(The Garden – 8:30 AM)

The hybrids of Monster High sat scattered around a bench in the garden, their voices low, their movements sluggish.

Their teacher had gone off to the bathroom, and already half the class had devolved into flirting, groping, and sloppy make-outs.

The hybrids weren’t part of it. They just sat there, watching from the sidelines like wallflowers at a wedding—though for some of them, the restraint was written plainly across their faces.

Especially Avea.

The centaur hybrid slammed her palm against the bench with a groan.

“How is it,” she snapped, “that every last ghoul in this cursed school has a fuck buddy, and I’m STILL stuck here all alone?!”

Bonita, not even looking up from picking at her nails, tilted her head at the massive drape covering the lower half of Avea’s body.

“Maybe it’s because not everyone’s into horse cock.”

Sirena tilted her head, her blue curls falling over one eye. “What’s a horse cock?”

The table went dead silent.

Avea, Bonita, and Neighthan all groaned in unison, the kind of sound that came from souls too tired to explain the obvious yet again.

“How do you not know about any of this stuff?” Avea demanded, her frustration dripping from every word.

Sirena just gave an airy shrug, her tail swishing lazily over the side of the bench. “I don’t know… I’ve read lots of books about different cultures, but I’ve never seen that word before. It sounds… important.”

“Important?” Avea nearly snarled, her face flushing hot. “It’s the most important thing about me! And apparently, it’s the exact reason no one wants to come within ten feet of my cock!”

“Relax, Avea,” Neighthan muttered, his undead voice calm as ever. “You know Sirena’s… curious. She’ll figure things out in time.”

“Yeah,” Bonita added, though she smirked faintly. “Some of us are still catching up.”

Avea’s fists clenched. Her tail flicked angrily, the drape around her lower half rustling with every twitch. “No. You don’t get it. I can’t keep doing this. Everyone else gets to fuck whoever they want, whenever they want. Abbey gets to screw Heath so hard he probably doesn’t even remember his own name. Meanwhile me? I’m still a goddamn virgin!”

Her voice cracked on the last word, desperation edging through her anger.

Neighthan raised a brow. “So what you’re saying is—you’re mad that nobody wants to shove your dick in their mouth, and if you don’t find someone soon, you’re gonna lose it and destroy the entire school with a raging erection?”

“YES!” Avea shouted, stomping a hoof hard enough to make the bench rattle. “Thank you for finally spelling it out!”

Sirena opened her mouth, eyes wide with a tidal wave of questions bubbling just behind her lips—How big? Why would anyone want to put it in their mouth? Would it hurt? Do centaurs mate differently underwater?—but one sharp look from Avea made her snap it shut.

She folded her hands primly instead, though her eyes still gleamed with dangerous curiosity.

The moment broke when Isi strolled into the garden, her long hair glinting in the morning light.

She spotted Neighthan, saw there were no free seats, and without hesitation, plopped herself directly onto his lap.

The zombie unicorn stiffened immediately, his body almost jerking back to life from the sudden pressure.

His cheeks colored faintly as he looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but everyone else was too busy making out in the bushes.

Isi glanced around the table and smirked. “What’s everyone so gloomy about?”

Avea groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Isi, please. If you’re gonna grind on Neighthan, do it somewhere else.”

“What?” Isi blinked, genuinely confused. “I’m just sitting on my boyfriend’s lap.”

“Yeah,” Bonita muttered under her breath. “It starts like that, and next thing you know, it’s a lap dance, a blowjob, or some position I’m not even sure is anatomically possible.”

Isi just shrugged and nuzzled against Neighthan’s neck, entirely unbothered.

Bonita slumped back with a sigh. “Why do I have to be the single one?”

Before anyone could respond, a shriek tore across the courtyard.

“FRANKIE!”

All four hybrids and the Deer Spirt turned toward the windows just in time to see Frankie sprint past, clutching her bag, Rochelle and Operetta hot on her heels.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Frankie screamed.

“YOU CAN’T RUN FOREVER, SUGAH!” Operetta shouted back, her boots slamming against the floor.

The hybrids stared after them in stunned silence.

“…What the fuck was that about?” Bonita muttered.

Neighthan shrugged. “It’s Monster High.”

The group collectively sighed. Yeah. Around here? That was about par for the course.

(A Random Hallway – 9:00 AM)

Heath crouched in front of his locker, rummaging for a book he needed for first period.

On the surface, he looked the same as always—slightly scatterbrained, humming to himself, sparks flickering faintly off his fingertips.

But inside? He was different.

Days of being railed into submission by Abbey’s monster cock had rewired his brain.

Around his friends, he was still goofy Heath, the jokester, the sometimes-clumsy elemental.

But alone? With her? He became someone else entirely. Obedient. Desperate. On his knees, begging to be used like her personal plaything.

It was a side of himself he never expected to discover. And though the thought should’ve embarrassed him, he couldn’t deny it: he craved it.

The locker door clanged shut—and a familiar voice slid like silk down his spine.

“Nǐ hǎo, Heath.”

His body went stiff. Slowly, he turned.

Jinafire Long towered over him, her posture regal, her frame powerful but lean—like a blade honed to perfection.

Her amber eyes gleamed with hunger, her sharp smile curling upward. She moved with elegance, every step measured, like a fighter who knew exactly how and when to strike.

“H-hey, Jinafire,” Heath stammered, trying to sound casual, even as his heart hammered. “How’ve you been? Haven’t, uh… really seen you around this week.”

He edged sideways, subtly moving away from the locker so he’d have an escape route. Just in case.

She followed smoothly, her eyes never leaving him.

“I’ve been… recovering,” she said, her accent wrapping around the words. “Like everyone else, I was shaken after the attack. But…”

She stopped, leaning in close until her breasts nearly brushed his chest, her warm breath fanning over his ear. “…after last Friday, I’ve never felt better.”

Her fingertip trailed slowly down his sternum, heat radiating off her body.

“And now I find myself… hungry for new challenges.”

Heath’s throat went dry. His instincts screamed at him to back up, but every step he took, Jinafire mirrored, stalking him without breaking her poise.

“Jinafire,” Heath said nervously, raising his hands. “We—we shouldn’t do this. I’m dating Abbey—”

“She doesn’t have to know,” Jinafire interrupted smoothly, her lips so close he swore he could feel the ghost of a kiss.

He swallowed, hard. “We’re friends. Y-you can’t just—”

Her smile sharpened, eyes narrowing with predatory intent. “Can’t I?”

Heath knew he wasn’t weak—his fire could torch a building in seconds—but Jinafire wasn’t just strong. She was disciplined.

Every inch of her body screamed mastery: speed, precision, control.

Even without fire, she could dismantle him in seconds.

Dragons of chinese lineage like her weren’t peaceful because they were harmless—they were peaceful because they chose restraint.

And if she chose not to restrain herself? He didn’t stand a chance.

As he prepared to run, his back bumped into something cold. Something hard.

Something thick pressing right against his ass.

Heath’s eyes widened. His entire body froze.

Then came the strong arms wrapping around his chest, locking him in place like steel bands. A chin rested firmly on top of his head, and a low, dangerous voice purred above him:

“Is there problem here?”

Abbey.

Her towering frame loomed behind him, muscles coiled like mountains beneath her pale skin.

Her cock pressed deliberately against him, heavy and undeniable, reminding him who owned him.

Jinafire’s smirk faltered, her gaze flicking to Abbey. For a heartbeat, the hallway was silent except for Heath’s shallow breaths.

Then Jinafire’s expression smoothed into a polite, fake smile.

“No,” she said crisply, her voice tight. “Nothing at all.”

She turned, walking away with slow, deliberate grace. Her fists clenched at her sides, golden chi flaring faintly, glowing like molten light.

Her voice dropped low, almost a growl. “Zhè hái méiyǒu jiéshù…”

This isn’t over.

Abbey’s grip loosened. She looked down at Heath with a wide smirk that carried more than a little smugness.

He craned his neck up at her, cheeks flushed red. “…You’re about to fuck me again, aren’t you?”

Her grin widened, fangy and wicked. “Nyet. As much as I would love to bend you over right here, I am looking for Frankie.”

Heath pointed weakly down the opposite hall. “Uh… I think she went toward the west wing.”

Abbey pressed a kiss into his hair, her cock grinding once more against his ass before she pulled away. “Good boy. For that, I’ll be even rougher tonight.”

Heath’s face paled, but deep inside, the submissive voice he’d been trying to bury squealed like a kid opening presents on Christmas morning.

(Ghoulia’s Lab - 11:40 PM)

The faint hum of fluorescent lights filled the room, broken only by the scratch of a pen against paper.

Ghoulia Yelps adjusted her goggles, her white lab coat hanging open just enough to reveal the tight corset beneath.

Around her, shelves were stacked with glass beakers, buzzing devices, and boxes labeled Property of Ghoulia – Do Not Touch.

At the center of the room was a reinforced steel table. On it lay her boyfriend, Slo-Mo, his body secured with thick restraints around his wrists, ankles, and chest.

His muscles strained faintly against them as he shifted, the heavy leather creaking.

His pale blue skin glistened under the lab lights, his broad chest rising and falling with that slow, steady rhythm that was so uniquely his.

Ghoulia leaned over him, pen tapping her clipboard.

“Mmmm… subject appears restless…” she murmured in her usual monotone, though the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement.

She pressed a cold metal probe against his ribs. He groaned, twitching at the contact. She noted it down.

Then she switched to a vibrating wand, flicking it on with a bzzzt before dragging it slowly across his chest, down his stomach, hovering just above the thick bulge tenting his pants.

Slo-Mo groaned louder, hips shifting, and Ghoulia let out a breathy giggle that turned into a moan. “Response levels rising. Very promising.”

She straddled his thighs, leaning forward so her breasts—bare beneath the loose corset—pressed against his cock through his pants.

She rubbed her tits along the outline, biting her lip as she watched his face twitch.

“Stimulus check…” she whispered, squeezing her breasts around him, sliding them back and forth in a mock titfuck. His cock pulsed hard beneath the fabric, desperate to be freed.

She didn’t stop there. One moment it was her breasts; the next, she spun around, grinding her ass against his cock, bouncing lightly in place.

“Mmmm, pelvic response confirmed. Very strong.” She scribbled more notes, voice clinical, though her cheeks were flushed red.

Vibrators buzzed against his thighs, sticks traced across his abs, every touch deliberately not enough.

Ghoulia teased him endlessly, edging him with tools, toys, and her own body. Her pussy dripped onto his pants as she rocked against him, yet she still whispered into her recorder like a scientist cataloguing samples.

“Note: prolonged teasing increases physical resistance… Subject appears close to maximum frustration tolerance.”

That was her last line before it happened.

The leather groaned louder. Then snapped.

Slo-Mo ripped free of the restraints like they were paper. One after the other, the buckles popped, straps tearing off as his muscles surged with violent force.

Ghoulia froze, clipboard slipping from her hand, papers scattering to the floor.

When she looked up, he was towering over her, shadow swallowing her smaller frame. His glowing eyes locked onto hers, his jaw clenched, his breath a guttural growl.

He was no longer the restrained, patient test subject. He was the predator unleashed.

Ghoulia’s body quivered, her heart pounding, her thighs slick. Two thoughts battled in her mind, both pounding with equal intensity:

'I’m about to get fucked stupid!'

And—

'Oh god, I’m about to get fucked stupid…'

Her lips trembled into a shaky smile as he loomed closer, and her goggles fogged with heat.

The restraints clattered to the floor like broken chains, and Ghoulia barely had time to gasp before Slo-Mo’s massive hand wrapped around her waist.

“Ghoulia tease too much…” he rumbled, voice gravelly and broken, every word dragging like boulders grinding together. “Now… Slo-Mo fuck Ghoulia stupid.”

Before she could stammer a reply, he flipped her over onto the table, bent forward, and tore open her skirt and panties with a single swipe.

Her pale blue ass was bared to the cold air, but only for a heartbeat—then his cock, thick and veiny like it had been carved from stone, slammed into her pussy with a brutal thrust.

“NNNNHHHhhhhh—!!” Ghoulia’s moan was guttural, her glasses sliding down her nose as her face mashed into her notebook.

Slo-Mo grunted, pounding into her with raw, primal rhythm, the table screeching across the floor under the force of his thrusts.

“Ghoulia tight… Ghoulia mine…”

Her hands clawed at the steel surface, papers scattering around them.

“F-f-field notes… confirm… massive… pelvic… stimuuuuuhhh!” Her voice pitched high into a squeal as he slammed harder, fucking her like an unstoppable juggernaut.

When he got bored of the table, he simply lifted her—hands gripping her thighs, pulling her up into a full nelson.

Her arms and legs flailed for a moment, then went rigid as his cock split her deeper than she thought possible.

Her head tipped back onto his shoulder, glasses askew, drool trailing down her chin.

“Me fuck… ALL NIGHT!” he growled, pounding her from below, each slam jarring her brain into static sparks of pleasure.

“Y-y-you’ll… break… my notes!!” she shrieked, voice cracking as he rammed harder.

But the truth was clear from the way her cunt clenched him—she wanted it, she craved this zombie brute force.

From full nelson to carry fuck—he shifted her effortlessly, hands under her ass, bouncing her on his cock like a toy while he growled against her neck.

Every thrust made her tits slap against his chest, every bounce made her squeal like a lab rat overstimulated past her limit.

He threw her down again, face first onto the floor, pinning her head against the cold tile with one giant hand.

His other hand spread her ass wide while he jackhammered into her, her moans muffled under his palm.

“No stop. No mercy. Ghoulia scream… scream for Slo-Mo.”

And she did. Muffled, desperate shrieks that echoed through the lab, her glasses sliding off entirely now, bouncing across the floor.

Finally, he spun her again, pressing her back against the cold brick wall.

One of her legs was hoisted into the air, his massive body pinning her easily.

His cock speared her ass this time, every thrust pounding her spine into the wall hard enough to shake the shelves.

Ghoulia’s nails clawed at his shoulders, her head thrown back, lipstick smeared, her body vibrating with every brutal thrust.

“Slo-Mo!! Oh—fuck—fuck—ohhh, not so rough, the specimens are gonna breaaaaaakkkk!!”

“Specimens break… Ghoulia break too,” he grunted, drool running down his chin as he wrecked her ass with merciless rhythm.

The sound of flesh slapping echoed like thunder, the wall quaking, test tubes falling and shattering. She was moaning uncontrollably, glasses hanging by one bent arm off her ear, leg trembling in his iron grip.

And then—

RING RING.

Both froze.

The shrill tone of her phone cut through the haze of moans and growls.

Ghoulia blinked, panting, reaching blindly for the buzzing phone on her desk. She fumbled it to her ear, voice wrecked and shaky: “Z-zhe-hello…?”

“Ghoulia!” Cleo’s sharp, commanding voice blasted through the speaker. “Finally, you pick up! We need you right away. Were trying to find Frankie! That ghoul's been hiding from us all day!"

Ghoulia’s mouth opened and closed, her brain trying to reboot through the fog of dick. She looked up at Slo-Mo—still balls-deep inside her ass, still holding her leg against the wall.

Slo-Mo growled low, hips grinding slow now, almost teasing. “Me not done…”

Ghoulia’s eyes rolled, torn between terror and lust, her glasses dangling, body quivering. “F-fuck… coming… C-Cleo…”

The line went dead.

Her phone slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor, and she let her head fall back against the wall.

And Slo-Mo smirked, thrusting in again.

(In a Random Hallway, 11:45 AM)

Jackson was halfway down the empty hall, binder in hand, when the sharp clack of heels made him stop.

Draculaura.

She strode up to him with that sharp little smile she wore when she already knew the answer to the question she hadn’t asked yet.

“Jackson,” she said sweetly, almost too sweetly. “Where’s Frankie?”

He blinked. “Frankie? Uh… I haven’t seen her all morning.”

The smile didn’t falter, but her eyes flickered faintly pink.

The lie-detection charm humming behind her irises stayed cool and silent. He wasn’t lying.

“Really?” she pressed, tilting her head. “Not even once?”

Jackson shook his head. “No. Honestly, I figured she was with you guys. Why? Is she… is she okay?”

Her nails tapped against her hip. He wasn’t even faking it—he sounded worried.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” She stepped a little closer, lowering her voice. “She ran off last night. Bolted. And she’s been dodging us all morning. Any idea why she’d be doing that?”

Jackson frowned. “No. I… I mean, she’s been kind of jumpy lately, but I thought it was just stress. You know, tests, homework, everything that’s been going on around here.”

The spell stayed silent. He was telling the truth.

Draculaura studied him carefully, her smile thinning. “Jumpy. Hm. Jumpy how?”

Jackson shifted the binder in his hands. “I don’t know. Like—sometimes when we’re hanging out, if I… if I even hint at anything romantic, she stiffens up. Like she doesn’t know what I mean. Or she changes the subject. And Holt—”

He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

“No, no.” Draculaura’s voice sharpened. “What about Holt?”

Jackson swallowed. “He tried flirting once. Just—light stuff. Frankie didn’t even get what he was saying. It was like she thought he was speaking another language.”

The spell pulsed faintly, not in alarm but in confirmation. Every word was true.

For a moment, Draculaura forgot to breathe. Frankie… didn’t understand?

Her smile returned, but this time it was colder, more calculated. “Interesting,” she murmured, brushing past Jackson as though she were finished with him. “Thanks, Jackson. You’ve been… helpful.”

Jackson turned, confused. “Wait—what’s this about? Did something happen?”

But she was already walking away, the echo of her heels sharp against the hall floor.

Her mind was racing.

Frankie wasn’t just anxious. She wasn’t just shy.

She was… clueless. Utterly, dangerously clueless.

And that? That changed everything.

(Creepateria – 12:00 PM)

The lunchroom buzzed with the usual chaos—trays clattering, gossip spreading like wildfire, couples sneaking kisses when they thought nobody was looking.

But Seth “Pharaoh” Ptolemy didn’t care. He sat with his tray like he owned the whole room, golden eyes steady, posture loose and collected.

Catty Noir slid into the seat across from him. No fanfare, no bright smile—just a quiet “Hey.”

Seth cocked a brow. “Now that’s unusual. My little kitty cat usually comes in singing. What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

Her tail twitched. “Not in the mood, Pharaoh. Just want to eat in peace.”

He chuckled low, shaking his head. “You say that, but your eyes are already giving you away.”

Catty’s gaze snapped up, sharp as claws. “Keep talking like that and this cat bites.”

Seth leaned back, grin slow and deliberate. “Mmh. Temper. I like it. Still sulking about yesterday?”

Catty’s ears burned red. “Sulking? Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?”

“You mean the kiss?” Seth tilted his head, voice silk-smooth. “Or the part where I grabbed your ass in front of the whole hallway?”

Her jaw clenched. “BOTH!”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “Mm. And yet… you didn’t slap my face.”

Catty froze, mouth opening and closing.

“You slapped my hand. Big difference.” Seth’s smirk was maddening. “You were flustered, sure. But angry? Not what I saw on your face, baby girl.”

Her claws dug into her tray. “You’re playing games, Pharaoh. What the hell are you getting at?”

“I’m saying,” he leaned forward, voice dropping into a velvet whisper, “that my little sing-song kitty’s been walking around here desperate. You’re restless, scratching your neck, rubbing those pretty thighs under the table, purring without realizing it. You think I don’t notice? Trust me. I notice everything.”

Catty’s cheeks flamed. He wasn’t wrong. Not since that dream on Monday. She’d been fighting urges like mad, choking them down while the rest of the school gave in shamelessly. Every day was becoming an endurance test not to drag Seth somewhere private, strip naked, make him take his cock out and pounce it like a scratching post.

Her breath hitched, but she forced her voice flat. “That kiss wasn’t okay. You crossed a line.”

Seth smiled lazily, tilting closer. “Then tell me to stop. Scratch my face off. Make a scene. Otherwise?”

His breath ghosted her cheek. “We both know you want it again.”

Catty’s tail flicked violently, her ears twitching. She wanted to claw him. She wanted to kiss him. Both.

Seth murmured, calm as ever, “I know places in this school nobody goes. Quiet corners. Locked doors. If you’re ready, just say the word. I’ll make it easy for you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not helping. You’re just as bad as me.”

“I know.” He chuckled softly, warm but taunting. “Difference is—I’m not pretending. I don’t run from it. I lean in. And I’m offering you the same, sweetheart. Not for me. For you.”

He leaned in until there were only inches between their lips, golden eyes glinting with mischief.

“So tell me, Catty Noir. You gonna keep frontin’? Or are we finally getting down to business?”

Her ears twitched again. Her claws dug little crescents into her palms.

She wanted to rip that smug smile off his face.

She wanted to give in.

But before Catty could get another word out, the cafeteria erupted.

A CRASH split the air as a blur of fur and muscle tore across the room. Trays and food flew like shrapnel, and for a second no one even knew what happened—until Frankie bolted into view, stumbling just out of reach of Clawdeen.

The werewolf’s claws slashed the air, missing Frankie’s throat by inches before her momentum carried her forward. She hit a table, snapped it in half, and launched herself again with a feral snarl.

Frankie dropped low, sparks jumping off her body, and Clawdeen sailed right over her head—straight into the lunch ladies’ station. The crash of metal trays and clattering pots filled the room, followed by the sound of Clawdeen’s furious growl.

Frankie barely had time to breathe before the floor itself came alive. Vines erupted, green whips lashing around her ankles, snapping toward her wrists. She screamed, a flash of electricity bursting from her fingertips. The vines shrieked as the current ripped through them, curling and smoking, but more sprouted from the tiles beneath her feet.

“Not this time!” Venus’s voice rang out, full of venom.

Frankie blasted another surge of lightning, breaking free, then sprinted for the exit. Her shoes skidded against the linoleum, leaving behind blackened scorch marks.

Behind her, Clawdeen came tearing out of the wreckage, her eyes glowing, her claws scraping sparks against the cafeteria walls.

“GET BACK HERE, FRANKENSTEIN!” she roared, bounding after her like a predator on the hunt.

Venus’s vines lashed out again, tearing tables apart as they chased Frankie toward the doors.

The cafeteria was chaos now. Students screamed, ducking for cover as food trays, vines, and sparks flew in every direction.

And at the center of it all—Frankie. Running, dodging, fighting to breathe.

She burst through the exit doors, shoving them open with a crackle of lightning, vanishing into the hallway with her pursuers right behind.

The noise died as the doors slammed shut, leaving only the echo of Clawdeen’s growl.

Catty and Pharaoh sat frozen, eyes locked on each other. The earlier tension between them was gone, replaced with something else entirely.

The same thought hit them both, clear as day.

What the actual fuck was that about?

(The Gym – 12:30 PM)

A werewolf slammed into the wall so hard the bricks cracked, his body sticking there like a dart before sliding to the floor with a pathetic groan.

In the center of the gym stood Glida Goldstag—horns sharp, fists bloody, grin manic.

Her kicks and punches weren’t just attacks, they were statements.

Every movement was lightning fast, bones snapping and bodies flying as mansters were tossed aside like ragdolls.

The sound of fists colliding with flesh echoed through the gym, followed by the screams of boys too slow, too weak, too pathetic to keep up with the deer spirit.

Glida wasn’t even panting. Her golden eyes burned with wild hunger.

Ever since Friday, when the sickness had infected the school with lust and madness, Glida had felt it too.

But unlike the other ghouls who drowned themselves in lust, all she wanted—all she craved—was violence.

And not just violence for violence’s sake.

She wanted someone strong. Someone who could take her to the floor, pin her down, and force her to submit.

She had no interest in weaklings, or in the small-dicked losers from Belfry Prep who strutted like they were worth something.

No—Glida craved a real monster. Someone who could pin her to the floor and ravage her until she couldn’t stand.

Someone whose strength could not only match her speed, but crush through it.

A monster who could make her scream, beg, and still come crawling back for more.

But the problem was obvious: the kind of mansters she wanted—the strong ones, the dominant ones—were already claimed by the ghouls or other girls who got there first.

So Glida turned her sights on what was left: the singles, the gooners, the desperate and horny rejects who prowled the halls.

Earlier that day, she had walked into the gym, pointed at the packs of single, desperate mansters gathered there, and shouted her challenge with a savage smile:

“If one of you sorry bastards can beat me into submission, I’ll let you fuck me sideways for a week!”

The response was immediate. None of the boys backed down. They were horny, reckless, and too stupid to realize what they were walking into.

Now, the gym looked like a battlefield. Dozens of mansters groaned on the floor, knocked out cold.

Others—bloody, limping, but too desperate to give up—kept charging her, only to be beaten back harder.

Glida loved it. Her knuckles cracked, her hooves thundered across the gym floor, her laughter echoing like a predator’s roar.

From the sidelines, Isi, Batsy, Quill, and Kjersti huddled together, dodging stray bodies being launched across the room.

“Good lord,” Quill muttered, ducking as a vampire sailed over her head. “She’s a beast.”

“More than usual, chica,” Batsy agreed, eyes wide. “Señorita was nothing like this last week.”

Isi folded her arms, jaw tight. “Ever since that run-in with that vampire, she’s been different. It’s like she doesn’t want sex. She wants war.”

“Or maybe…” Kjersti added, “she wants both.”

The girls flinched as Glida body slammed a gargoyle into the floor so hard the wood splintered.

She turned toward them, blood spattered across her cheek, and grinned like a madwoman.

“YOU BETTER BE KEEPING COUNT, TROLLSØN!” she roared.

Kjersti nearly jumped out of her skin. “I–I am! Don’t worry!”

Before the fight started, Glida had told her troll friend to keep score.

And judging by the bloody battlefield, the number was already in the dozens.

Back in the fray, a cyclops lunged at Glida. She didn’t even break stride. She side-stepped, swept his leg, and dropped him flat on his back.

Then, without hesitation, she stomped directly on his dick.

The boy howled like a dying animal.

The girls on the bench all gasped in unison, horrified.

From the ceiling, where he was still webbed up in vines after trying to intervene, Igor groaned. “Gods above… I told Bloodgood this would happen. But nooo, she never listens…”

And in the middle of the carnage, Glida laughed—a wild, brutal laugh that shook the room.

“COME ON!” she bellowed, horns gleaming under the gym lights. “IS THIS ALL YOU WEAK LITTLE SHITS CAN DO?! SOMEBODY GIVE ME A REAL FIGHT OR NONE OF YOU ARE GETTING FUCKED!”

(A Random Hallway – 1:00 PM)

“FRANKIE!!!”

The stitched-up ghoul bolted down the hallway, her boots slapping against the tile as if she was the final girl in a horror movie.

Except this wasn’t a movie. This wasn’t some random monster in the dark.

This was her friends.

And they were hunting her like she was prey.

Frankie’s lungs burned, her body jolting with sparks of electricity as she pushed herself harder, faster.

The entire day had been nothing but this—a nightmare marathon of running, dodging, barely slipping away before someone’s claws or spells caught her.

At first, it had only been Clawdeen, Cleo, and Draculaura. That was bad enough.

But by fourth period? The pack had grown.

Now Lagoona’s fins slapped against the floor as she bounded after her. Abbey’s icy breath chilled the air behind her. Venus’s vines snapped forward like whips. Spectra hovered above, hurling objects with her mind. Rochelle’s wings thundered. Operetta’s southern drawl echoed like a hunting hound’s bark.

Even Ghoulia, even sweet Ghoulia, was running in stride with the rest.

And worst of all—Toralei. If she was involved, Frankie knew there was zero chance this was innocent.

On the surface Frankie looked exhausted, sweat pouring down her face, her movements clumsy and frantic.

But inside? She was breaking.

These weren’t strangers. These weren’t bullies.

These were the first monsters she’d ever called family. The ones who had taught her how to live, laugh, belong.

Now, chasing her like she was nothing but a prize to be claimed.

Her chest tightened, her voice cracking as she screamed:
“PLEASE! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!!”

Her words bounced off the lockers, raw and desperate.

But the ghouls didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate.

Every corner, every step, brought another near-miss.

Cleo’s enchanted bandages snapped out like snakes, missing Frankie’s ankle by inches. Draculaura’s pink magic bolts sizzled past her head, forcing her to duck. Clawdeen’s claws scraped the lockers as she swiped, sparks flying. Venus’s vines cracked across the hallway, one nearly catching Frankie’s wrist before she fried it with a burst of electricity.

Even Spectra was hurling heavy objects, her telekinesis ripping books and bins from the hallway shelves.

Frankie half expected the ghost to yank her straight off her feet, but maybe she was saving her strength.

Or maybe Frankie’s raw speed was throwing her off.

“FRANKIE, STOP! WE JUST WANNA TALK!” Draculaura’s voice rang out, syrupy sweet, but Frankie wasn’t buying it.

They’d been shouting that all day—“just talk.” But when your friends chased you with claws, whips, and spells? You didn’t stop to find out what “talk” meant.

She wasn’t dumb. She was terrified.

Her legs screamed, but adrenaline carried her around another corner, then another. She spotted a door, shoved it open, and slipped inside—slamming it shut behind her.

The girls’ locker room.

Frankie’s chest heaved as she stumbled forward in the dark.

She slapped the light switch off and pressed herself against the wall, willing her stitches not to rattle, willing her breathing to quiet.

She knew Clawdeen’s hearing wasn’t as sharp in the daytime, but she wasn’t risking a single sound. Not one.

The hallway outside thundered with footsteps, voices, claws scratching the floor tiles. The pack was close—so close Frankie could feel the vibrations of their pursuit even through the locker room walls.

Then silence.

Frankie stayed frozen, every muscle taut, her body trembling with the electricity of fear. Seconds dragged into minutes. Sweat dripped down her forehead.

Finally, when the silence stretched long enough, she let out a shaky breath and whispered to herself, so low it was barely audible:

“…thank Ra.”

She crept toward the entrance, every step heavy with dread. 'Just get to Igor,' she told herself. 'Or literally anyone sane. That’s the plan.'

Her hand was inches from the door handle when she felt it.

A tug.

Frankie froze, looking down.

Her left foot wasn’t moving.

She gave a yank. Nothing. Another yank. Still stuck.

And that’s when she realized.

It wasn’t just stuck. It was being held.

The “puddle” beneath her boot rippled, fingers rising out of the water and wrapping around her ankle.

Frankie’s stomach plummeted. “Oh… oh no.”

The puddle swelled upward, twisting, morphing, until a woman’s shape emerged from the water itself. The darkness of the room blurred her features, but when she spoke, the accent was unmistakable.

“Hiya, mate.”

Frankie let out a scream that could’ve shattered glass.
She’d completely forgotten—Lagoona wasn’t just a sea creature. She was a bloody water nymph.

“NOT FAIR!” Frankie yelped, zapping the water around her foot until the hands hissed into steam.

She stumbled free, bolting toward the door—

Only for it to swing open. And there stood Cleo and Draculaura.

“Hey, Frankie,” Cleo purred.

Frankie skidded like a cartoon character, then darted toward another exit.

Toralei leaned on the doorframe, smirking, with Clawdeen cracking her knuckles beside her.

“‘Sup, Sparky~.”

Frankie spun on her heel, bolted for another side door—

“Bonjour, Frankie,” Rochelle said sweetly as she blocked the way.

“Howdy, sugah,” Operetta added, tipping her hat.

Frankie’s shriek echoed down the gym as she darted to yet another door.

This time Venus was already there, vines twitching, with Gigi floating beside her.

“Hi Frankie.”

“No place to run, ghoul.”

Frankie whirled, heart hammering. She backed up, only to feel her ass press into something girthy.

…something big.

She turned her head.

And found herself face-to-face with Abbey’s stone-cold stare.

“Hello, Frankie.”

Another scream. Louder. Frankie slipped away, dodging Abbey’s grab by inches—only to slam right into the far wall.

And from the tiles themselves, like a jump scare ripped from a bad horror flick, Spectra’s head popped out.

“Boo! …I mean, hey Frankie!”

Frankie screamed so loud she nearly fried herself with static.

Now she was surrounded, pressed flat against the wall as the circle of ghouls closed in. Their faces weren’t cruel, not really—concern mingled with frustration, even anger.

But to Frankie, it was a horror show.

Her thoughts raced like static in her skull. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. My friends are monsters. My family’s gone. They’re gonna—

“Stay back!” she shrieked, sparks flying off her fingers.

Draculaura lifted her hands, palms out, like she was talking to a wild animal.

“Whoa, Frankie—relax! We’re not gonna hurt you!”

“NOT GONNA HURT ME?!” Frankie shrieked, sparks crackling around her hands. “You’ve been chasing me ALL DAY like it’s a bloody horror movie!”

“Because we’re WORRIED about you!” Cleo snapped back, her tone clipped but oddly pouty. “You’ve been acting strange ALL WEEK.”

Frankie’s jaw dropped, her voice cracking with fury. “I’VE been acting strange?! No—NO! YOU’RE the ones acting strange!”

The ghouls froze.

Venus frowned, her vines twitching. “What do you mean?”

Frankie’s breath came heavy, her eyes wet with tears. “Ever since the gas attack—you’ve all been completely out of control!”

She jabbed a finger around the circle, her voice rising with each accusation.

“Draculaura’s been a walking tease! Cleo—ugh, you’re more of a brat than EVER! Clawdeen just growls and snarls like she’s two seconds away from tearing someone’s throat out! Ghoulia’s locked away in her lab doing god knows WHAT with Slo-Mo! Abbey’s always sneaking off with Heath—and don’t even get me STARTED on the rest of you!”

“Frankie, just—calm down,” Gigi tried softly, her tone almost pleading.

But Frankie was beyond reason. Her face crumpled as her voice broke. “No! I won’t calm down! It’s like I don’t even RECOGNIZE you anymore! Just a week ago—we were all crying in each other’s arms after the school got GASSED—and now you’re all acting like strangers! Like… like monsters!”

“Frankie—” Clawdeen tried, but Frankie cut her off with a scream so raw it rattled the walls.

“AND NOW YOU’RE HUNTING ME LIKE I’M SOME KIND OF ANIMAL! Do you have ANY idea how that makes me feel?! Do you know how much that HURTS ME?!”

Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her face. She looked cornered, feral.

That’s when Operetta stepped forward, her greyish purple eyes glowing faintly.

“Frankie. Calm. Down.”

Her voice reverberated, low and honey-smooth, thrumming in Frankie’s ears like the strum of a guitar.

Instantly, Frankie faltered. Her thoughts went fuzzy, her rage dulled. Her shoulders sagged, her breaths grew slow, her hands dropped uselessly at her sides.

Her eyes went glassy.

Clawdeen moved in closer, her tone now soft, almost maternal.

“Ghoulfriend, listen. I know we’ve been… different lately. Getting up to some unusual things. But I promise you—there’s nothing wrong with us. Not at all.”

She reached out, brushing Frankie’s arm gently.

“If anything, we feel better now than we did before. No more nightmares. No more cold sweats. We’re stronger. Happier.”

“Yeah,” Draculaura chimed in, her voice light and sweet, but her fangs glinted when she smiled. “None of us are trying to hurt you, Frankie. You’re our friend. We’d never even dream of it.”

Frankie’s head lolled slightly, her voice slurred from Operetta’s hypnotic pull.

“Then… then why’ve you been chasing me all day? Like I’m—like I’m some character in a horror movie?”

“Because we’re worried about you!” Cleo burst out, exasperated. “You’ve been the one acting weird, not us!”

Frankie blinked at them, her face pale, trembling. “And what exactly… have I been doing?”

Lagoona stepped forward, her voice unusually steady.

“Mate, be honest with us. Are Jackson and Holt… doing something to ya?”

Frankie’s eyes flew wide. “WHAT?! NO!”

Draculaura’s pink eyes narrowed, her voice soft but cutting.

“Then why have you been acting like this? This whole week, you’ve been asking… weird questions. About sensitive stuff. You clam up every time we talk about our boyfriends. You dodge questions like they’re bullets. And when things get really risqué? You just freeze.”

Toralei flicked her tail, smirking but with suspicion in her tone.

“Not to mention you never join in at parties. No drinking, no fun, no nothing. Don’t think I didn’t hear about the beach hangout and the Halloween party.”

Abbey’s voice cut through like ice.

“We started to think… Jekyll and Hyde were hurting you.”

“Especially after you zapped Holt in the hallway,” Cleo added, folding her arms.

Frankie’s stomach dropped.

All week, the words, the innuendos, the strange whispers had been twisting her brain into knots. Every new term was like a slap in the face, a reminder of everything she didn’t know.

And with it came the fear—fear that if they ever found out, her so-called best friends would see her as a fraud.

She—the hottest, most popular ghoul in school…

…was clueless.

Frankie dropped her gaze. “They’re not hurting me. I promise.”

Cleo leaned in, voice sharp.

“You don’t have to lie for them, Frank—”

“I’M NOT LYING!” Frankie snapped. The sudden fire in her voice actually made Cleo flinch, her face twisting into a startled, “God damn.”

Operetta’s drawl came softer, steady, like a lifeline.

“Then what is it, darlin’? What’s got the great Frankie Stein lookin’ so spooked?”

Frankie turned her face away, cheeks burning. “It’s nothing. I swear.”

Abbey’s eyes hardened. “That look does not say ‘nothing,’ Frankie.”

“I’m fine, Abbey! Nothing to worry about!” Frankie insisted, her voice trembling as she tried to walk past them—only for Venus to plant a firm hand on her chest.

“Cut the crap.” Venus’s voice was sharp, final. “Tell us the truth.”

Frankie slapped her hand away, shaking. “Like. I. Said. It’s. NOTHING!”

Clawdeen growled, her patience fraying. “Frankie, just TELL US what’s goin’ o—”

“There is NOTHING going on!” Frankie shouted, spinning around to face them all, her eyes wild. “Can’t you all just DROP IT?!”

“No,” Cleo hissed. “We’re not leaving until you talk.”

“There’s NOTHING TO TALK ABOUT!” Frankie’s voice cracked, tears spilling now.

Spectra, unusually serious, crossed her arms. Her tone was cold, threatening.

“Frankie, you know I could read your mind right now and drag your secret out into the open. So either you spill it—”

Her ghostly eyes flared. “—or I will.”

Frankie’s whole body jolted.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!”

The room erupted. Voices clashed over one another, sharp and desperate.

“Frankie, just tell us!”
“We’re your friends!”
“Stop lying!”
“Why won’t you trust us?!”

Some begged. Some shouted. Some glared.

The noise was relentless, battering her like a storm.

Frankie backed into a corner, clutching her head, her breath ragged.

'Stop shouting. Please stop shouting. Just stop shouting!'

Her vision blurred. The voices slammed into her skull, louder, harsher, like claws raking down her spine. She couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe.

“FRANKIE, JUST TELL US!”

And then—she snapped.

“I’M A VIRGIN, OKAY?!”

The word ripped out of her throat like lightning, echoing through the room.

Silence.

Instant, deafening silence.

The shouting stopped. The storm died.
It was like someone had cut the power in the room.

Every ghoul froze. Eyes wide. Mouths shut.

The decibels plummeted from a hundred to zero in a heartbeat.

No one moved. No one breathed.

“Wha—”

“I’m a virgin.”

The words cracked out of Frankie’s throat, trembling as tears welled up in her stitched eyes. Her voice shook, and when she spoke again, it came out louder, more desperate, more broken.

“I know NOTHING about sex! Nothing! My parents never told me, they never signed me up for any kind of sex ed, they just— they just skipped over it like it didn’t exist! I genuinely… I genuinely know nothing!”

Her tears hit the tile like rain. Her arms shook as she hugged herself, voice breaking as the dam finally split wide open.

“The whole reason I’ve been acting weird this week is because this—this has been my FIRST TIME EVER hearing about any of this stuff! All those terms you throw around. All the ‘jokes’ you make when you sneak off with your partners. The looks on your faces when you come back sweaty and smiling like you just ran a marathon—” her voice hitched, her breath coming out in shudders, “—I’ve never even seen that before in my life!”

The ghouls collectively gasped, but Frankie was already unraveling.

“When you’re all twerking and grinding and dirty dancing at parties, I just freeze because I DON’T KNOW HOW! When you talk about drinking and smoking, I don’t even know what half of that is! When you mention drugs and all these… these ‘dates’ where crazy things happen, I can’t even follow what you’re saying!”

Her voice cracked into a sob.

“I’m a virgin. I’ve never had sex. I’ve never done drugs. I’ve never twerked, grinded, or dirty danced in my entire LIFE! I’m basically the innocent, clueless girl in a school full of… monsters who already know how the world works, and I—”

She broke off, shaking her head, face buried in her hands.

“I didn’t tell you because I was scared. I thought if you knew the truth, you’d stop hanging out with me. That you’d laugh behind my back, call me a prude, call me a baby, tell the whole school I’m pathetic because I’ve still got my V-card and I don’t even know what half of you are talking about!”

Her voice cracked into a wail, words tumbling over sobs.

“I didn’t want you to leave me… I didn’t want you to stop being my friends just because I don’t know anything about sex!”

And with that, Frankie’s knees buckled.

She collapsed to the floor, her body shaking as she cried. Not soft tears, not polite ones, but the ugly, raw kind.

The kind where her whole chest hitched, where every sob ripped straight out of her lungs like she’d been holding it in for years.

All the confusion, the fear, the loneliness—everything she’d bottled up all week—was pouring out now, a flood she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to.

Frankie Stein, the ghoul who always kept her chin up, was broken.

For a long moment, no one moved. The ghouls were frozen, the weight of her confession pressing down like a stone wall.

Then Cleo stepped forward. She knelt first, her usual regal posture softened into something achingly gentle.

She didn’t say anything—words felt too small—but she wrapped her arms around Frankie’s shoulders and pulled her close.

“Shhh…” Cleo whispered softly, stroking her hair. “It’s okay, Frankie. It’s okay…”

Draculaura followed almost instantly, falling to her knees on Frankie’s other side and looping her tiny arms around her waist. “Oh, ghoulfriend… we’d never stop being your friends. Never.”

Clawdeen didn’t hesitate either—she crouched down in front of Frankie, hugging her legs and resting her head on her knee. “You don’t ever have to hide from us, sis. We got you.”

Lagoona’s voice trembled when she spoke, sliding in behind Cleo to pull both of them into the embrace. “Mate, I’m so sorry. We didn’t realize… we thought we were helping, but we just scared ya worse.”

Ghoulia wiped her glasses quickly, her own throat tight, before leaning in and wrapping her long arms around the group, making sure to cover Frankie’s back. She let out a soft, comforting coo, her usual zombie-speak sounding like a lullaby.

And finally Abbey, the strongest of them all, crouched down and pulled the entire group closer, her cool hands rubbing Frankie’s arms like she was soothing a child.

“Do not cry alone, Frankie,” Abbey said firmly, her voice steady but full of care. “We are family. You are not broken. You are loved.”

Frankie sobbed harder at that, but instead of fear or shame, it was relief. She buried her face into Cleo’s shoulder, clutching Draculaura’s hand so tightly the vampire winced but didn’t dare pull away.

Every inch of her was trembling, but for the first time in days, she didn’t feel alone.

One by one, the others joined in.

Operetta slid down with her guitar still slung on her back, looping an arm around Clawdeen.

Rochelle’s stony arms were surprisingly soft as she pulled Lagoona in tighter.

Spectra phased straight through Ghoulia just to hug Frankie from the other side.

Gigi floated down, looping an arm around Cleo as she joined the pile.

Even Venus, prickly and brash, pressed her forehead to Frankie’s and whispered, “You don’t have to know everything. You just have to know we’re here.”

The circle grew tighter, warmer.

And then—Toralei.

For a second, she stood awkwardly on the edge of the group, arms crossed like usual, tail twitching nervously.

But then she glanced at Draculaura, at Clawdeen, at Frankie’s shaking shoulders—and sighed.

“Ugh, fine.” She muttered, before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around the pile. “Don’t make me say it, but… you’re my friend too, Frankie.”

Frankie let out a shaky, hiccuping laugh through her tears, muffled into Cleo’s shoulder.

The hug grew and grew, until it wasn’t just a hug—it was a cocoon. A wall of warmth, love, and comfort, every ghoul pressing in, holding Frankie together as her walls crumbled.

Nobody judged her. Nobody mocked her. Nobody demanded more.

They just held her.

After a minute, some of the ghouls began to ease out of the hug, faces still damp but now mixed with confusion, curiosity… and disbelief.

Rochelle cleared her throat delicately. “So, uh… just so we’re all on the same page here… you genuinely know nothing about sex?”

Frankie sniffled, wiping her nose with her sleeve, and nodded earnestly.

“Do you even know what a penis is?”

Frankie blinked. “No?”

The silence hit harder than a slap.

“…Vagina?” Rochelle pressed.

Frankie tilted her head. “A little?”

Toralei actually looked concerned. “Girl, do you even know what it means when a dude sends you an eggplant emoji with a peach emoji?”

Frankie tapped her chin in deep thought. “Uh… a fruit salad?”

Every ghoul’s jaw collectively dropped.

“No. Fucking. Way,” Gigi muttered, wide-eyed.

That cracked open the floodgates.

“Has Holt or Jackson ever sent you a dick pic?” Venus asked.

Frankie frowned. “What’s a dick pic? Like… a drawing?”

Operetta nearly face-planted into her guitar.

“Have you ever even tried making out?” Lagoona cut in.

“Only once.”

“ONLY ONCE?!” Cleo practically shrieked. She looked like she’d just witnessed a royal scandal.

“Do you know any positions?”

Frankie perked up. “Like in gym class?”

“NO!” Cleo clutched her forehead. “I mean things like 69, spooning, doggy style, missionary—”

Frankie’s eyes widened. “Wait. Doggy style?”

Clawdeen groaned and covered her face. “Oh noooo…”

Draculaura placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Frankie… do you even know what anal or oral is?”

Frankie blinked once. Twice. Then brightened. “Oh! Yeah, sure—Is that a food?”

The room went dead quiet.

Every ghoul stared at her with the exact same expression:

‘No way. No fucking way. She can’t be THIS clueless.’

Cleo slowly turned her head toward Spectra, her voice as calm as a surgeon. “…Spectra. Please. Read her mind. Confirm for us she really doesn’t know a single damn thing about this.”

Spectra pinched her temples, closed her eyes, and reached out with her powers. The silence stretched.

And then—

“…She thought a blowjob was when you literally blow air on a boy’s face to cool him down.”

The room exploded.

“OH MY CHRIS KRINGLE!” Operetta yelped, nearly falling over.

“I knew it!” Toralei gasped. “She doesn’t even know what a blowjob is!”

“I bet she doesn’t even know what cunnilingus is!” Venus added, horrified.

“This is bad! This is so bad!” Cleo cried, pacing in circles.

“You can say that again!” Draculaura squeaked, fanning herself like she was about to faint.

Meanwhile, Frankie just sat there on the floor, clutching her knees, looking between all of them with a red face. “Wait… cunnilingus? Is that, like… a spell? Or a pasta?”

The ghouls screamed.

Draculaura was dry heaving like she’d just been told she’d never see Clawd again.

"This is bad," Draculaura muttered, clutching her chest. "Really, really bad!"

"Like, holy-hell-how-is-this-ghoul-graduating-from-monster-high bad!" Operetta added, eyes wide.

“I know Viktor and Viveka wanted Frankie to live like a normal teenager,” Cleo said, gripping her temples like the Nile itself was splitting in her skull. “But this? This is beyond sheltered!”

“Agreed!” Venus groaned, throwing her hands up. “What the hell were they thinking, keeping Frankie so innocent she doesn’t even know what making out is? Or a blowjob?!”

“Of course it’s bad!” Toralei snapped, her voice cutting through the noise. “Do you have ANY idea what this means for her?!”

Frankie flinched, tears still fresh in her eyes. “W-What does it mean?”

Clawdeen growled low. “Toralei. Don’t.”

"No. She needs to hear this." Toralei’s tone was sharp as claws. Her tail lashed behind her. "If Frankie’s this clueless, she’s not gonna last a week. She’s gonna be dumped—chewed up and spit out—like she doesn’t matter.”

Frankie’s heart dropped into her stomach.

“What?!”

Toralei didn’t flinch. "Look, there’s nothing wrong with being innocent, or saving yourself, or whatever."

She continued, not breaking for a moment. "But right now? In this school? Nope! he second the guys here realize you don’t know what to do in bed, you’re done. They’ll cheat. They’ll move on. They’ll find someone else. And you’ll be left wondering what you did wrong.”

She continued. "I mean maybe there's some dudes who like corrupting the innocent types, but most?”

She laughed bitterly. "Most will cheat the second they realize you can’t give them what they want. And right now, every single monster in this school is starving for it. You think Holt or Jackson are immune? Hell, I’m shocked they haven’t slipped already!”

Frankie's eyes widened. "WHAT?!"

"Toralei, sto-" Cleo tried, but Toralei cut her off.

“No! She deserves the truth!” Toralei snapped. “Nearly every single boy in this school is DESPERATE right now. They’ll beg, they’ll lie, they’ll cheat—whatever it takes to get laid."

She continued. "Even the loyal ones, the respectful ones, the ones who SAY they’ll wait? They’ll crack. ESPECIALLY if there's a ghoul who'll gladly fuck them if their partner won't!"

"Toralei! Shut u-" Cleo tried, only to get cut off again.

"NO!" She barked, pissed. "Jackson may be patient and willing to wait, but Holt's part fire elemental. And those guys aren’t patient, Frankie. They burn fast, they burn hot, and they don’t wait around while you figure out where the parts go.”

She turned sharply to Abbey. “Abbey, Heath’s your boyfriend. Don’t tell me he’s patient.”

Abbey froze. Her jaw clenched, then… she nodded once.

Toralei spun back to Frankie like she’d won her case. “See?! Heath can’t even wait in line for lunch without whining. And Holt’s his cousin. If Heath's that impatient, what makes you think Holt isn't the same?! He might just find another girl to fuck just because you don't know how to do it yet!"

The words hit Frankie like a truck. Her chest seized, her throat closed, her mind screaming.

Holt? Jackson? Cheating on her? Leaving her because she didn’t know how?

“Toralei, mate. That’s enoug—”

“NO, it’s not!” she snapped, her voice cracking through the room like a whip. “No boy in this school—NONE of them—has the patience or the self-control to date a girl who knows nothing while every other ghoul in these halls is putting out.”

Frankie’s eyes brimmed, her voice trembling. “Tori…”

Gigi stood up. “I wish—”

Toralei’s glare cut like a knife. “Gigi, I can move faster than you can open your mouth, so don’t even try it.”

She turned back to the circle, her voice shaking with raw conviction. “I know you all don’t wanna drop the hammer on her. You’d rather coddle her, keep her wrapped up in bubble wrap, pretend this place is still Monster High and not the hellhole it’s turned into. But I’m not about to sit here and let Frankie walk blind into heartbreak just because you’re all too chickenshit to say it.”

“Toralei, this is NOT the time to—” Cleo started.

“I DON’T CARE IF IT’S NOT THE TIME!” Toralei bellowed, every word echoing off the tiles. “She needs to hear the hard truth, NOW.”

She jabbed a clawed finger at Frankie, her eyes burning.

Her voice dropped, low and merciless.

“Either Frankie learns how to give these boys what they want, or she’s going to end up dumped. Alone. Watching from the sidelines while everyone else gets theirs.”

Her words landed like a guillotine, sharp and final.

“And don’t think it’s years away, Stein,” she hissed. “If it doesn’t happen today, then it WILL at the Monster Mash. A free-for-all with hundreds of monsters, drunk out of their minds, some desperate to hook up. If you won’t give Holt and Jackson what they want, there will be a line of ghouls who WILL. Right there. That night. And they won’t even have to look for them.”

Frankie’s world shattered.

The tears came flooding back all at once, harder and heavier than before, her sobs shaking her whole body as Toralei’s words tore through her chest.

If it had been bad before, it was unbearable now.

Clawdeen glared at Toralei, her claws flexing. “That was WAY too far, Tor.”

Toralei didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “Oh, cut the act. You know DAMN well she needed to hear that. The only reason you’re pissed is because you and your siblings already know how to keep your partners satisfied~”

The werewolf’s ears twitched red with heat, and though she growled, she didn’t deny it.

“She’s not a slut, Toralei!” Gigi snapped, fists curling.

Toralei rolled her eyes, scoffing. “I’m not saying she has to be one like the rest of us. But if she doesn’t crawl out of this little bubble fast, then she’s gonna lose them.”

“BUT I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!!!” Frankie wailed, her voice breaking in half as she crumbled. “I don’t want them to leave me, I don’t want them to cheat on me, I don’t wanna watch them… with other ghouls… but I don’t even KNOW HOW TO DO IT!!”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

Silence.

Every ghoul froze, staring at Frankie like she’d just confessed murder.

Frankie blinked, realizing what had slipped from her lips. Her hands shot up, clamping over her mouth.

“…Did you just…” Venus whispered, wide-eyed. “Frankie, are you saying you want to?”

Frankie nodded, tears still running down her face. “A little…”

Her voice trembled, broken yet honest. “This whole week I’ve been terrified—terrified of even THINKING about that kind of stuff, because I didn’t understand it. I didn’t even know what was happening around me. But now… after what Toralei just said, after seeing how much you all…” sniff “…enjoy it… I want to try it too!”

The silence stretched again. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

Then Clawdeen stepped forward, crouching in front of her. She rested a warm, firm hand on Frankie’s shoulder.

“Then we’ll help you.”

Frankie’s eyes widened. “R-Really?”

“Of course,” Cleo said softly, kneeling on Frankie’s other side. Her voice was calm, soothing… but her eyes glimmered faintly pink. “You’re our best friend, Frankie. We’re not about to go on, fucking our partners every day, while you’re stuck in a sexless relationship with no clue what to do. Not happening.”

“Exactly!” Operetta agreed, snapping her fingers like this was already settled.

“We’ll teach ya everything, mate,” Lagoona added, her grin almost too wide. “You’re not going through this alone.”

“We won’t let our friend be cheated and dumped like snowman in summer,” Abbey said, her voice hard and final.

Frankie trembled, overwhelmed. Tears and snot clung to her face, her whole body shaking. For just a flicker of a second, her eyes glowed faintly pink.

Her lips parted, a broken, corrupted whisper slipping free.

“T-Thank you…”

Cleo’s hand lingered on her shoulder. Her own eyes glowed pink for a heartbeat, a smile curling on her lips.

“You’re welcome, ghoul.”

The ghouls gathered around her, helping Frankie to her feet, walking her toward the door like an escort. Frankie leaned on them, broken but held, desperate but tethered.

But as the group filtered out, Toralei strutted calmly in the back—until a hand shot out and yanked her tail, hard.

“OW—what the—”

Her protest was smothered as Clawdeen slammed a hand over her mouth, dragging her back into the room. The wolf’s eyes gleamed, sharp and hungry, her grin wide and feral.

“Not so fast, kitty.”

Toralei’s eyes went wide. She squirmed against the iron grip, muffled noises spilling out.

Clawdeen leaned in close, her hot breath brushing the werecat’s ear. Her voice dropped low, dangerous and dirty.

“You’re right. She did need to hear that. But you don’t get to walk away after running your mouth like that. Not without paying a price.”

Her claws trailed teasingly along Toralei’s side as she whispered, husky and wicked:

“So now, I’m gonna punish you. And we’re in the perfect place for it.”

Toralei paled, her eyes darting to the tiled walls. To the rows of showers. To the pipes gleaming overhead.

A place filled with water.

The very thing werecats hated most.

“Come on, kitty,” Clawdeen hissed with a predatory grin, shoving her toward the stalls. “Let’s see how you purr when I get you soaked.”

Toralei’s muffled scream echoed in the empty locker room.

(The Shower Stall - 1:55 PM)

Clawdeen shoved her into the first stall. The wolf’s grip was iron, her claws pressing just enough into Toralei’s skin to sting.

“Stop squirming,” Clawdeen growled, tearing her hand away from Toralei’s mouth only to grab her wrist and slam it against the wall. “You ran that little mouth of yours, now you get what’s coming.”

Toralei hissed, fur bristling, tail thrashing. “You can’t just—”

SHHHHHK!

The shower knobs twisted, and a blast of ice-cold water sprayed down on her, drenching her orange-striped hair flat against her face.

She shrieked instantly, body jerking. “AHHH—fuck! It’s freezing!”

Clawdeen only laughed, sharp and cruel. “What’s the matter, kitty? Afraid of a little bath?”

Toralei bared her fangs, trying to dart out of the stall, but Clawdeen’s hand shot out, snatching her tail mid-sprint.

The yank was vicious, dragging her back in with a thud.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Clawdeen snarled, one arm wrapping around Toralei’s neck, dragging her into a headlock.

With the other hand, she palmed one of Toralei’s drenched breasts through her top, kneading until the fabric was see-through and nipples poked out hard from the cold.

“G-get your filthy paws off me!” Toralei gasped, twisting under her grip, water cascading down her body in rivulets.

“Oh no, kitten,” Clawdeen husked, licking the shell of her ear.

“You don’t get to sass your pack and walk away like nothing happened. You like mouthing off? Then I’m gonna give you something better to scream about.”

She shoved Toralei forward, face-first into the cold tile wall, claws ripping down the straps of her soaked clothes until they snapped.

The fabric slid off heavy with water, leaving her bare chest pressed against the freezing tile.

Toralei moaned despite herself, shivering violently. “Y-you bitch…”

Clawdeen smirked, sliding down behind her, hot breath hitting the catgirl’s spine.

She pried Toralei’s legs apart, her claws dragging down to the curve of her ass. “Mmm, look at this… filthy little tail-raiser. Guess I better wash you clean.”

She snatched a bar of soap from the rack, lathered it until it was slippery and sudsy, then shoved it hard between Toralei’s ass cheeks.

The catgirl gasped, claws scraping the wall, tail thrashing helplessly.

“AHH—Clawdeen, that’s cold!”

Clawdeen cackled, grinding the soap along her crack, circling her puckered star until bubbles foamed. “What’s the matter, kitty? Not used to having your dirty little asshole scrubbed squeaky clean?”

Toralei groaned, cheeks burning crimson even as she writhed. “S-shut up!”

Clawdeen only pressed her tighter against the wall, shoving the soap deeper between her ass cheeks. “Say it, Tor. Tell me you’re my dirty little kitten.”

Toralei’s claws curled, chest heaving. She tried to bolt forward again, but Clawdeen’s arm snaked back around her throat, pinning her in a chokehold while her free hand twisted and pulled at Toralei’s nipples.

“Ahhh—fuck—stop—”

“You don’t sound like you want me to stop.” Clawdeen growled low, grinding her hips against the werecat’s ass, her fangs scraping the back of her neck.

“You sound like a bad kitty getting exactly what she needs.”

Toralei’s voice cracked, breaking between curses and moans as Clawdeen’s hands roamed everywhere—palming her breasts, spanking her soap-slick ass, teasing her pussy lips with claws sharp enough to threaten a scratch but careful enough never to cut.

Every time she tried to escape, Clawdeen dragged her back under the ice-cold spray, whispering filth into her ear.

“You smell like heat, kitten. Like you need this. Tail twitchin’, pussy dripping, trying so hard to act tough while you beg with your body. Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I-I’m not—” Toralei gasped, but her words died in her throat as Clawdeen bent her over, tail in one hand, two soaked fingers plunging into her pussy from behind.

Her moan echoed off the tiles, sharp and humiliating.

Clawdeen bit her shoulder, hard enough to sting, voice husky. “That’s what I thought.”

Toralei’s claws scraped uselessly at the wall, knees trembling. “F-fuck you…”

Clawdeen spanked her ass, soap and water splattering across the floor. “Oh, kitty… that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

The stall filled with steam, cold water pouring, Toralei’s muffled screams mixing with Clawdeen’s feral laughter.

And the punishment had only just begun.

(The Gym - 2:00 PM)

The gym looked like a warzone.

Bodies—groaning, twitching, and flat-out unconscious—were sprawled across the hardwood floor.

Some boys were tangled in jump ropes, others were half-buried in a collapsed pile of mats, and one unlucky gargoyle was still stuck halfway through the bleachers, wings flapping uselessly.

And in the very center of the carnage, Glida Goldstag lay spread out on her back, panting, sweaty, and grinning ear to ear like she’d just run a marathon on pure adrenaline.

Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, her antlers glistening under the fluorescent lights.

She let out a loud, guttural laugh, stretching her arms like she was sunbathing in the wreckage. “NOW THAT… was a good warm-up.”

On the sidelines, Isi, Quill, Batsy, and Kjersti stared in horrified awe.

“…She’s insane,” Quill muttered, clutching her notebook like it might shield her from whatever monster had just been unleashed.

“Insane?” Isi echoed, wide-eyed. “No dear, that’s not insane. That’s feral.”

Batsy whistled low, shaking her head. “Madre mía… she just mopped the floor with half the mansters in this school, chica. And she looks like she enjoyed every second.”

As Glida rolled onto her stomach and propped her chin in her hands, smiling wickedly at the pile of groaning bodies, Kjersti rubbed her temples.

“…Okay. Okay, hear me out,” the troll said. “I’m thinking of making scoreboards.”

The other three turned to her, confused.

Kjersti continued, pointing around the gym. “Not just for this! But, like… all the chaos going on lately. You know? Who’s screwing who, who’s winning fights, who’s crying in the bathrooms, that kind of thing. A scoreboard for all the madness.”

Quill blinked. “A… chaos scoreboard?”

“Yes!” Kjersti said, nodding seriously. “Like, right now, Glida’s got—what? Thirty? Thirty-two knockouts? That’s record-breaking!”

Batsy laughed, a sharp bark of amusement. “Ay dios, that’s actually kinda genius. We could put it next to the announcements board.”

“Exactly!” Kjersti said, already scribbling ideas in her sketchpad. “Glida: 32 knockouts. Frankie: 7 successful escapes. Heath: burned down 2 classrooms by accident. We track everything!”

Isi frowned. “…You’re talking about turning the whole school into a spectator sport.”

“Yes,” Kjersti said flatly.

Batsy elbowed her with a grin. “And I love it, chica.”

On the gym floor, Glida finally sat up, brushing her sweaty hair back with a smirk. “Oi, Trollsønn! You better be writing down forty-two, not thirty-two!”

Kjersti nearly dropped her pen. “…Wait, WHAT?!”

(Crypt Current – 9:00 PM)

Frankie felt… off.

After the chaos of the day, she found herself back at the Crypt Current—the very same neon-lit, bass-throbbing mess of a nightclub she had sprinted away from the night before.

Last time, the sights, the sounds, the wildness of it all had been too much.

But this time, it was different. She still felt nervous—her hands clutched her own arms tightly as she leaned in the corner—but there was less panic in her chest. More… curiosity.

Her friends had dragged her back with a mission: to help her adjust. To get her comfortable with this kind of environment. To prepare her for things she still didn’t understand. To give her a chance to learn.

Of course, they didn’t let her wear anything tame this time.

They hadn’t just dragged her to the club. They’d dressed her up.

Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, her outfit little more than a black corset hugging her torso, paired with a collar snug around her throat, arm-length gloves, thigh-high stockings, and a set of heels that made her legs look endless.

The corset didn’t come with a skirt—meaning her round, plump ass was almost fully on display.

Cleo had purred about how it would “unleash her kinky side,” Clawdeen had laughed and smacked her ass, saying “Holt’s eyes would fall out if he saw you like this.”

it was supposed to make her feel sexy. Instead, all Frankie had done was blush furiously and clutch at herself as if she could hide what was already exposed.

Her parents could never know. If they saw this… she’d short-circuit from shame on the spot.

Still—she trusted them. Maybe.

“Hey.”

Frankie turned. Draculaura approached with two drinks in her hand, dressed in something even more revealing.

Her outfit was as bold as Frankie’s but somehow more confident—black corset snug around her tiny waist, thigh-highs hugging her pale legs, a miniskirt with slits flashing her thighs, and a long Victorian cape with a high collar framing her face.

She looked like a sultry, vampiric queen, or a sexy cosplay of her dad. (Not that Frankie was going to say that out loud.)

Frankie eyed the glasses. “…Is that alcohol?”

Draculaura nodded with a playful smirk.

Frankie’s stomach twisted. “I—I don’t know if I should…”

“Relax, Frankie.” Draculaura’s tone softened, low and reassuring. “I was nervous too the first time. But trust me… it loosens you up. Helps you stop overthinking. Just try it.”

Frankie stared at the glass. Her hands trembled as she lifted it, sniffing the contents. The smell alone made her eyes water—sharp, chemical, burning her nose.

Still… she lifted it.

Draculaura clinked her own glass against Frankie’s. “Cheers.”

They both downed it.

The liquid hit Frankie’s throat like fire. She coughed, gagged, tears pricking her eyes as it slid down, burning all the way into her chest.

“Gah—what the hell is that?!” she wheezed.

Draculaura laughed. “That’s the taste of fun, ghoulfriend.”

At first, Frankie thought it was awful. But then…

Something shifted.

Her skin tingled. Her stitches buzzed faintly, like someone had plugged her into an outlet. Heat rushed to her face, her chest, down to her stomach.

The world seemed… softer somehow.

The pounding bass wasn’t so harsh anymore—it was funny. She giggled without meaning to, her hand flying to her mouth.

“Oh my Ra…” she whispered. “Everything feels… fuzzy. Warm and fuzzy.”

Draculaura grinned, taking her hand. “Exactly. That’s the first-timer’s rush.”

Frankie swayed slightly, her legs wobbling as if the floor wasn’t stable. “I feel like I’m floating… but also like, melting. Is this supposed to happen?”

She giggled again, a little louder this time, like even her own words were hilarious.

Draculaura tugged her gently toward the dance floor. “Yup. And it only gets better once you move. Come on!”

Frankie hesitated for a second, then stumbled after her, giggling again as the room spun just a little.

“Woooow,” she murmured, staring up at the flashing lights like she’d never seen colors before. “It’s like the whole place is breathing with me.”

Draculaura squeezed her hand, pulling her into the rhythm of the crowd. “Welcome to your first buzz, Frankie.”

On the dance floor, chaos reigned.

Cleo and Clawdeen were already front-and-center, twerking with their tongues out like they owned the place, the crowd hyping them up every time they bent low and popped back up.

Ghoulia and Lagoona were pressed together, dirty dancing so smoothly it looked choreographed, their hips moving in sync with the bass.

Abbey, meanwhile, had completely abandoned shame and was laughing as she shoved ogre boys twice her size into the mosh pit, splashing melted ice all over the floor whenever she stomped her boot.

The whole Crypt Current was alive—sweat, neon, laughter, bodies grinding to the music.

And into that madness, Draculaura pulled Frankie.

Frankie stumbled onto the floor, still clutching her corset nervously as her heels clicked awkwardly against the sticky tiles.

Draculaura didn’t waste a second—she immediately started swaying, spinning, snapping her hips to the beat with practiced confidence.

Frankie, meanwhile, froze. Her eyes darted over the crowd, her hands twitching like she wasn’t sure if she should cover her chest or wave them around.

"So, what do I do?!" Frankie shouted over the music, panic seeping into her voice.

Draculaura leaned close, fangs flashing under the neon lights. “Just go with the flow!”

At first, Frankie stayed stiff. She moved her arms like she was in gym class, her hips jerking slightly out of sync with the beat.

She looked like she was doing a warm-up stretch more than dancing.

But then—something shifted.

The alcohol was still buzzing in her veins, loosening her up.

The music pounded harder and harder, the bass rattling her stitched-up ribs, and slowly, Frankie let her body… move.

Her hips rolled in small circles. Her hands rose above her head, wrists flicking with the rhythm.

She spun once, clumsy but free, her long ponytail whipping around her shoulder.

She giggled. Giggled like she hadn’t all week.

Draculaura clapped and bounced next to her. “That’s it, Frankie! Let yourself go!”

Frankie laughed, closing her eyes. The music wasn’t scary anymore—it was inside her, pumping through every wire and bolt, making her chest hum and her toes curl.

She didn’t care who was watching. Didn’t care if she looked dumb.

For the first time all week, she wasn’t confused, wasn’t panicking, wasn’t the odd one out.

For the first time, Frankie felt… alive.

She kept moving, swaying harder now, her body matching the tempo of the crowd. Her shoulders loosened, her hips rolled deeper.

And then—without really thinking about it—Frankie grabbed the edge of her corset, tugged it down just slightly to flash a little more cleavage, and dropped low into a squat before snapping back up with her hair flying.

The whole crowd went wild.

“OOOOHHHHHHH!” voices roared over the music.

Frankie’s eyes widened. Her hands shot up to her mouth, her face flushing green and pink all at once.

“Did—did I just DO that?!” she squeaked, her voice lost in the cheers.

Before she could spiral, Draculaura spun in front of her, grinning like a devil, and gave her a playful smack on the ass. The sound cracked over the beat.

“Welcome to the real Crypt Current, Frankie!” Draculaura shouted.

The crowd screamed louder.

Frankie squealed, blushing so hard her stitches glowed. She covered her butt with both hands, giggling nervously, but she didn’t stop dancing.

If anything, she swayed even harder now, the mix of embarrassment and adrenaline making her movements more daring.

At the edge of the dance floor, Cleo and Clawdeen caught each other’s eyes.

“Did she just—?” Cleo whispered.

“Yup,” Clawdeen muttered, smirking.

Cleo raised a brow. “Well, looks like she’s not as hopeless as we thought.”

Clawdeen chuckled darkly. “Nah. Frankie’s gonna learn fast. She has to.”

They both glanced at Frankie—still red-faced, still laughing, but undeniably moving with more confidence now.

The Monster Mash Dance loomed at the end of the month. Just over two weeks. Maybe less if Holt or Jackson’s patience ran dry.

And if Frankie wanted to keep them? She had to catch up—quick.

(On The Other Side of the World - 10:00 PM)

The moon hung low over the distant castle, its pale light spilling across cobblestone and vine-choked walls.

In the courtyard, Headmistress Bloodgood was fastening the last of her luggage to Frightmare’s saddle. Each leather strap snapped tight under her practiced hands—efficient, methodical, as though she’d done this ritual a hundred times before.

Her face, though calm, carried that faint pinch of weariness around the eyes.

She had just finished dealing with the aftermath of a terrorist attack on Monster High, and now, before the dust had even settled, the Monster Council had summoned her clear across the world.

Behind her, the faint mist that clung to the courtyard stirred. A ghostly figure emerged from it—an old woman, draped in ethereal tatters, her expression somewhere between guilt and formality.

“I truly am sorry you must endure this, Headmistress,” the ghost said, her voice fragile but clear, like wind whistling through a crypt. “Especially after… everything that has already happened. Your school has suffered enough without this.”

Bloodgood pulled one last strap, tightening the bags against Frightmare’s side before turning to face the ghost. Her posture was straight, her tone clipped yet polite.

“It’s fine,” Bloodgood replied evenly. “The Monster Council has never been easy to deal with. I’ve been wrangling their paranoia and politics for decades. One more meeting isn’t going to break me.”

The ghost frowned faintly, drifting closer. “Still… you deserve better than this, Headmistress. They should show you more respect. Especially after all you’ve sacrificed.”

Bloodgood swung one boot into the stirrup and mounted Frightmare in a single, fluid motion.

Sitting tall in the saddle, she adjusted her cloak, her expression firm but not unkind.

“You’ll learn something quickly in this line of work,” she said. “The Council rarely gives respect freely. You earn it by surviving them long enough.”

She allowed herself a faint smile. “And I’ve survived them this long.”

The ghost hesitated, her aged eyes flickering. “Do not forget—they are coming to visit Monster High. In one week’s time.”

Her tone darkened. “They will not tolerate excuses. And they will not tolerate… any funny business.”

Bloodgood met the ghost’s gaze, her own calm unshaken. “Don’t worry. My students may be reckless, but they care about their school more than anything. I know them. They won’t let anything happen to Monster High. They’ll pull through for me.”

She gave the ghost a respectful nod, then tugged on Frightmare’s reins.

“Farewell.”

The horse pawed at the cobblestones, snorting, before bolting forward with a thunderous gallop.

The air shimmered in the center of the courtyard, and a swirling portal to New Salem cracked open, glowing in shades of eerie blue and violet.

Without hesitation, Bloodgood and Frightmare plunged into it, vanishing into light.

The courtyard fell silent again. The ghost hovered alone, her expression thoughtful, uneasy, before fading back into mist.

And far across the world, unseen by her headmistress…

Monster High was descending deeper and deeper into chaos.

Blissfully unaware, Headmistress Bloodgood rode home—while her beloved school had already transformed into a whorehouse.

To Be Continued....

Notes:

Well folks, Frankie has entered her corruption arc.

And Bloodgood's on her way back, shit's about to get real.

Chapter 14: Things go from BAD to WORSE

Summary:

The school descends into further chaos, Bloodgood returns, and the villains make their presence known.

Notes:

Warning: This chapter is going to be VERY LONG!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(Date : Friday, October 13th)

(An Abandoned Classroom - 7:15 AM)

The smell of sweat and musk clung to the stale air, thick enough to choke on.

“Ohhh fuuuck yeahhh…”

The sound of slapping skin echoed, a dozen different rhythms of hands on cocks, sloppy and frantic.

The room itself—dark, dusty, forgotten—was alive with the wet chorus of jerking, panting, grunting boys.

A bunch of nobodies. Losers. The kind of mansters who sat in the back of class, never got picked in gym, never had a ghoul look twice at them. None of them even knew each other’s names, but that didn’t matter.

The only thing they shared was a sickness. A habit. A ritual.

Gooning.

Monster High’s rejects, gathered like animals in heat, sitting shoulder to shoulder in old chairs and desks, all with their dicks out, stroking slow and sloppy to the glow of stolen phones. Screens blared MonsterHub clips—monster-on-monster fucking, futas drowning boys in cum, ghouls bouncing on cocks with squeals that made the losers in this room whimper in jealousy.

“Fuck… look at her… god, I’d let her drain me dry…” one of them groaned, his spit-slick hand never stopping.

Another boy leaned back in his chair, eyes rolled up white, tongue hanging out as he stroked so slow it looked painful, precum threading between his fingers like glue. “Don’t stop… don’t stop… keep the loop going…” he whispered to nobody.

“Fuck, look at her—” another one whispered, stroking faster.

“Shhh! Just focus, dude!” another hissed, sweat dripping from his forehead as his hips jerked.

It was pathetic. Pathetic, but addictive.

They didn’t have ghouls like Clawd did, who got his ass dragged into the closets by Draculaura every morning.

They weren’t jocks like Deuce, who had Cleo gagging on his cock during lunch breaks.

These boys were nobodies—no pussy, no ass, no chance in hell.

So instead, they drowned themselves in the next best thing: marathon edging. Hours of edging.

They sat here, jerking themselves stupid until their brains felt fried, until their dicks were raw and leaking, until their minds were mush.

Brain-melt. Goon-brain. That’s what they chased.

The screens flickered with moans, the sound barely contained by earbuds. One clip showed a woman with long hair and a pink dress being spitroasted by a pair of werewolves, while another clip had a goth girl in a black dress bent over a table, her panties pulled down to show off her bare ass while a minotaur pounded into her with grunts.

“Fuck, she’s so big… ohhh god… imagine her fucking me…” another boy muttered, stroking faster now, his leg bouncing.

The wet sounds were constant—slaps, slick strokes, precum dripping onto the dirty floor tiles. A couple of them weren’t even watching their screens anymore; they’d fallen into that stupid, blank goon state, staring at nothing, eyes glassy, just pumping meat with strings of spit dangling from their chins.

It was disgusting.

It was desperate.

It was heaven.

Monster High was drowning in sex, every hallway reeking of it, and this was the only way the forgotten boys could keep up.

They were never going to get ghouls like Cleo or Abbey to look at them. Never going to get their dicks wet in anything but their own hands.

So they gooned. They gooned hard.

And none of them had any plans of stopping.

Among them sat Lothar, Howleen’s troll friend—the runt of the litter, squat and round-bellied, freckles dotting his rough cheeks, curly red hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

If anyone at Monster High was doomed to die a virgin, it was him. Short, corpulent, awkward, no smooth words, no confident bite.

While wolves, vampires, and even ghosts were being dragged into locker rooms and stairwells by eager ghouls, no one gave the troll a second glance.

No ghoul wanted to climb on top of him.

No ghoul wanted him at all.

So, like the rest of the rejects in this stinking little circle, he had nothing but his porn and his hand.

He thought about asking Twyla once—maybe slipping into her shadows for a wet dream or two—but Howleen had that covered. Literally.

The wolf was railing her nightly, fucking her so ragged she barely came up for air.

There was that slug girl who used to follow him around, but she’d moved on, long before Monster High’s sexual fever exploded.

So Lothar had nobody. Just his fat, calloused fist and the buzzing glare of a cracked tablet screen.

“Aw, man…” he muttered under his breath, rocking in his seat as he stroked, his voice breaking with desperation. “So close… just… just a little more…”

His stone-thick cock twitched in his grip, precum slicking his massive knuckles as he pumped with a sloppy rhythm.

Sweat rolled down the ridges of his rocky skin, dripping into the collar of his shirt. His breath came in wheezes, grunts like an overheated furnace.

Around him, the other boys were the same: panting, stroking, muttering nonsense as their eyes glazed. The stink of sweat and precum clung heavy in the air, almost suffocating.

It was their brotherhood. Their secret ritual. Pathetic, desperate, disgusting—but it was all they had.

If they couldn’t get in a ghoul’s pussy, this was the closest they’d ever get.

Then—WHAM.

The door to the classroom slammed open, cracking the plaster as it hit the wall.

Every boy froze mid-stroke, the wet sounds cutting off in one heartbeat. Heads turned, cocks twitched, hands dropped guiltily to cover what couldn’t be hidden.

And in the doorway stood a pack of ghouls. Not shy, not timid, not scandalized. Predators.

Voluptuous curves packed into leather, lace, latex—wings spread wide, eyes glowing, lips curling into wicked smirks.

Their gazes swept the room, slow and savoring, lingering on the cluster of desks, on the flickering porn clips, and then—on the circle of boys with their cocks still half-hard in their hands.

“Well, well, well…” purred the succubus at the front, her breasts straining against the buckles of her corset, wings twitching with amusement. “What do we have here?”

The boys broke instantly, panic scattering them like cockroaches. Zippers fumbled, chairs toppled, curses tripped from their lips as they shoved desks aside, tripped over backpacks, scrambled for the windows.

A stampede of losers bolting for their lives.

All except one.

Lothar.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His cock still throbbed in his fist, spit-slick, veins bulging. His freckled face flushed beet red, mouth open, breath ragged.

His wide eyes locked on the ghouls filling the doorway.

By the time he staggered upright, the ghouls were already on him, circling like wolves around fresh meat.

A cyclopean beauty stepped forward, her single glowing eye raking over him, lips curling into a sharp smile. Her tits swayed heavy beneath a shredded tank top, nipples hard and poking through the thin fabric.

She snickered, voice dripping mockery.

“Caught red-handed… or should I say, red-cocked?”

Lothar’s gut twisted. He wanted to run, to bolt like the others, but his body betrayed him—feet rooted, cock twitching at the sight of them closing in.

He’d heard rumors. Other boys caught gooning had been humiliated, beaten, left leaking and broken. His heart pounded like a drum in his ears.

“L-look, I—I didn’t—” he stammered, voice cracking.

“Ohhh, you did,” another ghoul cut him off. She was tall, skin glimmering faintly like polished obsidian, claws long and sharp.

She dragged one talon under his chin, forcing him to tilt his head up, eyes caught between fear and the swell of her massive tits spilling out of her low-cut corset.

Her claws scratched lightly down his throat, leaving faint red trails.

“And you liked it. Didn’t you, troll boy?”

The group shared a wicked, knowing grin, shadows closing tighter.

Their curves swayed as they moved—hips rolling, thighs brushing against his, cleavage threatening to spill as they leaned in closer.

“Poor little troll,” the succubus purred, her voice velvet filth. She bent low, her breasts almost suffocating him, her perfume thick and dizzying. “While the alphas are balls-deep in their ghouls, you’re in here with your stubby cock in your hand. Pathetic. Desperate.”

“He must be so pent up,” the cyclops teased, lowering her hand until one long finger trailed along the length of his shaft.

Lothar jerked at the touch, his cock twitching, drooling precum onto her knuckle. He whimpered despite himself, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

The girls laughed again, dark and sultry. The sound filled the room, sinking into his skull.

“Looks like we found ourselves a toy,” one of them murmured, licking her lips as her gaze fixed on the way his cock throbbed, desperate and leaking.

Lothar’s stomach dropped to his knees, but his cock betrayed every ounce of his fear—straining harder, bobbing helplessly, a fat bead of precum rolling down the tip.

His legs shook, but not from the cold.

The succubus pressed against him, her lips brushing the edge of his ear, her whisper scorching hot. “Don’t be scared, troll boy… We’re not here to hurt you.”

Her hand slid down his chest, nails scraping his soft belly before curling over his shaft.

She gave a teasing squeeze, making him grunt low in his throat.

“We’re here to have… fun.”

Claws teased over his nipples, sharp enough to sting.

Thick thighs brushed against his as the circle tightened, breasts pressing into his shoulders, perfume and sweat clogging his senses.

Every hungry eye glowed like a predator’s, every smirk promised filth.

The troll’s breath came ragged, chest heaving. His cock pulsed wildly, leaking down his shaft, dripping onto the floor.

The last thought that crossed his mind before lips claimed his throat and hands wrapped around his cock was raw, broken, and painfully honest:

He wasn’t leaving this room the same.

(Mr. Rotter’s Classroom – 7:15 AM)

Mr. Rotter was at his fucking limit.

All week long, he had been biting his tongue, gripping the edge of his desk, and fighting the overwhelming urge to explode.

Students weren’t acting like students anymore—they were acting like feral animals in heat, fucking like rabbits in the halls, in closets, behind lockers, even in the damn stairwells.

Every time some wide-eyed idiot raised their hand and asked, “Can I use the bathroom?” he had to grind his molars until he thought they’d crack.

He already knew where they were going. Not to pee. Not to wash their hands.

No. They were going to screw their brains out in the nearest supply closet.

And he had to just sit there and let them leave, pretending like everything was normal.

It made his blood boil.

The moaning in the distance, the rattling of closet doors, the muffled giggles followed by thuds against the wall—it was like a constant drumbeat on his nerves. He could feel his temper fraying more with every passing hour.

He wanted—no, he ached—to slap some goddamn sense into these hormone-drunk idiots.

To grab them by the collars, drag them back to class, and scream in their faces until their ears rang.

Instead? He got to return to his classroom after stepping out for sixty seconds and find half the seats smeared with cum.

He got to watch ghouls touch themselves openly during his lectures, as if his lessons were some kind of background porn soundtrack.

He got to throw out couples who thought his classroom was a brothel with desks.

Every day, it was the same.
Every day, his patience chipped away.
Every day, his rage built higher.

Mr. Rotter had had enough.

He was a teacher.
Not a babysitter.
Not a porn director.

And while he knew, deep down, that all of this was the result of that gas attack, that his students were under some kind of influence beyond their control—it didn’t stop the rage burning inside him.

It didn’t stop him from wanting to hurl a chair at the next ghoul who moaned loud enough to echo down the halls.

It didn’t stop him from wanting to scream until the whole damn school went silent.

And it definitely didn’t stop him from wanting to knock some of these smug little bastards flat when they dared to smirk at him like he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

But he couldn’t.
Because lawsuits were real.
Because parents were watching.
Because half these kids could probably kick his ass six ways to Sunday if he tried.

And so, Mr. Rotter sat there, simmering in his fury, every second of the school day one step closer to snapping.

In the background, the classroom buzzed with voices — not questions about the lecture, not academic discussion, but pure, raw, unfiltered debauchery.

The row where the ghouls usually sat—Frankie, Clawdeen, Cleo, with Draculaura twisted around in the row below them—was the worst offender.

None of them so much as glanced at the chalkboard. Instead, they were huddled together like conspirators, giving Frankie the world’s filthiest crash course.

Ever since they’d learned about her innocence—and her lack of even the most basic knowledge about sex—they had decided it was their “duty” to educate her.

And with every boy in this school, especially Holt and Jackson, walking around hornier than an elephant in mating season, the ghouls weren’t about to let Frankie stumble blindly into heartbreak.

Naturally, Frankie had questions. A lot of questions.

“So, like… when you give head, what’s the most important part?” Frankie whispered nervously, though the sound carried more than she realized.

“Oh, that’s simple, darling,” Cleo replied, completely ignoring Rotter’s lecture as she flipped her hair. “It’s all about the tongue and the hands. Stroke the shaft, lick the tip, and don’t forget to play with the balls.”

“Just be careful not to bite when you’re sucking him off,” Draculaura added, spinning in her seat. “You don’t wanna accidentally rip his dick off.”

Clawdeen’s claws flexed against her desk. “You’re making it harder and harder not to punch your head off.”

“What?!” Draculaura threw up her hands, feigning innocence. “I’m just talking from experience!”

“Yeah,” Clawdeen shot back, “Experience with MY brother!”

Cleo clapped her hands softly, shushing them. “Now, now. Relax, you two. We’re here to help Frankie, not claw each other’s throats out.”

Clawdeen huffed, folding her arms, though her ears twitched in irritation.

Frankie hesitated before asking another question, her cheeks pink. “Um… is it bad when a boy starts getting… aggressive?”

“Oh, not at all,” Cleo purred, leaning closer. “If anything, that means he’s really enjoying himself. It shows passion, desire—he wants more.”

“And it’s a turn-on for the girl too,” Clawdeen added, shrugging.

“Indeed,” Cleo said smoothly. “And that’s coming from a lesbian.”

Clawdeen groaned, dragging her claws down her face.

Across the room, a different group of boys carried on their own brand of idiocy.

“Anyone know who’s selling weed in the school?” Heath whispered, his eyes darting around.

Invisi-Billy, busy wiping smeared green lipstick from his neck, chimed in. “Johnny’s been moving it out of the parking lot. Pretty sure he’s been baked all week.”

Clawd snorted. “Figures. That guy’s either smoking himself stupid—”

“Or getting railed by Operetta until his bones rattle,” Deuce cut in.

Heath blinked. “Operetta? The southern belle? Really?”

“Never underestimate southerners,” Billy said grimly. “They’re freaky when you least expect it.”

And then, in yet another corner, the Belfry Prep vampire girls sat slumped in their seats, looking collectively dead inside.

“It’s not fair!” one of them whined. “All of them—so strong, so masculine—and not a SINGLE one has a dick big enough to satisfy us!”

“My boyfriend swore up and down that his was ‘like nothing I’d ever seen,’” another complained bitterly, “but the second I saw it, I swear to the Elder Council, my excitement just… died.”

“Mine told me I wouldn’t be able to walk after he fucked me,” a third scoffed. “We have healing factors. I can break my spine in half and still be fine by morning—but this idiot thought he’d destroy me with that?”

Gory didn’t join the chorus. She just sat with her arms crossed, smoldering.

Her pride still burned like acid.

Ever since Wednesday, ever since the humiliation in front of the entire school, she’d been seething.

Seeing her man last ten seconds before collapsing.

Seeing Draculaura, that filthy dhampir, strut around victorious.

Seeing the fearsome reputation of their clique—the Belfry Prep terrors—crumble into ash.

All because of her.

“It’s not fair,” Gory muttered through clenched teeth. “She gets to fuck that mangy mutt three ways from Sunday, but I’m stuck with a boy who can’t even last thirty seconds without blowing his load?”

Her clique murmured in agreement, jealousy dripping from their voices. To say they envied Draculaura was an understatement.

But none of them dared rat her out—not to her father, not to their elders.

Doing so would turn the entire ghoul squad, maybe half the student body, against them.

And considering some of those students could bend reality itself, that was as good as a death sentence.

But it didn’t stop her from seething. She deserved to be fucked silly, not that half-blood brat who cheated her way into royalty.

And still, not once did Gory consider trying her hand with any of the single wolves prowling around campus.

As desperate as she was, she was still a vampire—and she would never, ever stoop so low as to mate with one of those filthy and pathetic mutts.

As the conversations continued, Rotter was finding it harder and harder not to blow a gasket.

He knew the audio devices Hackington had planted were recording everything, and that sooner or later Bloodgood would hear the evidence for herself—but knowing that didn’t make it any easier to stand there and listen.

His jaw clenched. His teeth ground like millstones. His chalk squealed against the board as his grip tightened hard enough to snap it in two.

'Just hold yourself together,' he told himself, his voice a ragged growl in his head. 'Once Bloodgood returns, we’ll finally be able to get these boneheaded brats under—'

“—so when he finishes on your face, do you swallow it right after or let it drip first?”

“Depends on the lighting, babe. Gotta keep the selfies cute.”

Rotter’s eyelid twitched.

“Bro, no lie, I lasted two full minutes last night!”

“Pfft. My dog lasts longer.”

The chalk cracked in his hand.

Across the room, two boys snickered.

“Think the janitor’s closet is empty right now?”

“Only one way to find out. If it smells like bleach, we’re good.”

Rotter’s knuckles went white. He could feel his blood pressure pounding behind his eyes.

“Has anyone else noticed that Abbey moans like a snowblower when she’s turned on?”

“Dude, shut up, she’ll hear you—”

Rotter slammed the stub of chalk against the board hard enough to leave a dent, but no one even looked up.

And then—just as he thought it couldn’t get worse—he heard it.

Sweet, clueless Frankie.

Voice innocent as a child.

“Wait… so when you deep throat, do you breathe through your nose, or do you just, like… hold your breath the whole time?”

Rotter’s hand slipped. The chalk shattered into dust. His entire body shook.

That was it.

The last straw.

He lost it.

"I don't really have a problem either way, bu—"

"ENOUGH!!"

The roar cracked like thunder, so loud the windows rattled. Every conversation froze mid-sentence.

Heads whipped toward the front of the room, where Mr. Rotter stood red-faced, shaking like he was about to explode out of his own skin.

"You think you’re smart, huh?" he barked, veins bulging across his forehead.

Clawdeen blinked. "What?"

Rotter’s eyes burned. "You think we don’t notice? You think we don’t see you sneaking off with your little boyfriends and girlfriends—fucking in closets, in stairwells, in the goddamn broom cupboard? You think we don’t know that every time you ask to ‘go to the bathroom,’ you’re actually going to get railed against the tiles by whoever’s closest!?"

The room fell still. No one dared move.

A few ghouls—including Frankie—just slapped their hands over their ears.

"Well, guess what?!" Rotter bellowed, spit flying with every syllable. "YOU AREN’T FOOLING ANYONE! We see it, we hear it, we smell it—AND I AM DONE!"

He slammed the chalk against his desk so hard the stick exploded into white dust.

"Do you have ANY IDEA how many nights I’ve stayed late cleaning up your messes? How many times I’ve had to bite my tongue when I hear you howling like feral dogs in abandoned classrooms? Do you know what it’s like to need a bathroom, only to find EVERY STALL rattling with some pair of horny brats rutting like livestock?!"

A few students winced. Some flushed bright red. Others… just slouched, waiting it out.

Rotter’s whole body quaked as his voice cracked with rage. "You’re LUCKY—LUCKY—I haven’t failed you ALL for skipping class to screw each other senseless! You’re LUCKY I haven’t called your parents and told them EXACTLY what you’ve been doing in these halls! Because I promise you this—if I did? You wouldn’t be able to SIT DOWN for a week after they were through with you!"

His hand slammed flat against the desk, splitting the wood with a deafening CRACK. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath coming in furious huffs.

"I AM NOT A BABYSITTER!" he thundered. "I AM NOT A JANITOR! I AM A TEACHER! And I am SICK—SICK TO MY BONES—of having to put up with this CONSTANT PARADE of filth and degeneracy! You are supposed to be MONSTERS-IN-TRAINING, not ANIMALS in heat!"

The silence was suffocating.

"Get it TOGETHER!" he shrieked, slamming his fist so hard the desk finally collapsed in half. "Do you think your parents sent you here so you could throw your futures away? You think ANY university worth a damn will take a bunch of sex-crazed dropouts? NO! They’ll laugh you out of the building before you even set foot in the door! You’ll be lucky—LUCKY!—if you can scrape together a job hauling garbage, because no one will want degenerates like YOU!"

For a long, long moment… there was silence.

Every student just sat there, staring.

Then, as if the meltdown hadn’t happened at all, Cleo leaned toward Frankie.

"So anyway—when he asks you to spit or swallow, the polite answer is—"

And just like that, the class went right back to its filthy chatter.

Frankie even tilted her head, taking notes in her notebook like nothing was wrong.

Rotter just stood there, twitching, staring at the wreckage of his desk, silently wondering how much longer before he lost his mind completely.

(Art Room – 9:30 AM)

The scent of paper, paint, and graphite filled the Art Room like always, but for Catrine Demew, it was suffocating.

She sat at her desk, arms folded tightly over her chest, eyes locked on the bare surface in front of her.

Ever since Tuesday—ever since that drawing had been confiscated—she hadn’t drawn a single line. Not in class, not at home, not even doodles in the corners of her notebooks.

Her sketchbook was still locked away in Mr. Bartholomew’s office. She hadn’t even asked for it back. She couldn’t bear the humiliation of what had happened.

The whispers, the snickers, the looks from classmates—half scandalized, half impressed.

And every time she entered this room, Mr. Bartholomew’s eyes never left her. The way his glasses slid down his nose, the way he stared at her like she was some ticking time bomb—it made her fur bristle.

Today was no different.

“Alright, class,” Bartholomew droned, his old, gravelly voice echoing across the room. He carried a stack of papers in one hand. “Your assignment is simple: free expression sketches. Anything appropriate for classroom standards will do.”

Anything appropriate. He didn’t even bother hiding the dig as his gaze fell on Catrine.

He started passing out sheets, slapping them onto each desk one by one.

When he reached her row, he slowed, holding her paper just a moment too long before dropping it on her desk. His eyes locked onto hers—stern, warning, unyielding.

Catrine’s claws dug into her arms. Heat rushed to her face.

She hated it. The shame, the spotlight, the way he made her feel like some problem child who couldn’t be trusted with a pencil.

Around her, classmates were already doodling, pencils scratching eagerly. A couple leaned back, whispering. She caught a few sideways glances—students who still hadn’t forgotten about Tuesday.

Her ears pinned back.

"Don’t do it," she told herself. "Don’t give him a reason. Just sit here. Just wait it out."

But then… she heard it.

A voice.

Silky. Soft. Seductive. It wasn’t spoken aloud—it was in her head.

'Unfair, isn’t it?' it cooed.

Catrine’s eyes darted around, but no one was speaking to her. The students were all busy with their assignments.

'You have talent,' the voice whispered. 'Real talent. And they want to chain it. Restrict it. Tell you what’s appropriate.'

Her claws flexed against the desk.

'You should be free to express yourself however you wish. Lines, shadows, bodies, curves. Why should you listen to old, wrinkled hands that can barely hold a brush? They’re afraid. Afraid of you. Afraid of your art.'

Catrine’s breath hitched. The words slithered into her brain, seeping into every corner of her thoughts.

'You don’t belong to them,' the voice urged. 'You belong to yourself. Draw what you want. Draw what they don’t want. Show them your truth. Your desire.'

Her hand moved almost on its own. She picked up her pencil.

At first it was slow—tentative lines, a nervous hand. But then it flowed. Her strokes grew confident, bold, furious.

She let the voice guide her, each word pouring into her like ink onto the page. She stopped caring who was watching, or what Bartholomew would say.

Minutes passed. The world around her blurred into silence. She was lost in the page, lost in the curves and shapes, shading and detail.

When she finished, she looked down.

Her eyes widened.

It wasn’t just NSFW. It was raw. Carnal.

A vision of monsters twisted together in ways that made Tuesday’s drawing look like child’s play.

Gasps rippled around her. Students leaned closer, wide-eyed, some covering their mouths in shock, others grinning like they’d just won the lottery.

Mr. Bartholomew’s shadow fell across her desk.

“Catrine,” he said coldly, his voice like ice. “Give me the paper.”

Her chest tightened. “N-no, monsieur, I—”

“Now.” He reached down, wrinkled fingers snatching at the edge of the sheet.

Something inside her snapped.

“NON!” she hissed. Her claws shot out, slicing through the paper as she yanked it back.

Gasps filled the room again.

Bartholomew straightened, anger flashing across his face. “Catrine Demew! That is enough! Hand it over or—”

She pounced.

With a feral snarl, she launched across the desk, claws slashing.

The class erupted in chaos as Mr. Bartholomew stumbled backward, his glasses flying, arms raised in a desperate attempt to shield himself.

But Catrine was too fast, too wild. Her claws tore through his coat, through his flesh, leaving crimson streaks across his chest and arms.

The students didn’t scream. They cheered.

“YEAH!” Heath shouted.

“GET HIS ASS!” Toralei whooped.

Ghoulia laughed, clapping her hands in glee.

Bartholomew stumbled back, collapsing into the chalkboard. Blood stained his shirt, dripped down his arm. He was a mess—groaning, wheezing, barely able to stay conscious.

Catrine stood over him, chest heaving, claws dripping red. Her fur bristled, her tail lashed, her teeth bared in a victorious snarl.

Then… it happened.

Her eyes. They glowed.

Not their usual lilac hue, but a deep, corrupted pink.

The room fell silent—not in horror, but awe.

Catrine slowly straightened, lifting her chin, clutching the ruined paper to her chest like a trophy.

She wasn’t just Catrine Demew anymore.

She was one of them.

Mr. Bartholomew groaned against the chalkboard, blood dripping from fresh gashes in his chest and arms.

But she wasn’t finished.

Her gaze locked onto the oak desk at the front of the room—the one where her sketchbook was locked away. Her lips curled into a feral grin.

The class watched in silence as she marched forward, every step of her heels echoing like a war drum.

When she reached the desk, she didn’t hesitate. With one sharp swipe of her claws, she ripped the top drawer open, splinters flying across the floor.

And there it was. Her sketchbook.

She snatched it up, clutching it to her chest like a mother reclaiming her child. Her breathing steadied, a cold calm settling over her as the pink glow in her eyes pulsed brighter.

She turned to leave.

“C-Catrine!” Bartholomew croaked, staggering toward her.

His face was pale, sweat dripping down his brow. “Stop this madness—”

Without a second thought, she spun on her heel and kicked him square in the balls.

The sound echoed through the room, followed by a strangled yelp of pain. Bartholomew collapsed to the ground, curling into a pitiful heap.

The classroom erupted with cheers.

“OOOOH!”

“RIGHT IN THE NUTS!”

“HE’S DONE!”

Catrine stood over him, sketchbook in hand, her voice low, icy, and laced with venom.

“If you ever touch my things again,” she hissed, leaning close enough for him to smell the coppery tang of blood still clinging to her claws, “I swear to Bastet—I’ll make sure you’re dickless. I’ll claw it off myself.”

Gasps and laughter mixed across the classroom, half horrified, half exhilarated.

Bartholomew groaned again, too broken to respond.

Catrine straightened, flicked her hair back, and strutted toward the door.

Each step was deliberate, powerful.

The pink glow in her eyes didn’t fade—it burned brighter, hotter, a brand of corruption claiming her fully.

The students watched in awe as she pushed the door open.

And then, without a second glance back at the wreckage she left behind, Catrine Demew walked out of the Art Room.

(The Catacombs – 9:30 AM)

Pharaoh knew this was coming.

Ever since that dream—Catty crawling on all fours toward him, naked, purring, her ass bouncing like Nicki Minaj in Anaconda—he knew it was only a matter of time before she snapped.

His mother’s words about “waiting until marriage” had been echoing in his ears all week, but they were no match for the heat boiling in his chest.

The heat that screamed at him to fuck her like an animal.

And he knew Catty was drowning in it too, even if she refused to admit it.

He’d tried yesterday, tried to help her through it, but she pushed him away, still clinging to whatever pride she had left.

And now?

Now he was following a trail of discarded clothing into the Catacombs—her jacket, her shirt, even one of her earrings—and his chest twisted with dread. He prayed his popstar hadn’t hurt herself.

He rounded a corner—then froze.

“Holy shit…” he whispered.

Catty was there. Naked.

Completely, utterly naked.

Her pink hair was a mess, frizzed and sticking to her sweat-soaked skin. Her eyes glowed with that unnatural, eerie pink light, wide and desperate, pleading and hungry all at once.

Her face looked like a mask of torment, every line of it screaming one thing.

Fuck me.

Her fingers were knuckle-deep in her pussy, pumping furiously. Slick dripped down her thighs, puddled on the stone floor beneath her, proof she’d been at this for a long, long time.

“Bae?” Pharaoh croaked, his throat suddenly dry.

Her head snapped up, those glowing eyes locking on him like a predator spotting prey. And before he could even raise a hand—she launched.

Her body collided with his, knocking him onto his back, her tongue forcing its way into his mouth in a savage, sloppy kiss.

“Pharaoh,” she gasped between breaths, pulling back just enough to moan against his lips. Her words broke apart, her mind barely hanging on. “I need yo—no, I want yo—I can’t bea—”

“Shhh,” Pharaoh hushed, pressing a finger to her trembling lips. His chest pounded as he tried to keep his voice steady. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

Catty was panting like a beast. Her breath came ragged, hitching, every exhale a whimper. Her whole body twitched nervously, like she was fighting herself, sweat dripping down her collarbones, between her breasts, soaking the strands of hair sticking to her face.

She looked wrecked.

No—she looked ruined.

This wasn’t the glamorous popstar who kept herself polished and untouchable, who smiled at cameras and pretended she knew it all.

This was Catty Noir, stripped bare—literally and emotionally—naked in every sense of the word.

Just yesterday she was cursing him out for gripping her ass during a kiss.

And now she was on top of him, nude, trembling, begging for him to put her out of her misery.

Begging for release. Begging for him.

“Ba—”

“I NEED you, Seth!” Catty blurted, her voice cracking, her hands clutching at her own body like she was losing her mind. Her nails dug into her thighs, her stomach, her tits, trembling as if she could rip the hunger out of herself by force.

“I can’t stop thinking about you! About your touch, your lips, your voice. Your voice in my ear… whispering what you want to do to me—”

Pharaoh’s breath caught in his throat as she ground her slick, bare pussy against his crotch.

The wet heat seeped through his pants, short-circuiting his brain. His hips twitched involuntarily, cock straining painfully against the fabric.

Her scent filled him—raw feline musk, sharp with sweat, thick with arousal.

It coated his tongue, sweet and animal, making his mouth water.

Catty’s eyes, glowing faint pink, half-lidded with lust, pinned him down. Her hands slid up her trembling body, cupping her own breasts, squeezing them so hard her nipples jutted out like desperate little pearls.

She moaned, arching her back, presenting herself to him like an offering.

“I need you to touch me, Seth,” she begged, her voice breaking into a whimper. “I need you to make me cum.”

Her words hit him low in the gut, heat spiking through his cock.

Pharaoh growled softly, wrapping a hand tight around her waist, steadying her trembling body.

With the other, he slid his fingers down between her legs and drove two deep into her pussy.

Her entire body jolted, a high-pitched whine tearing from her throat.

“What do you want me to do, Catty?” Pharaoh asked, his tone low and commanding.

“I… I need t-to—” Her voice cracked into a moan as his fingers curled inside her, grinding against her walls.

“Go on.” His words were firm, his pace unrelenting. He wanted her to say it. Needed her to admit it. He pushed deeper, making her squeal. “Say it.”

Her thoughts dissolved into slurred babble, her words falling apart as if her brain itself was melting under the pressure.

Pharaoh swept her sweaty pink hair aside, his voice steady and firm. “I know what you want, girl. I want it too. But I’m not gonna give it unless you say it. Use your words, Catty. Tell me what you want.”

Her glowing eyes burned with shame—but the need inside her was stronger. Her lip trembled, teeth sinking into it as her breath hitched. Finally, she choked out the words, voice trembling:

“Make… make me your… y-your little—”

“Go on,” he pushed, his fingers thrusting harder.

Catty’s head dropped, her whole body shivering as the word broke out of her throat, dirty and raw.

“Make me your little whore.”

Pharaoh’s grip on her waist tightened like a vice. His eyes darkened, feral hunger flashing across his face.

“Good girl,” he rasped, voice husky with heat. “And what do whores do?”

Catty’s cheeks burned, crimson on her pale skin.

But the words poured out of her like a confession she couldn’t hold back. “They… they suck your cock. They take it… any way you want.”

“Any way I want?” His grin stretched wide, dangerous, teeth flashing.

“Yes…” she whimpered, pressing her face into his chest, her hips grinding down onto his hand. “Any way.”

The glow in his eyes burned hotter, something feral flickering behind them.

“You want me to use you, is that it? Use you however I want?”

“Yes!” she cried, desperation breaking her voice into a sob. “Please, Pharaoh! I need it—I need it so bad!”

That was all he needed.

His eyes flared pink. His voice was absolute.

“Then get on your knees like a good little cat…” His hand pulled free from her dripping cunt, leaving her twitching and empty. “…and worship my cock.”

Catty’s body trembled at his words. Her breath caught in her throat, eyes wide, lips parted, sweat dripping from her brow.

She looked at Pharaoh like he’d just laid down divine law—and she had no choice but to obey.

Slowly, shakily, she slid off his lap, her knees hitting the cold stone floor of the Catacombs with a dull thud.

Her glowing pink eyes never left his, though they flickered with shame, lust, and desperate need all at once.

Her hands—still slick from fingering herself raw—fumbled at his pants, tugging them open with frantic urgency.

Pharaoh leaned back against the wall, legs spread wide, watching her every move.

His cock strained up, thick and heavy, throbbing with each beat of his pulse.

Catty’s breath hitched at the sight. “Oh my God…” she whispered, almost in awe.

Her trembling fingers wrapped around the base, and she whimpered at how hot it felt in her hand, how hard.

Her lips parted, drool already spilling down her chin as she leaned in.

“Good girl,” Pharaoh praised, voice husky and firm. “Show me how bad you need it.”

Catty obeyed instantly. She opened her mouth wide and took him in, gagging as the thick head hit the back of her throat.

Tears welled in her glowing eyes, spit dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

She bobbed her head frantically, slurping and sucking like a starved animal.

Each time she pulled back, a thick strand of spit and precum stretched between her lips and his cock. Her nails dug into his thighs for balance, her tongue flattening against the underside of his shaft, worshipping every vein.

Pharaoh groaned low, his hand sliding into her messy pink hair, gripping the strands tight. “That’s it, kitty. Take it. Be my little whore.”

His hips thrust forward, forcing her to take more, pushing deeper until her throat bulged obscenely.

Catty gagged, drool flooding from her mouth, but her eyes rolled back with a moan.

She fucking loved it.

The sound echoed off the Catacomb walls—wet, sloppy sucking mixed with Pharaoh’s low growls and Catty’s muffled moans.

“Look at you,” he muttered, pulling her head back just enough to see her face.

Her lips were swollen, smeared with spit, mascara running from her tears. “On your knees, drooling on my cock. You’re a fucking mess.”

Catty moaned around him, nodding desperately, her glowing eyes locking onto his as if to scream yes, yes, that’s what I am.

“Say it,” Pharaoh commanded, his voice rough, tugging her head back by the hair so his cock slapped against her spit-slicked cheek. “Tell me what you are.”

“I-I’m your whore,” she gasped, her voice broken and raw. “Your dirty little kitty whore!”

“Damn right,” Pharaoh growled, shoving his cock back into her mouth, fucking her throat mercilessly now.

Her gagging cries echoed through the chamber, but she didn’t stop, didn’t resist.

She was lost in it, drunk on his taste, her own arousal dripping down her thighs onto the cold stone floor.

His pace grew frantic, his balls slapping against her chin, until finally his whole body tensed.

“Fuck—Catty!” he roared, jerking her head down, burying himself deep in her throat as he came.

Hot, thick cum spilled down her throat, forcing her to swallow, overflowing until it leaked from the corners of her mouth.

Catty moaned as she swallowed every drop she could, gulping desperately, drool and cum dripping down her chin, her chest, even splattering onto the floor beneath her knees.

When Pharaoh finally pulled back, she gasped, coughing and licking her lips, glowing eyes glassy, dazed, drunk on it.

Her voice was hoarse, broken, but filled with raw devotion. “Th-thank you…”

Pharaoh smirked down at her, brushing a hand through her sweaty hair. “Good girl. You did exactly what I wanted.”

Catty leaned into his touch, her face streaked with tears, spit, and cum, but her smile was blissful, radiant.

She had never looked so ruined—and so satisfied.

But Pharaoh wasn’t finished. Not even close.

Without a word, his enchanted bandages lashed out, snaring Catty’s wrists and ankles in midair.

She gasped as her limbs were yanked wide, her trembling body pulled into a spread-eagle position above the cold stone floor.

Pharaoh rose to his knees, winding the bandages back around himself until his hands were free. He leaned down, his face inches from her soaked, glistening pussy.

“Now,” he rumbled, his voice rough with hunger, “it’s my turn.”

Before Catty could whimper a reply, his tongue darted out and plunged deep inside her pussy.

Her entire body jolted like she’d been shocked.

“Pharaoh!” she squealed, her head snapping back, glowing eyes fluttering as his tongue wriggled and licked with merciless precision.

His tongue wasn’t tentative, wasn’t gentle. He lapped at her like a starving man devouring a feast, his nose grinding against her clit while his tongue fucked into her tight hole.

“F-fuck!” Catty cried, her thighs clamping desperately around his head, grinding against his mouth.

She could feel his bandages holding her in place, keeping her from thrashing away.

He wasn’t just licking her—he was using his tongue like a cock, spearing her again and again.

Juices poured out of her, slicking his chin, dripping down his throat, staining his bandages.

Pharaoh moaned against her pussy, the vibrations making her shiver harder.

Her hips began to buck, her body desperate for more friction, trying to guide his tongue deeper, rougher.

Every twitch of his tongue sent her higher, closer.

“Ahhh! R-right there!” she gasped, her body twisting, nails clawing at the stone. “Fuck, Pharaoh, don’t stop!”

He didn’t. He held her tighter, tongue pounding that same spot inside her, relentless.

Her pussy clenched around his tongue, squeezing, begging.

“You’re soaking me, kitty,” Pharaoh growled between licks, his voice husky, lips glistening with her arousal. “So desperate, so fucking wet. You like when I tongue-fuck your little pussy?”

“Only for you!” Catty whined, her face flushed, sweat rolling down her temples. “Only for you, Pharaoh!”

Her thighs trembled violently, toes curling, every nerve in her body begging for release.

He shifted, dragging his tongue up her slit to circle her clit, flicking it with quick, merciless strokes before diving back inside.

“F-FUCK!” she screamed, her voice cracking, echoing through the chamber. “I—I can’t hold it—Pharaoh—I’m gonna—”

He looked up at her, his eyes blazing pink, his tongue never slowing. “Do it. Cum for me, kitty. Drown me in it.”

Her body shattered. “PHARAOH!”

Her orgasm ripped through her, a scream tearing from her throat as her pussy spasmed around his tongue, juices squirting down his chin and flooding his mouth.

Her whole body shook in his bandages, jerking and twitching as if possessed, every muscle locked in ecstasy.

Pharaoh lapped it all up, swallowing her release, drinking every drop of her sweetness.

Only when her trembling finally eased did he pull back, his face drenched, a feral grin curling on his lips.

“Good kitty,” he praised, his voice low, dangerous, dripping with satisfaction.

Catty collapsed in the bindings, panting hard, her face flushed crimson, sweat and tears streaking her cheeks.

Strands of messy pink hair clung to her wet face as she looked down at him with glowing, half-lidded eyes—eyes filled with lust, adoration, and submission.

“Th-thank you…” she whispered, her voice hoarse, broken, but genuine.

Pharaoh smirked, licking her juices from his lips. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m not finished with you.”

Pharaoh shifted, pressing himself down beside her, rolling Catty onto her side.

He hooked one of her long legs over his shoulder, angled his hips, and with a single savage thrust, drove his cock deep into her soaked pussy.

Catty shrieked like her brain had gone blank, the sound echoing through the Catacombs.

Her head snapped back, spine arching into a perfect bow, nails clawing at the stone floor.

“OH—OH MY FUCKING GOD!” she screamed, eyes rolling back as Pharaoh buried himself to the hilt.

He grinned, pulling back only to slam in again, each thrust wet and brutal.

He jackhammered into her, his cock stretching her walls wide, pounding with reckless abandon.

“You’ve wanted this, haven’t you, Catty?” Pharaoh growled, his grin stretching wider as her pussy gushed around him.

“YES!” Catty sobbed, her voice hoarse and cracked. “I’ve wanted this for years—ever since Boo York! Every time I saw you sing, every time you touched me—I imagined this!”

Pharaoh chuckled, thrusting harder, making her squeal like an animal in heat. “Well, happy to fulfill your wish.”

He slammed her again and again, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh mixing with her high, broken moans.

Catty was gone—her dignity shredded, reduced to nothing but a squealing kitty begging for cock.

Her eyes rolled white as Pharaoh’s pace grew harsher. Her pussy milked him desperately, her voice raw as she cried, “Please—please don’t stop!”

He leaned closer, grinding his teeth as he felt himself edging near the brink. “I think I’m gonna cum…”

“Inside!” Catty begged instantly, her body writhing against him. “Please—please cum inside me!”

Pharaoh slowed, teasing her, grinning like a devil. “You really want me to paint your insides, kitty?”

“YES!” she screamed, nails raking the stone.

“Then beg for it.”

She whined, eyes glowing pink, shame and hunger twisting her features. “Please, Pharaoh—I want it—I need you to fill me up!”

“Not good enough,” Pharaoh growled, shoving his cock deeper, making her squeal. “Beg properly.”

Her words tumbled out, filthy and frantic. “I want your cum! I want you to flood my pussy, knock me up, ruin me! Please, Pharaoh, please fill me!”

Pharaoh leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. “If I do this… you’re mine. You’ll be my little kitty slut for the rest of your life. You’ll twerk on my cock, ride me whenever I want, suck me dry every time I snap my fingers. Understand?”

“YES!” Catty wailed, tears streaking her face, her pussy clenching tight around him. “YES—make me your slut! I’ll twerk, I’ll suck, I’ll do anything! I’ll be your kitty forever—just PLEASE cum inside me!”

“Say it.” His voice was iron, unforgiving.

Her cry tore from her chest, raw and desperate. “I’LL BE YOUR LITTLE KITTY SLUT FOR LIFE! I’LL TWERK FOR YOU, I’LL SUCK YOUR COCK, JUST CUM INSIDE ME!”

That broke him.

Pharaoh slammed his lips against hers, kissing her rough and hungry as his hips hammered one final time.

His cock erupted, spilling thick, hot cum inside her pussy.

Catty screamed into his mouth, her nails dragging across his back as she felt her insides flood.

Her stomach bulged slightly with the sheer volume, cum leaking from her stuffed cunt, dripping down her thighs onto the floor.

Pharaoh groaned, grinding his hips as he pumped her full, wave after wave of hot release pouring into her.

Only when her pussy finally stopped spasming around him did he pull out, his cock leaving her hole with a wet POP.

His cum gushed out immediately, pooling between her thighs.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “Feel better now, kitty?” he asked, his voice suddenly gentle.

Catty smiled weakly, flushed and ruined, leaning into his chest. “Yes… so much better…”

After a week of tension, twisted dreams, and whispered arguments, it felt like the dam had finally broken.

But Pharaoh wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

He stood, stripping off the rest of his clothes, his cock still slick with her juices—but already stiffening again.

His body was cut from stone, his eyes glowing pink with hunger.

“Now that we’ve cleared the air,” he said, tossing his shirt aside, “I say we make up for lost time… and fuck until the final bell.”

Catty’s glowing eyes widened, awe mixing with raw lust as she stared at his cock rising once more, pointing at her like a challenge.

Pharaoh folded his arms, smirking. “So, kitty cat… ready for round two?”

Her lips curled into a feral grin as she dropped to all fours, her ass swaying, tail twitching.

Her voice was a sultry purr.

“You know it.”

(The Attic – 10:30 AM)

The attic was dim, lit only by the glow of a bare bulb swaying lazily from the rafters.

The air was already thick with smoke, curling in lazy spirals toward the slanted ceiling.

The boys were sprawled across old couches and beanbags that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in decades.

An open shoebox sat in the middle of them, littered with rolling papers, grinders, and the sticky scent of freshly ground weed.

Heath exhaled a cloud and laughed, passing a fat blunt across the circle. “Man, this week’s been nuts, bro. I swear, I’ve never seen so many girls willing to—”

“—don’t finish that sentence,” Invisi-Billy muttered, flicking ash into a soda can. “We all already know.”

Deuce sat back against the wall, rolling a joint with practiced ease. His snakes lazily hissed and coiled, more mellow than usual thanks to the haze in the room.

He stayed quiet, letting the others chatter about hookups, gossip, and half-baked plans for the weekend.

But his mind wasn’t really on the smoke session.

Cleo’s words from last night still stuck in his head. The way she’d leaned into him—half playful, half deadly serious—when she asked:

“Keep an eye on Jackson and Holt for me, darling. Frankie deserves better than being left in the dust if one of them loses patience.”

He hadn’t answered right away, because it wasn’t the kind of thing you just shrugged off.

Holt and Jackson were two of his closest boys. He's been friends with them for years. He’d smoked with them, partied with them, cheered them on at concerts (or spelling bee's) even covered for them when they were late to class.

He knew they were good dudes… or at least, he hoped they were.

But Frankie? Frankie was innocent as hell.

And Cleo was right—if either of them snapped, dumped her, or cheated because they got tired of waiting for her to catch up…

Deuce took a long drag off the joint, the smoke burning his lungs before he exhaled slow.

He didn’t roll with cheaters. Ever.

He’d seen that kind of thing tear people apart.

Didn’t matter how horny everyone was acting now—standards still had to mean something.

He glanced over at the couch where Jackson sat, awkward as ever, fumbling with a lighter while Holt’s swagger bled through in little sparks—an impatient tap of the foot, a cocky grin flashing now and then.

Two halves of the same coin, one always ready to flip.

Deuce exhaled again, his eyes narrowing behind his shades.

He really hoped his boys wouldn’t let him down.

Because if they did, Cleo—maybe even the ghouls—was gonna want blood.

And Deuce, as much as he hated the idea, wasn’t sure he could stand in her way.

Even horny had standards.

(A Random Classroom – 10:40 AM)

“Ryder~”

Gigi’s moan was breathy, shaky—almost surprised by the sound that left her throat.

Sex was still something she was learning.

In her hundreds of years as a genie, she had seen all kinds of wishes. Some people wanted riches, some power, and yes—some asked for things so obscene it made her blush. But none of those wishes had ever involved her.

She had always been the one granting, never receiving.

Even after Whisp switched places with her and she finally got to live her own life, sex wasn’t something that ever crossed her mind.

She’d been too busy figuring out what freedom was.

And yet, here she was—straddling Ryder in the middle of a classroom, bouncing on his cock like it was the only thing tethering her to reality.

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at the thought, but the bliss rolling through her body kept her from stopping.

Naturally, with Ryder being in a wheelchair and her being so inexperienced, they had to get creative.

Which, for Gigi, wasn’t much of a problem. Even though she’d lost her omnipotent genie powers when she gave up her lamp, she was still powerful enough to bend the rules of physics when she wanted to.

So she’d done exactly that.

Gravity meant nothing right now—Ryder floated, weightless, holding her in his strong arms while she bounced on his cock midair.

“Does it… does it feel good?” she asked breathlessly, her wide amber eyes searching his face.

Ryder groaned, gripping her waist tightly. “So fucking good.”

Her lips parted in a trembling smile. “Good…”

She leaned in and kissed him, messy and eager, as her pace picked up.

Her body moved instinctively—hips rolling, thighs squeezing, pussy clenching around him in greedy pulses.

Gigi’s mind felt like it was unraveling. Ryder’s cock was the first she’d ever taken, and it felt impossibly thick, impossibly deep—stretching her in ways she didn’t even know were possible.

Every thrust sent sparks racing through her spine, leaving her panting like she couldn’t breathe.

Her moans turned more desperate, unrestrained, echoing against the empty classroom walls. She clung to Ryder’s shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.

“Ryder—” she gasped against his lips, her voice cracking. “I-I’m close!”

“Me too,” he grunted, thrusting upward to meet her bouncing hips.

The wet, echoing slap slap slap of their bodies filled the room, obscene and loud.

Her face flushed hotter at the thought of someone hearing them—but that thought only made her body tighten around him more.

Their sweat mingled, dripping down flushed skin. Ryder’s cock throbbed inside her, and suddenly he was spilling hot, thick cum deep into her pussy.

The flood triggered her own orgasm instantly.

Her back arched, her moan caught in her throat, muffled as Ryder crushed his lips against hers.

Her pussy spasmed wildly, squirting her juices over his cock and balls, mixing messily with his release.

Her whole body shook, trembling as if her bones couldn’t hold her weight. She clung to him like she’d drown if she let go.

The climax dragged on, stretching into seconds that felt like forever, until finally they both slowed, panting hard, sweat-slick and clinging to each other.

“That was… amazing,” Ryder said, voice hoarse.

Gigi’s lashes fluttered as she leaned down to kiss him again, her lips tender, grateful. “It really was…”

With a flick of her powers, she floated them gently back to the ground. Her legs wobbled, too weak to hold her, so she steadied herself on Ryder’s shoulders, giggling breathlessly.

“I could… get used to this,” she whispered, cheeks glowing pink.

“We should do it more often,” Ryder smirked.

Her heart skipped. She giggled nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just say where and when.”

For someone who had never even considered this world before, she couldn’t deny it anymore: she wanted this.

With him. As much as they could get away with.

As long as their parents didn’t find out.

But then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“I KNOW SOMEONE’S IN THERE!” a teacher’s voice barked, rattling the door. The knob began to turn.

“Gigi!” Ryder hissed, panic on his face.

But she was already ahead of him.

In a burst of pink light, she snatched Ryder and his wheelchair with her, and just before the door burst open, the classroom was empty—only the lingering scent of sex and the faint shimmer of genie magic left behind.

(A Random Hallway – 11:00 AM)

Robeeca’s gears whirred softly as she crept down the hallway, her eyes scanning every corner, every crack in the tiles, every shadow that might be hiding a sprout or vine.

Ever since what happened in the greenhouse on Wednesday, she’d been dodging Venus like the plague.

Her girlfriend’s newfound state of mind was terrifying. Robeeca loved Venus—deeply, fiercely—but the way Venus spoke now, the way she looked at her, like Robeeca was less a partner and more prey?

It made her circuits buzz with unease.

Unlike the rest of the ghouls, Robeeca wasn’t desperate for sex. She wasn’t wired that way, never had been.

She was fine with closeness, with love, with care… but this sudden obsession Venus had with her body? It scared the bolts off her.

And it wasn’t just her. The whole school was caught up in the madness.

Everywhere Robeeca turned, monsters were losing themselves in each other—wild, careless, consumed. Everyone seemed fine with it. Some even loved it.

But not her.

She felt like the last one standing in a sea of lust, clinging to what little control she had left.

Her mechanical senses stayed sharp, her ears twitching for the faintest sound of rustling leaves or creeping vines.

If Venus was watching, she’d know.

If Venus had seeded this hallway, her plants would whisper.

But so far? Nothing.

No creeping roots. No slithering ivy. No sharp scent of moss.

For a moment, Robeeca allowed herself to exhale, her shoulders loosening. Maybe this hall was clear. Maybe, just maybe, she could slip through unseen—

“Hey, Robeeca.”

Her joints locked with a jolt.

Shit.

Robeeca froze where she stood, her gears tightening in her joints as she slowly turned.

Venus was leaning casually against the lockers a few feet away, her arms crossed, her vine-like hair curling and swaying with a life of its own. Her eyes glowed faintly pink, mischievous and hungry, but her smile was all charm.

“There you are, puppy,” Venus purred, her voice sweet but edged with control. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Robeeca’s optics flickered nervously. “Don’t call me that.”

Venus tilted her head, smirking as she pushed off the locker and sauntered closer. “Why not? You’re so loyal, so obedient. Always skittering around, trying to avoid me. Like a little metal pup.”

Robeeca stepped back, her gears clicking in protest. “I’m not avoiding you. I just… don’t have time for this right now.”

“Mmhm.” Venus circled her like a predator sizing up prey, her vines brushing along the lockers with a faint shhhk-shhhk sound.

“You’ve always got time for everything else, though. Classes. Tinkering. Fixing junk. But not for me?”

She leaned close enough that Robeeca could feel the warmth radiating off her. “Not for your girlfriend?”

Robeeca tightened her fists. “Venus, please. You’re not yourself.”

Venus chuckled, low and playful, not hostile in the slightest. “I’m more myself than ever, puppy. I’ve never been this alive. This… connected.”

Her eyes drifted deliberately down Robeeca’s frame, making the robot ghoul’s wiring flare hot with embarrassment. “And you’re a big part of that.”

Robeeca shook her head and moved to slip past her. “I can’t do this. Not like this. Not when you’re like… this.”

Venus shifted, blocking her path again, her smile still maddeningly calm.

“You think you can just walk away from me? Cute. But one day, puppy, you’re going to stop running. And when you do…”

Her vines curled around her wrist like a leash, snapping softly. “You’ll thank me.”

Robeeca’s gears whirred louder as her frustration broke through her nerves.

“Stop calling me that!” she snapped, pushing past with more force this time. “I don’t want to be your puppy. I want my girlfriend back.”

Venus watched her storm off down the hallway, her smile faltering just a little. She touched her chest, her vines curling tighter around her arm.

For a moment, doubt flickered in her eyes.

Was she pushing too hard? Was she scaring her away?

But the pink glow in her gaze pulsed brighter, drowning the thought.

Her lips curled back into a sly grin.

“She’ll come around,” Venus whispered to herself. “She has to.”

Still, as she leaned back against the locker, a quiet unease gnawed at her beneath the haze of desire.

But the heat, the hunger, the unshakable need drowned it out.

(A Random Hallway – 12:00 PM)

The teachers looked absolutely done with life.

Not just tired. Not just worn out. They looked like they’d been chewed up, spit out, and forced to drag themselves through hell with nothing but duct tape and sheer spite holding them together.

Mr. Rotter’s veins looked ready to burst from his forehead, his face permanently locked in a scowl of seething rage.

Mrs. Flapper’s makeup was smeared, her hair undone, and her eyes were so bloodshot she looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks.

Mr. Where sat slouched against the wall, staring blankly at the floor like he was questioning every life choice that had led him to this job.

Mrs. Kindergrübber held the two broken halves of her once-trusty wooden spoon, stroking them like a widow mourning her lost love.

The Mummy teacher didn’t even bother unwrapping his face. He just stood there, swaying slightly, an empty shell of linen and despair.

Igor cradled his wrist in a splint, muttering under his breath about “ungrateful brats” and “never again.”

The Siren teacher was huddled in a corner, rocking gently, her voice hoarse from screaming over students who hadn’t listened once all week.

The Irene Maiden teacher looked completely disheveled, tears in her gown, dress partially shredded, like even she had been worn down by the chaos.

Verizhe just chugged from a water bottle, no words, no emotion—just drinking like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

And Lou Zarr… poor Lou Zarr. He was curled up tight in a ball, rocking back and forth with fresh bruises and claw marks gouged all over his arms and face. He muttered to himself, eyes wide and glassy, flinching at every sound.

He had made one snide remark about Deuce and his crew being “good-for-nothing thugs.”

The ghouls had personally made sure he wouldn’t dare say that again.

Now, here they all were—huddled together like survivors of a war, drained to the bone after an entire week of trying to corral students who couldn’t keep their hands—or anything else—off each other for more than four goddamn seconds.

“Does anyone know,” Flapper croaked, her voice raspy and jagged, “when Bloodgood’s coming back?!”

Mr. Where rubbed his face so hard it looked like he wanted to claw it off. “She left last night. Took a few hours just to reach the portal to the Monster Council’s castle. Stopped to rest before finishing the trip.”

“So…” Rotter muttered through gritted teeth, “…best case? She’ll be back when the students leave today.”

“Good.” Flapper slammed her fist against the wall, eyes blazing. “Because the second I see her, I’m decking that stubborn bitch so hard she’ll see her ancestors!”

“As much as I despise violence,” the Irene Maiden said in a low, brittle voice, “count me in. We warned her. Over and over. She refused to listen.”

“And now the school’s a goddamn whorehouse!” Flapper snapped, her voice cracking with exhaustion. “And we’re the ones stuck babysitting the fallout!”

The group collectively glanced at Lou Zarr, still curled up, rocking like a broken clockwork doll.

They weren’t particularly fond of him, but seeing him reduced to that… well, it was hard not to pity him.

Verizhe sighed heavily. “I really hope Hackington’s evidence is enough to slap some sense into Bloodgood. Otherwise—”

She was cut off by a sudden, echoing shriek that pierced down the hallway.

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOOO!!”

The teachers all snapped their heads toward the sound—jolting like war veterans hearing incoming artillery.

And there she was.

C.A. Cupid.

She soared through the hallway in wide, wild loops, her bow gleaming in one hand, a quiver of glowing, heart-shaped arrows on her back. Her pink wings fluttered madly as she laughed, twisting and diving with all the grace of someone who had no fucking idea what she was doing, but was still having the time of her life.

Her face was flushed, her eyes glowing faintly pink.

The grin plastered across her face screamed one thing: unrestrained chaos.

“Is that… Cupid?” Mrs. Kindergrübber whispered, clutching the halves of her spoon like they could protect her.

“Yeah…” Rotter said slowly, his voice dropping. “Haven’t seen her all week. Maybe not even last week.”

“I do believe,” Mr. Where muttered darkly, “she was in the school when the gas attack happened.”

Everything froze.

Every teacher’s stomach dropped like a stone.

The silence was deafening—each of them realizing the same terrifying truth at the exact same moment.

Rotter turned, pale and rigid, to Flapper.

His voice was low, grim, like a death sentence:

“If Cupid’s powers make people fall in love… and the gas amplifies desire into… this… then how the hell do you think it’s affecting her?”

Slowly, every single teacher turned back toward Cupid.

She was hovering mid-air now, bow drawn, heart-shaped arrow glowing, aimed directly at a crowd of unsuspecting students below who were just minding their business.

Her smile widened.

“CUPID—WAIT!!!!!!!!”

The arrow shot forth, splitting into a spray of glittering shards—each one zipping toward random students like horny little missiles.

One lodged itself right into Honey Swamp, who was innocently scribbling away at a screenplay on her lap.

She froze mid-sentence. Her pen dropped. Her pupils dilated… then morphed into perfect pink hearts.

“…Oh, lord.”

Before anyone could blink, Honey ripped her clothes clean off, tossing them into the air like confetti.

The next thing they knew, her big, swampy ass was bouncing up and down on the face of a stunned zombie boy. His muffled groans vibrated against her cheeks while she rode him like a rodeo queen.

“UH-HUH! Mmm—yeeeeh, eat it, sugar!” Honey moaned, clapping her own ass to the beat as if she were on stage at Freaky Tiki’s on a Saturday night.

Her tits swung wild, her voice echoing like a banshee in heat.

The teachers stopped dead, jaws hanging.

“CUPID, GET BACK HERE!” Mr. Rotter bellowed, but even he couldn’t stop staring.

Mrs. Flapper shrieked, snapping out of it first. “HONEY! You stop sittin’ on that boy’s face RIGHT THIS INSTANT!”

Honey’s head whipped toward her, eyes glowing an unholy aquamarine, her lips curled into a swampy little grin.

“Oh, I ain’t stoppin’, teach…”

Suddenly, thick green vines erupted from the tiled floor, lashing out like whips.

One slapped Mrs. Flapper so hard across the chest it sent her spinning head-over-heels down the hallway, her squawks echoing all the way.

The rest of the room gasped. Everyone had forgotten one little fact—

Since Honey was a swamp monster, she had plant powers.

Like Venus.

And apparently, a swamp-sized sex drive to match.

The teachers tore down the halls after Cupid, lungs burning, legs aching, but united in one desperate thought: we CANNOT let this day end in a full-blown orgy.

Cupid, however, was merciless.

The winged menace zipped and dove through the corridors like a horny vigilante, her quiver raining pink-glowing arrows onto unsuspecting victims.

With every shot, another moan echoed, another set of clothes hit the floor.

Peri and Pearl Serpentine were mid-argument—as usual.

“Can’t believe you would suggest that!” Peri snapped, tail whipping behind her.

“Don’t get so uptight, sis,” Pearl shot back, her tone sharp and smug. “We both know I’m the hotter one.”

“As if!” Peri barked, spinning to face her sister. “Have you SEEN my ass? It’s a work of ART.”

(Author’s Note: In this canon, yes—they both have their own bodies when on land.)

Before Pearl could retort, Cupid soared past, letting two arrows loose in a perfect double-shot. T

hey whistled through the air, glowing bright—one thunking into Peri, the other into Pearl.

Their bickering cut off in an instant.

By the time the exhausted teachers skidded into the hallway, the Serpentine twins were already naked, kneeling side by side, hands and mouths busy slathering spit all over the massive cock of some random fish boy who’d just been unlucky—or lucky—enough to walk by.

They moaned in unison, their tongues gliding up his shaft, drool dripping down to the floor, their eyes glazed with lust.

“Oh my Ra!” the siren teacher gasped, covering her mouth in horror.

Mr. Where stormed forward, ears flat, his voice sharp. “Both of you, STOP this instant—”

He didn’t get to finish.

The fish boy, high off their attention, swung his arm out with unexpected force. His webbed hand cracked against Where’s chest with a THWACK! so hard it launched the poor invisible man into a locker.

The crash echoed like a gong through the hall, leaving a dent the size of his torso. Where groaned from inside, metal ringing around him.

The teachers froze in stunned silence, wide-eyed and pale.

But they didn’t have time to help their colleague. Not now.

If Cupid wasn’t stopped soon, this wouldn’t just be chaos—it would be a full-blown porno apocalypse.

They tore after Cupid through the halls of Monster High, but with every corner they rounded, their stomachs knotted tighter.

The place was devolving into an orgy-fueled madhouse.

Marisol Coxi, the gentle giantess, was howling as two random boys tag-teamed her, one in the front, one in the back, her massive body shaking the lockers with every thrust.

Herbert East? Pinned to the wall by writhing tentacles, his glasses fogged, squealing in a pitch no man should reach as one tendril slammed into his ass while another gagged him.

His clipboard clattered to the ground, forgotten.

And Kiyomi Haunterly—sweet, shy Kiyomi—had gone full poltergeist, her eyes glowing pink as she ripped the clothes off a girl with a telekinetic flick, then dove straight into her body, possessing her pussy.

The poor victim screamed like a banshee in heat, legs buckling as squirt sprayed the floor in violent gushes.

It was pure bedlam.

Every time a teacher tried to intervene, they got annihilated.

Mrs. Kindergrübber, bless her heart, had tried to shield a student with her arms—only to be grabbed and yeeted through the air like a frisbee, her wails Doppler-ing down the hall.

Mr. Verizhe thought his invisibility would help him sneak up on Cupid. Wrong. A spray can nailed him mid-step, making his form flicker visible.

Before he could recover, a flying trash bin—telekinetically hurled—sent him spiraling straight into an actual dumpster. Lid slammed shut. Done.

The siren teacher fared no better. She swooped in, determined to stop Invisi-Billy.

One sharp sonic scream from Scarah knocked her into the wall so hard the bricks rattled, leaving her stunned while Billy buried his face back into Scarah’s dripping cunt.

Irene Maiden tried to play the hero, lunging for Cupid—only to catch a steel-toed kick square in the chest that sent her tumbling down a whole flight of stairs.

And Lou? Poor Lou.

Last anyone saw, he was being dragged away by three ghouls with strap-ons and hungry grins. Nobody had the heart to check if he was okay.

The halls echoed with moans, screams, wet slaps, the chaos of desks toppling and doors breaking.

It wasn’t Monster High anymore. It was a nightmare carnival of lust.

And Cupid? She was laughing. Actually laughing, her wings fluttering as she loosed another volley of arrows into the chaos.

As Jane Boolittle stepped timidly into the hallway, Cupid already had another arrow drawn, her bowstring humming with tension.

The tip gleamed pink, wicked, eager.

“WAIT!”

Jane’s voice cracked like glass. Her hands were up, trembling, her entire body shaking with panic.

Cupid froze mid-draw, wings still.

“I… I-I’m n-not r-ready for sex,” Jane stammered, her eyes wide, lip quivering.

For a long heartbeat, Cupid only stared at her, expression unreadable. The tension in the bow eased—just slightly—then Cupid exhaled and gave the shy girl a solemn nod. With a flap of her wings, she darted off, leaving Jane clutching her chest, gasping in relief.

Jane was spared.

But the others weren’t.

Cupid streaked through the halls like a pink bullet train, loosing arrow after arrow, her laughter echoing like a melody of doom.

Her aim was ruthless, mechanical—hitting bodies faster than eyes could blink, faster than screams could rise.

One by one, chaos bloomed. Draculaura bounced wildly on Clawd’s cock, her shrieks shaking the lockers. Cleo’s lips wrapped around Deuce while his palm cracked against her ass. Lagoona rode Gil like she was trying to drown him on land, water spraying in every direction.

The teachers could only gape, horrified, powerless.

“This day can’t get any fucking worse,” the Mummy teacher muttered, voice flat with dread.

But it did.

Because Cupid’s eyes had already found her next target.

Frankie.

The ghoul froze where she stood, the world narrowing to the soft pink glow of the arrow aimed right at her heart.

Everything slowed.

The screams around her dulled into echoes, like muffled thunder underwater. The wild slaps of flesh-on-flesh blurred into distant drumbeats. Her vision tunneled until there was nothing but Cupid’s bowstring, drawn tight, trembling with promise.

Her thoughts spun, flashing like frames of a film reel—
Deuce teaching her a joke last week.
Draculaura comforting her when she had a panic attack over the phone.
Clawdeen pulling her into a hug after she short-circuited her locker.
Jackson’s hand brushing hers in the Coffin Bean. His voice, faint now, calling her name, telling her everything was gonna be alright.

Her chest tightened. She could almost hear his footsteps pounding toward her, but it didn’t matter.

“What’s gonna happen to me?”

Her mind screamed the question as the bowstring stretched back further, the arrow glowing brighter.

She knew what the arrows did. She’d seen her friends turned into moaning, writhing wrecks.

But she wasn’t like them—not yet.

She was still clueless, fumbling, a virgin in every sense of the word.

Would it break her? Would it awaken something she didn’t understand?

The answer dangled in the silence, suspended, unbearable.

Cupid’s lips curled into a smile as the arrow reached full draw.

Time fractured into glass shards. The air hummed, trembling with inevitability.

But before Cupid’s arrow could fly true, Mr. Rotter executed what could only be described as a very tired, very ungraceful superhero move.

He’d somehow shimmed himself up onto the lockers, hauled his lanky frame along the lip of the roof and, dangling there like a bedraggled Spider-Man, let go.

He came down in a flailing, chaotic arc—smashing into Cupid mid-hover.

The two of them crashed to the floor in a thunderous THUD that rattled the fluorescent lights.

Papers, a stray quiver, and at least one startled pigeon’s worth of confetti went everywhere.

Cupid sat up first, hair mussed, stockings askew and her bow bent at an unconcerned angle.

Before she could scoot away on a flap of wing, Mr. Rotter had somehow wrapped an arm around her like a human vice and pinned her to the linoleum with the kind of grim, exhausted determination that said no more nonsense today.

“Quickly!” he barked, voice raw. “Help me hold her down!”

The remaining teachers charged in, faces thunderous and very sleep-deprived.

For a second the hallway looked like an angry, underfunded squadron of substitute chaperones.

But Cupid, of course, was not remotely done playing.

With a mischievous blink she fished a small, pink, heavily bedazzled sphere from her pocket like it was absolutely the thing to have on hand during an apprehension.

“Oh for—” Mr. Rotter started.

She pressed the little button.

BOOM.

Smoke roared out in a glorious, glittering cloud—pink, aromatic, and suspiciously like bubblegum.

It filled the hallway in seconds, seeping into lockers, curling under shoes and making the emergency EXIT sign look like it was at a rave.

The teachers, predictably, were a beat too slow. They barreled forward into the fog, grabbing at air and one another in a very undignified chain reaction.

WHAM — arms into shoulders, knees into ankles — three of them collapsed into a pile that looked like a human game of Jenga gone wrong.

Someone coughed, someone lost a shoe, and Igor briefly considered becoming a plant.

The students, meanwhile, experienced the exact opposite effect of Cupid’s arrow.

The students, meanwhile, didn’t suddenly turn innocent saints—far from it.

The smoke hadn’t cured their horniness; that itch still simmered hot under their skin.

But Cupid’s arrows had amped everything up to a brainless, feral level, pushing them into public frenzies they couldn’t control.

Now, as the smoke rolled over them, that compulsion snapped like a rubber band.

The urge to pounce on the nearest body faded, leaving behind an awkward, restless heat instead.

A few kids darted off to cool down—or not—while others just stood there blinking, flushed and fidgeting, like they’d all woken up from a very loud, very confusing dream.

When the smoke cleared, Cupid was gone. Vanished.

No glitter, no arrow, no sign she’d ever been there except for a couple of heart-shaped feathers drifting down like confetti.

What was there, however, was a heap of teachers tangled in each other on the linoleum—Coach Igor’s hat slightly askew, The Mummy Teacher blinking owlishly, Mr. Rotter on his knees dragging a sleeve across his face as if the whole thing had been a particularly rude sneeze.

Fresh bruises, ruffled cloaks, one broken whsitle, and a propensity to mourn dignity filled the tableau.

The students lost their collective minds.

Phones were out in a second. Fingers pointed. Snickers turned into full-on laughter.

Someone started a chant that was roughly half triumphant and half “this is peak Friday.”

Mr. Rotter hauled himself up, chalk dust in his hair, dignity mostly intact but thin.

He wiped his hands on his trousers, glared at the ceiling like it owed him money, and then—in the only voice that felt appropriate after a hallway turned slapstick—he barked:

“You know what? I agree with Flapper. The moment Bloodgood steps back into this building, we’re all beating her ass!”

(Hackington’s Office — 1:50 PM)

Hackington clicked the Dictaphone off and listened to the small mechanical thunk it made as if it were sealing some final, important agreement.

He laid the black recorder beside a neat stack of labelled files — witness statements, security stills, audio clips — and let out a long, satisfied breath.

“Took a lot of hard work,” he murmured to the empty room, the corners of his mouth twitching into the first real smile he’d allowed himself all week. “But bloody hell, worth every minute.”

The footage had been painstaking: grainy locker-room angles, hallway feeds with timestamps, muffled audio that had to be cleaned and slowed.

He’d trawled through hours of it until patterns emerged, until the gas, the dreams, the behaviour formed a dossier that no sensible authority could ignore.

He pictured Bloodgood’s face when he walked her through the files; the expression that would finally make her stop placating council meetings and actually do something.

If she saw this — truly saw this — there would be no more hand-wringing. No more excuses.

Action would follow.

“Now all I’ve got to do is wait till she gets back,” he told the room, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples.

For the first time in days his shoulders dropped an inch. “Then we lay it all out. I’ll have her ears ringing with the evidence. No more excuses.”

He reached for the kettle with the same casual motion he always used to steady himself between tasks. The faint hiss of the boil filled the room.

Outside, the corridor was muffled—classrooms, laughter, the ordinary noises of a school that usually ran on routine.

Then, the office door sighed and opened.

Hackington turned, smiling politely before his brain had time to file the interruption as anything other than routine.

“Oh — hello, love,” he said, his British inflection lilting the words with tired warmth. “Didn’t expect anyone. Class nearly over, you know — what, thought you were gonna—”

He let the joke tail off, the smile still in place as he gestured toward the filing cabinet.

There was no answer.

He watched the figure move — deliberate, quiet, the soft scrape of shoes on linoleum — and felt the chamber of the room tighten around it.

The person did not speak. They did not look up.

They simply walked. Slow. Close.

Each step swallowed more of the scant space between them and the desk where the files lay like promises.

Hackington’s easy tone faltered. “Oi—why are you walking up on me like that?”

No answer.

They drew closer. The office light threw the figure into a narrow, long shadow that stretched across the floor toward Hackington like a slow hand.

Panic threaded his voice now. “Right, this is ridiculous—step back, please. You don’t want to be in here—seriously, step back!”

The figure’s pace didn’t speed.

It stopped a few paces from his desk, close enough that Hackington felt the air change — as if the temperature itself had decided to lean in.

He tried to muster authority, to keep the habitual calm of a man who logged evidence for a living.

“Listen—mate, I’m only asking—don’t be foolish. You’re not yourself, are you? Right? I can help. We can—”

A pale light began to pool in the figure’s upturned palm.

It was faint at first: a soft, clinical blue that seemed almost polite.

Then it strengthened, coalescing into a steady glow that painted the papers on Hackington’s desk with an otherworldly wash.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed. The humor had vanished from his voice. He took an involuntary step back until his shoulder met the wall.

His back hit plaster with a dull thud.

“Someone—anyone—help!” he shouted, fingers scrabbling for the phone on his desk.

The device felt suddenly far away, like something in a different room. “For God’s sake—HELP!”

The figure raised the glowing hand.

Hackington’s plea cracked into a scream. It was not the controlled shout of a man calling for assistance; it was a raw, animal sound stripped of protocol and caution.

The kettle whistled on the desk, unheeded.

The blue light flared.

It swallowed the office in a heartbeat — not like sunlight, not like a warm lamp, but like a clean, antiseptic wash that erased edges and depth.

The sound of Hackington’s scream folded into that light and then, abruptly, everything was gone.

(Bloodgood’s Office – 2:10 PM)

The teachers were done.

Not just tired. Not just irritated. Done.

Their patience had been burned, stomped out, and buried six feet under.

Every single one of them sat scattered around Bloodgood’s office, waiting for the Headmistress to finally return and for Hackington to show up with the supposed mountain of evidence he’d been collecting all week.

But the man was late, Bloodgood was late, and after the humiliation of being laughed at by their own students earlier, the staff were at their absolute breaking point.

Mr. Where sat hunched in a chair, arms crossed so tight it looked like they’d snap. His pride was bleeding from every pore.

“I’m starting to think about resigning,” he growled, eyes burning. “I can’t bear another minute with these hellspawns!”

“Same here,” Irene Maiden muttered, her tone sharp and brittle. “I know they’re not entirely at fault, but I can’t bear it anymore. Retirement looks better every day.”

“You can say that again,” the Mummy teacher grumbled.

Igor shot up from his chair, his voice cracking with fury. “Where the fuck is Hackington? He swore he’d be here with the evidence. It’s been thirty bloody minutes!”

“Maybe it’s taking him time to get it all organized?” Kindergrübber offered weakly, clutching her broken spoon like a lifeline.

Rotter slammed a fist onto the desk so hard the inkwell jumped. “Well he better get his ass here soon, because if I have to sit here for another hour, I’m going to throw someone through a wall!”

“Will all of you relax?!” Hatchetson snapped, trying to keep order. “I know we’re all emotionally charged, but we cannot let anger and frustration cloud logic and reaso—”

“Relax? RELAX?!” Mr. Where roared, bolting upright and glaring her down with bloodshot eyes. “This ENTIRE WEEK has been a FUCKING HELLSCAPE!”

He jabbed a clawed finger at the room. “We’ve had to deal with kids shagging in classrooms, moaning in storage closets, smoking in the bloody gym—and every time we try to stop them, we’re the villains!”

The Siren teacher lurched to her feet, her hair a frazzled mess. “Do you have ANY idea how many times I’ve been shoved, kicked, or screamed at?! We’re treated like punching bags while this place turns into a brothel!”

“I can’t even run PE anymore!” Igor shouted, throwing up his hands. “The moment I try to clear out the bleachers, some kid threatens to kick my teeth in for ‘interrupting their alone time!’”

“And my baking class?” Kindergrübber shrieked, her German accent breaking into a wail. “It’s a fucking ORGY! Every day I find kids licking batter off each other instead of learning how to bake! Zhey ruined my frosting bowls!”

Rotter’s face had gone scarlet, his veins bulging. “I CAN’T EVEN DELIVER A LECTURE WITHOUT SOMEONE IN THE BACK MAKING A JOKE ABOUT ‘HARDWOOD!’ I’M DONE!”

The office dissolved into chaos. Voices overlapped, spit flew, papers scattered.

Lou Zarr ranted about being a punching bag, the Siren teacher shrieked about getting clawed again, Igor cursed, Kindergrübber wailed about ruined pastries.

It wasn’t just venting anymore. It was the staff’s collective rage boiling over — the sound of people who’d been pushed too far, and now had nothing left to lose.

And then—

The door creaked open.

The shouting died instantly.

Every head whipped toward the entrance.

There she was.

Headmistress Bloodgood.

Her gaze swept over the disheveled, furious crowd of teachers.

She raised a brow, perfectly calm, as though she hadn’t just walked into a nest of vipers ready to strike.

“Is everyone… alright?” she asked, her tone mild.

The silence that followed was so sharp it could’ve cut glass.

Mrs. Flapper moved like a steamroller.

She walked up to Bloodgood with the slow, terrible calm of someone who had reached the end of her rope — then, without warning, she slapped the Headmistress so hard the sound cracked off the woodwork.

Bloodgood staggered backward, clutching at her cheek; her hat skittered across the floor.

The office erupted into a burst of hot, furious noise — teachers screaming obscenities in every register.

Some words were mild, some so angry they spat and fizzed, and some were the kind of venomed lines nobody in a professional meeting would dare repeat aloud.

The sound was a raw, collective release: years of frustration pouring out at once.

Within seconds Bloodgood had her composure back enough to haul herself upright.

The teachers crowded in around her, faces thunderous, breath hot with fury. A few looked on the verge of throwing a fist; others trembled with exhausted rage.

For a heartbeat there was only the clatter of breath and the sharp intake of people who had, until then, been holding everything in.

“ENOUGH!” Bloodgood’s voice cut through like a bell.

The room snapped silent — the noise sucked out of the air — but the heat under every stare didn’t die. It flickered.

She straightened, smoothing a sleeve as though she were chastising a child.

“I have just returned, and you’re all screeching like banshees. What on God’s green earth is the matter?”

The mildness in her tone made it worse; it sounded like a woman offended by the spectacle rather than moved by the crisis.

For a second the teachers just looked at one another, each gathering the words that had been burning behind their teeth.

Then Rotter, who had been simmering in the corner, stepped forward without ceremony.

He didn’t plead. He didn’t flank with rebuttals. He walked right up and slapped Bloodgood — forehand and then backhand — two sharp blows that echoed down the office.

Bloodgood clutched at her face, frowning in stunned outrage. “What in blazes was that for?!” she demanded.

“For being an absolute idiot!” Rotter’s voice was a thunderclap. He didn’t bother to soften it. “Do you have any idea what we’ve been doing while you were off playing politics with the Monster Council? Do you know the shitstorm we’ve been cleaning up?”

He stopped talking long enough for Mr. Where to pick up the thread with a bark. “This whole week the students have been running riot. They’re making out in the hallways, groping in class, fucking in bathrooms and storage rooms and the gym. We try to stop them and either they fight us or glare us down. We’ve lost control of the school!”

His fingers dug into the arm of the chair like someone holding himself together by force.

“We’ve been pushed to the limit,” Irene Maiden said, voice raw as rope. “We can’t keep doing this.”

The Mummy teacher’s cloth rustled affirmatively. Igor spat a curse and ground his teeth. Kindergrübber practically screamed about ruined lessons and frosting bowls, Hatchetson’s attempts at calming measured out like water on a bonfire.

Bloodgood’s expression hardened. “You’re still yammering about this? I told you — unless you have proof, I cannot take action. The Monster Council will demand—”

Rotter cut her off, hands on his hips, jaw clenched so tightly his face trembled.

“Oh, we have proof, all right,” he said, cold and tight. “Enough proof to make the Council act, to open investigations, to force emergency measures. Enough proof to make them sit up and take responsibility for the mess left by that attack.”

He let the sentence hang like a threat.

Before she could reply, Rotter seized Bloodgood’s arm and began to pull.

“Come on,” he barked. “You’re going to look at what we’ve collected. You’re going to see what’s been happening in your school under your nose.”

“Unhand me this instant!” Bloodgood cried, wrenching her arm, but the room closed in.

Every teacher moved, following: Flapper pushing forward, Kindergrübber muttering,

Mr. Where looming with a face like iron — a flock of exhausted people with their fury out and their footing steady.

“Keep moving!” Flapper snapped, shoving the Headmistress’s forehead lightly but firmly so she faced the door. “It’s time you opened your damn eyes for once.”

Bloodgood’s eyes flashed. There was outrage there, real and dangerous, but it had shifted: for the first time outside of protocol she looked — truly — accountable.

The line between headmistress and defendant had shortened to a single breath.

The teachers, spent and angry and resolute, were not backing down.

(Hackington’s Lab – 2:17 PM)

If you could put their faces into words, it was shock sharpened into disbelief.

On the walk down, the teachers had practically fed off each other’s energy.

They wanted to see Bloodgood squirm, wanted to see her reaction when Hackington dumped his mountain of evidence on the desk.

The thought of finally being vindicated after a week of hell was almost sweet enough to taste.

But the moment they crossed the threshold into the lab, the sweetness curdled.

Everyone froze — even Bloodgood.

The lab wasn’t just messy. It was annihilated.

Beakers lay shattered, chemicals bled into the tile in ugly rainbow stains. Machines had been ripped from their sockets, wires dangling like veins torn from flesh. Desks were overturned, some splintered into heaps. Papers carpeted the floor, torn and boot-stamped.

Even the walls bore gouges and claw marks, as if something had raged through the place.

It looked less like a workspace and more like ground zero of a natural disaster.

Rotter stepped forward first, careful not to slice his shoes on broken glass. His jaw worked as he scanned the wreckage.

“What… the hell happened here?” he muttered, as though saying it aloud would make the scene real.

The others followed, slow and silent, their initial shock sliding into something colder.

Horror.

“Where’s Hackington?” Mr. Where’s voice cracked through the silence, tense as wire.

He looked around the corners, as if expecting the man to stumble out from under a desk with his usual dry complaint.

But nothing moved.

Irene turned in place, her eyes sweeping over every inch of destruction. Her throat tightened.

“He… he wouldn’t do this. Not Hackington.” Her voice dropped lower, softer, like she was speaking to herself. “He was meticulous, careful. Clumsy, yes, but… not this.”

Rotter’s fists clenched.

“Then where is he?” His voice carried more than concern now — it carried dread.

Bloodgood lingered near the doorway, her face pale, her usual composure cracked at the edges.

This wasn’t the scenario she had braced herself for. She looked at the carnage like someone seeing a ghost.

“Who,” she asked finally, her voice tight and small, “could’ve done something like this?”

Hatchetson bent down and picked up a stack of notes, the edges damp and torn.

“Maybe it could’ve been Porter and Spectra? Those two leave destruction in their wake every time they… you know.”

Igor lifted the broken remains of Hackington’s dictaphone, wires dangling from its cracked casing.

“No. This wasn’t an accident. This was deliberate. Someone had motive.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Where muttered, pacing through the wreckage. “Like someone knew what Hackington was compiling—and wanted to silence him before he could reveal it.”

Bloodgood crossed her arms, defensive irritation seeping into her voice. “I think you’re stretching it a little, Mr. Where.”

“No. He’s not.”

All eyes shifted to Rotter. He was crouched by a shattered laptop, prying something wedged deep into the ruined screen.

With a grunt, he pulled it free and held it up for everyone to see.

“That’s…” Mrs. Flapper’s voice trailed.

“An ice pick,” Igor finished, his face paling.

Rotter nodded grimly. “And notice the damage. Everything’s wet, as if it’s thawing out.”

The Siren Teacher frowned. “You’re suggesting the attacker had ice powers?”

“Exactly,” Rotter said, voice like stone. “And there’s only one cryomancer in this school.”

Bloodgood’s face tightened. “She would never do something like this!”

Rotter’s jaw clenched. “She’s the only one who could. And just like the rest of the students, she’s been acting like a feral wild-child all week.”

Bloodgood’s voice sharpened to a shout. “Even IF she’s been affected, I refuse to believe she would stoop THIS low!”

Mrs. Flapper stepped forward, eyes blazing. “Bloodgood, nearly every student in this school is willing to attack a teacher if we so much as stop them from screwing in a classroom. If they’ll cross that line, what makes you think they wouldn’t destroy a lab to cover their tracks?”

“There are dozens of magic users in this school!” Bloodgood snapped. “Any one of them could have done it—”

“OH OPEN YOUR BLOODY EYES, BLOODGOOD!” Igor roared, veins bulging. “This has ABBEY written all over it!”

Bloodgood’s composure snapped. “SILENCE! First you accuse me of negligence. Then you accuse the students of debauchery. And now—NOW—you accuse Abbey of destroying Hackington’s lab and his so-called evidence? Just to keep me from learning the truth?”

“YES!” the teachers thundered in unison, their voices shaking the walls.

“While you were away playing politics,” Mr. Where bellowed, “this school has become a FUCKING MADHOUSE!”

“Then show. Me. Your. EVIDENCE!” Bloodgood screamed back, slamming her fist on the nearest desk. “I can’t go to the Monster Council with rumors! I need proof! Documents, recordings, anything that shows what you’re saying is TRUE! Where IS IT?!”

The teachers faltered. Their fury cracked with the weight of realization.

Every scrap they’d had—every photo, every recording, every statement—they had handed off to Hackington.

And now it was ash, glass, and sludge scattered across the floor.

They had nothing.

The silence was suffocating.

Then Rotter straightened. His eyes burned like coals.

“You want proof?” His voice was quiet, dangerous. “Fine. You’ll get it.”

Everyone turned toward him.

Bloodgood blinked, confused. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Rotter brushed past her, heading toward the door. His shoulders were rigid, his footsteps heavy. “Come with me.”

The teachers exchanged baffled, uneasy looks before slowly following him.

Even Bloodgood, still reeling, trailed after—because the fire in Rotter’s tone promised something they weren’t prepared for.

(Bloodgood’s Office – 2:30 PM)

The look on Bloodgood’s face could only be described as pure, unfiltered oh shit.

Rotter’s little insurance plan had paid off. At the top corner of his classroom, hidden where no student would ever think to look, he’d installed a camera.

A whole week of footage, compiled into one damning reel.

And now Bloodgood sat frozen at her desk, eyes glued to the screen as the video played.

Her students—students she knew by name—were shown grinding against each other in the back row, fumbling hands beneath desks, slipping out of class two by two. Some openly jacked off while Rotter’s back was turned.

Others laughed, made obscene gestures, or ignored every word of his lectures in favor of devouring each other’s mouths.

It wasn’t a montage of mischief. It was a full-on descent into depravity.

The teachers had warned her. Again and again.

And she had waved them off.

Her throat felt tight. All the anger she had stockpiled at her staff for "complaining" drained out of her in a sickening rush, replaced by a cold, heavy guilt that made her gut twist.

She had dismissed them. She had left them to drown while she played politics.

The video cut to black. The silence in the office was deafening.

Bloodgood finally exhaled, her voice cracking. “And this… this has been happening since Monday?”

“Yes,” Rotter said flatly. “Though it really began last Friday. Jackie Lope and Bridgette Rolle were caught having sex after you left. That’s when the spiral started.”

Bloodgood pressed a hand to her temple, her composure crumbling. “Great heavens. And to think… this is all the result of that gas release.”

Hatchetson’s tone was sharp, almost scathing. “That wasn’t a ‘release,’ Nora. Whoever—or whatever—did this knew exactly what they were unleashing. They wanted Monster High turned into an adult film set.”

The Mummy Teacher crossed his arms, his voice grave. “She’s not wrong. Nearly every single student in this school has been hornier than beasts in mating season.”

Bloodgood’s eyes snapped toward him, horrified. “Every student?!”

He nodded without hesitation. “Every last one.”

Bloodgood swallowed hard.

“Draculaura?”

“Yes.”

“Lagoona?”

“Mhm.”

“Deuce?”

“Pretty much.”

“Clawdeen?”

“Yep.”

“Cleo?”

“Indeed.”

“Abbey?”

“Most definitely”

“Toralei?”

“Obviously.”

Bloodgood leaned back in her chair, her face pale, her jaw tight. Her voice cracked. “This is bad… really, really bad.”

“You can say that again,” Mr. Where muttered bitterly. “And some of them are still minors! They’re not even eighteen, and they’re fucking like animals!”

“Not a single student hasn’t been affected?” Bloodgood asked, almost pleading.

Rotter cleared his throat. “Well… Hackington did say he kept a list of those who hadn’t shown any sexual behavior. Unfortunately, it was on his laptop.”

He gestured toward the memory of the wrecked lab. “And that’s gone.”

Bloodgood pressed both hands over her face. “Shit.”

“But—” Rotter continued, “I do remember two names from that list.”

Bloodgood’s head shot up, eyes wide. “WHO?!”

Rotter actually flinched at the sharpness in her voice. “Frankie Stein and Robeeca Steam.”

For a moment, relief washed over Bloodgood’s features. Her shoulders sagged, and she exhaled like someone who had just escaped drowning.

“Thank Ra…”

Rotter didn’t let her cling to it. “But I wouldn’t consider them safe for long. Catrine Demew wasn’t even here the week of the gas attack. She came back this week and was immediately caught drawing explicit images. And when the teacher tried to confiscate it?”

His eyes narrowed. “She mauled him.”

“She vas nowhere near ze building ven ze gas struck,” Kindergrübber said darkly. “But simply being here zis week has already turned her as feral as everyone else.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Where said. “It’s only a matter of time before Frankie and Robeeca crack too. Nobody’s immune to this. Every last student’s going to end up an ill-behaved sex freak.”

“Which is exactly why we need to tell the Monster Council!” Hatchetson snapped. “They’ll know how to resolve this!”

Bloodgood’s sigh was long and heavy, the sound of defeat. “…As much as I understand your statement, unfortunately… we can’t tell them.”

Every teacher froze, staring at her.

“WHY THE HELL NOT?!” Flapper screamed, her voice so raw it made the office walls vibrate.

Bloodgood didn’t flinch. Slowly, with grim ceremony, she reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a folded note.

Her hands trembled slightly as she unfolded it, took a deep, steadying breath… and began to read aloud.

“Headmistress Bloodgood,

For years, the Monster Council has tolerated Monster High’s… eccentricities. We have observed from a distance, choosing not to interfere despite repeated complaints from parents, elders, and local authorities. Monsters running for their lives, incidents spiraling into chaos, reckless student behavior—none of these were directly your doing, and so we turned a blind eye.

But our patience has limits. And Monster High has reached them.

The recent gas incident was the final straw. After much deliberation, the Council has reached a decision.

On October 20th, myself and several other members of the Council will arrive at Monster High. We will observe your staff, your students, and the integrity of your institution. What we see on that day will determine whether Monster High survives—or is shut down indefinitely.

Be warned: any hint of suspicious behavior—be it violence, skipping classes, use of illicit substances, contraband, threats, reckless use of powers, or any form of sexual or explicit misconduct—will be grounds to declare Monster High unfit to operate. Should that judgment be passed, the school will be immediately closed until further notice.

Any students with a history of endangering Monster High’s reputation—such as your so-called Ghoul Squad—will face permanent expulsion. Their records will carry a black mark that will shadow them for years to come. Only by enduring a full year in a monitored detention facility, demonstrating flawless obedience and control, will they be granted the chance to resume their education elsewhere. They will not, under any circumstances, return to Monster High.

As for your faculty: any educator—including yourself—found guilty of negligence, incompetence, or enabling misconduct will be stripped of their teaching license. They will never again instruct at any Monster institution, in New Salem or beyond.

Understand the gravity of what is at stake, Headmistress. This is no longer about your pride, your politics, or your leniency. This is about the survival of Monster High itself.

Prepare your school accordingly.

Yours sincerely,
Count Lazarus
For the Monster Council.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Not a breath, not a shuffle, not even the hum of the lights overhead dared intrude.

Every teacher in that room sat frozen, their earlier fury and exhaustion replaced by something far colder—fear.

Rotter’s voice broke through the stillness, hoarse and brittle. “Is this… is this real?”

Bloodgood’s nod was stiff, mechanical. “Yes.”

He swallowed hard. “What day did they say this was again?”

“October 20th.”

Irene’s skin drained of all color. “That’s… next Friday.”

Sylphia’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Then that only gives us—”

“Four days.” Mr. Where’s tone was flat, lifeless. His eyes were hollow as if he were already mourning something lost. “Four days to clean up the carcass of what this school’s become before the Council arrives to bury it.”

Hatchetson pressed her face into her hands, shoulders trembling. “We’re finished. We’re already finished.”

Mrs. Flapper gave a sharp, humorless laugh that cracked in her throat. “Oh, you just realized that? Took you long enough.”

Verizhe’s voice erupted, jagged and raw. “How in Davy Jones’ bloody locker are we supposed to make these kids act right in four days?! They don’t listen now—they’ll never listen!”

“Zhey… zhey love zhis school,” Kindergrubber whispered, though it sounded more like a prayer than a truth. “Zhey would not vish to lose it.”

Rotter’s glare cut through her hope like a blade. “I tried. I begged, threatened, reasoned. They don’t care. Not one of them gives a damn.”

Bloodgood flinched at that, a hollow weight pressing in her chest.

She had clung to the belief that somewhere inside her students was still a shred of loyalty, a spark of discipline—that they’d rally if the school itself was on the line.

But Rotter’s failure crushed that fantasy to dust.

“They’ll let this place burn,” Rotter muttered, his voice like ash.

Igor slammed a fist into the wall, his voice cracking. “We cannot let this happen! I am NOT losing my career—my life’s work—because these brats would rather rut in closets than act like students!”

“But how do we even begin to control them?” the Mummy Teacher rasped. “Half of them could flatten us with a thought.”

“We tell ze parents,” Kindergrubber urged. “Zhey must know ze truth!”

“NO!” Rotter snapped, venom in his voice. “We have no proof left—only rumors and broken labs. Parents won’t save us. They’ll turn on us. They’ll turn on the school. And then it’s already over.”

“Or worse,” Mr. Where added darkly, “they’ll run to the Council themselves—and hand them the rope to hang us with.”

“Then what the hell do we do?!” Sylphia screamed, desperation twisting her voice. “I don’t want to be at war with the kids, but I refuse to lose everything over this!”

She turned, eyes burning, to Bloodgood. “Nora. Please. Tell us you have something. Anything.”

The Headmistress’s face was pale, unreadable. For a long, terrible moment, she said nothing.

And then—soft, flat, final:

“I. don’t. know.”

The words hit harder than any scream.

The room descended into a deathly silence.

No one argued. No one comforted. No one dared speak.

Because for the first time, every single one of them understood the truth.

Monster High was already a sinking ship.

And unless a miracle appeared in the next seven days, they weren’t saving the students.

They weren’t saving themselves.

They weren’t saving anything.

(Residence of Catrine Demew – 9:46 PM)

The little studio she called a bedroom was usually a sanctuary—pastels, half-finished canvases leaning against the wall, soft music thrumming low through her speakers. But tonight, something was different. The air was thick, heavy, and the light from her laptop cast long, eerie shadows across her desk.

Catrine sat hunched over, sketchbook open, pencil gliding furiously across the page. What once would’ve been another whimsical portrait or dreamy watercolor now twisted into something raw, brazen, and unfiltered. Her corrupted mind had found a new outlet.

Page after page filled with anatomy—graphite lines crossing boundaries she once would’ve never dared. The innocent feline muse was gone, replaced with an artist intoxicated by her own perversions. Each stroke was quick, confident, as if she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.

Her tail flicked lazily behind her as she glanced at her laptop screen, where a blank social media page sat open, cursor blinking like a dare. She licked her lips, snapped a photo of one of her “masterpieces,” and uploaded it as a banner.

Her claws clacked over the keys.

Bienvenue… commissions now open.

She smirked, hit post, and set the price at a tantalizing $50.

And with that, Catrine Demew had given Monster High a brand-new vice.

(Catacombs of Monster High – 11:15 PM)

The catacombs were cold that night. Colder than usual.

Stalactites dripped water from the ceiling, the sound echoing through the endless stone tunnels. Shadows clung to the walls like they were alive, twitching with the dim flicker of dying lanterns.

And in the middle of one chamber stood Hackington.

Or what was left of him.

He wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t moving. He couldn’t.

His entire body was locked in place, flesh and blood transmuted into translucent ice, his frozen veins glimmering faintly beneath the surface. His face was twisted in a mask of pure terror, mouth agape mid-scream, eyes wide and glossy, forever staring at something only he knew.

The frost crawled outward from his feet, spreading like a curse across the stone floor. Tiny shards of ice hung from his fingers, like he’d tried to claw his way out of his fate.

He looked alive, but there was no life in him—just a perfect, petrified statue of fear.

Hackington had found the truth.

But the truth had found him first.

(At an Unknown Location – ???)

A circle of hooded figures gathered around a long stone table, their faces hidden, their shadows cast by a single flickering lantern.

“So,” one of them spoke, her voice lilting with feminine mockery, “how’s our little experiment progressing?”

Another leaned forward, his tone gruff and male.

“Perfect so far. You weren’t exaggerating. That nerd’s concoctions turned out to be exactly what you promised—the doomsday weapon to bring Monster High to its knees.”

The woman chuckled, low and venomous. “What can I say? When someone thinks their reputation’s on the line, they’ll sell their soul for a cure—or a curse.”

Her tone sharpened like a knife. “Now, enough flattery. Tell me. What’s it doing to them?”

The boy smiled under his hood. “In less than a week, over ninety-eight percent of the student body has given in. Even the proud ones—Cleo, Draculaura, Isi—they’re all drowning in their own lust.”

“Excellent,” the woman purred. “But what of the two percent?”

Another voice—this one female, careful, almost nervous—answered. “Only a handful remain unaffected. Two of them… Robecca Steam and Frankie Stein.”

The leader’s lips curled into a snarl, her pleasant façade cracking. “Of course she would be one of the outliers.”

“Sorry, boss,” the male stammered. “We’re doing everything we can to—”

“No.” Her voice cut like steel. “This was expected. Frankie Stein was never going to break quickly.”

“You knew?”

The leader leaned forward, her hood slipping just enough to reveal the glint of burning eyes.

“Frankie Stein is many things. Brave. Stupidly kind. Foolishly loyal. Even funny, in that freshly-sewn-together idiot way of hers.” Her finger rose, trembling with restrained fury. “But above all else? She has… spark.”

“Spark?” another whispered.

“Yes.” The leader’s voice deepened, reverent and hateful at once. “Whenever this school falters, Frankie is the spark that reignites it. She rallies them. She unites them. She saves them. Again and again. She’s their little Superman doll, stitched together from scraps but somehow still shining brighter than the rest.”

Her hand slammed down onto the table, rattling it.

“And that is why the gas struggles to rewire her brain. That spark resists. That spark fights.”

“So what do we do?”

The leader drew something from her cloak—a glass apple, glimmering faintly pink. She held it high, then smashed it to the ground.

CRASH.

Shards exploded across the floor. Her voice rose, manic and raw.

“We snuff it out. We tear out that spark. We break the pieces of her mind that resist us. Strip Frankie of her bravery, her courage, her leadership—until there’s nothing left but the clumsy, clueless, wide-eyed doll she was when she first dared to show her face… in my school!”

Gasps rippled through the room. She inhaled slowly, calming, letting the silence hang. Then she continued, cold and deliberate.

“Once her spark is gone, her brain will soak up lust like a sponge. Surrounded by ghouls hornier than the entire front page of MonsterHub, Frankie won’t fight back. She’ll fold. She’ll mimic. She’ll obey. She’ll swallow every word they whisper into her ear, spread her legs for every filthy hand that reaches for her, and smile while doing it.”

The woman turned, clasping her hands behind her back as her cloak trailed across the shattered glass.

“Monster High’s golden girl will become nothing more than a mindless little cum dump. A toy. A hole. A whore with bolts.”

She tilted her head back, savoring her words.

“And once she falls, the rest will crumble. Reputation. Pride. Hope. All of it collapsing like dominoes… in one, glorious, swoop.”

The chamber went still.

Finally, another hooded girl broke the silence, her voice quivering with both awe and dread.

“That’s… a hell of a way to win.”

“And what about the automaton?” another hooded figure asked, their tone sharp.

“Simple,” the leader replied coolly. “She’s a machine, not just a monster. That makes the gas… stubborn. It’s inside her, yes—seeping into the cracks, trying to gnaw through her circuits—but her programming resists.”

“Programming?” another scoffed. “She’s a two-hundred-year-old steampunk relic. Built with gears and brass. Victorian tech.”

The leader smirked beneath her hood. “Yes. Victorian tech… and a thread of dark magic woven through her frame.”

The room fell silent.

“What?” one girl finally muttered, brow furrowed.

“Don’t be naive,” the leader snapped. “You think Hexiciah Steam conjured a fully functional, walking, breathing automaton girl in the eighteenth century with nothing but screws and gears? Please.”

She let out a dry laugh. “Even the greatest inventors dabble in darkness when science alone won’t do. How else do you think he managed to keep breathing for so long himself?”

A boy’s voice cut in, softer now. “So… she’s not just machine. She’s a hybrid. Tech and magic.”

“Exactly,” the leader purred. “Which means she has a soul. And anything with a soul can be corrupted. All we need is a crack in the code, a rewrite in her programming—just enough to make her invite the gas in herself.”

“And how do we pull that off without drawing suspicion?” another demanded. “Kidnap her? That’ll have half the school combing the catacombs before sundown.”

The leader’s grin widened. “Oh, we won’t lift a finger.”

She slid an envelope across the table, the wax seal glinting faintly in the candlelight.

A hooded hand snatched it up.

“Make sure that lands in Mrs. McFlytrap’s hands,” she instructed.

Then she stood, her cloak sweeping over shattered glass. Her eyes burned from beneath the hood as she turned her back on the circle.

“If everything goes according to plan…” her voice dripped with venom, “…Monster High will be reduced to a hollow shell. A laughingstock. Nothing more than a graveyard of broken names and ruined faces.”

She paused at the doorway, her silhouette sharp in the lantern light.

“And then…” her voice dropped, low and bitter, “…they’ll finally pay for what they did to us.”

The heavy doors creaked shut behind her.

To Be Continued...

Notes:

Well folks, the story is REALLY starting to kick off.

The Council is showing up to make their judgement, the teachers are between a rock and a hard place, and the villains have FINALLY made their debut.

With all the stuff thats about to happen, what do you think will happen next?

And what will be the fates of Frankie and Robeeca?

Actions

Kudos

PaltacaTe, Winter_Moon08, Kwks, hydewithme, Buggy764, SapphicFandom, Mother_shr00m, bebot127, ImpossiblefaceFox, coralofthedepths, Reioongie, geonlikescheese8610, Ellllliiieeeeee, Dianyx151327, Creativity_Unrestrained, okkoyuu, Roseknave43, Shunsheng, oMega1361, Nadiahilkerfan, PluviaQ, Abductor_Of_Magic, SaliiMoor, keykey0790, RainyHeart_29, Thatgirl_1, PERSON_aka_MOLLY, Starr716, StarFirefly_22, Digo3D, spf500, allendy, x_Maddy_x123, JonahandJo, Krissy_pooh_bear, Anonimamentefalando, CrescentMoon29, Waterfallscomingoutyourmouth, Hols690, Jay1eenia, Lunar_n_lover, and mightbekatt_444 as well as 84 guests left kudos on this work!