It’s been a long winter in Seattle. The kind where the rain never really stops, just changes in volume. Days smear into nights until you forget when one ends and the other begins. Classes. Part-time work. Grocery runs between downpours. Reality is nothing like the glossy college life they show in movies: no endless sunny quads, no picture-perfect friend groups. Just damp hair, sore feet, and laundry that never seems to dry completely.

Valentine’s Day comes without ceremony. No boyfriend. No half-baked date offers. Just me, my trusty rain jacket, and a party invitation from someone whose name I can’t remember.

The campus party is already loud when I get there: music rattling the windows in a way that feels like it might shake the building loose from its foundation. Inside, it’s warm, almost uncomfortably so, the air thick with sweat, beer, and the lingering scent of someone’s perfume.

I dance for a little while, though it’s more swaying than anything, moving just enough to keep people from thinking I’m a statue. Everyone seems locked into their own cliques: the jocks form a permanent orbit around the keg like planets unwilling to stray from their sun, the drama kids take over the couch with exaggerated stories and cigarette breaks, and the stoners have claimed the dim hallway near the back, where the smoke drifts out into the cold.

I drift between worlds: outside to hover by the small fire pit where people are talking about nothing in particular, then back inside where the air is heavy and the music is relentless. Pick your poison: freezing air that turns your fingers numb, or the humid cloud of weed thick enough to taste. Either way, you’re just trying to keep warm.

Somewhere, faintly, there’s a pulse under all this: a low, slow rhythm that isn’t part of the music. I tell myself it’s just in my head.

It’s been months since that night with Noel, and the memory of it has… blurred. Like something I dreamed, then woke up too fast. I can still see flashes if I try: blue curtains swaying in the dark, rain streaking the glass, his glasses left on the nightstand. But every time I reach for the memory, it slides away, leaving nothing but a strange, empty ache in my chest.

I don’t know if I miss him, or just the blackout haze of that night: the heat, the loss of control. Whatever happened after, it’s gone from me. Only scraps remain, and none of them explain how he ended up dead on Bainbridge Island.

Someone bumps into me, jolting me back into the now. The pulse fades. The fire’s smoke curls into the night air, and I step closer, letting the heat lick at my skin.

There are faces I’ve seen before on campus: blurry fixtures in lecture halls, the library, crossing rain-slick streets. No names. Just outlines. Someone leans in and kisses me without warning. Beer and weed on their lips, heat and sourness in equal measure. I let it happen for a second before pulling away, laughing like it’s nothing.

I don’t even see their face before they’re pulling me toward the living room, where the music is low and slow enough to sway to. Bodies press together in the half-light, the air thick with heat and smoke.

I let the beat take me. My hips start to move, almost without my say-so, just a lazy sway in time with the bass. Someone’s behind me now. Tall. Built. I can feel the outline of them even before their hands find my waist.

Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s something else. The warmth in my head spreads, softening the edges of the room. The laughter and the music begin to blur, stretch, bend.

The crowd shifts. The shadows deepen.

The beat slows, or maybe my body does. I close my eyes and let myself lean back. The chest behind me is solid, slick with sweat, moving in a rhythm that feels older than the song. One of his hands presses against my stomach, drawing me closer until there’s no space left between us. His breath hits the side of my neck in slow, even waves, making the tiny hairs there rise.

The air changes. Heavy now, like it’s thick enough to drink. I open my eyes but the room isn’t the same. Faces around me are just outlines, blurred in red and gold light, their mouths moving in silent words. The music is gone, replaced by a low, pulsing thrum I feel more than hear.

I press back against him, grinding in time with that strange beat, feeling him respond in the hard shift of his hips. His other hand glides over my hip and slips just under the hem of my shirt, fingertips hot, calloused.

Something stirs inside me. Not just arousal, something sharper. Older. It spreads up my spine like a whisper.

The sway becomes a grind. The grind becomes a claim. The pulse in my ears grows louder. And somewhere, in the space between a heartbeat, I realize…

I’m not just dancing with him anymore.

His hands get bolder. Still careful, still testing. Fingers tracing the curve of my hip, the dip of my waist, stopping just short of somewhere more dangerous.

I shift, just enough to make it look like I’m slipping out of reach. But then, just as his hand retreats, something inside me pushes forward, urging me to pull him closer. It’s not a thought, not a decision. It’s the thing inside me, sly and hungry, coaxing his palm to my thigh, guiding his fingertips upward.

The room sharpens for a moment: the scratch of someone’s laughter, the wet pop of a beer can opening, a wave of cold air from the back door. Then it’s gone again.

His chest presses against my back. The heat of him seeps into me. The crowd fades into silhouettes, shifting to some private rhythm. I tilt my head just enough that my cheek brushes his jaw, the stubble there rough against my skin. His breath is hot and steady, but there’s something tight in it: caution, like he knows he’s on a line he could easily cross.

My body moves in time with his, our hips swaying like we’ve been doing this forever. At times, I feel my own will in it, slow and deliberate. At others, the demon is steering, pushing me back harder, rolling my hips deeper into him, testing his restraint.

His hand slides higher, skimming the inside of my thigh now. My pulse skips. For a moment, the room returns: the jocks shouting near the keg, the smell of weed thick by the stairs. And then it dissolves again, replaced by heat and shadow, the edges of my vision tinged in red.

Somewhere in the blur, I realize I’m teasing him the way the thing inside me wants: pulling him in, then slipping away, letting him taste what he wants before I take it all back.

He gets bolder. My silence is permission, and he knows it. His palm slides up the inside of my thigh, slow, deliberate, claiming territory inch by inch.

For a moment, the scene sharpens: sticky beer under my shoes, bass thudding through the floorboards, someone shouting about a game score across the room. Then it’s gone again, washed away by heat and shadow, by the feel of his fingers pressing higher.

Everywhere he touches feels electric. My nerves fire like sparks, racing ahead of his hand. The heat of him seeps into me until I can’t tell where my body ends and his begins. The demon inside shifts, stretching like a cat waking from sleep, feeding on the current that’s building between us.

He’s close now, his chest against my back, his breath against my ear. I can hear it change: slower, heavier, matching the sway of our hips. In the dream-state version of this moment, the light is low and red, and his skin gleams with sweat. In reality, I catch flashes of strangers moving around us, but they blur into nothing.

My head tips back against his shoulder. His hand grazes just above the waistband of my jeans, fingers brushing over the bare skin where my shirt rides up. A shiver curls through me, sharp and sudden, making my knees tremble. The demon inside savors this: how my body tightens, how he hesitates between want and restraint.

He presses in harder, one hand gripping my hip firmly, guiding the slow grind of my jeans against him. My breath quickens, each exhale more ragged than the last. The bass from the party thumps deep in my chest, syncing with my pulse. Reality flickers: beer breath, weed smoke, the heat of too many bodies packed close, before it dissolves back into slick skin and a hungry whisper curling at the base of my skull:

More.

His breath grazes my ear, warm and deliberate. I feel the words before I hear them: something low, maybe my name, maybe nothing at all. His fingers hook into the waistband of my jeans, pulling me back until there’s no space left between us. My ass grinds against the hard ridge of him, and the demon stirs like a predator catching scent.

The heat from his body seeps into me, too much for the cool denim, for the thin cotton of my shirt. One hand flattens on my stomach, feeling the way it jumps under his touch. Reality stutters: the muffled voices around us, the sticky floor beneath my boots, before melting away into a place where the air is wet and heavy, where every shape is blurred except for his body pressed against mine.

In that other place, his skin is slick, his chest broad and glistening under dim red light. His hands are stronger here, more certain, sliding under my shirt to palm my bare breast. My nipples harden instantly, the sensation so sharp it feels like a jolt of electricity straight to my core.

Back in the party, his real fingers push higher, brushing the underside of my bra, testing. The demon inside me doesn’t hesitate. she presses my hips harder into his, lets him feel how ready I am. My head falls back onto his shoulder, and my hair sticks to my neck. He takes the opening, lips skimming my throat, tongue tasting salt and sweat.

Another flash: heat, shadows, music pounding low. My shirt’s gone in the dream, my chest bared to his hungry gaze. I want him there. I want his mouth on me. The demon purrs approval, curling her claws through my spine, and the line between want and need snaps.

--- 🐺 ---

We spill out into the night, the air damp and heavy with the smell of wet pavement. I don’t know who started pulling the other first, maybe we’re both guilty, but we move fast, stumbling, laughing against each other’s mouths.

Greek Row glows behind us, warm windows and silhouettes of bodies swaying inside frat houses, voices spilling into the street. We slip between them, brushing past Psi Upsilon, cutting through the lawn of some house I’ve never been inside. My fingers catch his jacket, tugging him with me, or maybe he’s guiding me. I can’t tell anymore.

We head east, toward darker streets. I want fewer eyes. I want the shadows. He doesn’t even notice when something clatters to the ground— his phone, I think, but neither of us stops. His mouth is too close to mine, his breath hot with beer and weed, and the way his hand spreads low across my back makes my pulse throb.

The streetlights thin out as we cross into the edge of the Arboretum. The wet leaves and soft earth muffle our steps, but the rest of me is loud: my breath, my heartbeat, the wet ache between my thighs. His hands are bolder now, not just holding me but searching, learning the shape of me through my t-shirt, my jeans. My body hums with each touch, nerves firing like they’ve been waiting for this all night.

I press closer, grinding into him as we walk, daring him. He answers by grabbing my hips, pulling me tighter to his body. He’s hard, and I feel that familiar shiver run up my spine, the one that makes every hair stand on end. Part lust, part something else.

The trees close in, and the campus noise fades until all I hear is the rain, the crunch of twigs under our feet, and the wet sound of our kisses. I can smell him: sweat, smoke, and something raw beneath it. His mouth moves from mine to my jaw, my neck, biting just enough to make me gasp. My fingers knot in the back of his shirt, pulling him down to me, feeling his muscles tense under my grip.

We slip off the trail, deeper into the shadows. My mind flickers between the heat in my body and a sharper, colder awareness. No one can see us here. No one can hear. And for the first time tonight, I’m not sure if I’m more excited for the taste of him, or for the moment when the thing inside me decides it’s time.

His hands are everywhere now: my waist, my ass, up under the hem of my shirt. I’m pushing at his jacket, fumbling for buttons, zippers, anything to get to skin. We’re clumsy with it, drunk on more than just beer, our teeth knocking together when we kiss.

He peels his jacket off first and tosses it somewhere into the wet leaves. The night air is cold on my arms, but his heat is right there, pressing in. I shove at his hoodie until he lifts it over his head, and for a second, I just stare: dark skin slick with rain, the muscles in his chest flexing with each breath. My fingers itch to touch him everywhere at once.

He grips the hem of my shirt and pulls it up in one rough motion, dragging it over my head. The cold bites at my skin, but his hands are on me instantly, warm, hungry. My bra’s gone before I even register him reaching for it, the clasp snapping open with practiced ease. His thumbs circle over my nipples, and I arch into him, moaning low in my throat.

I’m on his belt now, tugging, cursing when it catches. He laughs, but it’s a deep, ragged sound: not teasing, not patient. He wants this as badly as I do. I finally get the buckle loose and shove his jeans down over his hips, my knuckles brushing the hard length of him through his boxers. He groans into my ear, one hand sliding down the back of my jeans, gripping me hard enough to bruise.

Clothes end up scattered: shirts in the mud, jeans half inside-out, shoes abandoned wherever they fell. I barely feel the cold anymore; my body is electric, burning from the inside. The rain beads on our skin, runs down his chest, and I want to lick every drop away.

His mouth crashes back onto mine, desperate now, almost violent. Our bodies grind together in the dark, and somewhere deep inside, that other part of me stirs. Watching. Waiting. My pulse hammers in my ears, and for a split second, I picture what it would feel like if my teeth sank in just a little harder.

The thought makes me shiver, and I’m not sure if it’s from the cold, the lust, or the hunger.

His hands roam lower, finding the curve of my hip, my thigh, pulling me tight against him. The world narrows to heat, skin, and breath. I can feel every twitch of his muscles, the pulse in his neck beating fast under my lips as I kiss along his jaw.

We drop to the wet ground without even thinking about it. My back presses into damp earth, rain cold against my bare skin, but his weight is there, warm and heavy, blocking everything else out. His mouth moves down my throat, over my collarbone, and each kiss is rougher, hungrier. My fingers knot in his hair, urging him lower.

When his lips close over my nipple, the sensation slams through me: sharp, hot, and electric. My hips buck instinctively. He groans, the sound vibrating against my skin, and I hook my legs around his waist, pulling him in tighter.

Every nerve in my body is lit. Where he touches me, it’s not just heat: it’s something sharper, like static building under my skin. It’s almost too much, almost painful, and I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping his name.

His hand slides between my thighs, and the moment his fingers find me, slick and ready, I can’t hold back the sound that tears from my throat. I press into him, shameless, chasing more. His touch is slow at first: teasing and testing, but the way my body responds makes him bolder. I can feel it in his movements, the shift from exploration to possession.

Somewhere in the haze, I feel her. Not fully… just a whisper under my skin. A second heartbeat. A slow curl of approval that’s not mine. My nails dig into his shoulders without thinking, harder than I meant to, and he hisses at the sting but doesn’t stop.

Our breaths mingle in the dark, his scent and mine tangled with the smell of wet earth. I’m grinding up into his hand now, shameless in the way I move against him, and I can feel his restraint wearing thin. Every time I pull him closer, every time my teeth graze his skin, the thing inside me hums, urging me to push further.

I tilt my head, my lips brushing his ear, and I hear my own voice: a low and rough murmur, “Don’t stop.”

And for a second, I’m not entirely sure who said it.

The night air bites against my bare skin, but his heat is everywhere: covering me, pressing into me, seeping into my bones. His body moves over mine, heavy, solid, all hard muscle and ragged breath.

Everywhere he touches burns. His hands slide along my ribs, down my hips, fingertips grazing the inside of my thigh like he’s mapping me out. His lips leave wet trails across my stomach, my skin tightening under the heat of his mouth. He moves lower, slow enough to make me ache, and the damp ground beneath me feels like it’s sinking, pulling me down into something deeper.

The first brush of his lips between my thighs makes my whole body jolt. A sharp inhale, my hands tightening in his hair. He pauses, glances up, waiting, but I’m already pulling him closer.

His tongue slides over me, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the taste. My hips move without my permission, rocking into him, chasing the pressure. Each lick sends a pulse through me, deep and low, and I can’t tell if the sound I’m making is a moan or something closer to a growl.

The wet ground is cold beneath me, but I barely feel it. Every nerve is tuned to the rhythm of his mouth, the pull of his lips, the flick of his tongue. He works me like he’s learning my body by memory, testing what makes me gasp, what makes me tense. And each time I gasp, she stirs.

It’s subtle at first, like a ripple under the surface of my skin. A faint prickle at the base of my spine, the hair on my arms lifting. His mouth moves faster, his hands spreading my thighs wider, and the ripple becomes a pulse. A deep, slow throb that isn’t entirely mine.

He groans into me, the vibration spilling heat through my whole body, and I press his face harder against me. There’s no restraint in me anymore: I want more, want all of it. My breath is ragged, my body trembling, and with every slick stroke of his tongue, she hums in my chest, a coil tightening, ready to spring.

His pace builds, and I can feel myself climbing, the pleasure sharp and dangerous. My nails rake his scalp, harder than I should, but the sound he makes only spurs me on. Somewhere in the blur, the taste in my mouth shifts: not air, not rain, but something hot and metallic in my imagination.

I’m right on the edge, that precipice where pleasure blurs into something primal, where I’m not entirely sure if I’ll moan his name.

His tongue is relentless now, working me toward the point where my breath comes in sharp, desperate gasps. My thighs tremble around his head. I’m right there, so close I can almost taste it, when something in me snaps tight, but not the way I expect.

It’s not release.

It’s control.

--- 🐺 ---

The demon presses forward, not with a roar but with a quiet, irresistible push. My body moves without thought, fueled by a strength that feels borrowed. My hands grip his shoulders harder than I mean to, and in one motion, I twist and push him onto his back.

The wet ground slaps under him, the shock in his eyes flashing for just a moment before I climb over him. I straddle his chest, my knees pressing down just beyond his shoulders, pinning his arms to the cold earth. His breath comes fast, warm against the inside of my thighs, and I can feel his pulse thudding against my skin.

He laughs at first: low, nervous… like this is just a game, like he’s still in control. But I’m above him now, and the weight of me holds him there. My palms press into his chest, feeling the frantic rise and fall of his breath, the heat of his skin under my cold fingers.

Something shifts in my vision: edges sharpening, colors deepening until the night itself feels alive. His scent is everywhere, thick and intoxicating. The demon inside stretches further, testing the edges of my self-control. She’s not quite taking over. Not yet. But I can feel her hunger leaking into me, making my muscles tighter, my smile sharper.

He doesn’t notice the change in me. Not yet.

I shift my weight higher on his chest, feeling the ripple of his muscles under me as he instinctively tries to move with me. My knees press into the damp earth on either side of his head. Slowly, deliberately, I inch forward until my thighs frame his face, my hips hovering just above him.

His eyes widen. Then his mouth curves into a grin, like he’s just been handed a gift he didn’t even have to ask for.

Oh, poor boy. He doesn’t know what’s coming.

I pause there, letting him feel the heat of me, letting the scent of me sink into him. The cold night air prickles against my bare skin, making me more aware of the warmth between my legs, the damp ache that’s been building since the party.

I feel him breathe me in.

And then his tongue is on me.

It’s eager and hungry in its own way, but still clumsy in that sweet, mortal way. He thinks this is for me, that he’s giving me pleasure. Maybe he is. But he doesn’t know how much of it is mine and how much belongs to the thing inside me.

I roll my hips slowly, letting his tongue find its rhythm. My hands slide up my own body, palms cupping my breasts, squeezing them as if I can draw the sensation higher, deeper. My nipples are hard under my touch, the cool air kissing them when my fingers tease away.

The demon purrs. I can feel it, low and deep in my spine, winding itself around my nerves. Every movement of my hips over his mouth is both mine and not mine: my muscles obey me, but there’s something guiding them, sharpening them into something more deliberate, more predatory.

The wet ground clings to my knees, cold seeping into me even as heat coils between my thighs. The rain comes in thin needles through the trees, dripping onto my hair, my shoulders, streaking down the bare skin of my chest. I don’t care. The cold sharpens everything. The rough bark against my back, the mud squelching beneath me, the rawness of him under my hips.

I grind down, not hard, but enough that his breath stutters against my clit. He still thinks this is about me using him, about me taking what I want. Maybe it is. His hands twitch at his sides, wanting to grab me, but my thighs lock him in place. He doesn’t notice yet how strong my hold is. Or maybe he does, and he likes it.

His tongue flicks, circles, and drags over me, wet on wet, and every shiver that runs through me only feeds her deeper. The demon hums inside me, greedy, coaxing me higher, cultivating the ache in my body into something more than just lust.

I close my eyes.

Soon.

The rhythm of his tongue becomes a blur, and in the blur I see something else. A flash. A body sprawled in the reeds, hair plastered to a bloodied face. Rain striking skin gone slack. I gasp... half from the image, half from the pulse of his mouth against me.

The visions come jagged, quicksilver sharp. A hand, pale in the dark, wrist bent wrong, fingers curling like they’re reaching for me. The edges dissolve when I blink, leaving nothing but the rhythm of his tongue, the rain on my skin.

The shock of it makes my hips jerk harder into his mouth, grinding down until his jaw trembles. His muffled moan vibrates against me. I dig my nails into my scalp, tugging hard, the sting almost grounding me. Almost.

The shadows swell again, cutting through the moment. A shape with arms missing, no, not missing... blurred, erased, swallowed by the dark. The air fills with the sound of tearing, threads ripped too close to my ear. My breath quickens, caught between the weight of the vision and the hunger clawing through me.

The visions slide away, leaving only the rain. Cold rivulets track down between my breasts, joining the heat below where I ride his mouth like I’ll starve without it. He’s the only tether I have to this moment, and even that is slipping.

The demon drinks it all in. The sound of my breath shallows, the tight pull of my body curling into release. My orgasm isn’t just mine. It’s hers. It builds sharp, fast, as if she’s twisting it inside me, shaping it.

I clutch his hair, forcing him tighter against me. His muffled cries are drowned in my wetness. My thighs ache with how hard I’m squeezing him, how badly I want to pin him down until there’s nothing left of me but climax.

So close...

Another flicker. Just darkness tearing itself apart, shadows unraveling into something jagged and red at the edges. My tongue tastes copper, though there’s nothing on my lips.

My orgasm tears through me, violent and consuming, a fever that wrings me out until I’m shaking against him. The flashes scatter: blood, bone, his face torn open. They dissolve into the blur of rain and breath and the lingering ache between my thighs.

I collapse forward, my chest pressed to his face, my pulse racing too fast, too wild. Every nerve feels singed, still buzzing with aftershocks. The wet ground seeps cold against my knees, the night air licking sweat from my skin.

Beneath me, he stirs. A ragged breath. A faint shift of muscle. His lips part under me, brushing heat against my flesh— not a gasp this time, but something more deliberate. A kiss. A smile. Alive.

I breathe him in. My body is heavy, emptied, yet still humming with hunger. I want to sink back into it, to lose myself again, but the night presses close, rain dripping steadily from the trees, reminding me it’s over.

--- 🐺 ---

I jolt awake to water pelting my skin. Hard, relentless. For a second, I think it’s the rain: storm-heavy, the kind that turns streets into rivers, but the air is too still, too warm. My eyes drag open, lashes sticking together.

White tiles. The curve of porcelain under my thighs. I’m slumped in my bathtub, the shower still running. The water’s icy now, a needle-prick sting against my bare shoulders. My fingers are pruned. My hair clings, heavy, to my cheeks.

I push up slowly, every movement reluctant, like my muscles are remembering how to be mine again. My breathing sounds loud here, trapped in this small space with the echo of the spray. My lips taste faintly metallic. My nails… well, they’re clean now.

Turning off the tap leaves the apartment oddly quiet, except for the faint hum of the fridge. I step onto the bathmat, dripping, and reach for the towel. The cotton’s scratchy, but the friction feels grounding. I scrub at my arms, my legs, until my skin glows pink. I linger a moment too long on my wrists, rubbing like I’m trying to erase something.

For a second, just a second, there’s a smell in the air that doesn’t belong. Not the faint mildew of the bathroom. Not the sharp citrus of the soap.

It’s wet earth. And iron. And something else, something rank, like meat left too long in stagnant water.

I blink, and it’s gone.

Warmth is what I need. Layers. I pull on my oversized UW hoodie, it swallows me whole, sleeves past my hands, and a pair of flannel pants. My body remembers the idea of comfort, even if my mind doesn’t. Classes feel far away, irrelevant. Whatever today is, it won’t be about lecture halls and note-taking.

My fridge offers little: half a bottle of cheap wine, a takeout box with something that might’ve been noodles two days ago, and an almost-empty carton of orange juice. I take the juice, drinking straight from it. Sweet, with a whisper of sour at the end, like it’s thinking about going bad. The juice runs down my throat fast, washing away… something thicker.

I glance at my phone and the screen bursts to life, flooded with notifications... red banners, bold text: Urgent: Campus Closed Until Further Notice. Group chats are blowing up, faculty emails piling in. Even the campus safety app is flashing warnings... and that thing never works.

I open my study group chat. The messages are flying: hundreds. My eyes catch phrases, each worse than the last:

~Mathew
They found a body in the wetlands.
~Ryan
not just dead. like… ripped apart.
both arms? gone. like GONE gone.
~April
Wait WTF!!?
~Shirley
Not cut off either. Torn. All jagged, like something legit chewed them.
~Mathew
Ok no, now you’re trolling.
~Shirley
Swear to God I’m not. My roomies cousins a paramedic. He said there was blood everywhere.
Water looked black..
~Max
Nahhh… wasn’t it one of the Huskies players?? That linebacker? Huge dude. Nobody should’ve been able to take him down.
~Ryan
unless it wasn’t… y’know… human.
~Lee
maybe it's the saja boys
~April
Stop!!! Seriously stop...
Shut up @Lee. That's not funny!
~Mathew
Bro I’m not walking near the wetlands ever again

The stories splinter, multiply. Some talk about ritual markings on his chest. Others swear there were claw marks in the mud, deep enough to hold water. A few keep saying the same thing over and over… SPD are hiding something.

I can almost feel the campus shifting under it all, the fear rippling through its veins. Every hallway will be narrower now. Every shadow thicker.

And under my hoodie, under my skin, there’s a quiet pulse. The demon isn’t stirring. Not exactly. But she’s… satisfied.

Or maybe that’s me.