The Master Pathogen Christmas Special

[kspozcum]

Welcome to The Master Pathogen Christmas Special. While our main story is on hiatus until next year, @leatherpunk16 and I decided to post a short aside piece as a fun one-off to tide everyone over until we start the story back up. I hope everyone enjoys the short series and feel free to comment and share your thoughts. We will be posting each day until it's finished on Christmas Eve. Below is a link to our original story and source material...

The Master Pathogen

And without further ado, here is a teaser of what's to come:

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Prologue: Twas the Snowstorm Two Weeks Before Christmas...

Snow drifted in gentle spirals over the Merrydale Christmas Tree Farm, settling on the endless rows of evergreens like powdered sugar. The lights strung along the pathways glowed a soft gold, illuminating smiling families carrying bundled trees toward their cars. Laughter chimed through the crisp winter air, warm and bright despite the cold.

Grace Turner stood at the end of the main lane, watching the final visitors depart. She breathed in the scent of pine, her chest lifting with a feeling that was almost too big to contain. Everything around her felt peaceful—settled—as though the world had finally aligned in exactly the way it should.

She turned toward the man standing beside her.

Cole Henderson waited with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, a shy, contented smile on his face. Snow dusted his shoulders and dark hair, giving him a quiet, gentle glow. His presence was as steady as the old farmhouse behind them—solid, dependable, safe.

“Today was perfect,” Grace said softly, her voice touched with wonder. “I—I didn’t know it could feel this right. Staying here. Being here.”

Cole stepped closer, his breath visible in the cold. “It’s because you made it that way.”

He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “You brought life back to this place.”

Grace let out a shaky, emotional laugh. “I thought I needed skyscrapers and boardrooms to be happy. But… standing here now, I realize I was always running in the wrong direction.”

Cole smiled, warm enough to melt the snow between them. “Sometimes you don’t know what you’re missing until you come home.”

She looked up at him, eyes shining.

“I ended things with Andrew,” she whispered. “For good. I’m not going back. I don’t want that soulless corporate life anymore.”

The words hung in the air—not dramatic, just true.

Cole touched her face, gentle and sure. “You deserve a life that feels like yours.”

Snow swirled around them as she leaned into his touch, emotion thick in her throat.

“I want to stay,” she said. “Here. With you.”

Cole’s forehead rested against hers. The background lights blurred softly, turning the world warm and golden.

“Then stay,” he murmured. “Stay, Grace.”

She closed her eyes. “I will.”

Their lips drew closer—slow, inevitable, filled with quiet certainty. The world around them seemed to hold its breath. Rows of trees whispered in the wind as the last light of evening glimmered over them. Grace stepped forward, heart full, ready to—

—

Grace Turner’s frozen, love-struck face lingered on the TV screen for barely two seconds before an avalanche of popcorn and empty beer cans pelted the image. Groans erupted from every corner of the room.

“BOOOOOO!!! TURN THAT SHIT OFF,” someone yelled.

But it was Bran Coletti, Chapter President of Phi Alpha Gamma, who truly commanded the chaos. Towering over the others even from the couch, Bran had a voice that operated at only two volumes—loud and louder—and both were currently in full force as he pointed accusingly at the screen.

“Who in the holy hell requested we watch this?” he demanded. “Seriously. Whose emotional support movie is this? Stand up. Confess.”

The rest of Phi Alpha sprawled around him in varying states of drunken festivity. Evan Marsh hovered near the window like a nervous bird, mumbling about the storm. Ty King, already shirtless for no reason anyone could identify, lay half-asleep on the floor. Zach Dempsey, eternal skeptic, looked personally offended by the movie’s existence. Derek Vance lounged with a smug smirk, clearly proud he’d thrown the empty beer can that hit “Grace” between the eyes. And Paul “Porkchop” Carter—adorably sentimental and two drinks past capacity—was sniffling into his sleeve.

“Oh my god,” Zach muttered. “Is Chop actually—?”

Porkchop shot up, cheeks flushed. “Shut the fuck up guys,” he snapped, voice thick with emotion. “She… she should be able to spend her life how she wants, okay?”

Dead silence.

Then the entire room detonated with laughter.

“CHOP IS CRYING!”

“Bro’s fuckin’ HAMMERED.”

“Oh my god, someone take his schnapps away.”

“He’s got a fuckin hard on too!”

“I am empathizing,” Porkchop insisted, with all the dignity of a man slurring.

Bran—President, tyrant, self-appointed god-king of the house—clapped his hands sharply.

“Alright! That’s enough. We are NOT ending the night on emotional tree-farm drama.” He pointed at Noah Vance, Derek’s younger cousin, the pledge, who was trying to disappear into his too-tight children’s Christmas sweater. “Rookie. Up.”

Noah froze.

“Uh… what?”

Bran waved him forward with the authority of a drill sergeant who’d been given a candy cane and too much power. “Pledge task. Pick the next movie. And don’t fuck it up or you’re on toilet duty for the entire next semester.”

Noah stumbled toward the huge mixing bowl on the coffee table, filled with folded slips of paper—the frat’s chaotic holiday watchlist. He stuck his hand in, swirled, pulled something out.

Bran snatched it before he could read it.

“KRAMPUS!” he yelled triumphantly. “Hell. YES.”

The room exploded.

“FINALLY!”

“Murder time!”

“Christmas is SAVED!”

“Play it, Rookie!”

Noah hurried to cue up the movie while Ty grabbed another beer and Derek mock-wiped tears from Porkchop’s face.

As the opening music of Krampus started, Evan drifted to the window again, tipping aside a tangle of pathetic garland.

“Guys… the snow is getting, like… really bad.”

Zach didn’t look away from the TV. “How bad?”

Evan pressed his forehead to the glass. “Like… campus-shuts-down bad. I bet classes get cancelled tomorrow.”

A triumphant roar shook the room.

“FUCK YEAH! SNOW DAY!!”

“No exams!”

“Long live Phi Apha!”

Behind them, the Christmas lights blinked twice, then once more… a faint, hesitant flicker.

No one noticed. Not yet.

—

Krampus was barely ten minutes in before Phi Alpha Gamma descended into the predictable chaos of a winter-night watch party. Bran Coletti, Chapter President and self-declared Emperor of Christmas Movie Night, lounged in the center of the couch like it was his throne, barking commentary at the screen every few minutes.

Ty whooped every time something vaguely violent happened, and Derek yelled back alternate lines he thought the characters should’ve said. Porkchop, miraculously recovered from his emotional meltdown, shoveled fistfuls of cinnamon popcorn into his mouth at a rate science would consider dangerous.

Noah, the pledge, sat wedged between two couch cushions, trying not to look like a frightened woodland creature.

Outside, the storm still raged—but the power in the neighborhood hadn’t so much as flickered. Through the front window, rows of houses remained warm and bright; the streetlights glowed steadily beneath the snowfall.

This, unfortunately, did nothing to reassure Evan Marsh.

“Guys,” Evan muttered, forehead nearly pressed to the glass, “the snow is really piling up out there. Like, uh… aggressively.”

“No one cares, Evan,” Zach said flatly.

“No, seriously, look—there are weird footprints in our yard. Like… big ones. That’s not normal, right?”

“Footprints?” Ty perked up. “Like Santa?”

“No,” Evan whispered. “Like… not human.”

Before anyone could mock him further, the movie hit a tense beat: a child screaming, Krampus bells jingling ominously.

And then—

Every light in the frat house died. Instant. Total. Silent.

The TV blinked out.

The Christmas tree went dark.

The heater cut off with a dull, defeated sigh.

But through the front window, all the neighboring houses remained lit.

And the streetlights still glowed.

For a moment, no one said a word.

Then Bran’s voice tore through the pitch-black living room.

“OH, WHAT THE HELL? Why is OUR house the only one out? This is bullshit!”

Ty yelped, “My beer— I can’t find my beer!” which was approximately the least helpful observation possible.

Zach groaned. “It’s a blown breaker, obviously. This dump is older than Porkchop’s browser history.”

“Hey,” Porkchop sniffed defensively, “my history is— is tasteful.”

Someone bumped the coffee table. Someone else tripped over a plastic reindeer. The house filled with the sounds of chaos and mild suffering.

Derek launched an empty can in Bran’s direction. “Nice job plugging in that sketchy space heater again, Prez.”

“It was COLD,” Bran snapped. “Now shut up. We just need someone to flip the breaker.”

As if on cue, a faint whistle drifted through the room.

A cold draft crept up from the hallway leading to the basement—icy and damp, like something breathing from below.

No one noticed.

Not even Evan, who’d pressed closer to the window again and whispered, “Guys… I’m serious. Those footprints are really fucking weird.”

Noah lifted his phone, its flashlight cutting a small pale circle through the dark.

Zach’s voice came from somewhere near the tree.

“Pledge. Basement. Breaker panel. Go.”

Noah froze. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the pledge,” Bran said, as if that were the entire explanation, the law, the universe. “And because someone needs to fix this before my toes freeze off.”

Derek added, “Basement’s right there, buddy. Don’t scream too loud. Krampus might getcha.”

Laughter rippled around him—forced, shaky at the edges.

Noah swallowed.

He turned toward the basement door.

A stronger gust of cold rushed up as he pulled it open—unnaturally cold, like winter had carved itself into the earth beneath the house.

He hesitated.

Behind him, Bran barked, “Go on, Rookie. We believe in you. Sort of.”

Noah stepped down the first creaking stair, phone flashlight trembling in his hand.

The basement swallowed the light.

The whistle echoed again—just for a moment, just enough to raise goosebumps.

But the guys upstairs were already resettling themselves, arguing about whether they should start where Krampus stopped or restart it entirely.

No one paid any more attention when Noah disappear into the dark, each guy grabbing their cellphones to kill the time.

—

Noah descended the basement stairs with steady, reluctant steps, one hand gripping the railing, the other holding his phone high like a makeshift lantern. The narrow beam of light pushed weakly into the darkness below, illuminating dust motes that drifted through the cold air like tiny, suspended particles. The further he went, the more the warmth of the frat house disappeared behind him, replaced by a chill so sharp it felt as though the temperature dropped several degrees with each step. His breath fogged immediately, a thin white cloud that startled him—this basement shouldn’t have been that cold.

The space opened before him in a low sprawl of clutter and neglect. Cardboard boxes marked XMAS DECOR leaned crookedly against the far wall, their corners softened by years of damp. Tangles of old Christmas lights were piled in plastic bins or strewn carelessly across the concrete floor like discarded serpents. A cracked inflatable snowman sagged in the corner, deflated and slumped over as if defeated by time. The air smelled of mildew and something sharper—an acrid, chemical bite that made Noah’s throat tighten when he inhaled too deeply. He swallowed and tried to focus.

The breaker panel sat near the furnace, its metal face dull with age. Noah forced himself toward it, trying to ignore the uneasy sensation that someone—or something—might be watching him from the darker corners of the basement. The feeling wasn’t entirely new; the basement had always felt strange, but tonight the atmosphere seemed charged in a way he couldn’t explain. There was a stillness to the air, a heavy, waiting quality that made him quicken his steps.

A cold draft brushed the back of his neck as he reached the panel. It wasn’t the casual chill of an unsealed window or a poorly insulated wall—this felt like a long, icy exhale. Curious and unnerved, Noah turned and swept his flashlight toward the far wall. That was when he noticed it: a narrow door he had never seen before, partly obscured behind a stack of storage bins. The wood was warped and discolored, the frame cracked, as though it had endured decades of neglect. The door hung open by perhaps an inch, swaying subtly with the draft that flowed from the darkness beyond it. A soft, wavering whistle escaped from the unseen space behind the door, a hollow sound that pricked at his nerves.

He didn’t investigate. His instincts urged him to turn back to the breaker. With fingers that trembled despite his efforts to steady them, he flipped the tripped switch. The house above him responded instantly—lights came back on, voices erupted in cheers, and the muffled thump of resumed movie sound reached him from the ceiling. Relief washed over him so quickly it made him dizzy. He let out a shaky laugh, raking a hand through his hair.

He headed back toward the stairs, eager to rejoin the brightly lit world upstairs, but halfway up he paused abruptly. Something in the corner of his peripheral vision tugged at his attention. He turned, hesitant, and his flashlight swept across the basement floor.

The tangled string of Christmas lights he’d seen earlier was no longer sitting motionless.

The entire strand was shifting, inching slowly across the concrete floor like a living thing. The bulbs flickered irregularly—green, red, green, red—in a pulsing pattern that reminded him disturbingly of a heartbeat. The sight rooted him to the stairs, caught between disbelief and a rising sense of dread.

Before he could convince himself he was imagining it, something struck him across the face.

It wasn’t a physical blow so much as a wet impact, a sudden splatter of warm, viscous slime that hit with enough force to make him stumble back a step. He gasped as the substance slid down his cheek and jaw, its sickening chemical odor flooding his senses. His eyes burned from the sudden contact, and he instinctively wiped at his face, only smearing the slick fluid across his skin.

Behind him, from the direction of the warped basement door and the creeping lights, a low growl rolled through the darkness. It was deep and resonant, carrying a weight that vibrated in the air around him. Noah froze on the stairs, heart pounding wildly in his chest. The growl shifted, curling upward into a sound that was unmistakably a chuckle—wet, guttural, and inhuman.

His phone screen flickered violently as it crashed to the ground. The flashlight dimmed. The last coherent thought Noah had was that he needed to run.

But his legs were already buckling beneath him as the world went black.

—

For the first twenty minutes after the power returned, none of the Phi Alpha Gamma brothers gave Noah a second thought. The movie was back on, the lights were on, the beer was flowing, and the living room had snapped right back into its rowdy rhythm.

Bran restarted Krampus “properly, from the beginning, because cinematic excellence deserves respect,” and everyone groaned but went along with it. Ty sprawled across the rug with his head on a pillow shaped like Santa’s ass; Porkchop got emotionally invested in the opening scenes for reasons no one understood; Derek heckled the movie nonstop; Zach critiqued the pacing; Evan sat close to the window, flinching at every rattling gust of wind.

Noah’s absence barely registered at first.

He’d only gone to flip the breaker.

A two-minute job.

Maybe he’d stopped to check the Wi-Fi. Maybe he’d taken a leak. Maybe he’d found a dusty treasure trove of weird old frat history down there.

And the movie was good. So good they didn’t notice how long it had been.

Thirty minutes passed.

Then forty-five.

By the time the movie hit its midpoint, the guys were laughing, shouting, deeply engrossed—and Noah had been gone long enough for a quiet unease to slip into the edges of the room.

It showed first in Evan, whose nervous habit of glancing at the basement door had become more frequent. Between flickers of lightning outside, he kept pressing his forehead to the glass, watching the snow pile into white drifts that swallowed the yard. Streetlights still glowed; nearby houses were still brightly lit. Their house remained the odd one out.

The storm grew louder—wind scraping at the siding, rattling the gutters—and still the pledge hadn’t come back.

When Ty finally muttered, “Damn, Rookie’s been down there forever,” it broke the spell over the room.

Zach paused mid-sip of beer. “Huh. Yeah. He really has.”

Bran frowned at the screen, though his gaze wasn’t quite focused anymore. “He’ll come up in a sec. Probably wiping cobwebs off the porn stash Derek keeps pretending isn’t his.”

“They aren’t mine! I wasn't even alive to have that old of Playboys, you jackasses!” Derek barked, because that was the law of the universe.

The laughter was weaker this time, the timing off.

Another ten minutes passed.

The snow outside grew deeper. The storm howled harder. The movie played on. And Noah remained conspicuously absent.

Eventually, Porkchop sat up, frowning blearily. “Guys? Seriously. He’s usually back fast. Like… puppy-returning-with-the-ball fast.”

Zach scoffed, but it didn’t carry the same confidence. “He’s fine. Probably went down a TikTok rabbit hole.”

“Noah doesn’t even have TikTok,” Evan said quietly.

The room went still again.

Bran shifted forward on the couch, elbows braced on his knees. He looked toward the basement door, the only completely dark spot in the entire house. Something about it—the angle, the stillness—felt wrong, as though the darkness there was heavier than natural shadow.

“How long’s it been?” he asked, voice lower now.

Ty checked his phone. “Uh… like an hour? Maybe more?”

An uneasy silence rippled through the room.

“That’s… not normal,” Porkchop mumbled.

Evan swallowed hard. “If he slipped or passed out or something—we’re gonna be in so much trouble. You know campus security already thinks we’re on probation even when we’re not.”

No one argued.

The paused Krampus frame stared back at them from the TV, claws raised mid-swipe, frozen in a way that made the air feel suddenly colder.

Bran stood, breaking the tension with a crack of his knuckles. “Alright. Enough. Someone go down and get him.”

The others looked at one another. No one moved. Not a single person volunteered.

The basement door loomed in the far corner, a dark rectangle swallowing the soft glow of Christmas lights.

And for the first time all night, even Bran didn’t bark an order.

 

[Diesel]

Definitely an intriguing & atmospheric start with loads of tension!

Can't wait to see how this develops!

[leatherpunk16]

Chapter 1 -- Gifting Season

 

Noah drifted toward consciousness as though rising through layers of thick, warm water. His mind floated somewhere above his body, disconnected and sluggish, and for several moments he hovered between dreaming and waking without understanding which was which. A heavy heat curled low in his stomach, radiating outward through his limbs, turning every inch of his skin oversensitive and flushed. His head felt thick, dense, as if cotton had been stuffed behind his eyes and pressed gently against the inside of his skull. The sensation was unfamiliar but not entirely alien—like a drug high he couldn’t quite place, only magnified and distorted.

He groaned softly and shifted without thinking, only to jolt sharply at the sudden rush of cold air sweeping across his bare skin. Every part of him. The realization slammed into him a heartbeat later, and he blinked rapidly, confusion giving way to alarm as he became acutely aware that nothing covered him. No clothing. No blanket. Not even the cheap fleece throw he’d passed out under during movie nights. His breath caught as he forced himself fully awake, heart stumbling into a faster rhythm.

He was naked. Completely, utterly, inarguably naked in a place that was definitely not the Phi Alpha Gamma living room.

The world around him resolved slowly into a dim, blurry chamber. Rough stone walls pressed in close, dark and wet-looking, glistening with beads of moisture that caught the weak red light overhead. The air was thick, humid, and unpleasantly warm—heavy enough that each breath felt slightly too dense, carrying a faint chemical tang that prickled the back of his tongue. Wispy strands of mist clung to the floor, rippling faintly with each uneven inhale Noah forced into his lungs.

Red Christmas bulbs—old ones, big plastic ones like his grandmother used—hung in drooping arcs above him, strung together with sagging wires that looked decades old. Some flickered erratically, casting twitching shadows across the walls, while others pulsed faintly as though struggling to stay lit. The effect made the room seem alive, as if breathing alongside him.

His shoulders ached with a dull, grinding pressure. When he tried to lower his arms, something bit sharply into the skin of his wrists. A startled breath escaped him, and he craned his neck upward to see thick strands of old Christmas lights wound tightly around his wrists, knotted over and over until the wires looked fused together. The same cords circled his ankles, holding his legs just far enough apart that there was no dignity left to cling to. The lights hummed faintly, warm against his skin in a way that felt almost biological—like there was a pulse moving through them.

Panic surged through him, sharp and bright, but tangled immediately with a hot spark of anger. Hazing. It had to be hazing. Some stupid, charter-violating, archaic fraternity bullshit. He’d heard stories about other chapters doing things like this—blindfolding pledges, leaving them tied up in cold places, stripping them as some kind of psychological “test.” But Phi Alpha Gamma was not supposed to be one of those chapters. Derek had looked him in the eye when Noah rushed. Had promised this frat was different.

“We don’t do that stuff here,” Derek had said. “I wouldn’t bring you in if we did. Trust me.”

Trust me.

The words curled bitterly in Noah’s thoughts. He yanked against the lights, teeth gritted, but the cords didn’t give at all. Instead, the wires dug deeper, almost tightening in response, and the sudden exertion sent the heat in his body spiraling upward. His head throbbed, vision blurring at the edges. His breath came too fast, too shallow, like his lungs couldn’t quite catch onto the rhythm his body needed.

The warmth under his skin intensified—rolling waves that felt horribly familiar. A dizzy, tingly buzz bloomed behind his eyes, drifting down the back of his throat and into his chest.

“Oh god,” he whispered, a tremor running through him. “This is like… like that night Porkchop dared me to try poppers…”

Except stronger. Much stronger. Instead of a head rush, this sank deep into his bloodstream, blooming through every nerve until he felt unsteady, exposed, and frighteningly sensitive. It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t a prank. Something had been on whatever hit him downstairs—something chemical and potent, something that made his body feel hot and loose and pliant in ways he didn’t want to think about.

He forced his eyes shut, trying to steady his breath, attempting to pull himself back from the rising swell of panic. “Okay,” he muttered, voice trembling despite his effort to sound firm. “Just calm down. It’s a prank. It’s a fucked-up prank, but that’s all it is. You get out of this, and you’re reporting every single one of these idiots to the dean. Derek can explain himself later.”

The words didn’t reassure him as much as he hoped. His breathing stayed shallow, and the heat coiling through him didn’t ease. His skin prickled with a hypersensitive awareness he didn’t want, tightening each breath into something sharp and uncomfortable.

He opened his eyes again—and then froze. A sound drifted through the chamber. Not the click of Christmas bulbs. Not the distant groan of old pipes. Something else. Something alive.

A long, slow, deliberate inhale. Then another. And another—each one slightly out of sync, as if more than one massive chest was expanding in the dark.

Noah’s heart tripped over itself and stumbled into a faster, unsteady rhythm. He stared into the shadows beyond the weak circle of red light, vision blurring slightly despite his desperate attempt to focus.

This wasn’t Derek. This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t human.

“Derek?” he called again, though it came out barely above a breath. “Guys…? Okay, seriously… if this is some kind of joke—cut it out.”

The chamber answered him with silence. And then, faintly, with a wet, clicking sound—like teeth shifting slowly against each other.

A shiver raced up Noah’s spine. Whatever else was down here with him… had been watching him the entire time. And it was breathing. Waiting. Patient.

The realization landed in his chest like a stone: This was not hazing. This was something else entirely.

The breathing in the dark grew louder, deeper, no longer blending into the room’s ambient hum. Each inhale rolled through the chamber like it belonged to something large—several somethings. Noah’s pulse quickened as he strained to hear anything human, any hint that this was still a prank. But there were no voices, no nervous laughter, no Derek whispering “gotcha.” Only the slow, synchronized breathing of creatures too massive to hide.

The first silhouette peeled itself from the darkness and stepped into the red glow of the sagging Christmas lights. Noah’s breath caught in his throat. The creature stood nearly seven feet tall, its body carved in smooth, unnatural muscle, obsidian skin gleaming like polished stone. Long, curved horns swept back from its skull, ridged and imposing, as if grown for battle. Its broad face was wrong in every way—sharp angles, too-long jaw, rows of glistening pointed teeth. Where eyes should have been, there were only dark, unreadable hollows.

A second creature followed. Then a third. Soon seven of them stood before him in a wide semicircle, each subtly different in build or horn shape, but all sharing the same monstrous design. Their movements were controlled and deliberate, heavy enough that Noah felt faint vibrations through the floor. They didn’t attack. They simply observed him, massive chests rising and falling in quiet, predatory unison.

Noah’s skin prickled as their attention fixed on him. Suspended by the warm, humming Christmas lights, he felt horribly exposed under their collective stare. Every tremor in his muscles, every unsteady breath—nothing escaped their notice.

Then the entire group shifted, turning slightly toward the creature standing closest to Noah.

This one moved differently. Its posture was disciplined, its breathing steady and measured. Its horns were sharper, curving back like twin blades. Even in stillness, it radiated a sense of practiced readiness, the controlled tension of something trained.

A low ripple of growls passed through the others, almost like a chant, and a word rose from that rumble:

“…Zero…”

The name echoed against the stone, low and resonant. Noah felt his stomach drop. He didn’t know what Zero meant, but the way the others said it carried weight—deference, expectation, something close to ceremony.

Zero tilted its horned head slightly, acknowledging the name, and the others quieted as though waiting for its next move.

Noah swallowed hard, dread crawling into his bloodstream. The monster closest to him—the one standing just inside the edge of the red light, so close he could see the faint sheen of drool on its teeth—was Zero. Zero was not a title or a concept. Zero was the creature chosen for him.

And Zero was stepping closer.

Zero stepped closer with a slow, predatory deliberation that made the air in the chamber feel suddenly thinner. The other six tightened their semicircle behind him, drawing in around Noah with quiet, expectant growls. Their obsidian bodies shifted with a muted sheen, horns catching the red light in sharp, jagged silhouettes. Noah felt surrounded not just physically, but psychologically—boxed in, studied, assessed like prey that had already been chosen.

The warm buzz in his veins spiked as Zero neared. Noah tried to pull back instinctively, but the Christmas lights only tightened around his wrists, holding him suspended and helpless. A new dizziness washed over him, deeper than before, clouding the edges of his awareness. His skin flushed in a sudden wave of heat, as if the creature’s proximity alone amplified whatever chemical was still working through his system.

Zero leaned in until Noah could feel its breath against his cheek—humid, thick, and faintly acrid. Its chest expanded with a slow inhale, drawing in the scent of him as if cataloging every detail. Noah turned his face away with a strangled breath, heart hammering.

“Please…” he whispered, though he wasn’t even sure what he intended to plead for.

Zero responded with a soft rumble that vibrated through Noah’s ribcage. It wasn’t soothing, nor mocking—just a low acknowledgment, almost as though it approved of his fear. The monster’s clawed hand lifted, moving toward Noah with surprising steadiness, fingers flexing once before settling near his shoulder.

The heat inside Noah pulsed harder. His head swam. His breath hitched. Zero touched him.

He felt as Zero’s clawed fingers gently traced along his sides, his body twitching from fear and a strange sense of alien excitement. It slowly dipped down, fondling his cock and balls, giving it his hard cock a few firm tugs, Zero letting out an appreciative growl and smile as Noah let out a shocked gasp and moan, despite how terrified he was. The creature pulled its hand away for a brief moment and spit on its hand, the same foul liquid coating the fingers like slime. 

Satisfied, he then dipped his hand lower, before tracing around his hip leaving a trail and pressing several fingers into his asshole, the sharp nails almost expertly, the slimy saliva easily allowing them to penetrate his entrance. 

The reaction was instantaneous. Noah’s body jerked, his breath catching in a shocked, involuntary gasp. The chamber spun in slow, nauseating circles, red lights blurring into hazy smears above him. His stomach dipped, thighs trembling as a wave of dizzying warmth pushed down his spine.

“No—stop—” he managed, voice thin and breathless.

Zero didn’t stop. It merely adjusted, claws tracing along Noah’s chest with a terrifying precision, as if following a pattern only it knew. The chemical haze surged again, turning Noah’s limbs soft and uncooperative, weakening his voice into a hoarse whisper.

The pack shifted closer in response. Not touching—yet—but watching, their unified stillness adding weight to the moment. Noah sensed a hierarchy at play, an order to their movements. Zero was performing a role, and the others were witnessing it.

Another pulse of heat flashed through Noah’s bloodstream. His vision trembled at the edges. He had the horrible sensation that something inside him was beginning to yield—not by choice, but by chemical force.

Zero growled again, deeper this time, and leaned in, pressing its forehead briefly against Noah’s, its horns framing his vision as his clawed fingers pushed deeper.

The gesture wasn’t affectionate. It was claiming.

And Noah felt the shift in the group— a collective anticipation— as Zero prepared to continue.

Strangely, he felt numb to the fingers after a few moments, that same heat now spreading from his ass as the fingers were removed, now mostly dry. Without warning, he felt his legs get pulled upward, his weight evenly spread between the cord around his wrists and the monster’s grip around his now spread legs, straddling him as he felt the monster’s cock press tightly against his hole. He tried to struggle, before realizing what he was doing at the last second as the tight ring of muscle relaxed suddenly, causing him to suddenly sink hard and fast, penetrating him in one slick movement. He cried out, feeling the massive cock seating itself deep in his guts.

The red lights flickered overhead, dimming momentarily as though reacting to the energy building in the room. Noah sagged harder into the restraints, his body wilting under Zero’s control, his mind fraying at the edges of panic and chemically amplified sensation.

The pack’s breathing synchronized again—slow, steady, ritualistic.

Zero’s claws tightened on Noah’s hips. The true ritual was only beginning.

The effect on Noah’s body was immediate and overwhelming. A shudder passed through him, involuntary and intense, as though the heat inside him had been suddenly stoked into a sharper flame. His ribs strained with each breath, and his arms pulled weakly against the Christmas lights, the warm cords tightening in response as if adjusting to keep him perfectly in place.

A low rumble spread through the semicircle of monsters. Not loud, but deep enough that Noah felt it reverberate in his bones. The six creatures behind Zero shifted closer, closing the gap between them until their obsidian bodies formed a near-solid wall of muscle, horns, and slow-moving breath. Their presence constricted the space, tightening the air around Noah until he felt boxed in from every angle.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to steady himself, but the chemical pulse running through his veins made everything feel thick and swimmy. When a fresh wave of warmth rippled through his abdomen, his head fell forward with a faint sound he didn’t recognize as his own.

Zero’s claws rose to Noah’s waist, anchoring him again. Its breath rasped across Noah’s shoulder—hot, humid, wrong—and then it resumed its slow, ritualistic exploration.

He felt as Zero slowly began to pull out, a small, hopeful part of his brain thinking it was over, that they were somehow stopping, when suddenly, Zero slammed hard and fast deep inside of him again, making him whimper. This continued a few more times, each time less painful and somehow more enjoyable. Soon, Zero was fucking him hard and fast, Noah no longer feeling pain but a strange pleasant pressure and burn deep inside him when Zero finally pulled him hard and fast down onto him in one final slam, shooting volley after volley of cum deep in his guts.

Noah’s knees jerked reflexively, his whole body curling inward for a moment before the restraints forced him still again. His vision blurred around the edges, red lights melting together in a dizzy haze. The monsters’ collective breathing grew louder, more synchronized, like they were inhaling in perfect rhythm to Noah’s faltering breaths.

Something shifted deeper in the chamber. Not movement. Not footsteps. Pressure.

A heavy weight pressed down from somewhere unseen, a thickening of the air that made Noah’s lungs tighten. It felt like the moment before a storm breaks—static and anticipation and the sense of something vast drawing near.

The other six monsters reacted immediately. Their growls softened, posture lowering, horns angling toward the far side of the room. Even Zero paused—not releasing Noah, but holding perfectly still, claws poised, as if awaiting judgment.

Noah lifted his head in confusion, chest heaving.

“What… what is that…?” he whispered, voice raw.

None of the monsters answered. They didn’t need to. The air trembled again, heavier this time.

Zero’s claws tightened on Noah in a silent assertion of possession, as if reminding him—and the others—that he was already claimed.

A faint glow shifted in the darkness beyond the pack. Something massive was approaching.

Zero leaned in close, breath rolling over Noah’s ear, and released a soft, resonant growl that felt almost like a warning:

“The Alpha is coming.”

The chamber thickened around Noah as the presence in the darkness approached—so potent and tangible it felt like pressure building inside his skull. The air turned heavy, humid, and strangely electric, making the red Christmas lights overhead flicker with an almost nervous pulse. Even the stone beneath him seemed to hum faintly, as if bracing for whatever was about to emerge.

The pack sensed it instantly.

The six monsters behind Zero lowered their heads, horns angling downward in a unified gesture of submission. Their bodies shifted apart just enough to form a clear path through their ranks, creating a corridor of shadows and anticipation. Zero remained closest to Noah, but even he moved slightly aside, still touching Noah yet no longer centered. His posture tightened in a way that felt almost formal—respectful, deferential.

Noah felt the pressure before he saw the Alpha.

A deep, resonant vibration slid into his awareness, not entirely sound, not entirely sensation. The hair on his arms lifted; his heart stumbled. The chemical warmth in his blood quivered, reacting instinctively to the new power entering the room. Noah tried to steady his breath, but the air itself seemed too dense, too hot, making each inhale a struggle.

Then the Alpha stepped into view.

He dwarfed the others—not just in height, though he was easily a foot taller than Zero, but in presence. His horns were longer, sweeping back in grand curves that made his silhouette impossibly striking. His pitch-black skin reflected the red lights in deeper, richer tones, muscles shifting beneath the surface like living stone. The air around him swirled as he moved, as though even the atmosphere recoiled and obeyed in the same breath.

When his face fully entered the red glow, Noah felt something crack open inside him.

The Alpha had eyes.

Or something resembling them—deep, molten slashes of faint crimson light resting where the other monsters had hollows. They flickered subtly, almost like embers beneath soot, and when the Alpha looked directly at him, Noah’s whole body seized in a wave of overwhelming heat.

Then Noah heard him.

Not with his ears.

Not with sound.

Inside.

Noah Vance.

The name echoed through his mind as if spoken against the walls of his skull. Noah inhaled sharply, chest constricting, pulse leaping into a panicked rhythm.

He shook his head in a desperate attempt to clear the voice. “Stop—please—get out of my head—”

Zero released a low, warning growl beside him, sensing Noah’s rising panic. The Alpha silenced it with a single glance, and the room seemed to shudder at the shift in authority.

The voice returned, deeper this time, sliding through Noah’s thoughts with a deliberate, predatory ease.

You came down here alone. Curious. Unwatched. Unclaimed.

“No,” Noah rasped, though the word barely held shape. “I—I didn’t know—please, I didn’t—”

The Alpha stepped closer.

Heat radiated from him in powerful waves, washing over Noah’s bare skin until he trembled under the weight of it. The flickering red lights cast shadows across the Alpha’s horns, drawing sharp lines down his face, accentuating the broad sweep of his jaw and the long, serrated teeth glistening beneath it.

Another voice—this time spoken aloud, deep enough to rattle Noah’s chest—rolled out of the Alpha’s throat.

“You should not have opened the way.”

Noah blinked, dizzy and terrified. “What do you mean? I didn’t open anything—”

The Alpha leaned closer, lowering his head until his horns framed Noah’s face. His breath washed over Noah in thick, consuming waves.

Your brothers left a door unlocked. You walked straight into the dark. And we followed the cold you left behind.

Noah’s pulse stumbled. The basement door— that old maintenance entry they’d all forgotten existed. Had it really been open? And had something been waiting for that?

He tried to speak again, but the Alpha’s clawed hand rose, touching Noah’s jaw with shocking gentleness that contrasted violently with the situation. The chemical heat in Noah’s blood surged under the contact, almost as if responding to him.

Zero stepped back fully now, lowering his head and yielding his place.

The Alpha’s grip tightened. Noah felt the ritual shift.

The first part was over.

The second—far worse—was beginning.

Slowly, each of the other monsters lined up as if orchestrated, and the next monster grabbed his legs, pulling him down by his hips forcefully, the cum from his brethren slickening the way. Each monster took its time, fucking him hard, fast and with earnest, flooding him deeply before moving out of the way for the next. After a while, Noah’s mind couldn’t take it anymore and mentally started begging for them to go harder, faster, to make it hurt.

The heat inside Noah swelled into a blazing pulse that made his knees jerk and his breath fracture. His head dropped forward, the strength in his neck failing as waves of dizzy warmth passed through him.

The Alpha’s voice curled through his mind again, softer now but far more intimate.

You will not leave here unchanged. You were chosen. You will be remade.

Noah shook uncontrollably, words failing him completely.

The Alpha positioned him with terrifying ease.

Suddenly, he felt as two of the other monsters, one he was sure was his maker, Zero, held him up by the legs, allowing the Alpha easier access to his hole, Zero’s long, almost serpentine tongue, licking and tasting the head of his leaking cock, before taking it deeply in his mouth. He could feel the dangerous brush of too sharp teeth threatening to slice into the delicate skin of his cock as Zero seemed to feast on the precum dripping out of him.

The other monsters growled in a soft, unified rhythm, their horns angled forward, their bodies swaying slightly as though caught in a trance or feeding on Noah’s reactions.

The Alpha’s final whisper pressed into Noah’s mind like a brand:

This is the moment you break. And become ours.

Noah choked on a breath and felt consciousness begin to slip.

The ritual was not done. But his mind was already unraveling.

The Alpha’s presence consumed everything—air, heat, sound, even thought. Noah hung suspended in the Christmas lights like an offering, his body limp, trembling, reacting to the chemical haze still burning steadily through his veins. Each breath felt fragile, caught between a sob and a gasp, the effort overwhelming even before the Alpha moved again.

Zero and the other six had fallen silent, forming a curved wall around the two of them. Their horned silhouettes flickered with each pulse of the dim red bulbs, making them appear almost carved from shifting shadow. They were waiting—expectant, reverent, as though the ritual depended on the Alpha alone.

The Alpha adjusted his grip on Noah’s hips, claws resting just firmly enough to remind him how easily he could be torn apart. Noah whimpered, a thin breath scraping from his throat despite his efforts to stay quiet. His head lolled forward, chin brushing his chest, sweat dripping in slow trails down his ribs.

The Alpha’s voice touched his mind again—no louder than a murmur, but heavy with certainty.

Do not resist the change. Let it take you.

Noah tried to shake his head, a weak, pitiful motion. “I—I don’t want—please—”

His plea dissolved into a broken sound as the Alpha positioned him.

Suddenly, he felt as the Alpha began to penetrate his already abused and cum flooded hole. The already battered flesh strained to accommodate the massive demonic looking cock.

The reaction inside Noah was instant and catastrophic. His body arched against the restraints, breath ripped from him in a raw, involuntary gasp. The chemical heat exploded through his abdomen, spreading into his limbs like molten electricity. His legs shook violently, barely held steady by the arms binding his ankles. As they shook, the string of Christmas lights clacked against each other in a weird, macabre percussive symphony. Each pulse inside him felt heavier, deeper, striking through him again and again until he no longer knew if he was crying out or if the sound was only in his head.

The Alpha growled low in his ear, voice rumbling through both the air and Noah’s bones.

Good. You are yielding. Let me in fully, Noah Vance. 

Noah’s mouth opened, a fractured sound spilling out, half protest, half overwhelmed surrender. His vision blurred, red lights stretching into smeared halos. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think past the waves of heat crashing through him.

He looked down and could see the end of the Alpha’s dick causing his flat stomach to bulge out, his insides feeling like they were being rearranged. 

His consciousness wavered. Reality thinned around the edges. Everything became sensation—heat, pressure, trembling muscle, the Alpha’s claws keeping him steady, the deep vibration of monstrous voices rising and falling around him. The pack’s growls shifted into a rhythmic cadence, almost a chant, synchronized with Noah’s ragged breaths.

The Alpha’s mind pressed harder into his.

You will remember this in your blood. You will wake differently. Mine. It is time to release your seed for your brother and maker Zero. Show him your thanks for this gift.

The final surge hit Noah like a blow, tearing through the remnants of his resistance. He convulsed, heat piercing him from within, flooding outward until he felt like his body was no longer a separate thing from the Alpha’s hold.

Then— he felt the second the Alpha began to fuck him. Slamming hard and fast, making it feel as if his insides were being ripped apart, his asshole being split in two. It went on mercilessly for several minutes until he finally felt it. The Alpha’s cock was like a firehose inside his guts, flooding him with an obscene amount of tainted cum, finally driving him over the edge as Zero greedily sucked every drop out of his throbbing dick. Somehow, part of him knew that Zero and the rest would enjoy the taste of his pure untainted cum, that it would feed and nourish them for the night ahead.

His mind warped and he felt as more and more cum shot out of him, fueled by the thoughts of wanting to empty himself of his useless seed to make room for more, to feel as his cum became tainted and corrupted, his veins bulging and darkening and then his skin turning black. His body would become stronger, taller, leaner and more muscular. His cock would grow longer and thicker, his balls larger and heavier, no longer just for sperm but as the perfect place for the virus to incubate. To feel his own set of horns sprout fully out of his head and his teeth sharpen. To feed and be fed from his new brothers to make his transformation take even faster. Of joining the hunt as they sought out new uncorrupted men to infect and turn.

The heat spiked once more, blinding and total. Noah cried out—a raw, hoarse, broken noise—and then his entire body sagged, all strength leaving him at once. His consciousness flickered, dipped, fought to stay afloat… and finally lost.

The Alpha held him suspended for another moment, claws steady and secure. Noah’s head fell against the creature’s chest, eyes half-open but unseeing. A lazy smile spread across his face.

A satisfied growl rolled through the chamber, answered by the low rumbling of the pack.

The ritual was complete.

Noah’s last dim sensation was the Alpha lowering him slightly, pulling its still bloated cock out of his ass and letting a small trickle of black cum out of his destroyed ass. The Christmas lights adjusting their hold as though alive, cradling him into a suspended, slack-limbed sleep.

Then darkness folded him under.

—

The movie upstairs had finished long ago, a new movie picked from the fishbowl in its place. Empty beer cans clattered as someone shifted on the couch. The storm battered the windows with a steady, rising howl. Evan checked his phone for the tenth time, frowning.

“Noah’s been down there for almost two hours,” he muttered.

Zach shrugged, but his expression was tight. “He probably fell asleep behind the furnace.”

Bran didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the basement door—ominous, still, the faintest cold draft curling out from underneath it.

Finally he exhaled.

“Enough. Someone’s going down there.”

The others fell silent. And beneath them, far below the floorboards, the chamber’s red lights pulsed once—bright, then dimming again.

As if settling. As if briefly satisfied.

[negchaserlooking]

Fuuuuuuuuck

[Knightfalconer]

A very skilled author indeed.😃

I am a bit confused, since this is reading more like a sci-fi or horror story than a pozzing/stealthing tale..... unless of course the monsters are either a metaphor or the creation of a drugged mind, and in reality, Noah has fallen into the clutches of a gang of poz rapists?

Maybe the answer will be revealled in the next chapter?

[leatherpunk16]

12 minutes ago, Knightfalconer said:

A very skilled author indeed.😃

I am a bit confused, since this is reading more like a sci-fi or horror story than a pozzing/stealthing tale..... unless of course the monsters are either a metaphor or the creation of a drugged mind, and in reality, Noah has fallen into the clutches of a gang of poz rapists?

Maybe the answer will be revealled in the next chapter?

I'm afraid it won't be revealed. This is a spinoff of our joint creation, "The Master Pathogen", also featured here on BZ. Your guess is closer to the latter than the former, but not exactly it. 

The poz monsters from that story have descended on a frat house. There is no deeper meaning or intent for narrative continuity as it's not exactly canon to the primary story. Just a fun spin-off.

[kspozcum]

@Knightfalconer: Like @leatherpunk16 said, you are both correct and completely incorrect. I would suggest reading the source material if you'd like (linked at the beginning), as it might give you an idea of what's going on. But, this is also meant to be a one off, so nothing in this should be considered canon, and instead just a fun side project... so it should enjoyable on its own if you don't feel like reading the novel (quite literally) we have posted there.

Both the one-off and the main story have been a fun project to write. This is only meant to tide people over until we can post again, as well as help drive people to checking out our full story. Also, it will only be about 7-8 Chapters long. 

Anyways, without much further wait, here is chapter 2...

--------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 2: Up the Chimney He Rose

The storm outside had grown vicious enough to make the old fraternity house groan at every gust. Snow slapped hard against the windows, blurring the world beyond into a white, swirling void. Inside, Phi Alpha Gamma had settled into a warm, chaotic mess: blankets draped over sagging couches, empty cans scattered across the coffee table, the air thick with the mingled smells of popcorn, sweat, and cheap beer.

Die Hard lit the room in flashes of gunfire and Christmas lights—Derek’s official “holiday classic” and the one time of year no one bothered arguing with him about movie choices. The boys were loud, half-buzzed, and fully invested in watching Bruce Willis crawl through air ducts.

Until Bran paused the movie.

The sudden stillness felt unnatural, leaving only the sound of the storm beating against the house. Bran didn’t explain; he didn’t have to. His gaze had drifted toward the basement door, expression tightening in that way that said he’d been thinking about something for longer than he let on.

“Noah’s been down there too long,” he finally said.

A few groans circled the room, but nobody contradicted him. Even in their half-drunken state, they all knew the unspoken rule: if a pledge disappears for more than fifteen minutes, someone checks. And if you’re the one who brought him in, that someone is always you.

Derek exhaled heavily into the couch cushion, reluctant to move. He’d just gotten comfortable—blanket over his legs, beer warming his hand, the best part of the movie queued up. He tried half-hearted excuses, joking attempts to pawn the duty off on someone else, but Bran wasn’t budging, and everyone knew it.

Responsibility. The one downside of being VP. And the dipshit’s cousin.

With a dramatic sigh, Derek peeled himself out of the blanket and pushed to his feet, cracking joints and stiff muscles protesting the movement. The room laughed at him for being over-the-top, and he tossed back a lazy middle finger as he headed toward the hallway.

The warmth of the living room faded with each step. The house felt different here—quieter, cooler, the kind of silence that seemed to listen back. Derek paused at the basement door, hand on the knob, feeling the faint cold radiating through the wood. The storm rattled the glass panes in the living room behind him; the floor creaked under his weight.

“All this for family,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

He opened the door. A draft of cold air spilled up the stairs like a warning.

Derek descended anyway.

Derek reached the bottom of the stairs and let the basement swallow him. The door creaked shut behind him with a hollow sound that seemed too loud for the space, muting the movie and laughter upstairs until it felt like a different world entirely. Down here, the air was heavy with the scent of dust, old cardboard, and the faint mineral tang of cold concrete.

He swept his phone flashlight across the basement. The clutter was familiar—bins stacked haphazardly, half-deflated holiday inflatables, strings of lights tangled like abandoned vines. Nothing out of place. Nothing disturbed. And still no sign of Noah.

A part of Derek relaxed at that. No crisis. No broken limbs. No fainted pledge for him to drag upstairs like a responsible older cousin. He’d been gearing himself up for a lecture, a report, maybe even a call to campus security.

But the basement was just a basement.

“Of course,” Derek muttered, rubbing a hand over the tense muscles of his neck. “Kid probably flipped the breaker and sprinted upstairs to crash like a little gremlin.”

He turned back toward the stairs and called up with an unnecessarily loud voice, “NOAH WENT TO BED! HE’S NOT DOWN HERE!”

The boys erupted into laughter—muffled by distance but still carrying their usual rough affection. Someone threw in a sarcastic cheer. Someone else shouted a joke about Noah already hibernating. It was exactly the kind of idiotic chorus Derek expected from them, and despite his irritation, it loosened something in his shoulders.

He let out a breath and scanned the room again. The storm slammed against the house with renewed force, rattling the small basement window. A sharp gust knifed through the old frame, sending a sweep of cold air across Derek’s bare arms. He shivered and shook out his shoulders, then crossed the room to push the window open just a few inches.

The icy wind sliced through the basement’s stale warmth, refreshing in a way that made Derek inhale deeper. Perfect for smoke. Perfect for clearing his head. Perfect, honestly, for ignoring Noah for another ten minutes.

He moved toward the tarp-covered crate tucked behind a pile of unused folding chairs. The tarp lifted with a soft rasp, revealing exactly what he’d hoped to find. The cedar cigar box gleamed softly under the flashlight beam—rich wood, smooth finish, the one nice object he owned that hadn’t been ruined by frat life. The cigars inside were arranged neatly, nestled like small luxuries among the clutter. Next to them sat a trio of half-functioning lighters, a cutter, and beneath those—

The stack of glossy magazines he definitely didn’t want anyone else finding.

He thumbed through the pile. Old issues with worn corners, kink mags he’d bought in out-of-town gas stations, a few things salvaged from older brothers who’d graduated. He stopped when he reached the leather daddy spread—the one with the broad-shouldered biker gripping a femboy’s jaw with an expression that promised absolutely filthy things.

A slow, amused smile tugged at Derek’s mouth.

“Yeah… you’ll do,” he said quietly.

He selected a cigar, clipped it, and lit it with practiced ease. The end glowed orange, and the first inhale filled his lungs with warm, earthy smoke. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the nicotine smooth out the tension of finals week and the annoyance he’d felt climbing off the couch. Down here, away from the noise, the cold, and responsibility, the cigar felt like a small oasis.

Dragging over the battered folding chair, Derek unfolded it beside the cracked window, settling into it like a man claiming a throne. He unzipped his jeans, pushed them down enough to get comfortable, and angled his phone’s flashlight downward toward the magazine on the cement floor. The glossy page lit up beautifully in the beam.

“Variety’s the spice of life,” he murmured to himself with a smirk. “And these guys upstairs would die if they knew how spicy I’ll go.”

He took another deep pull from the cigar, savoring the burn in his throat. Smoke curled from his lips in slow, luxurious streams as he leaned back into the metal chair, letting the cold air kiss his bare skin while the heat of the cigar warmed him from within.

He lowered his gaze to the magazine.

The leather daddy stared back, smug and powerful, the twink kneeling between his boots. Derek couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped him.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, and began.

Expertly, he spit into his hand and slowly began to to stroke his uncut cock as he drew hard on the cigar, enjoying the rush as he began muttering at the twink on the page.

“Yeah, you wanna getting fucked by daddy, don’t you boy? Gonna be daddy’s good little boy and suck every drop down? Bend over and hold that prettly little ass apart and let me fuck you raw?”

He stoked hard and fast, occasionally drawing hard and blowing out a cloud of smoke at the page, letting his mind pretend it was that little cocktease of a TA in his English lit class at his knees. He took a deep inhale, enjoying the feeling of the smoke billowing out of his nose.

Suddenly, a strange idea floated into his head, not of fucking someone, but being fucked. Wondering what it might be like to be the one under the biker, feeling as someone suddenly started to fuck his ass, fill it with their cum. Derek laughed and shook his head, immediately telling himself that he was a top. And that there was no fucking way he’d bottom for anyone, forcing his mind firmly back to his mental assault on the TA.

Minutes drifted by unnoticed. The storm’s howls softened into background noise. The boys upstairs were distant, irrelevant. Down here, Derek was alone with smoke, cold air, and the steady rhythm of his pleasure—soothing, familiar, private.

He only stopped when a sound broke through the quiet. A low, dull thud from behind the locked maintenance door.

Not the furnace. Not the house settling. Something else. Something that didn’t belong in the basement at all.

Derek was just settling into the rhythm of it—warm cigar smoke in his lungs, the cold wind from the cracked window brushing against his overheated skin—when a dull, heavy thud rolled out from the far side of the basement. The sound came from behind the old maintenance door, the one nobody ever opened because it led to pipes, storage, and decades of dust. Derek froze, his hand still wrapped around himself, head tipped slightly as he waited for it to repeat. For a moment the basement sat completely still, empty except for the rattle of the winter storm battering the window.

Then the second noise came—a dragging scrape across old stone, slow and uneven, like something heavy shifting its weight in a room that shouldn’t have contained anything heavy at all.

A cold prickle crept up the back of Derek’s neck. He lowered the magazine and tried to listen past the thump of his own pulse. He wasn’t scared exactly, just thrown off in the same way he’d been the night Ty insisted the house was haunted after getting drunk on peppermint schnapps. Still, the sound was wrong enough to get under his skin.

He let out a frustrated exhale and quickly zipped himself up, the motion abrupt and irritated. The warmth in his body hadn’t faded, but now it competed with a creeping annoyance—of course Noah had found a way to make this simple errand complicated. Derek jammed the cigar back between his teeth, grabbed his phone, and stalked across the room toward the maintenance door, muttering under his breath about clueless pledges and avoidable concussions.

As he approached, the cold coming from beneath the door brushed over his ankles like a draft from an open freezer. The handle felt even colder when he wrapped his fingers around it—a sharp, metallic chill that didn’t match the rest of the basement at all. He hesitated only long enough to grumble a final complaint about getting stuck with responsibility duty, then gave the door a firm shove.

It swung open with a long, low groan.

A wave of stale, icy air drifted out, carrying the smell of damp stone and something faintly chemical that stung the inside of his nose. Derek stepped inside cautiously, lifting his phone so the flashlight beam cut through the darkness. The light washed over rusted pipes, coils of forgotten wiring, and an uneven stone floor slick with moisture. The entire room felt older—deeper—than the rest of the house, as though it belonged to a different building entirely.

He tried to steady his breath, forcing a cocky tone back into his voice more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. “Noah, if you wandered in here and knocked yourself out on a pipe, I swear—”

Something slapped across his face with sudden, shocking force.

A thick burst of warm slime splattered over his mouth, nose, and eyes. The shock of it made him stumble backward, grabbing blindly at the air. The slime burned cold for a split second before turning hot—unnervingly hot—like someone had poured liquid fire along his skin. When he wiped at it, the chemical taste hit immediately, bitter and electric against his tongue.

The heat rushed downward into his chest and limbs so fast his knees buckled. His phone slipped from his fingers, bouncing across the stone with a clatter that sounded strangely far away. Derek tried to suck in a breath, but the air felt thick and syrupy, his thoughts dissolving into static as the warmth spread down into his spine and stomach.

He dropped to one knee, then the other, hands braced on the cold stone that now felt distant beneath him. Another wave of heat rolled through, stronger, heavier, pulling his muscles into a loose, unreliable tremble.

He forced his head up, blinking through the blur distorting his vision.

That was when he saw them—massive, inhuman feet standing just inches in front of him. Not boots. Not shadows. Skin. Obsidian-black, glossy like wet leather stretched over raw muscle.

The ground seemed to tilt under him as he stared, barely able to process what he was seeing before another hot surge pulled him sideways into the dark.

The maintenance room swayed around Derek like it was being viewed underwater. The cold stone under his palms should’ve grounded him, but the heat spreading through his veins made everything feel distant and unreal. He tried to lift his head again, struggling against the syrup-thick fog gathering behind his eyes.

His breath hitched.

The figure in front of him wasn’t a trick of the light.

It was enormous—taller than any human he’d ever seen, muscles carved in deep, shifting ridges beneath pitch-black skin that gleamed like oiled leather. Curved horns rose from its skull, thick and heavy, sweeping backward in a shape that made Derek’s chest seize with a primal, instinctive dread. Drool slid from the creature’s sharp teeth in thin ropes that glimmered faintly in the dim red glow pulsing somewhere further inside the chamber.

A low growl rumbled through the stone floor and into Derek’s bones.

He tried to scramble backward, but his limbs barely answered him. The chemical heat coursing through his body made his muscles feel detached, like something else was controlling the signals before they reached him. His hands slipped on the damp stone as he attempted to push himself away, his vision swimming harder with every movement.

Another shape shifted in the dark beyond the creature—then another. More footsteps echoed from deeper in the chamber, slow and deliberate, like predators circling a stunned animal. Derek’s gaze flickered sideways, catching only brief impressions: the glint of more horns, the ripple of massive chests, the dull glow of reflected red light sliding across slick skin.

His phone, lying several feet away, flickered once before the screen dimmed. The tiny glow made the rest of the chamber feel impossibly vast, the shadows unnervingly alive.

Derek tried to speak—maybe Noah’s name, maybe a curse—but the word dissolved into a thick, breathless sound as another pulse of heat rolled through him. His chest tightened; his stomach clenched; his thighs shook beneath him. The cigar he’d been clinging to slipped from his mouth and hit the floor with a soft hiss, the ember smearing against the wet stone.

A clawed hand—massive, warm, impossibly precise—reached down and closed around his jaw, lifting his head. Derek choked on a startled gasp as the creature tilted his face up, forcing him to meet the dark, hollow places where its eyes should have been.

Another growl vibrated from the creature’s chest.

This one felt almost… amused.

Derek’s vision flickered in and out, his pulse hammering in his ears. He could feel his body giving out, the chemical warmth dragging him deeper into helplessness. He fought to stay upright, to stay conscious, to make sense of anything—

Then another splash of wetness hit him across the cheek and temple, more slime catching the heat of his skin instantly. The chemical burn intensified, spreading down his neck and shoulders in a sizzling wave. Derek’s arms buckled; his breath stuttered; the world tilted sideways.

He collapsed fully onto the stone floor.

The cold should have shocked him awake. Instead, it barely registered against the feverish overheating of his skin. His vision dimmed at the edges, shapes blurring into dark smears. He heard the heavy footsteps closing in, the low chorus of growls echoing through the chamber, the slow exhale of something enormous drawing nearer.

Through the haze, he caught a single, horrifying detail:

Noah was lying on the ground a few feet away.

Naked. Motionless. Glowing faintly under the red light. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, a dazed half-smile on his lips that made Derek’s stomach twist.

Derek reached toward him instinctively, fingers dragging across the stone.

“Noah—”

The whisper barely left his throat before the darkness tightened around the edges of his vision. The last thing he saw was the towering creature leaning over him again, its silhouette blotting out the flickering glow like a closing door.

Then the floor rose up to meet him, and everything went black.

—

A thick, rumbling vibration pulled Derek back up from the dark—like the sound of a distant engine or an animal too large to imagine. The noise crawled up through the floor and pressed against his chest, coaxing his eyes half open.

The world swam, then steadied just enough for him to comprehend the shape looming above him.

The creature was kneeling now, massive shoulders hunched, horned head tilted with an unsettling calm. In the red glow pulsing from the sagging Christmas lights strung deep in the chamber, its obsidian skin gleamed like lacquered leather pulled taut over dense muscle. Drool slid in long, viscous ropes from its sharp teeth, pattering onto the stone near Derek’s cheek.

His stomach lurched. He tried to push himself back, but his limbs barely twitched, the lingering chemical warmth numbing half his strength and scrambling his senses.

The creature’s claws moved with unexpected gentleness as it plucked Derek’s fallen cigar from the floor. It inspected the half-burned end, then leaned forward and slipped it between Derek’s lips as though returning something he’d dropped at a dinner table.

Derek inhaled reflexively. Heat filled his lungs again, thick and smoky, pulling a shiver from somewhere deep in his spine.

Another vibration echoed through the room—footsteps, heavy and deliberate. Derek forced his blurry gaze upward just in time to see more shapes emerging from the shadows. One by one, they stepped into the faint red glow:

A second monster, then a third. A fourth, fifth, sixth. Seven in total, each massive, horned, and dripping with saliva, their bodies built like sculpted nightmares carved from obsidian.

All of them carried themselves like soldiers. And they weren’t alone.

From the far end of the chamber, barely visible, another presence lingered—larger, stiller, watching with a slow-burning patience. Derek couldn’t fully make out its form, only the faint ember of a cigar glowing like a solitary red eye in the dark.

The Alpha. Even through his haze, Derek felt it—an instinctive tightening in his chest, a pressure at the base of his skull. The air grew heavier, charged, as if gravity itself thickened in the Alpha’s presence.

Derek’s gaze drifted, searching through the blur, hunting for an anchor in the panic— And then he saw Noah again.

His cousin lay curled on the opposite side of the chamber, skin slick with sweat, chest rising and falling in shallow, rhythmic breaths. His eyes were open, but unfocused—dreamy, dazed, still caught in a fog that made Derek’s throat tighten.

“Noah…” Derek tried again, but the word melted into a rasp.

The monsters responded to the sound with a chorus of low growls, the tones layered and resonant, vibrating through the chamber like a ritual drumbeat. Their horns caught the dim light in quick flashes—curved, jagged, imposing—each pair slightly different, each head bowing subtly toward the Alpha’s distant glow.

Derek blinked hard, fighting the pull of sleep or blackout. The heat in his chest bloomed again, spreading through his limbs in slow, molten waves. Every breath seemed to thicken the haze around him.

The creature holding his jaw rumbled softly, as if pleased by his attempt to stay conscious.

The others closed in, forming a loose semicircle—silent except for their deep breathing and the soft drip of saliva onto stone. Their presence crowded the air, heavy and unyielding, a wall of muscle, horns, and furnace-hot breath.

Something important was about to happen. Derek felt it—not in his mind, but in his body, in the way his skin prickled and the heat inside him swelled as though anticipating command.

He wanted to move. He wanted to scream. He wanted to wake up. But all he could do was breathe smoke and stare helplessly as the eight monstrous silhouettes surrounded him like a ritual coming to life.

The creature crouched nearest to Derek shifted, angling its massive frame so the dim red bulbs overhead struck its features more clearly. The others seemed to still in response, adjusting their posture, their growls lowering as though they were making room for something—someone—important.

Derek blinked through the haze, forcing his vision to stabilize long enough to really see the one holding him.

This monster was different. Its horns were thicker than the others’, curling backward in heavy, sweeping arcs like ram’s horns coated in black tar. The ridges of its shoulders were broader, its chest heavier, its posture confident in a way that felt almost… deliberate. Not just monstrous. Commanding. The kind of presence that walked into a room expecting obedience before it ever spoke.

In the flicker of the failing Christmas lights, its skin gleamed with a deep, leathery sheen. Not slick like the others—more matte, almost textured, like worn black leather stretched tight across muscle. Derek’s drifting, chemically-fogged mind made a jolting connection:

It looked exactly like the biker from his magazine. The leather daddy fantasy he’d been jerking off to fifteen minutes ago was now crouched in front of him as an impossibly tall, horned, drooling demon. The realization hit him so hard he almost sobbed.

The monster leaned closer, head tilting with eerie curiosity. Its horns cast long curved shadows across Derek’s trembling chest. The humid breath rolling off it smelled faintly of cedar smoke, stone, and something darker underneath—something old.

Behind Derek, the other monsters shifted subtly, their stances widening as though giving this one more space. Every movement, every growl, every ripple of their massive bodies deferred outward from this central figure. Even in his fogged state, Derek sensed the hierarchy:

Not the Alpha. But close. Second-in-command.

The creature’s claws tightened around Derek’s jaw—not painfully, but with a sense of ownership, of evaluation. It studied him in a way that made Derek’s ribs feel too small for his lungs.

From the back of the chamber, the Alpha’s ember glowed brighter for a moment.

A voice Derek couldn’t place—deep, resonant, vibrating more in his skull than in the air—rolled through him like a slow thunderclap:

“Gravestone. Give me your opinion of this one.”

The name wasn’t spoken aloud so much as delivered. A designation. A command. A recognition. And in that instant, Derek knew without question that this was the creature’s name. Heavy. Unyielding. Final. Gravestone.

The creature rumbled in acknowledgment of the Alpha’s call, a deep sound that shook Derek’s bones. It dipped its head once, almost ritualistically, and the circle of monsters responded with a collective shift—lowering their posture a fraction, deferring to its authority.

Derek felt the pressure of Gravestone’s grip increase just slightly, an unspoken signal that he was now the focus of the second-in-command’s attention. The thought should have terrified him. 

It did. But tangled in the fear, beneath the chemical heat crawling through his limbs, was something Derek didn’t want to name—an involuntary pull toward the creature staring him down like he was something meant to be claimed.

Gravestone’s cigar ember glowed as the monster drew in a long, resonant breath. Smoke curled from its nostrils in thick ribbons that drifted lazily downward, brushing Derek’s face with a warm, smoky veil.

The creature leaned in closer, its voice rumbling through both the air and Derek’s mind—low, gravelly, and almost amused:

“Derek Vance… Hmm… This one will not break easily like the other. If we push, he will fight and not break. Like… The one who hunts us, Alpha.” Derek’s pulse jumped violently. He wasn’t sure if it was fear. Or something far more dangerous.

Gravestone’s grip shifted, his claws spreading along Derek’s jaw to tilt his head upward with a deliberate slowness that felt more like examination than restraint. The monster’s enormous frame blocked out nearly every trace of red light behind him, leaving only a faint glow outlining the heavy curl of his horns and the dripping points of his teeth.

Derek tried to jerk his chin free, but the attempt was sluggish, weakened by the chemical heat humming through his bloodstream. His breath shuddered out in short bursts, smoke leaking from his lips with each trembling exhale.

Gravestone watched him with unnerving stillness. Then the monster leaned closer.

The leathery sheen of his chest flexed beneath the dim bulbs, muscles shifting like coiled stone. The scents of cedar and smoke and something darker—something primal—rolled off him in thick waves. When he spoke, his voice emerged as a layered growl, vibrating through the chamber and through Derek’s ribs:

“Easy now, boy. If you behave, I will make it enjoyable. This can be pleasurable if you agree to it.”

The words weren’t shouted. They weren’t gentle either. They landed with the finality of a hand on the back of the neck.

Derek’s heart seized. “I—I’m not—” 

But the protest fell apart halfway, tangled in smoke and fear.

Gravestone’s thumb traced the line of Derek’s jaw, a slow, possessive drag that made Derek’s breath catch despite himself. The monster’s eyes—if he even had eyes—felt like they were inside Derek’s skull, sifting through his scattered thoughts.

Another low rumble. Amusement.

“You came down here,” Gravestone growled, the cigar ember glowing as he spoke, “with a cigar in your mouth. Played with yourself looking at smut.”

Derek swallowed hard. His pulse hammered against the monster’s grip. “I—just needed some air—just needed to—” He choked on the next inhale, the smoke thickening in his lungs as though responding to Gravestone’s voice.

The monster leaned even closer, so close Derek could feel the humid heat of his breath against his ear.

“You walked into my master’s chamber tasting of smoke,” Gravestone murmured, the sound crawling down Derek’s spine, “almost like you were asking for this.”

Derek’s body tensed. “No—no, I didn’t—this isn’t—”

Gravestone cut him off with a deep, dark chuckle—half-growl, half-laugh, wholly unsettling. The vibration rolled through Derek’s chest like an invisible hand pressing him deeper into the stone floor.

The monster’s clawed thumb slid to Derek’s chin again, tapping lightly once—an oddly deliberate gesture, as though assessing how much fight was left in him.

Then Gravestone spoke again, this time both aloud and pulsing in Derek’s skull:

“You like smoke, don’t you boy? You claim to want to be in charge, but you wish to serve someone as well.”

Derek’s breath hitched, his lungs flaring with another involuntary inhale of the lingering cigar haze. His thoughts scattered like dry leaves in the wind. He didn’t answer. Gravestone didn’t need him to.

A slow, satisfied rumble rolled through the chamber, echoed faintly by the other monsters. Their heavy footsteps shifted, stances adjusting as if they could feel Derek weakening—feel the tremor in his chest and the subtle drop of his shoulders.

Gravestone’s next words curled around Derek like heat:

“You love to smoke. To shoot your load as you flood your lungs. To fuck in public places, and provide pleasure to other men already. These are good traits I look for in a boy. You would make a suitable new cigar pig for me.”

The phrase slammed into him with a force that made his stomach drop. Derek flinched, confusion and panic knotting in his throat. His instinct was to snap back, to deny it, to push the creature away—but the chemical warmth pulsing through his blood dulled the edges of resistance, spinning his thoughts into loose, heavy loops.

He managed only a broken exhale. Gravestone’s grin widened, drool slicking down onto Derek’s chest in slow, steaming trails. The other monsters stepped in closer, forming a tighter semicircle—horns gleaming, breaths heavy, bodies shifting with a predator’s anticipation. They were waiting. Watching. Listening.

Gravestone dragged one claw down the center of Derek’s sternum, gently caressing the soft skin under the mat of fur on Derek’s chest, slow enough to make every nerve spark under the heat.

Then, with a voice low enough to feel more like a command than a question:

“You will breathe smoke for me, boy. I will take you on personally and help you learn. I will help you see how you wish to bend over and be filled. I will not force you. I will make you want to come to me willingly.”

Derek’s resolve wavered. For the first time that night, he felt something inside him tilt. Not break. Not yet. But tilt—dangerously, undeniably. As if Gravestone had found the first crack. And was widening it with every breath Derek took.

The moment Gravestone spoke his command, something shifted in the chamber. The other seven monsters responded like a single organism—horned heads rising, bodies straightening, their massive frames aligning around Derek in a slow, deliberate formation. The air thickened with heat and breath and a faint chemical tang that clung to Derek’s skin like a second layer.

Gravestone didn’t release his jaw. He didn’t need to.

With one steady motion, he guided Derek’s head upward, forcing his gaze toward the circle closing around him. The creatures’ cigars glowed like scattered embers in a dark forest, each inhale a slow flare of orange-red light that reflected off drool-slicked fangs and lacquer-black skin.

Derek tried to pull in a breath—any breath that wasn’t smoke—but Gravestone tightened his grip until Derek’s lips parted, taking Derek’s cigar and putting it in his mouth.

A nearby creature locked lips with him, and exhaled.

A thick, heavy cloud of cigar smoke poured over Derek’s face, sinking into his lungs before he could stop it. The heat hit him instantly, flooding his chest with a molten rush that made his ribs shudder and his limbs tremble.

He coughed once— Then inhaled again, deeper, without meaning to.

The warmth in his bloodstream responded immediately, blooming outward in a dizzy, spiraling wave that loosened his thoughts and softened the edges of fear. His muscles slackened. His breath slowed. The floor beneath him felt distant, his limbs disconnected, like he were floating just above his own body.

Another creature stepped forward. Another set of  lips locked with his, sharp teeth teasing his lips and tongue. Another plume of smoke washed into him—sweet, heavy, numbing. Derek’s eyes fluttered. His jaw sagged slightly even before Gravestone pulled his head back into position.

“There you go,” the monster rumbled, pleased. “Breathe our smoke in for us. Be good for us and we will make you happy.”

Derek wanted to argue, to push back, to keep some piece of himself intact. But every breath was a fresh rush of heat and fog, dissolving his resolve in increments. His thoughts felt syrup-thick, drifting from one to another too slowly to hold onto.

A third creature leaned in, its horns casting jagged shadows across Derek’s chest. It exhaled directly into his mouth—hot, dense, overwhelming. Derek inhaled instinctively, his chest expanding against the pressure, the taste of smoke coating his tongue so completely he couldn’t imagine breathing anything else.

By the fourth monster, Derek wasn’t resisting.

His head tilted slightly forward, lips parting in anticipation of the next exhale, finding himself willing its tongue into his mouth, licking and sucking, groaning as he felt the chemicals in the saliva give him a head rush and the smoke flooded his lungs. The realization horrified him for a split second—just long enough for the chemical warmth to swallow the thought whole.

The circle tightened.

Red light pulsed overhead, flickering in time with the slow rhythm of the monsters’ breathing. Their shadows shifted across Derek’s trembling body like markings in a ritual, each movement purposeful, each inhale followed by a deep rumble of satisfaction.

Then the spitting began.

Warm droplets—thick, chemical, tingling—splattered onto Derek’s chest and shoulders, dripping down his ribs in slow trails that made his skin prickle. Each drop sent a pulse through him, echoing outward from the point of contact until his entire torso felt like it buzzed.

He shuddered involuntarily. Gravestone noticed instantly.

“Good boy,” he growled, voice curling into Derek’s mind like smoke through a cracked door. “That’s it. Take what we give you. Ride the rush of our spit and smoke filling you, letting your mind break gently.”

Another monster spit. Heat spread. Derek’s breath quickened.

He felt detached from himself—like the version of him who smoked cigars by the storm window, who joked upstairs with the guys, who insisted he wasn’t into submission—was slipping backward into some fog he couldn’t pull himself out of.

The monsters continued their slow, ritualistic circle, filling his lungs with smoke and his mind with warmth. Each exhale pushed him closer to that tipping point, the place where resistance became too heavy to carry.

Gravestone’s claws tightened around the back of his head, steadying him.

“You’re breathing deeper now,” the creature observed, voice thick with approval. “You want this… even if you don’t know it yet.”

Derek tried to deny it. But when the next plume of smoke washed over him, he inhaled without hesitation, diving in for more when one of the creatures took another deep inhale on its cigar. Gravestone chuckled—a low, indulgent growl that shook the air around them.

“Good,” he murmured. “Be my little cigar pig. Show daddy how much you love fucking your lungs with smoke.”

Derek’s pulse stuttered. His chest expanded.

His resistance cracked—not broken, not shattered, but splintering under the weight of heat and breath and Gravestone’s relentless presence in his brain. Suddenly, the images started to trickle in. Derek, in a sling, smoking a fat cigar as Gravestone ushered men to feed him their smoke, to fuck him and fill him with their cum. Derek smiling happily and feeling Gravestone tell him how happy he was, how proud, how he wanted to see him please every man there.

He barely felt as his jaw slowly fell open, drool slowly dripping out as Gravestone placed the cigar back into his mouth and closed his mouth for him. And Derek’s world narrowed to smoke, heat, and the feeling of something inside him leaning—slowly, dangerously—toward surrender. With one last puff, he felt it finally give, and he smiled, knowing exactly what he was meant to do next. 

Without a word, Derek crawled over to Gravestone and pulled the cigar out of his mouth after inhaling hard and deep, and let Gravestone begin to fuck his mouth, his massive cock worming its way down his throat and making his neck bulge. He felt as the copious amounts of tainted cum mixed with the cigar spit in his mouth, greedily gulping it down and smiling as he felt Gravestone gently begin to run his clawed fingers through his hair. With a growl, Gravestone shot his first full tainted load into Derek, watching as he moaned and gulped it down greedily.

With an audible pop, he pulled out of his mouth and moved to behind Derek, sending countless more images mentally into his brain, smiling as he felt it start to stutter and shut down.

The chamber seemed to hold its breath the moment Gravestone moved behind Derek with clear intent. The other monsters shifted outward in a wide, slow ripple, giving their second-in-command space. Their cigar embers glowed brighter, a ring of red eyes circling Derek’s trembling, smoke-flooded body. The Alpha watched from the shadows, silent and immense.

Gravestone’s claws slid down Derek’s spine, steadying him with a grip that felt both possessive and inevitable. Derek’s breath trembled in his chest, lungs full of heat and smoke that made it difficult to think in straight lines. Every inhale fed the softness in his limbs; every exhale made the world blur a little more.

“Easy,” Gravestone murmured, voice thick as molten rock. “You’re ready. It’s time for Daddy to convert you himself.”

Derek shook his head weakly, but the protest dissolved into a thin, breathless sound. The warmth coursing through his veins tangled with the weight of Gravestone’s hands, drowning out what little clarity he had left.

Gravestone positioned him, gently drooling out his potent saliva, smoky from the cigars. Gently, he slowly forced his massive cock deep into Derek, calmly running his sharp claws along his back, letting him tremble and puff hard on the cigar in his mouth. Slowly and steadily, he watched as Derek became more and more docile, before finally taking his chance and speeding up, quickly getting to a jackhammer speed, jabbing hard and fast. He smiled as Derek began to beg for Gravestone to claim him, to flood his insides, to make him his son. Letting out a groan, Gravestone shot his first load deep inside Derek and watched as it quickly flooded his body and began to take control. 

Derek gasped—shocked, overwhelmed, disoriented. Smoke rushed from his lips in a trembling plume, his fingers curling helplessly against the stone. His mind reeled, trying to cling to the last scraps of who he thought he was—

I’m a top. I don’t— I’m not—

But the heat flooding through him crushed the words before they could fully form. Gravestone growled with slow, brutal satisfaction, the sound vibrating through Derek’s spine.

The other monsters echoed the sound, a low chorus that filled the chamber with ritualistic approval. Smoke drifted downward in swirling ribbons as they watched, bodies shifting in restless, anticipatory hunger.

Derek’s thoughts thinned. Bent. Then bent further. Gravestone leaned close to Derek’s ear, his breath hot and thick with cigar smoke.

“Good boy…” A rumble. “You take what you were meant for well. I am proud.”

Derek shuddered, his resolve buckling under the pressure of sensation, heat, and Gravestone’s overwhelming presence. Every breath felt heavier than the last, weighted with smoke that pulled his mind deeper into that soft, pliant fog.

He began to smile when Gravestone removed both of their cigars and locked lips, shoving his tongue down Derek’s throat and exhaled his smoke into him, growling as Derek clenched his hole down on his cock. 

From the shadows, the Alpha rose.

The temperature seemed to drop and rise at once, the air tightening as the Alpha stepped into the dim ring of red light. His horns were longer than Gravestone’s, spiraling upward with jagged, ancient symmetry. His body dwarfed the others, every muscle carved like obsidian monoliths.

The glow of his cigar burned fiercely. The monsters immediately lowered their heads. Even Gravestone’s rhythm slowed, his posture tightening in deference.

The Alpha approached Derek with slow, devastating certainty.

“He resists so much less now,” the Alpha observed, voice echoing in the air and in Derek’s skull simultaneously. “Well done, Gravestone. He bends beautifully. He will be yours to own and consume now. Just remember to share.”

Gravestone growled, pride evident even in the rumble.

Derek tried to lift his head—to pull away—to salvage something of himself—but the Alpha crouched beside him, one massive hand settling on Derek’s chest with terrifying gentleness.

Derek froze. The weight of that touch wasn’t just physical. It pressed into his mind. Into his breath. Into the place where his resistance used to live.

The Alpha tilted his head, studying him like a rare specimen.

“You still breathe like one pretending to hold on,” he said softly—almost kindly. “But you came to us already wanting this.”

Derek’s heart raced, panic surging—but it drowned instantly under another rush of smoke and heat.

The Alpha raised one clawed hand, resting it on Derek’s cheek. The touch was warm. Heavy. Commanding.

“Gravestone has opened you,” the Alpha murmured. “But I will finish it.”

Gravestone growled low in agreement, tightening his hold on Derek—stabilizing him, presenting him. Derek’s mind flickered, desperate, frightened, overwhelmed— and then the fog swallowed the flicker whole.

The Alpha leaned closer, cigar ember glowing like a miniature sun.

Derek mindlessly let himself be positioned perfectly by Gravestone, rolling onto his back and quietly taking Gravestone’s still hard and dripping cock into his mouth and nursing gently on it as Gravestone rested his knees on his shoulders, giving the Alpha fully access to Derek’s and wrecked and dripping ass, and slowly began to suck on Derek’s cock, ready to slurp down the remaining load of cum from his cock as his master claimed him. With gusto, the Alpha firmly gripped Derek’s firm ass and slammed hard and fast, hauling on his cigar and growling as he furiously began to slam as hard and fast as he could, grinning as he could hear Derek’s muffled cries around Gravestone’s cock, feeling as the walls of his guts readily moved out of his way, legs spreading further and allowing him access to begin spanking Derek as he fucked him. 

Each smack made Derek’s ass clench and after just a few short minutes, he felt the Alpha let out a deep, guttural growl and begin to shoot volley after volley of black thick jizz into his ass. The sensation and sudden mental praise flowing through his mind suddenly made him shudder and with one last firm suck from Gravestone, he choked out a cry and began shooting uncontrollably, his cock shooting over and over in an attempt to please his new cigar daddy, to feed him and nourish him, not even caring when his cock continued to shoot, with nothing more coming out be a few feeble drops and a painful ache in his balls. 

His final strands of resistance curled inward, melted, and vanished as the Alpha’s voice echoed inside him: “There. Now you belong to us.”

Derek sagged entirely, consciousness wavering, breath ragged and smoky. Gravestone rumbled with deep satisfaction, his claws sliding supportively along Derek’s sides as he helped him sit upright. 

Almost on instinct, Derek stuck both cigars into his mouth, greedily sucking the smoke into his lungs as his mind began to change, craving the changes about to occur in his body, wanting to speed up his infection, to change, to transform.

“Good boy, that’s Daddy’s good little pig. Make sure to take all these nice men’s loads in your tight boyhole and you’ll become perfect,” he growled.

“Fuck, I want every one of them to infect me,” Derek groaned around the cigars, already wanting to crawl over and offer his ass to each and every one, to memorize the shape of their dick in his ass, to swap smoke with them and feel each one add their own potent load to his guts, making him change even faster. He now knew his true purpose. To feed the virus now consuming him and to provide comfort and a warm nourishing place for their Alpha’s strain.   

The Alpha nodded once, pleased. He gently ran his clawed hand through Derek’s hair, like one would pet a dog.

“Yes. Let the rest of your new brothers share their loads in your firm ass to aid my seed and then you may sleep. You will remain smaller and not show the signs like the others, but will be better equipped to take our loads and draw in our prey with your pretty face and splendid features. A perfect pet for me and my commander.”

His hand pressed gently to Derek’s forehead— and the world folded into grey, a pleased smile on his face.

 

[Menbendovr]

Fuck!  What awesome chapters these last two were.

It seems you are hinting at different levels of transformation to the infected men in this storyline.  Some won’t grow large and horns?  Fascinating!  Am I right with this conclusion?

It sounds like some will be bait for other men to get ensnared.  Or am I reading into this too much?

[leatherpunk16]

1 minute ago, Menbendovr said:

Fuck!  What awesome chapters these last two were.

It seems you are hinting at different levels of transformation to the infected men in this storyline.  Some won’t grow large and horns?  Fascinating!  Am I right with this conclusion?

It sounds like some will be bait for other men to get ensnared.  Or am I reading into this too much?

Without giving it away, I think we can surmise that everyone reacts a little differently to the transformation. Nature has a million variations of the same features. 

[Menbendovr]

20 minutes ago, leatherpunk16 said:

Without giving it away, I think we can surmise that everyone reacts a little differently to the transformation. Nature has a million variations of the same features. 

Ok, that makes perfect sense and is a fact in biology.  Very cool!  
 

My question now would be the Alpha then has a way of knowing/seeing the variation outcome then of his infected brood/clan?

[leatherpunk16]

1 hour ago, Menbendovr said:

Ok, that makes perfect sense and is a fact in biology.  Very cool!  
 

My question now would be the Alpha then has a way of knowing/seeing the variation outcome then of his infected brood/clan?

He may have theories, but field test is required for accuracy. That's all I can say. I don't have the dadta to speculate more. 

[Menbendovr]

Playing coy!  I get it.

[kspozcum]

-silently knows and refuses to share-

[leatherpunk16]

Chapter 3: Feliz Miccion

Home Alone played loudly across the living room, the Wet Bandits screaming while the guys of Phi Alpha Gamma howled with laughter. Evan had picked the movie hoping for something lighthearted, something to ease the weird feeling twisting in his stomach. Instead, he spent most of the runtime watching the basement door instead of the TV.

Noah should have come back by now.

Derek definitely should have.

Evan pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders, trying to ignore the faint cold draft slipping from under the basement door. It didn’t feel like normal cold air—more like something breathing out into the room. The others didn’t seem to notice. They sprawled over the couches, arguing about which trap was the best, tossing popcorn, drinking too fast because the storm outside felt like a good excuse.

Bran elbowed him lightly. “Dude, relax. You’re staring holes into the floor.”

“I’m just saying… I never saw either of them come up,” Evan murmured. “Not once.”

“Derek probably found porn,” Ty said without looking away from the screen.

“Noah probably passed out,” Zach added. “You know how he is.”

Porkchop frowned sympathetically but didn’t join in.

Evan stared at the TV, trying to let the movie distract him, but the feeling wouldn’t loosen. The storm outside smashed against the windows, rattling the frames as if testing them. The house lights flickered once—just enough for Evan’s pulse to jump—before stabilizing again. The others barely reacted, but Evan felt the pressure in the room shift, subtle and wrong.

Something was happening downstairs.

He couldn’t hear it, couldn’t see it, but the sense of it pressed into him like a weight beneath his ribs.

He hugged his arms around himself. “I’m telling you, I would’ve heard them go upstairs.”

Bran sighed without taking his eyes off the movie. “Evan. Man. They’re fine. Derek’s the last person on earth who’d get himself killed in a basement.”

The reassurance didn’t touch him. If anything, it only made him feel more alone in his worry.

The movie’s climax exploded across the TV—chaos, traps, screams, laughter—but Evan barely registered a second of it. His gaze stayed fixed on the basement door, on the quiet line of darkness pooling beneath it, on the draft that seemed to breathe just a little too steadily.

Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones. And before the night was over, he knew he would have to be the one to face it.

By the time Kevin was dropping bricks onto the Wet Bandits’ skulls, Evan couldn’t focus on the movie at all. The storm outside roared harder than the TV speakers, rattling the windows every few seconds. He kept glancing at the basement door, anxiety chewing at him—Noah wasn’t back, Derek wasn’t back, and he knew he hadn’t missed either of them going upstairs.

The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then the whole house went dark.

Groans erupted instantly.

“Dude, right at the BEST PART—come on!”

“I hate this house!”

“Electric companies should be illegal.”

Bran sighed heavily and ordered everyone upstairs before the cold set in. The guys shuffled away, complaining the whole time, leaving only Evan standing alone in the pitch-black living room.

Perfect.

His gaze drifted to the cases of beer on the floor. If he didn’t stash those downstairs, some idiot would keep drinking until hypothermia felt “kinda fun.” He gathered the loose bottles first, then hefted two full cases into his arms, glass clinking sharply in the dark.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “I’ll just do everything then.”

He carried the crates down the stairs carefully, each creak echoing much louder in the cold basement. Without the furnace running, the air felt unnaturally still—damp, metallic, almost grim.

He set the beer down near the wall and rubbed his chilled fingers together. As he turned to head back upstairs, a faint sound froze him in place.

A scratch. Then a drag. Coming from behind the old maintenance door. He swore he could see something like a string of gold tinsel glinting in the near darkness, only the faint glow of the snow and his phone’s flashlight giving the space any light.

“…it's just a raccoon, Evan. Just a raccoon that should have been hibernating and got in somehow,” he whispered.

The lights snapped on for one harsh second—just long enough for him to see the maintenance door twitch like something nudged it from the inside—before the power died again.

Evan’s heart hammered. But with Derek and Noah missing, he couldn’t ignore it. He swallowed his fear, approached the door, and reached for the handle.

The moment his fingers brushed it, a wet hiss cut through the dark—and two streams of hot, chemical slime splattered across his face. Evan choked, stumbling back as heat pulsed through his skull.

The world folded inward. Blackness took him.

—

Warmth pooled beneath him first—not comforting warmth, but thick and suffocating, the kind that clung to the skin like steam rising off concrete after a storm. Evan surfaced into awareness slowly, as if his consciousness were tethered to the floor by heavy ropes. Every breath felt thick, his lungs dragging in humid air that carried a faint chemical tang. His mind refused to focus, circling the same dulled thought over and over: something is wrong.

When he tried to move, cold stone scraped against his bare hip. The texture jolted him, pulling him more fully awake, and his eyes widened as the dim, reddish glow of emergency lights revealed his situation piece by piece. His clothes were gone. All of them. His skin was exposed to the freezing basement air, except for the disturbing warmth soaking the floor beneath him, spreading in an unmistakable shape around his thighs.

At first, Evan thought—hoped—it was spilled beer or a broken pipe or anything else. But the heat, the smell, the way it clung to him…

“No,” he breathed, voice cracking. “No, no, that’s not— I didn’t—”

His brain felt too fogged to scream properly, too heavy to fuel panic. Whatever had hit him before knocking him out had softened his awareness, numbing the edges of his fear until everything felt dreamlike, distant, unreal.

A low exhale drifted through the room.

Warm. Heavy. Animal.

Evan’s head jerked up, breath hitching painfully as two massive silhouettes stood just beyond the deepest pool of red light. They stepped forward in perfect synchrony, each movement deliberate, predatory. The glow revealed their bodies in slow increments—first their broad torsos, glossy and black like oil-slicked stone; then their arms, corded with unnatural muscle; and finally their heads, crowned with long, jagged horns that curved like ornate blades carved from obsidian.

They were not human.

Not even close.

Evan scrambled backward instinctively, but his limbs felt uncoordinated, coated in molasses. His body didn’t respond with the speed or desperation he needed. The monsters watched him with eerie stillness, as if studying a creature that had not yet realized it was trapped.

Then a voice entered his mind with a thin, slicing presence, not heard so much as felt.

Sticks.

A second voice followed—heavy, grinding, powerful enough to shake loose something small and fragile in Evan’s mind.

Lockjaw.

Evan whimpered, though even the sound felt muted by the fog smothering his thoughts. “Wh-why can I… hear you? Why… where are my c-clothes—please—”

Neither creature moved its mouth. But their attention pressed into him like invisible hands, nudging his thoughts aside to make room for their own. His fear bled into confusion, then into a warm, dizzying pressure that made it hard to resist anything at all.

Sticks lowered himself into a crouch, claws clicking lightly against the stone as he leaned close enough for Evan to feel the heat radiating off his massive frame. The creature inhaled near Evan’s skin, slow and deliberate, as if savoring his scent. Its breath rolled over him with a humid force that made his chest tighten.

“He woke marked,” Sticks’ mental voice murmured, darkly pleased.

“Already leaking. Softened and wet. Ready.”

Humiliation flushed through Evan’s body like a fever. “No—I didn’t—this isn’t—please, don’t—”

His voice broke as Lockjaw’s clawed hand settled around his ankle, the touch firm but not painful. The effect, however, was immediate and profound; his muscles seized, trembled, then slackened under a wave of numbing heat that surged up his leg. Evan gasped, terrified by how fast the sensation spread.

The monsters seemed to share a silent exchange before stepping even closer, boxing Evan in with their towering bodies. Their shadows merged into a single darkness around him, swallowing the red glow, making the room feel impossibly small.

They reached toward themselves—bodies shifting, opening, revealing as they stepped forward two pitch black cocks, looking at though they were clad in black latex. Each of them shook their cock at him a few times, until suddenly a pair of twin streams of foul smelling urine shot out, spraying Evan in his face, splashing into his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Into the small scrapes that he didn’t remember having on his chest and legs.

Warmth splattered across Evan’s chest and stomach, coating his skin in a way that shouldn’t have felt as heavy or intoxicating as it did. The air thickened with a scent both chemical and primal, sinking into him with every breath he took. Evan tried to recoil, but his body refused to move the way he needed it to. The fog in his mind thickened, melting his panic into something softer, more pliable.

“No—please—just tell me what’s happening—” His voice trembled helplessly.

Sticks’ mental presence curled around him like smoke.

“Hush, little pig.”

“You were chosen. We’re just showering you in our love.”

Lockjaw lifted Evan’s face by the jaw, not roughly, but with a certainty that allowed no escape. The motion forced Evan to look directly into the creature’s eyeless, gleaming hollows. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt around that gaze—falling inward, folding in on itself.

Then he felt as the man opened his jaw and expertly shoved it into his mouth. Suddenly, he felt a sudden flood of piss fill his mouth, and something inside him told him to drink. To enjoy this. That it would help what was to come. A rush of heat flooded Evan’s senses, so overwhelming that the room blurred at the edges. His breath stuttered. His body jerked beneath an instinct he didn’t understand and couldn’t control. The creatures’ psychic voices pressed deeper, pushing against the last organized pieces of his mind.

“Don’t—don’t make me—” he whispered, but his will was already dissolving. His limbs slackened; his resistance thinned like melting ice.

Sticks’ growl rumbled through his mind, satisfied.

“Good.”

Lockjaw gathered him up, repositioning him as if arranging a ritual object. Evan’s stomach flipped, his world spinning, and then he shuddered as he felt Lockjaw shove his knees to his chest and slowly began to press his large, dripping cock against his hole. In one sudden movement, he felt as the man shoved his cock deep inside of him. The two cracked open two new bottles of beer, much to Evan’s surprise, and he went to open his mouth, telling them not to drink them. Oddly though, his brain couldn’t produce the words and Sticks looked down at him before shoving his cock into his mouth and unleashing a new round of piss down his throat.

Chuckling with a deep, dark growl, Lockjaw forced his dick even deeper in Evan’s ass, and that’s when Evan felt it. The feeling of heat and liquid filling up inside of him as the man began to empty his bladder deep in his guts.

Pressure built inside him—unnatural, overwhelming, wrong. His vision swam. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. A cry slipped from his throat as Lockjaw’s large hand settled against his abdomen, guiding the energy within him, shaping it.

The moment Lockjaw pulled out, the pressure released in a flooding rush that tore a strained sound from Evan’s chest, and he felt his own bladder start to release, as well as his bowels of Lockjaw’s tainted piss. He couldn’t stop until he was sure he was empty, his guts feeling pleasantly clean and empty and ready for something else. Something he couldn’t name.

Suddenly, both were adjusting him as if he were a sex toy for their pleasure. He felt as Lockjaw first shoved his cock deep inside him, growling and pleased and then, he felt it. Sticks’s even larger cock pressing up next to Lockjaw’s, forcing the too-tight flesh apart as he too began to seat himself inside of him. 

He slumped forward, gasping.

But the ritual wasn’t over.

Sticks and Lockjaw closed in again—synchronized, practiced, moving with the precision of beings who had performed this rite countless times. Their claws traced sigils along Evan’s spine, along his ribs, across his chest. Each mark burned briefly, then sank into his flesh as faint lines of blood welled up on his skin as they pistoned in synchronization in and out of his guts.

Evan whimpered, shaking uncontrollably as the psychic voices slid around his consciousness like dark waves.

“Open.”

“Yield.”

“Let us in.”

“You belong.”

He didn’t know how long he endured it; time became unreal, stretching and folding over itself as the monsters worked. His mind frayed at the edges, unraveling strand by strand. That was, until he finally felt both of them picking up speed. They both growled at each other, with Evan scared and strangely excited as they both began to shoot their foul, brackish loads inside his ass. He didn’t know why, but something inside of him was telling him to be glad his ass was bleeding slightly and pleasantly burning, that it would make things go even faster for him.

Shapes moved in the dimness—other monsters stepping forward, circling him, rumbling in approval. Some carried the beer he had brought down, drinking casually as they watched, savoring the scene like spectators at a ritual feast. Their presence pressed against Evan’s awareness, adding to the weight collapsing around him.

The air shifted suddenly. Everything went still. Even Sticks and Lockjaw froze, lowering their heads.

Evan’s breath hitched when he felt it—a gravity, an authority, a presence so powerful it made his bones feel hollow.

The Alpha entered the chamber.

He was larger, broader, horned with spiraling obsidian that looked carved by impossible forces. His body radiated heat and darkness, and the space around him seemed to bend subtly, as though reality struggled to accommodate him. The faint red glow reflected in the gleam of his teeth and the slow pulse of energy that haloed him.

Evan couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. The Alpha crouched, bringing his massive form level with Evan’s trembling body. When he spoke, the voice struck like a blow inside Evan’s skull.

“Give in. Be marked. Become ours.”

Evan’s whole body shuddered, his thoughts scattering like frightened birds. Whatever remained of his willpower flickered, faded, and collapsed.

In quiet recognition, he rolled onto his stomach and slowly lifted his ass up, as if it were a sacrifice to the Alpha, grabbing both of his cheeks and pulling them apart. He felt the Alpha gently stroke his mind, making his body shiver in happiness and reverence, as his new god slowly began to shove its cock deep inside him.

He felt his bladder leaking with every thrust as the massive member slammed hard and fast, feeling as his colon began to burn as the Alpha quickly worked itself into a frenzy, gently dragging its claws against Evan’s tender flesh, adding more scratches to the surface. With one final, guttural growl, he felt as the Alpha’s seed flowed into him, his mind imagining a dark malevolent force pushing itself into him, flowing through his veins and shoving its tendrils into his mind.

With a gasp and growl, Evan smiled, his pupils growing wide in surprised awe, feeling the second the Alpha’s virus started to seep into and reshape his mind. With a satisfied smile, the Alpha let its bladder flow, watching as Evan’s stomach began to bulge in response, as one of his other minions walked forward and handed their master a large butt plug, Evan’s mind likening it to a Christmas tree in the dim light. 

The plug was shoved deep into him, his anus stretching and burning even more before finally seating in place, trapping the massive amount of cum and piss deep in his guts to be absorbed and feed the change about to occur in his body. Evan felt the weight of something cold and heavy locking into place inside him, glowing briefly with unnatural light before settling.

His mind cracked open, flooded with visions—his new form, his brothers waiting, the ritual not ending but beginning. Pleasure, fear, obedience, and delirium blurred into one unstoppable tide.

He gasped, shaking violently and began to shoot his load, coating his wet, piss covered body with rope after rope of cum, smiling angelically as Sticks and Lockjaw dove forward, greedily lick his chest and stomach clean as Sticks latched onto his cock and began to suck it dry, with Lockjaw squeezing his balls as if to wring out each and every uncorrupted drop out of him.

He sobbed at the sensation, until finally, his consciousness gave way entirely under the Alpha’s will.

He belonged.

Evan lay on the cold stone floor, trembling so violently that his muscles twitched with each breath. The Alpha’s presence pressed over him like a weighted blanket woven from heat and shadow. His vision pulsed in and out, red light ebbing through the chamber like a heartbeat not his own.

His own heartbeat felt distant now—faint, irregular, as though it belonged to someone he used to be.

Then the Alpha’s voice rolled through his skull, deeper now, resonant enough to shake his ribs:

“Open your mind.”

Evan gasped as warmth surged through his chest, rising up his throat and spilling behind his eyes in blinding waves. Thought itself felt like it liquefied—ideas melting, memories softening, borders dissolving.

He felt the change beginning inside him like a second heart awakening.

At first, it was subtle pressure—pushing outward against his bones, stretching the space behind his sternum, pulsing at the base of his skull. Then the pressure intensified, blooming into something hotter, richer, powerful enough to make him arch off the floor.

A sound tore from him—half cry, half moan, all desperation—but not from pain. From hunger. He wanted this.

“Oh… god…” he whispered, barely aware of his own voice. “Please… don’t stop…”

The Alpha’s shadow leaned closer, horns framing the edges of Evan’s vision.

“You crave what you will become.”

Evan nodded, breath shuddering. “Yes… yes, I… I want it—”

The Alpha’s mental touch slipped deeper into him—into the cracks of his unraveling identity, into the spaces where doubt and fear and worry had lived only an hour before. Images fluttered behind Evan’s eyes: the black horned silhouettes, the pack circling him, the rituals performed again and again in endless cycles, a brotherhood not of blood but something darker, older, binding. Of a shared virus. Changing all of them and corrupting them into something darker and evil.

His chest burned with longing.

His stomach tightened with anticipation.

His mind whispered back, fragmented but eager:

Let me be one of you. Let me belong. Make me yours.

Heat spiraled down his limbs, crawling beneath his skin like molten ink. He felt it threading through his veins, sinking into his marrow, rewriting him. The sensation hurt—and soothed—and intoxicated him all at once.

His fingers clawed the stone floor, unable to anchor himself through the overwhelming rush overtaking him.

He could feel his shape already beginning to loosen around the edges. His breathing deepened, slower, more powerful than before. A faint shiver passed across his arms—like shadows dancing beneath the skin.

He gasped and embraced the sensation instinctively.

More. Please, more. I want to transform faster, Alpha.

His bones ached—not breaking, but preparing, longing to shift. His skin prickled, pores heating with the promise of something dark and glossy rising beneath the surface.

He wanted to feel it burst through, to feel the monster beneath him reveal itself.

Every instinct he had ever lived by—fear, restraint, self-preservation—crumbled. His mind leaned into the change, pressing toward it like someone stepping willingly into fire.

A whisper crossed his mind—not from the Alpha this time, but from himself.

I want this. I want it so badly. Please… let me finish becoming.

The Alpha’s hand lowered to his chest—a massive palm radiating heat—and Evan arched beneath it, shaking. Suddenly, a set of deep gashes sliced into his chest, welling up with blood as the other monsters stepped forward and began to piss into his wounds, allowing for their filth and seemingly demonic seed flood in through his wounds.

When each of their minds touched him, Evan’s consciousness cracked open wide.

He saw himself—reflected in the Alpha’s mind—tall, horned, obsidian-skinned, eyes glowing faintly from within. A creature of the dark. A brother. A vessel. A soldier.

He exhaled shakily, tears streaking down his temples.

“Yes…” he whispered. “That’s… me. That’s what I’m supposed to be…”

His body would begin to pulse with the energy filling him. His muscles would tighten, expanded, relaxed, reshaped in terrifying, exquisite waves. His vision would cloud, then sharpen, as his physiology slid between human and other.

Heat pooled low in his abdomen, flooding his spine, spreading through every nerve. He savored each ripple of soon to come transformation. Each small distortion of his humanity. Each sensation pushing him further from who he had been.

“I want it,” he murmured desperately, his fingers curling, nails darkening slightly with each twitch. “I want to finish. Please—I want it. I want to be yours.”

The Alpha’s mental voice rolled through him like a commandment:

“Then surrender the last of your human mind.”

Evan did. Gladly.

He let the tide sweep through him, let the dark reshape him, let the warmth erase the final weak fearful sparks of who he’d been. Pleasure, terror, identity, submission—all blended together into a single overwhelming pulse of transformation.

He shook violently, almost convulsing. He felt as his cock erupted again, with Sticks and Lockjaw switching positions, already feeling that his seed was no longer perfect and untainted, and instead tinged ever so slightly with the corruption. He let out a deep sigh and then collapsed back to the floor, chest heaving, eyes dimming faintly with the first signs of the monster he would become.

He was not finished. He would continue to pump out every last drop of his still mostly uncorrupted cum to feed his new creators until nothing but black corrupted seed flowed out of him. He would gladly give up the remaining untainted part of him in order to feed that darkness.

Because he was no longer human. And he wanted the rest of the change more than he wanted air.

[kspozcum]

Chapter 4: The Christmas Stocking

Paul Carter lay on his back in the narrow bed, phone balanced against his chest, the screen casting a soft bluish glow across the ceiling. Snow drifted across the tiny frame of the movie playing—one of those saccharine Christmas romances he’d clicked on without thinking, the kind that promised warmth and happy endings even when the world outside felt thin and cold.

Onscreen, two men stood in a flurry of lights and music, breathless and smiling, the argument finally over. They ran toward each other through falling snow, laughter breaking through tears, arms wrapping tight like they were afraid the other might vanish if they didn’t hold on hard enough.

Paul sniffed, embarrassed by the sound, and scrubbed at his nose with the heel of his palm. “Shut up,” he muttered to himself, even though the room was empty. He told himself it was the alcohol, the storm, the long night—anything but the tight ache building in his chest as the couple kissed and the music swelled.

He locked the phone and tossed it onto the mattress beside him before the credits could roll.

The screen lit again almost immediately as his messages opened, the familiar thread already at the top. He hadn’t meant to open it. His thumb just… knew where to go.

The breakup text stared back at him, cruel in its simplicity. No explanation worth anything. No apology. Just blunt words and an even blunter dismissal. Paul’s jaw tightened as he scrolled, the memory crashing back uninvited—the night before, the way he’d tried so hard to be everything the other guy wanted, how eager he’d been to please, to prove he was worth staying for. Hell, he even let the guy bareback him, crawling on his knees and begging him.

And then the next morning came.

The text.

You weren’t that good. I’ve already moved on. Don’t message me again.

Paul swallowed hard, his throat burning. He hated how much that still hurt. Hated that it made him feel stupid, small, disposable. He locked the phone again, dropping it face-down this time like it might bite him if he looked too long.

“Not tonight,” he whispered, forcing the words out like a promise.

He stared at the ceiling, listening to the storm batter the house, the wind whining along the eaves like something lost and angry. Somewhere below him, the frat house creaked and shifted, settling into the cold. Laughter drifted faintly from downstairs, muffled now, distant enough to feel unreal.

Paul rolled onto his side, curling slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. He told himself he just needed distraction—anything to keep his thoughts from circling back to the same bruised places. Something loud. Something physical. Something that didn’t ask him to feel wanted or loved.

Just something that made him feel anything else.

He reached for his phone again, screen lighting his face in the dark as the storm outside howled on.

Paul stared at the glowing screen for a long moment before unlocking it again. The house felt too quiet up here, the laughter from downstairs fading into something distant and hollow. He needed noise. Motion. Anything to drown out the thoughts pressing in on him.

He didn’t open the movie back up.

Instead, his thumb drifted through apps without much thought, muscle memory guiding him somewhere familiar and mindless. Images of men fucking in different positions and acts loaded—too bright, too sharp against the darkness of his room—and he felt his shoulders loosen just a little as his focus narrowed. This, at least, didn’t ask him to feel hopeful. It didn’t promise happy endings or soft confessions in falling snow.

It was simpler than that.

Paul exhaled slowly, letting his head sink back into the pillow. He told himself it was just about distraction, about shutting his brain up for a while. About not thinking of text messages or mornings-after or how easy it had been for someone to decide he wasn’t worth keeping.

He spit on his hand, and slowly pulled his boxers down, before effortlessly shoving two fingers into his still puffy and abused hole.

The alcohol helped. It softened the edges of everything, made the room feel warmer than it was. His thoughts drifted lazily instead of spiraling, and he let himself sink into the sensation of it—into the idea of not having to be careful, not having to anticipate what someone else wanted from him.

He picked out a fisting video and watched as the top commanded the muscular guy to get into the stirrups and the scene shifted. The guy was now dripping and stretched as the top pulled a massive black dildo out of his ass, and quickly replaced it with his black gloved first. The guy groaned as the top spit in his mouth, calling him a good boy.

He swallowed, adding another finger while admitting something quietly to himself that he rarely said out loud: it was easier to want things when he was a little drunk. Easier to imagine letting go. Easier to pretend, just for a few minutes, that being wanted like this could be uncomplicated.

His phone slipped from his hand onto the bed as he closed his eyes briefly, breathing through the haze, focusing on the sensation of his battered hole being stretched open again as he mentally put himself in the place of the bottom guy.. The storm outside surged again, wind rattling the window like impatient fingers, but he barely noticed. His attention had turned inward, wrapped around thoughts he usually pushed away during the day.

He wasn’t thinking about love. He wasn’t thinking about relationships.

He was thinking about control—or the lack of it. About how nice it might feel to stop making decisions altogether. To stop bracing himself for rejection. To let something else take over, even if only for a moment.

The thought unsettled him enough that he opened his eyes again, heart thudding a little faster. He shifted on the bed, restless now, and reached for his phone once more, scrolling without really seeing what passed beneath his thumb. 

“Just… calm down,” he murmured to himself, voice low and shaky.

A sudden knock at his door made him flinch hard, phone slipping from his fingers and bouncing against the mattress.

Paul sucked in a sharp breath, pulse racing. “Yeah?” he called, scrambling to sit up, pulling his pants up and wiping his hand on the sheets in a panic. “Who is it?”

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have.

The silence stretched just long enough for Paul to wonder if he’d imagined the knock.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath him, and cleared his throat. “Hello?” he called again, louder this time. “Who is it?”

The handle turned.

Derek leaned into the doorway with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The hall light framed him in a thin yellow outline, making the rest of him look oddly dim, like the shadows clung too closely to his shoulders. He looked relaxed—almost loose—swaying faintly as if he’d had one drink too many.

“Hey Paul,” Derek said. “You… busy?”

Paul blinked. “Uh. Just… sleeping?” He pulled the covers closer around himself, then frowned. “What’s up?”

Derek’s gaze drifted past him into the room, unfocused, as if he were looking at something that wasn’t there. “Need a hand downstairs,” he said after a beat. “Kitchen stuff. Noah was sleepwalking in there and I need to get him back to bed. It’ll just take a minute.”

The way he said Paul’s name—Paul, not Porkchop—made Paul pause. Derek almost never used it. The familiarity felt wrong in his mouth, too deliberate. Paul opened his mouth to comment on it, then hesitated. Derek was older. Vice President. Noah’s cousin. If he needed help, it was probably easier just to go.

“Yeah. Okay,” Paul said slowly. “Give me a sec.”

Derek nodded once, already turning away. His footsteps retreated down the hall without waiting for an answer.

Paul sat there for a moment, heart thudding, trying to shake the strange feeling crawling up his spine. He grabbed his phone and flicked on the flashlight, the narrow beam cutting a clean path through the dark as he stood. The house felt cooler than before, the warmth from earlier draining away like someone had cracked a window somewhere.

He followed Derek down the stairs, the beam bobbing slightly with each step. The living room was empty now, couches abandoned, the TV a black mirror reflecting nothing. The storm outside pressed against the walls, wind moaning through the frame like it was searching for a way in.

At the bottom of the stairs, Paul slowed.

The basement door stood ajar—just a few inches—breathing out a thin ribbon of cold air that raised goosebumps along his arms. It smelled damp, metallic, and faintly chemical, like old pipes and something sharper layered beneath.

“Derek?” Paul called, uneasy. “Where’s Noah? Were you able to get him to wake up?”

Derek stood near the kitchen threshold, back to him. He turned slowly, smile still fixed in place, eyes glassy and distant. For a split second, Paul thought he saw something dark flicker behind Derek’s reflection in the microwave door.

He took a step forward.

Something warm and wet struck his face without warning.

Paul gasped as the sensation spread—slick, clinging, burning faintly as it seeped across his skin. His flashlight clattered to the floor, the beam spinning wildly as dizziness slammed into him. The world tilted violently, his stomach lurching as heat surged through his chest and down his limbs.

“Oh—shit—” he tried to say, but the words tangled and fell apart.

It felt like inhaling something impossibly strong, like his head had been dunked into a haze that stripped his thoughts down to their softest edges. His knees buckled. The floor rushed up to meet him.

As he collapsed onto the kitchen tile, vision swimming, Paul managed to look up one last time.

Derek loomed over him, swaying gently, smile widening just a fraction too much.

Then a shape moved behind him—tall, broad, impossibly dark—and strong arms lifted Paul from the floor as if he weighed nothing at all.

The last thing Paul saw before the fog swallowed him completely was the kitchen filling with silhouettes that did not belong in any house built by human hands.

---

Paul came back to himself in fragments.

First the cold—tile pressing against his back, leeching heat from his skin. Then the smell: old beer, something metallic, and beneath it all a faint, acrid sharpness that made the back of his throat prickle. His eyes fluttered open, vision swimming, the ceiling light above him reduced to a dull halo.

He was on the kitchen table.

That realization arrived slowly, accompanied by the distant clatter of a bottle being set down somewhere nearby. His clothes were gone—when that registered, a weak rush of embarrassment flickered through him, dulled almost immediately by the lingering haze in his head. Panic tried to rise, but it met resistance, like it was pushing through syrup.

He swallowed hard. “D-Derek…?” The name came out thin, barely audible.

Figures stood around him.

At first, his brain insisted they were frat brothers—tall silhouettes, broad shoulders—but the illusion fractured as his vision steadied. These weren’t people. Their bodies were too large, too symmetrical, their movements too fluid and deliberate. Skin the color of wet ink caught the low light, glossy and smooth like polished rubber stretched tight over muscle. Horns rose from their heads in sweeping curves and jagged points, casting warped shadows across the cabinets and walls.

Paul’s breath hitched. His mouth opened, then closed again, soundless. His thoughts skidded uselessly, failing to form a coherent response to what he was seeing.

One of the figures stepped closer, looming at his side. The air seemed to thicken with its presence, pressing down on his chest. Another followed, then another, until the kitchen felt impossibly crowded, as if the walls had crept inward.

A voice echoed—not through the air, but inside his head, reverberating with layered depth.

“Patch.”

The name struck like a bell.

One of the creatures responded immediately, shifting forward with calm assurance. He was broader than the others, posture relaxed but unmistakably dominant, as if this space already belonged to him. Paul felt the weight of that attention settle over him, pinning him in place more effectively than any physical restraint.

Patch tilted his head, studying Paul with open curiosity. A low chuckle rolled from him, the sound vibrating through the table beneath Paul’s back.

“You already know what you like,” the voice murmured—heard and felt at once, threaded directly through Paul’s thoughts. “You just don’t like admitting it.”

Paul’s chest rose and fell too quickly. He tried to speak, to protest, but only a thin, broken sound escaped him.

Hands—large, careful, impossibly strong—adjusted his position, arranging him with unsettling familiarity. Paul’s gaze drifted helplessly to the edges of the room, where more of them stood watching. Some held bottles of beer, tipping them back casually, dark eyes never leaving him. Others were smoking cigars, the ends glowing in the dark.

A sudden, dizzying realization cut through the fog.

Derek stood among them. And Noah. Both smoking a cigar and drinking a beer.

They leaned close, faces calm, almost gentle, eyes reflecting something Paul didn’t recognize anymore. Derek met his gaze and smiled—not cruelly, not kindly, but with the certainty of someone who had already crossed a line and wasn’t looking back.

“Relax,” Derek whispered. “It’s easier if you do.”

Noah nodded in agreement. “We did. And man, it feels fucking amazing.”

The words hollowed Paul out. His fear faltered, replaced by a strange, aching confusion. If they were standing there—if they were like this—then whatever was happening to him wasn’t chaos. It was a process.

Patch’s attention returned to him fully. A massive hand settled against Paul’s hip, not rough, not gentle—simply inevitable.

“This one’s been waiting,” Patch said, tone almost conversational. “Even upstairs, he was waiting.”

Paul squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head weakly. “Please… don’t hurt me.”

A presence brushed against his mind—vast, patient, impossibly heavy. The Alpha. Even without seeing him clearly, Paul felt that authority settle over his thoughts, smoothing his panic, reshaping it into something quieter and more malleable.

“You want this,” the Alpha’s voice echoed softly within him. “You asked for it in ways you don’t yet understand.”

Paul’s breath stuttered. Memories surfaced unbidden—loneliness, longing, the desire to be taken seriously, to be wanted without conditions. The fog thickened, wrapping those thoughts in warmth until resistance felt pointless.

Patch leaned closer, his shadow swallowing Paul’s torso. “We’ll take care of you,” he murmured. “Just let go.”

Paul didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His thoughts drifted apart, pulled gently but relentlessly toward the dark certainty pressing in around him.

The kitchen lights flickered for a brief second before blinking off again.

And whatever Paul Carter had been clinging to began to slip away.

Patch did not rush.

That was the first thing Paul noticed—dimly, through the haze pressing against his thoughts. Where the others moved with a predatory stillness, Patch moved with patience, like someone following a familiar set of steps. The kitchen felt less like a room now and more like a prepared space, every surface humming with a low, almost inaudible resonance.

Patch’s attention stayed fixed on Paul as if nothing else existed. The others receded to the edges of Paul’s awareness—present, watching, but no longer the focus. Even Derek and Noah seemed to fade slightly, their shapes blurring as Patch’s presence sharpened.

“You don’t have to fight,” Patch said, voice threading directly into Paul’s mind. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. “Your friends already learned what happens when you do.”

Paul swallowed, throat dry. His fear had not vanished, but it had thinned, stretched out into something softer and more uncertain. He felt exposed—not just physically, but emotionally, like every private thought he’d tried to bury upstairs had been pulled into the open.

Patch’s hand traced a slow line along Paul’s side, not touching skin so much as skimming the air just above it. Wherever that attention passed, warmth bloomed, dulling the cold and sending a strange, calming heaviness through Paul’s limbs.

“You want to be full,” Patch continued, almost gently. “You want to stop holding yourself together.”

Paul shook his head weakly, though the denial felt automatic, unconvincing. His thoughts drifted back to the bed upstairs—the movie, the messages, the ache he hadn’t known how to name. The Alpha’s presence brushed against those memories, turning them over, reframing them.

“You sought release,” the Alpha murmured, distant but unmistakable. “Patch will show you how.”

The room seemed to tighten around that statement.

Patch leaned closer, his shadow falling across Paul’s chest, and Paul felt the weight of attention settle over him completely. Something in Patch’s demeanor changed—not more aggressive, but more focused, like a craftsman beginning his work.

Hands guided Paul’s posture, adjusting him with careful precision. Paul’s muscles wanted to tense, to resist—but the warmth spreading through him made it hard to remember why he should. Each movement felt inevitable, as though his body understood what his mind was still struggling to accept.

“Breathe,” Patch instructed.

Paul did. Shallow at first, then deeper, drawn along by the steady cadence of Patch’s voice. With every breath, the edges of his panic softened further. The kitchen sounds—the storm outside, the distant creak of the house—faded into a dull background hum.

Patch’s attention pressed inward, not just on Paul’s body but on his thoughts, nudging them open. Images surfaced unbidden: being seen, being chosen, being used for something specific and purposeful. The loneliness that had gnawed at him upstairs twisted into something else entirely—a yearning to be shaped, to be told exactly what he was for.

“You like being opened up,” Patch said, not accusing, not mocking—simply stating a truth as he understood it. “You like when someone knows you better than you know yourself.”

Paul’s breath hitched. His denial caught in his throat and dissolved before it could form words.

Derek and Noah leaned closer again, their voices soft, familiar. “It’s okay,” Derek murmured. “This part’s hard, but it doesn’t last.”

“You’ll feel better after,” Noah added, eyes bright with something unreadable. “We did. It feels so fucking good.”

Paul’s gaze flicked between them, confusion and a fragile hope tangling together. If they could stand there—changed, calm—then maybe what was happening to him wasn’t just destruction. Maybe it was becoming.

Patch felt the shift immediately. A low, satisfied sound vibrated through him.

“There,” he said. “That’s it.”

The Alpha’s presence pressed down once more, sealing the moment.

“Begin.”

Patch moved with certainty then, initiating the ritual in earnest.

Paul watched as his boxers were ripped away, and with a loud wet sound, a glob of whatever had hit his face suddenly impacted his battered hole, dripping and slightly burning as hit got into the small tears in the flesh. He felt as his hole immediately relaxed, like it had the night before when the guy had him huffing poppers and riding his cock.

He watched as Patch’s hands went into the same shape as the fisting top’s did in the video and suddenly was pushing deep inside him, twisting and pushing, his ass burning as he choked out a startled gasp. He felt as Patch’s fingers began to spread out and stretch him further, tears streaming down his face as he felt like he was tearing in half, his hole impossibly stretched to accommodate the abuse when he felt it.

Patch pushed in and with an audible plop his massive fist suddenly slammed deep inside him, his asshole clenching in response as he tried to let out a loud screaming sob, only to be stopped by Noah and Derek holding him down and clamping their strangely too strong hands down on his mouth. Each smiling as they deeply inhaled their cigars. 

Paul’s thoughts fractured under the pressure—not shattering all at once, but peeling away in layers. Fear bled into sensation. Sensation into acceptance. Acceptance into something dangerously close to need.

He gasped, gripping the edge of the table as the room seemed to tilt around him. The warmth inside him flared, spreading, reshaping him from the inside out. He felt smaller somehow—lighter—like he was being hollowed out to make room for something else.

Suddenly, Patch stepped closer and shoved his monstrous dick in beside his hand. Paul sobbed, his mind reeling from the pain as his asshole felt like he was giving birth. Patch easily began to fuck his ass, drolling more saliva into his ass as he began to fuck his hand inside of Paul. Suddenly, he felt as Patch shuddered forward, and a burning sensation began to spread through his guts, the pain suddenly giving into deep pleasure as he felt his legs begin to quiver.

Patch quickly pulled out and began to shove his arm deep inside of Paul, who was now panting and shaking, feeling as his body began to relax and surrender, until suddenly he looked down and saw Patch’s fist pushing upwards, deep inside him and making his stomach bulge obscenely. He swore he could feel the sharp claws on the fingers scratching his insides, as more and more pleasure flooded him and made him groan.

WIthout warning, Patch devoured his leaking cock whole, and after a few quick sucks, Paul began to shoot without warning, feeling as his ass tried pitifully to clench down on the forearm burning deeply in his ruined guts.

Patch continued to nurse on his cock until he finally finished coming and pulled out his fist with a loud wet plop. He stayed close, steady, guiding him through it.

“Good,” he murmured. “Let it happen.”

And despite everything—despite the cold table, the watching figures, the impossible reality pressing in—Paul felt himself letting go.

The change in the room was immediate.

Paul felt it before he understood it—like the air itself had thickened, pressing inward, drawing every sound and movement into a single, heavy focus. Patch slowed, his motions easing to a deliberate stillness, head lowering a fraction in deference. Around them, the other figures shifted subtly, attention snapping toward the same point.

The Alpha had moved closer.

Paul didn’t see him at first. He felt him—an immense gravity settling across his thoughts, steady and inescapable. The warmth coiling through Paul’s body deepened, no longer frantic or disorienting, but purposeful, as if something inside him had finally found the rhythm it wanted.

“Enough,” the Alpha’s voice murmured, resonant and calm.

Not a command shouted across the room—

a certainty placed gently into Paul’s mind.

Patch withdrew his hands and stepped aside without hesitation.

Paul’s chest rose and fell too quickly. His thoughts drifted, then snagged on the Alpha’s presence like fabric on a hook. Every instinct he had left screamed that this was the moment he should fight harder—but the scream faded, smoothed over by the steady pressure pressing against him.

The Alpha came fully into view.

He was larger than the others by far, horns sweeping upward in ornate, impossible curves. His form radiated heat and authority, the faint glow beneath his skin pulsing in time with the low hum vibrating through the room. When his gaze settled on Paul, it felt less like being looked at and more like being measured.

“You are afraid,” the Alpha said—not unkindly. “And you want it anyway.”

Paul swallowed. The truth of it landed with startling clarity. His fear was still there, coiled tight in his chest—but beneath it lay something heavier, older. A longing he hadn’t known how to name upstairs, alone in his bed, staring at a phone that never gave him what he wanted.

“I didn’t mean—” Paul started, then faltered as the Alpha’s presence brushed his thoughts aside.

“Intent is not required,” the Alpha replied. “Desire is.”

Paul’s breath shuddered. His resistance, already worn thin, finally tore. He felt it happen—felt something inside him loosen and slip free, drifting toward the Alpha’s steady pull.

Images surfaced unbidden: himself empty of doubt, shaped with purpose, no longer bracing for rejection or disappointment. No longer waiting to be chosen—already claimed. Him being reshaped and perfected.

“I…” His voice cracked, barely more than a breath. “I just don’t want to be alone anymore.”

The Alpha’s attention softened—not gentler, but more precise.

“Then you will not be.”

A massive hand settled against Paul’s chest, radiating heat that sank straight into his bones. His body arched instinctively beneath the touch, not from pain but from recognition, as if this contact completed a circuit that had been waiting to close.

Patch watched closely, satisfaction evident even in stillness. Derek and Noah leaned in, eyes bright, reverent.

The Alpha’s voice filled Paul’s mind completely now.

“Let go of what you were.”

“There is nothing left for you there.”

Paul’s thoughts unraveled at the edges, memories losing their sharpness—faces blurring, words losing meaning. The ache that had followed him for months from rejection after rejection dissolved into a warm, spreading certainty.

“Yes,” he whispered, surprising himself with how easily the word came. “Okay.”

The Alpha’s presence enveloped him fully, sealing that choice in place.

“Good,” the voice murmured. “Then we will finish.”

The room pulsed once, like a living thing drawing breath.

He watched and held his legs up, waiting as his new master stepped forward and with one simple push, buried itself deep inside him and began to fuck him hard and fast.

And Paul surrendered to it.

The Alpha let out a growl and began to cum deep inside him, flooding his tattered and ruined guts with its black foul cum. Paul could feel as it flooded his body, his mind rolling in pleasure as thoughts of being chained up in a sling, countless men flooding his guts and working the loads deep inside his ass with both hands up to the shoulder.

His mind shifted and he was being walked around with a chain around his neck, letting men piss and cum inside his gaping ass, held open by a metal ring. Mindlessly thanking the men as he felt his precum dribble out of the cockcage around his locked up meat.

The moment Paul gave in, the room seemed to exhale.

He began to cum uncontrollably, covering his chest and stomach with rope after rope of cum, watching as each of his new brothers, Noah and Derek included, descended upon him, feasting on his still fresh and untainted cum, his body almost seeming desperate to rid itself of the nourishing liquid to give way for his body to start making its own tainted cum.

The pressure that had been bearing down on him did not vanish—but it changed. Where it had once crushed and disoriented, it now settled into something colder and steadier, like chains locking into place. The Alpha withdrew his hand, not because Paul was free, but because the work had been done.

Derek stepped forward and placed a mostly smoked cigar in his mouth, mentally telling him to suck hard and deep on it, that it would make him feel even better.

Paul’s breathing slowed, his virgin lungs sucking in and absorbing the thick smoke as his body began to subtly change. He lifted his legs up and held his gaping ass open and begged each of his new brothers, including the two newest ones, Derek and Noah, to shoot their tainted loads inside him, smiling happily as each one shot inside the gaping crater of his ass.

His thoughts, once frantic and spiraling, dulled into a heavy calm. Memories of upstairs—the movie, the bed, the ache in his chest—felt distant, like scenes from a life he’d watched rather than lived. He tried to summon the sharpness of fear again and found only a faint echo.

Patch straightened, satisfied.

“It’s set,” he rumbled, the words carrying weight beyond language. “He’s already begun to change.”

The Alpha regarded Paul for a long moment, eyes unreadable, presence immense. Then, with a subtle nod, he stepped back into the shadows. The other figures followed his lead, retreating slightly, their attention loosening now that the ritual’s core was complete.

Paul sagged where he lay, exhaustion rolling through him in deep, irresistible waves. His body felt warm, heavy, and strangely right, as though something inside him had been rearranged into a shape it preferred.

He realized—dimly—that he wasn’t afraid anymore. He, too, would grow massive horns, his body losing all its fat and instead covered in massive muscles and skin black.

That realization should have terrified him. Instead, it brought relief.

The Alpha knelt briefly beside him, tilting Paul’s head with a firm but careful hand. “Rest now,” he said. “You’ll wake when you’re ready to spread our gift. Relax and let the changes happen.”

The words sank deep.

Darkness folded in, thick and quiet, carrying with it the faint hum of something alive beneath his skin. Paul’s last conscious thought slipped away as easily as breath:

I won’t be alone anymore.