Chapter Text
John’s knife was sharp. It always was. He’d driven it through countless ribs, watched countless hearts stutter their last. But when he slid the blade into Matt’s chest: clean, deliberate, almost gentle, there was no scream. No final gasp. Just a soft sigh and a look of… delight.
“Oh,” Matt whispered, voice trembling in a strange ecstasy. “You found the right spot.”
John froze. The man grinned up at him, blood slipping from the corner of his mouth like wine. “Again,” Matt said. “Please.”
That word had been foreign to John in the context of his work. His victims begged not to die. This one begged for more.
And so began their strange partnership.
…
“Stop laughing.”
The words came out clipped, tired, almost exasperated, like he was scolding a pet for ruining the carpet instead of a man currently bleeding out on his living room floor.
Matt wheezed through the hole in his lung, blood bubbling up like cheap champagne. “Can’t- help it,” he rasped, grinning as his own body began to stitch itself back together with slow, wet squelches. “You make the funniest faces when you’re disappointed.”
John’s eyes narrowed. He looked immaculate despite the splatter on his shirt, every movement crisp, deliberate. There was no joy in his violence, no thrill, no chaos. Just ritual precision.
“You didn’t flinch this time,” John murmured, tilting his head in mild annoyance. “You’re supposed to flinch.”
Matt’s grin widened, teeth pink with blood. “That’s the problem with practice, sweetheart. Eventually, you get used to it.”
John turned away, wiping his knife clean with a cloth he kept specifically for Matt-related evenings. “You know how to press all my buttons, don't you?”
“yup,” Matt agreed. “But I think you like that about me.”
That earned him a sharp look, one of those cold, measuring glances John gave corpses before he made them permanent. “Like isn’t the word I’d use.”
“Adore, then?”
“Tolerate,” John corrected, and that was as close to affection as John ever got.
“Same time tomorrow?” Matt asked, sitting up and buttoning his ruined shirt like it was just another night.
John’s answer was a quiet, resigned,
“Yeah.”
-
Droid had found himself in a peculiar situation.
The night had the kind of chill that coaxed monsters out of their holes. The moon hung heavy, bleeding through the skeletal trees that framed the quiet forest. It was the kind of night that made Droid’s fangs ache, his chest hollow with hunger and instinct. He could hear the heartbeat before he could even see the source, faint, tired, a human-like rhythm with a sweetness that clung to the air like spilled sugar.
He inhaled.
So sweet. Unmistakably sweet. Like overripe cherries and a tangy metallic underneath. His favorite. Blood, fresh and unguarded.
He moved through the underbrush silently, his boots barely whispering against the fallen leaves. The smell got stronger; cloying, addictive. Droid had fed on countless humans before, always with precision and detachment, but this scent… it was different. Familiar yet foreign, rich in a way human blood rarely was. It made his throat burn and his chest tighten.
As he followed the trail, Droid spotted a young man.
The guy looked pitiful.
Skinny, pale, hair short and tangled. The kind of sad-looking bastard that probably wrote poetry about the moon. His shoulders slouched as though gravity itself had beef with him, and the way he stumbled through the forest suggested either exhaustion or some kind of internal crisis.
Perfect prey.
Droid almost laughed.
Of all the nights, of all the forests, this poor guy really picked the wrong path.
He crouched low, letting the darkness wrap around him like an old friend. His crimson eyes flicked over every detail. The guy wasn’t even paying attention to his surroundings. His neck was exposed, heartbeat so loud Droid could almost taste it.
“Alright,” Droid muttered under his breath, a grin curling across his sharp features. “Dinner time.”
He leapt.
Or at least, he tried to.
Because the next thing that happened was… not part of the plan. Not the plan Droid had in mind, at least.
Right before he could strike, the guy collapsed. No warning. Just dropped to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut and started convulsing violently. His limbs jerked, his back arched, and a guttural sound ripped out of him that didn’t sound human in the slightest.
Droid froze mid-step, his fangs still bared. “...The hell?”
He looked around, half expecting this to be some weird human trap. But there was no one else in the clearing. Just him and this trembling mess of a man seizing in the dirt.
Droid’s instincts warred inside him. The predator wanted to finish what he started, the smell of blood was dizzying now, thick and intoxicating. But something else clawed its way up too, something warmer, annoyingly human.
It was concern.
He actually felt bad.
“Shit,” Droid hissed, kneeling beside the stranger. “Hey- hey, you alright? Don’t die on me before I- uh- y’know, that’d just be awkward.”
The guy didn’t respond, his hands gripping the ground so hard his nails dug furrows into the soil. His breathing turned ragged, uneven. And then, with a sound like cracking bones and tearing fabric, his back snapped upright.
Droid jumped back, eyes wide.
His pulse, if vampires even had one, would’ve spiked.
Suddenly, standing before him, wasn’t some fragile, poetic human boy.
It was something else entirely.
Fur burst through the skin of his arms, his eyes glowed with molten gold, and when he lifted his head, his mouth was lined with sharp canines far more impressive than Droid’s own.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me…” Droid muttered, hands raised defensively. “You’re a werewolf? I try to eat one human- one! And it’s a goddamn werewolf.”
The newly-shifted creature - Pezzy - turned toward him with a low, guttural growl, saliva glinting on his fangs. His clothes hung in tatters, and the sweet scent of his blood had turned smoky, wild, feral.
Droid should’ve run. Should’ve bolted back into the shadows and left this whole mess behind. He wasn't really equipped to deal with a feral wolf.
Instead, he grinned.
“Well,” he said, fangs flashing in the moonlight, “This isn't what I expected but sure as hell interesting.”
-
“Dude, just fucking admit it! We’re fucking lost!” Puffer hissed, eyeing their surroundings with precise suspicion. His sweaty palms clung to the sleeve of Smii7y’s hoodie, and his heart was beating a mile per second.
“No, we’re not!” Smii7y lied, but the conviction in his voice betrayed his pride, “Just trust me, buddy.”
Puffer groaned, rubbing his calloused free hand down his face. It was becoming harder for Puffer to believe Smii7y, as every step they took in the forest, Smii7y’s posture became less confident, softening as fear began to take over. It also didn’t help that Smii7y was too proud to admit that he had taken the wrong turn and decided to keep taking wrong turns instead of confessing that he had no idea where they were or where they were going. Puffer would much appreciate it if Smii7y would just grow up and tell him the truth so they could retrace their steps and get back on the trail.
A howl in the distance, followed by a deep snarl somewhere ahead of them, caused both of them to freeze in their tracks.
“Smii7y,” Puffer whined, pushing himself impossibly closer to the other, who began to tremble. “W-what the hell was that?”
“I don’t know,” Smii7y stepped in front of Puffer despite himself. He may be scared shitless, but he would be damned if any harm came to his friend. It could almost be comedic that the larger of the two was shivering like a wet cat and clinging to Smii7y for a semblance of comfort.
The looming shadow in front of them might be the answer to their question.
-
Pezzy was standing in the middle of the living room, wearing a cape far too long for his frame and a plastic pumpkin bucket dangling from one hand. Rectrixx was beside him, wings made from cardboard and tape, grinning ear to ear.
“C’mon, guys! Trick or treating isn’t just for kids,” Pezzy tried again, voice full of that eager, stubborn hope that always preceded disaster.
Across the couch, Puffer didn’t even look up from his phone. “Pezzy, you’re twenty-six. You are td old for that shit. You’re gonna get arrested.”
“Nuh uh! I could totally pass for seventeen.”
“That makes it worse,” Puffer countered flatly. “And even if you did, half of us look like we pay mortgages and file taxes.”
Grizzy nodded, motioning toward John, whose vampire cape somehow looked more like a lawyer’s robe. “He’s not wrong. John looks like he’s about to serve subpoenas door to door.”
“Hey…”
Smii7y laughed. “Bro, we’d traumatize kids. ‘Trick or treat!’ and it’s just a bunch of grown dudes with facial hair and questionable life choices.”
Pezzy frowned. “Okay, but we could pass for high schoolers.”
Rectrixx puffed his chest. “Yeah! We blend in.”
Matt, sitting cross-legged on the floor in a half-finished werewolf getup, raised a hand. “I’m like, one inch taller than Pezzy. I’m in.”
“You look forty, Matt,” Puffer deadpanned.
Matt blinked. “Okay, ouch. Fuck you.”
Pezzy slumped dramatically into the couch. “Fine. You’re all boring.”
Grizzy leaned forward with a grin. “We’re not boring, man. We just know the cops won’t buy the ‘I swear I’m in high school’ thing when you’re holding a Capri Sun and a pillowcase full of Snickers.”
Rectrixx elbowed Pezzy. “Plan B?”
“Plan B,” Pezzy agreed instantly.
They were gone before anyone could stop them, two mischievous idiots sprinting into the night, fake blood glistening under streetlights.
-
Puffer had no idea what the fuck was going on. One moment, Droid was revving their fake chainsaw they bought off Craigslist, which in hindsight was definitely not the smartest choice they’d ever made, and the next, Pezzy was being sawed in half.
Or at least, that’s what it looked like. There was too much blood to tell where Droid ended and Pezzy began, a spray of red mist painting the plywood walls of the barn they’d rented for the shoot.
Puffer’s stomach lurched. The smell of fake corn syrup had been funny a few hours ago, but now that real stench of iron permeated the air, it was anything but funny.
He didn’t stay long enough to find out. His brain short-circuited somewhere between oh god Droid’s killing him and this is going to be all over Reddit. His feet were already sprinting before he realized he’d dropped the camera.
Outside, the October wind bit through his costume, something stupid Pezzy had picked out for him, a zombie surfer with a rubber shark fin glued to his back. His breath came out in shaky plumes as he doubled over, heaving bile onto the grass.
He could still hear the chainsaw inside, the buzz stuttering in and out like it was choking on its own fuel. Pezzy’s screams had stopped. Droid’s voice, if it was Droid at all, sounded wrong.
Then, silence.
Puffer wiped his mouth with his sleeve, eyes darting toward the barn’s cracked door. “Guys?” His voice was hoarse. “This isn’t funny. If this is some kinda prank-”
Something hit the door from the inside. Hard. Once, then twice. Then a long dragging sound scraped against the floor.
Puffer’s throat tightened.
He wasn’t sure what terrified him more, the idea that Droid had killed Pezzy…
or that something else was wearing Droid’s face.