Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ele sabia.

Lando sabia que deveria ter parado com essa obsessão quando Martin — seu melhor amigo — lhe disse para deixá-la de lado. Mas o problema era que Lando não queria; ele não conseguia.

Ele adorava aquela sensação — a adrenalina de descobrir cada pequeno detalhe sobre o assassino em série que sempre dominava as manchetes do jornal da cidade.

Mas... o que ele poderia fazer, se ver a maneira como Nocturne (o assassino) matava suas vítimas o excitava tanto? O que ele poderia fazer, se ver o homem com quem sonhava e por quem era obcecado o deixava assim, mesmo que Lando nunca tivesse visto seu rosto?

Gravações pixelizadas circularam pela internet, juntamente com fotos de baixa qualidade. Ele era alto, bem-apessoado, o tipo de pessoa que poderia jogar Lando contra o balcão de sua cafeteria, estrangulá-lo até que ele perdesse o fôlego, com uma faca pressionada contra seu estômago enquanto Nocturne o fodia até deixá-lo inconsciente…

Seus devaneios foram interrompidos quando o sino de sua cafeteria tocou um leve toque, porém alto o suficiente. Droga… ele precisava parar de devanear sobre isso. Pelo menos enquanto estivesse trabalhando.

Segundo seus amigos, já era ruim o suficiente ter essa hiperfixação por um criminoso perigoso; era ainda pior ter delírios sobre como seria bom ser possuído por ele, com o sangue escorrendo…

Não! Ele não podia ir lá agora.

 "Bom dia, o que posso lhe servir?" Lando forçou uma voz amigável, sem ainda olhar para o cliente.

 "Café preto, puro, sem açúcar." A voz era rouca, profunda. Fez Lando estremecer e olhar para cima.

Sua mão pairou sobre o caixa; Lando observou bem o homem parado à sua frente. Alto, cabelo loiro-areia, olhos castanhos. Pele pálida e aquele porte físico… Droga. Seguiu-se um silêncio de alguns segundos.

O homem à frente de Lando tinha um olhar calculista, examinando o garoto de cabelos cacheados da cabeça aos pés. Esse tipo de reação não era comum, muito menos normal, quando um cliente fazia um pedido. Seu olhar escureceu, ponderando suas opções.

Lando piscou e pigarreou, voltando à realidade. Suas mãos tremiam levemente, o que não passou despercebido pelo cliente. Tentando manter uma aparência de normalidade, Lando forçou um sorriso discreto e amigável ao finalizar o pedido.

"Qual nome devo gritar quando estiver pronto?" perguntou Lando, com a voz vacilando um pouco enquanto tentava manter a compostura.

O homem refletiu por alguns segundos; tinha certeza de que aquele funcionário sabia de algo. Ou, no mínimo, suspeitava de algo.

 "Jack."

O resto do dia passou num piscar de olhos para Lando; ele estava funcionando no piloto automático. Seus pensamentos permaneciam fixos no homem que havia pedido café mais cedo.

Quando o relógio marcou 19h, Lando soube que era hora de fechar. Ele trancou a porta de vidro, virou a placa de "Fechado" e voltou ao caixa para contar o faturamento do dia.

Lando havia liberado seus funcionários mais cedo, cerca de 20 minutos antes do fechamento. Ao terminar a contagem, Lando decidiu que também era hora de ir embora.

The sky was darker now; he had taken a bit too long with the closing duties. Maybe Lando would feel calmer since he was heading home, right?

Wrong.

Lando's house was secluded from the city. He had never felt afraid of the commute, but today he had the vague sensation of being watched. Cars passed him by as he walked on the sidewalk, still wet from the light rain earlier.

Sometimes—perhaps too often—Lando wondered why he had agreed to live in that house. It was a mansion, a dark, Gothic place perched on a hill at the edge of a cliff.

It had belonged to his grandmother, Adeline Parsons. Lando didn’t know how or why, but she had decided to leave that great house to him, even though they hadn’t been close.

Lando actually liked the place, but sometimes at night… he felt a heavy energy; something different. He heard footsteps, as if someone were still wandering there. On the first night, he remembered waking up startled, getting out of bed to check the house.

There was nothing. No one.

At least until he turned down the hallway leading to the attic. Lando remembered seeing a shadow very similar to his grandmother, turning the corner, and then…

Nothing.

It had vanished, almost as if it were a trick played by his frightened mind. But when it started happening more frequently, Lando simply… got used to it. He adapted.

Now, walking down the street dimly lit by the yellow glow of the streetlamps, Lando felt a shiver run down his spine.

A car approached, but instead of driving past like all the others, it began to slow down, almost matching Lando’s pace.

The window rolled down slowly; the chill intensified. Lando thought about running, but fear—that wretched little thing—made him stop on the sidewalk, waiting for whatever was coming.

"Need a ride?" That voice…

Lando's body went taut, like a guitar string about to snap. It was that man again. The strange customer from the shop. The same man Lando had been thinking about for most of the day.

"Uhm… I don't think I'm going the same way as you," Lando’s voice faltered, a light white mist escaping with every word due to the cold.

"Are you sure? You look like you're freezing." Jack spoke again, his voice a bit softer than before.

It was a fact; Lando was shivering. Despite wearing his warmest hoodie and a thick wool scarf, the cold was relentless.

"I…" Lando cut himself off, biting his lip as he considered. "Fine… alright."

Lando approached the black car, glancing quickly at the street. It was nearly deserted, save for a few cars passing every few minutes. He opened the door and sat in the passenger seat.

Silence followed—perhaps awkward, perhaps too tense.

"So, where were you headed in this cold?" the deep voice asked, starting to drive slowly.

 "The Parsons Manor."

 "And what would you be doing there?"

 "I live there," Lando replied in a low voice, still trembling from the remnants of the icy wind.

The silence returned, heavier this time.

 "I'm Lando, by the way."

 "I'm Oscar, though we saw each other earlier," the man said.

 "I thought your name was Jack."

The tension spiked. Lando saw Oscar grip the steering wheel a bit tighter before relaxing again.

 "I usually use my middle name in coffee shops, I don't know why," he said, forcing a dry chuckle.

Lando wouldn't judge, but now he was thanking his disturbed mind for connecting the dots. God, how was he so stupid not to see the pattern sooner?

Lando let out a gasp mixed with a faint moan. So quiet it was barely a breath.

It was him.

It had to be.

 "I know who you are…" Lando’s whisper broke the tense silence.

Oscar’s grip tightened further as he accelerated, throwing the car onto the road leading up the hill toward the Parsons Manor. Oscar pulled a knife from his waistband, pressing it against Lando’s throat, pinning him against the seat.

Lando let out a weak moan, sounding almost like a whimper, as he bit his lower lip.

"F-fuck…" Lando gasped, feeling the blade press harder against his throat, causing a slight sting.

"Who sent you?" Oscar asked coldly, glancing around through the car windows.

"No one," Lando whimpered, feeling himself harden beneath his jeans. "I swear."

"Liar. Answer me, damn it." The knife pressed harder, and Lando moaned loudly.

The sound of Lando’s moan filled the confined interior of the car—a high, shameless note that carried no agony of fear, but the weight of a distorted ecstasy. Oscar froze. His fingers, steady on the bone handle of the knife, felt the vibration of Lando’s larynx against the cold steel blade.

He expected pleas, convulsive sobbing, or a desperate attempt to open the door. Instead, he met Lando’s gaze.

The boy’s eyes were watery, his irises glistening under the dim light of the dashboard, but there was no revulsion. There was a devout hunger. Lando looked at him as if Oscar were a dark divinity finally personified, his face flushed and his breath coming in short gasps that made his neck press voluntarily against the edge of the knife.

"Please…" Lando whispered, his voice breaking into a whimper that sought something he couldn't name. "No one sent me… I just… please…"

Oscar felt an electric jolt shoot down his spine. He was a predator, used to seeing the light of life go out in people's eyes, but he had never seen that light turn into adoration while he held the murder weapon. Oscar’s confusion lasted only a fraction of a second before being replaced by a visceral possessiveness.

Slowly, Oscar pulled the blade away. The movement was reluctant. He watched, fascinated, at the small reddish mark he had left on Lando’s pale skin—a thin bead of blood that began to sprout, contrasting with the whiteness of his neck.

Feeling the metal pull away, Lando let out a moan of pure disappointment, a low, needy sound that made Oscar’s own blood surge. The rejection of the pain seemed to hurt Lando more than the cut itself.

"Quiet," Oscar growled, his voice now laced with dangerous authority as he put the knife away, but kept his right hand free. "Put both hands on the dash. Now."

Lando obeyed immediately, his trembling fingers splayed against the car's synthetic leather. He leaned forward, body tense, eyes still fixed on Oscar’s profile as if fearing he might vanish.

"Don’t move. Don't say a word until we get there," Oscar ordered, shifting gears with unnecessary force.

The car sped up the winding road. The silence was now cutting, filled only by the sound of the thin rain hitting the roof and Lando's heavy breathing. Oscar drove with one hand, the other hovering near the gear shift, but his eyes constantly darted to the side.

He watched Lando’s shoulders rise and fall, the way the boy bit his lower lip, staring at the wound on his own neck through the reflection in the glass. Lando seemed to be in a trance—a victim who had found his executioner and decided he didn't want to be saved.

As the iron gates of the Parsons Manor loomed through the mist, imposing and dark, Oscar felt an anticipation he had never experienced before. He wasn't just taking a witness to be eliminated; he was taking something that felt like it belonged to him before they had even met.

The car jerked to a halt in front of the main entrance of the Gothic mansion. Oscar cut the engine but didn't take his hands off the wheel immediately. He turned his head slowly, finding Lando still in the same position: submissive, trembling, and completely at his mercy.

"You have no idea what you’ve just done, do you, Lando?" Oscar whispered, his voice like an omen.

Lando only let out a shaky sigh, his eyes shining in the darkness, waiting for the next touch, for more pain, or for whatever else Oscar was willing to give.

Oscar climbed the final steps with a silent fury, his hand clenched in Lando’s collar so tightly the fabric stretched against the boy's throat. What irritated—and fascinated—the killer most was that Lando didn't fight; he stumbled, but his eyes remained fixed on the back of Oscar’s neck, as if being led to paradise rather than a slaughterhouse.

They crossed a narrow hallway until Oscar kicked open the double doors leading to the sunroom. The environment was a brutal contrast to the coldness of the rest of the mansion: the ceiling and walls were reinforced glass, revealing a deep blue night sky peppered with cold stars. The moonlight hit the surfaces, creating a silvery glow that betrayed every one of Lando’s tremors.

Oscar didn't stop. He dragged Lando to the center of the room and, with a sharp, disdainful movement, threw him onto the large round straw pouf.

Lando fell awkwardly, but his reflexes made him prop himself up on his hands and knees. The position was one of total submission. He was breathless, his messy curls falling over his watery eyes, while a low, drawn-out moan escaped his parted lips. The sound vibrated in the humid air of the sunroom, echoing like an invitation.

"You look like an animal waiting for sacrifice," Oscar’s voice came from above, dark and raspy.

Oscar stood before him, legs slightly apart. On the outside, he maintained the facade of an unshakable predator, but inside, his body was betraying him. The thick fabric of his jeans was stretched to the limit; he was throbbing, hard and painfully pressed against the denim.

Lando, still on all fours, dared to look up. He saw the obscene bulge in Oscar’s pants and felt an electric shock run through his spine, making his own length—already rigid—throb against his zipper.

"Oscar…" Lando whimpered, the name coming out like a profane prayer. He crawled forward on his knees until his face was inches from the killer’s hip. "Please… I dreamed of this… I dreamed of you taking me here… under the stars…"

Oscar let out a low snarl, his hand reaching down to grab Lando’s hair and yank his head back, forcing him to expose his throat where the small knife cut still glistened with dried blood.

"You’re sick, Lando," Oscar declared, his eyes darkened by desire and violence. "You want me to be the monster of your dreams? I can be much worse than the headlines say."

He reached for his belt, the sound of the metal buckle opening echoing like a gunshot in the silent room. Lando let out a sob of expectation, closing his eyes as he took in the scent of leather, rain, and the masculine, excited musk emanating from Oscar.

"Open your mouth," Oscar commanded, his tone brookng no room for anything but absolute obedience. "And don't you dare close your eyes. I want you to see exactly what your obsession brought you."

The air in the sunroom was heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid smell of pure lust. Oscar no longer had the control he took such pride in; Lando’s submission was a corrosive fuel.

He moved over Lando’s body with animalistic brutality, his large hands grabbing the waistband of the Brit’s jeans and yanking them down with such force that the sound of the fabric giving way echoed against the glass ceiling. Lando was whimpering—a sharp, trembling sound—his hands gripping the pouf as his hips rose, seeking contact, begging for an invasion he had idealized over a thousand sleepless nights.

"Fuck me… please, Oscar… Fuck me…" Lando was delirious, his voice failing as he was turned around.

For a second, Oscar paused. Lando was there, sprawled under the moonlight, his pale skin glowing, legs parted, eyes rolling back in an ecstasy that bordered on madness. He looked like a sacred offering for a hungry monster. But Oscar wanted total control. He flipped him back onto all fours with a jolt, drawing a surprised, loud cry from Lando, who buried his face in the pouf, his back arched and trembling.

The knife reappeared. Oscar slid the cold blade down Lando’s toned thighs, feeling the boy’s muscles twitch at the touch of steel. He was fascinated. No victim had ever looked at him like this. No victim had ever desired him like this.

He pressed the edge into the inner thigh, where the skin is most sensitive, and dragged it. A crimson bead sprouted instantly, trickling down the fair skin. Lando didn't pull away; he screamed—a sound of pure pleasure that vibrated against the glass walls. Oscar repeated the act, marking his territory, relishing the sight of Lando’s pulse racing.

"You're a perverted little thing, aren't you?" Oscar growled, his voice distorted by heat.

He spat forcefully at Lando’s entrance, the saliva glistening. Without any delicacy, Oscar gripped the knife by the blade—feeling his own palm get sliced by the steel—and forced the handle into Lando’s mouth.

"Suck it. Get it nice and wet for me," he ordered.

Lando obeyed with a terrifying devotion, swirling his tongue around the hilt, his eyes locked onto Oscar’s as the killer shoved two fingers at once into his heat. Lando’s scream died, muffled against the metal in his mouth, his body arching violently.

"What’s wrong, pretty thing? Feeling the pain now?" Oscar taunted, swirling his fingers inside, feeling Lando's internal heat try to crush his hand. "Remember, you wanted this. You asked for every second."

Oscar withdrew the knife from Lando’s mouth, which now glistened with saliva and a bit of blood from Oscar’s hand. He positioned the hilt of the weapon at Lando’s abused entrance and, with a cruel thrust, forced his way in. Lando’s hole, eager and aching, sucked the object in, expanding to the limit.

"Fuck… you really do love this, don't you?" Oscar let out a dark laugh as he saw Lando whimper, his head thrashing from side to side.

Oscar began to work him with the knife hilt in a punishing rhythm—fast and dry. Each thrust made Lando’s body jerk. The blood from Oscar’s palm now mingled with the saliva and Lando’s natural slick, creating a scene both grotesque and beautiful under the stars. Oscar felt his own length throb with almost unbearable violence, watching as Lando accepted the punishment as if it were a divine gift.

He was staining the purity of that sunroom with the mark of a serial killer, and Lando Norris was loving every drop of blood that fell on him.

The rhythm of the thrusts was leaving Lando in a state of near unconsciousness, his eyes rolling as his body took the brunt of each strike. Oscar watched the pleasurable destruction he was causing, feeling the warmth of his own blood trickle from his wounded palm.

Oscar stopped suddenly, drawing a whimper of protest from Lando, who rocked his hips back, desperately seeking the fullness he had just lost.

"Easy, little thing… I’m not done with you yet," Oscar whispered, his voice dripping with lethal malice.

He tossed the knife aside, the metal hitting the pouf with a dull thud. Oscar then raised his right hand, palm open, where the deep cut made by the blade still seeped bright, warm blood. Lando looked over his shoulder, hypnotized by the crimson color gleaming under the moonlight.

Oscar didn't hesitate. He closed his fist over Lando's opening, letting the warm blood drip directly onto the pulsing muscle. Then, with a sadistic slowness, he used his fingers bathed in his own life-fluid to massage Lando, spreading the blood as if it were the most expensive lubricant in the world.

"Look at that," Oscar growled, forcing Lando to look down. "You’re being marked from the inside. My blood in you… just like you always wanted in your sick fantasies."

Lando let out a sharp sob, his whole body shaking. The heat of Oscar’s blood was unlike anything else; it was intimate, it was dangerous—it was the essence of the monster he adored, now serving to facilitate his ruin.

Oscar finally freed himself from the confinement of his jeans. He didn't use a condom; he didn't use gentleness. He gripped Lando’s hips with his red-stained hands, leaving bloody fingerprints on the Brit’s pale skin, and positioned himself.

"Now, Lando… let’s see if you can really take it."

With a violent lunge, Oscar buried himself in Lando all at once.

The scream that escaped Lando was loud enough to echo through the entire valley below the Parsons Manor. There were no more knives, no more games. It was just the raw flesh of a killer invading the devotee who had called him into the darkness. Oscar’s blood served as a bridge between them, sliding between their joined bodies as Oscar began to take him with possessive fury, every thrust hitting the core of Lando’s being, marking him forever as the one victim the monster decided not to kill—but to corrupt.

The sound of skin hitting skin echoed through the sunroom, drowning out the noise of the rain now lashing the glass roof above. Oscar no longer had any of the icy self-control he displayed on the streets; he was pure dark instinct.

Oscar’s hands, still stained from the knife cut, squeezed Lando’s hips so hard his fingers left bruised marks on the pale skin.

"Fuck, Lando… you’re so tight…" Oscar growled near the boy’s ear, his voice vibrating like low thunder. "It’s like you were made specifically to be destroyed by me."

Lando was in a state of cathartic shock. His face was buried in the pouf, but his head thrashed. He felt every inch of Oscar inside him, hitting spots he didn't even know existed—a sharp pain that turned into a pleasure so searing it made him see stars.

Oscar changed the angle, pulling Lando by the hair so he would look up at the void of space above the glass. With his other hand, Oscar reached for the discarded knife and, while continuing to take him with relentless rhythm, pressed the side of the blade—still dirty—against Lando’s cheek.

"Look up, damn it!" Oscar commanded, giving a thrust so powerful Lando was nearly thrown forward. "I want you to feel the exact moment I take everything from you."

Lando let out a raspy cry. He saw their reflection in the dark glass: the blonde, pale monster riding him with murderous fury, the blood trickling between their bodies, the knife gleaming near his face. It was the exact image of his most erotic nightmares, only a thousand times more intense, more real, more painful.

Oscar’s pace became frenetic. He wasn't just having sex; he was claiming. Each investment was a strike, a punishment for Lando having dared to desire him, for having dared to know him.

"More… more… Oscar… break me…" Lando begged between sobs of pleasure, his body expelling everything he had left.

Oscar felt the apex coming like an unbearable heatwave. He dropped the knife, using both hands to grip Lando’s shoulders and pin him in place. He gave three final thrusts with all the strength he possessed, feeling Lando’s internal walls spasm around him in a desperate clench.

With an animalistic snarl, Oscar came. It was deep, long, and hot, filling Lando with everything he was. He felt Lando’s body have one final convulsion, the boy collapsing onto the pouf while the killer continued to pulse inside him, sweat and blood dripping from their joined forms under the cold light of the moon.

The silence that followed the climax was sharp, broken only by the sound of the rain and Lando’s wheezing breath as he lay disjointed on the pouf, his skin stained with sweat and Oscar’s crimson blood.

Oscar didn't pull away immediately. He remained buried in Lando, feeling the residual pulses of the Brit’s body, while his mind—previously purely murderous—recalculated the route. He looked at his own palm, the cut still open, and then at the nape of Lando’s neck.

With deliberate slowness, Oscar withdrew, hearing a wet sound and a whimper of loss from Lando. He grabbed the boy's chin, turning his face so he could look at him. Lando’s eyes were glassy, his pupils dilated from pure shock and pleasure.

"Listen closely, pretty thing," Oscar began, his voice returning to the low, icy tone he used to sentence his victims. "You wanted the monster; now you have the master."

He squeezed Lando’s jaw, forcing him to focus.

"Você não pertence mais àquela cafeteria, nem a esta cidade, nem a si mesma. Você é minha. De agora em diante, se um homem se aproximar de você, se alguém tocar nesta pele que marquei hoje... vou garantir que a morte dessa pessoa seja a coisa mais lenta que esta cidade já viu. E você vai assistir."

Lando soltou um soluço trêmulo, mas não de medo; era uma aceitação devota. Ele procurou a mão ensanguentada de Oscar com o rosto, roçando a bochecha na ferida como um animal necessitado.

 "Eu sou seu..." Lando sussurrou, com a voz embargada. "Eu sempre fui."

Oscar soltou uma risada sinistra, os olhos brilhando com uma possessividade doentia. Ele já estava planejando os próximos passos. Nocturne nunca ficava muito tempo no mesmo lugar, e a ideia de ter um brinquedo tão responsivo e obcecado para carregar em seu kit de horrores era tentadora demais para descartar.

 "Ótimo. Porque quando eu decidir que é hora de ir para a próxima cidade, para encontrar o próximo alvo... você vem comigo. Você vai limpar minhas facas, cuidar dos meus ferimentos e me dar este corpo toda vez que o sangue de outra pessoa me excitar."

Oscar se levantou, limpando o resto do sangue da mão em suas calças jeans, e olhou ao redor da Mansão Parsons.

"Agora, levante-se. Limpe-se. Temos muito o que conversar sobre as regras da sua nova vida. E não se esqueça, Lando..." Oscar se inclinou, sussurrando em seu ouvido enquanto sua mão descia para apertar o pescoço do garoto uma última vez. "Se você tentar fugir, eu não vou apenas te matar. Vou te manter vivo tempo suficiente para você desejar que eu tivesse terminado o serviço hoje."

Lando olhou para ele, com um sorriso delirante e despedaçado nos lábios, as mãos tateando em busca do local onde a faca o havia cortado minutos antes. Ele finalmente tinha o que queria: não apenas Nocturne, mas a promessa de uma eternidade de dor e prazer nas mãos do homem que o atormentava.

Chapter Text

The new routine at the Parsons Mansion had transformed into a dark ecosystem, yet it was strangely perfect for Lando’s twisted mind. He was no longer alone. The silence of that gothic mansion was now filled with the constant certainty that he belonged to someone. Even when Oscar wasn't physically in the solarium or the hallways, Lando felt the weight of an invisible, constant gaze. He knew he was being watched at the coffee shop, on the street, even while he slept. His personal assassin was always there—a protective and lethal shadow.

After a few consecutive nights of Oscar appearing out of nowhere at the mansion, leaving purple bruises on his skin and making him cry with pleasure under the moonlight, the killer had started calling him "kitten." According to Oscar, the analogy was obvious: Lando acted exactly like a needy, foolish feline that rolled onto its back in front of a predator, ignoring the imminent danger of having its guts ripped out just to beg for a touch. And Lando loved the nickname. He purred under Oscar’s commands, domesticated by fear and desire.

Of course, Nocturne’s hunts hadn't stopped. Oscar wouldn't halt his body count just because he had found a useful and highly responsive toy. He still had a few crucial names to cross off his blacklist in the city—calculated targets, deaths that needed to be surgical. And he knew he was getting closer and closer to the last of them.

Until the balance of that routine was tested on a day that started out terribly ordinary at the coffee shop.

Lando was working behind the counter, the espresso machine hissing as he maintained his automatic, friendly smile for the regulars. Everything was too calm. And that was when he showed up.

He was different from the usual customers. He spoke English perfectly but carried a slightly slurred, charming accent by normal standards, with brown hair and light eyes that gave away his foreign origin—someone whose native language was Spanish. Lando couldn't tell where he was from, and honestly, he didn't care. But the man, who later identified himself as Franco, became fixated on the curly-haired barista.

From the very first time, Franco started frequenting the coffee shop daily, always firing off cheap pickup lines and suggestive glances. Lando felt his stomach churn with every "lindo" or "gracioso" he heard. To him, the only person who had the right to call him pretty or kitten was his hound. Lando maintained the most polite and cold demeanor possible, subtly rejecting every advance. He hated every second of that audacity.

That afternoon, however, Franco decided to go too far.

"You work too hard, mi amor," Franco said, stretching his arm across the wooden counter. Before Lando could pull back, the man gripped his hand firmly, tugging it slightly to plant a loud kiss on the back of the British boy's fingers.

Lando’s body flushed hot instantly. It wasn't shyness, it wasn't embarrassment, and God knew it wasn't pleasure. It was pure hatred. His cheeks turned red with anger, and his green eyes flashed with a restrained fury. For Franco, unfortunately, that flushed face and intense gaze were completely misinterpreted, as if the boy were just "flustered" by the gesture.

That was when a familiar, icy chill ran up Lando’s spine. The room seemed to drop a few degrees.

He was there.

Lando immediately began to discreetly scan the coffee shop, hunting for the silhouette of his assassin. He needed Oscar to understand the situation. Knowing that the hound could read his every micro-expression, Lando molded his face into his best expression of absolute disgust—the same sullen, rejecting face he made at the mansion when Oscar said he would have to disappear for an entire night for work. It was a clear signal: "I hate this. Get this away from me."

And, from the darkest, most distant corner of the coffee shop, sitting at a corner table near the fogged-up window, Oscar saw everything.

Beneath his black face mask and the low brim of his dark cap, Oscar’s jaw clicked. The sound of his teeth grinding was audible only to himself, such was the force of his clench. His brown eyes, now transformed into two completely black slits devoid of any humanity, locked onto Franco’s back.

That damn foreigner was touching what belonged to him. He was pressing his lips against the skin that Oscar had marked with blood and teeth in the solarium.

Oscar watched Lando’s expression of disgust, and a feeling of violent possessiveness almost made him shatter the ceramic mug he was holding. He read his kitten’s signal perfectly. Lando didn't want that man; Lando was crying out for his owner.

Slowly, Oscar relaxed his fingers around the mug, but the promise of death was already sealed in his mind. He looked Franco up and down, memorizing his body structure, the jacket he wore, the way he walked. Franco thought he stood a chance with Nocturne’s personal little doll. What he didn't know was that, by kissing Lando’s hand, he had just signed his own death warrant—and that his execution would be the next gift Oscar would give to his pet kitten.

•••

Nightfall brought with it the thick fog that Oscar so appreciated for his hunts. However, the setting Franco had chosen to end his day was the closest thing to hell the assassin could conceive: a loud nightclub, consumed by the smell of sweat, vape smoke, and the pulsing thud of bass that made the walls vibrate.

Hidden in the shadows of the venue's second floor, the brim of his cap shadowing his eyes, Oscar watched the foreigner. Franco was at the bar, laughing loudly with his friends and tossing back shots of tequila one after another, mixing every kind of cheap alcohol he could buy. He already seemed a bit unsteady, his body swaying as he attempted to flirt with a passing girl.

With every minute that ticked by inside, Oscar felt the irritation building beneath his skin. He hated crowded places. The noise disrupted his focus. His urge was to walk down those steps, drive his knife into that maggot’s jugular right there in the middle of the dance floor, and watch the panic spread. But no. He would make it worthwhile. He wasn't just going to kill Franco; he was going to bring a present to his kitten.

What fueled Oscar’s hatred the most—and made his cock throb painfully against the denim under his dark coat—was the fact that Franco had ruined his plans for the night. Oscar had intended to spend the early hours of the morning in the solarium of the Parsons Mansion. He wanted to pin Lando against the wicker, push those pale legs open, and fuck him so hard, at such a brutal, punishing pace, that the boy would simply pass out from exhaustion and pleasure. And even with Lando unconscious, Oscar would keep going inside him, pounding the British boy’s limp body, because he knew his kitten loved waking up in the middle of it, completely surrendered.

Lando was addicted to it. He loved the delirium of being possessed beyond the limits of his consciousness. On many nights, Oscar would let himself into the locked mansion while Lando was already asleep. The assassin would simply climb onto the bed, part the curly-haired boy's legs, and bury himself inside all at once, without warning. Lando always woke up with a tearful, whiny moan, feeling Oscar’s cock hit his prostate repeatedly in the darkness of the bedroom. In those moments, in a near-trance state, Lando would come half-soft and sleepy, ruining his own sheets, before closing his eyes and drifting back to sleep while still feeling the weight of Oscar fucking him in the dark.

And now, because of that man's audacity at the coffee shop counter, Lando was waiting alone at the mansion while Oscar wasted his time in a filthy nightclub.

Finally, around three in the morning, Franco stumbled toward the exit, bidding his friends a clumsy goodbye. He walked alone down the dark, damp alley behind the establishment, trying to pull his phone from his pocket to call a cab. He was completely vulnerable, his judgment clouded by alcohol.

Oscar slipped through the shadows of the emergency exit like a ghost. His footsteps were absolutely silent on the wet asphalt. The adrenaline began to pump faster through his veins, the bone handle of his knife already firm in his scarred right hand, the mark itching with anticipation.

He knew it was time to strike. And oh, he was going to have a lot of fun dismantling that maggot piece by piece before packing up whatever was left to show his obedient kitten.

The alley was dark, and the air smelled of rain and wet asphalt. Even with his senses completely numbed by the excess of tequila, a primitive part of Franco’s brain triggered an alarm. He stopped walking for a second, his phone trembling in his hand as he tried to focus on the screen. There was a strange echo behind him. Footsteps that weren't his own.

Stumbling, Franco spun on his heels, trying to play the tough guy under the influence. An arrogant, crooked smirk formed on his lips as he stared into the darkness of the alley.

"Hey! Who's there?" his voice slurred, his Spanish accent even thicker from the drinks. He took a false step, nearly falling over. "If you think I'm gonna be scared, you're dead wrong, *boludo*! Show yourself!"

What an idiot. He was practically dead drunk, barely able to keep his eyes open, thinking his masculine bravado would save him. Oscar didn't even reply. He simply materialized from the shadows like a specter, the brim of his cap hiding his sadistic gaze. Before Franco could process the tall, heavy-set silhouette in front of him, Oscar’s gloved hand shot toward his neck, pressing the carotid artery with surgical force, while the handle of his hatchet struck the foreigner’s temple with precision. Franco blacked out before his body even hit the ground.

When Franco finally regained consciousness, the scenery had changed drastically. The thud of the club's bass had been replaced by the ominous rustling of leaves and the howl of the wind through tall trees. He was in the middle of a dense, dark forest, tightly bound to the trunk of an oak tree.

His head throbbed with a blinding pain, and the iron taste of dried blood partially covered his face, trickling from his temple down to his chin. But the worst part was his left leg; Oscar had broken his knee while he was still unconscious to ensure no escape attempt was possible. The bone throbbed in agonizing, unbearable pain.

In front of him, illuminated only by a tactical flashlight propped on the ground, stood Oscar. The assassin held a heavy hatchet, testing the sharpness of the metal blade with his thumb. Franco let out a whimper of pure terror, his earlier arrogance completely evaporating.

"P-please... who are you? What do you want? Money?" Franco sobbed, the panic finally clearing the effects of the alcohol.

Oscar looked down at the hatchet. He would use that blade later to take Franco’s hands off, one by one, for daring to touch his stupid kitten at the coffee shop counter. No one touched what belonged to Nocturne and got away with it. But for now, Oscar would content himself with torturing Franco both physically and psychologically. He wanted to hear the sound of the man's despair before breaking him entirely.

He stepped closer to Franco, pressing the cold tip of the hatchet against the man's cheek, sliding it slowly down to his neck, mimicking the terror Lando had felt in the car—though Lando had reacted with arousal, whereas Franco was crying like a worm.

In the middle of the first superficial cut across Franco’s chest, Oscar’s phone vibrated in the inner pocket of his coat.

Oscar paused his movement, scowling beneath his mask. He pulled out the device and looked at the screen. It was Lando. The boy had managed to get his number a few weeks ago, after Oscar had called him in the dead of night just to tell him, in a raspy voice, that Lando looked so hot rubbing himself against the pillow like a kitten in heat, just waiting to be mounted and bred by his owner.

Oscar let out a silent sigh, so quiet that even Franco couldn't hear it over his own sobbing. He slid his finger across the screen and answered, bringing the phone to his ear without saying a single word. He didn't need to.

From the other end of the line, the sound that filled Oscar’s ear made his cock harden instantly inside his trousers. It was the breathless, rapid, noisy panting of Lando.

"O-Oscar..." Lando whimpered from the other side, his voice thick with solitary pleasure. "Are... are you watching? Did you see what he did? Please... tell me you're going to kill him…”

Oscar closed his eyes for a second, savoring the sound of his kitten's delirium. He could picture the scene perfectly: Lando was probably in the solarium or in bed, rubbing himself against the pillow that still smelled of Oscar’s leather and cologne, or stroking that useless, needy little cock under the starlight. And knowing his little doll's devout masochism, Lando was likely using his free hand to press hard against the scars from the cuts Oscar had left on him the night before—especially the ones forming Oscar’s initials, carved with precision right on his hip line, burning with pain and arousal at every touch.

"I'm taking care of it right now, kitten," Oscar finally answered, his voice dropping to a dangerously soft, possessive tone that made Franco shudder with terror beside him as he realized the man's sheer coldness. "He will never touch you again. Go back to rubbing against my pillow and wait for me. I'm bringing you a present to play with when I get back."

Lando let out a loud, high-pitched whine on the other end of the line, presumably coming just from his owner’s promise, before hanging up the call in a state of blissful exhaustion.

Oscar slipped the phone back into his pocket. He turned his face slowly toward Franco, whose eyes were wide with horror as he realized his torture wasn't a robbery, but a jealous execution.

A cruel, invisible smile shaped Oscar’s lips beneath his mask. He raised the hatchet, the gleam of the metal reflecting the flashlight's beam. It was time to start the real work.

Franco’s scream echoed through the dark forest, brutally tearing through the silence of the early hours as Oscar’s hatchet came down. It was a surgical strike—clean and merciless. The heavy metal sliced through the air and met the man's wrist, severing the hand that had dared to touch Lando at the coffee shop counter. The limb hit the ground covered in dry leaves, while blood began to gush out in hot, rhythmic spurts, staining the earth and Oscar’s boots.

Franco went into immediate shock, his pale face contrasting with the streaks of blood. His entire body shook against the tree trunk, his mouth wide open in a silent plea of pure agony, before he began to hyperventilate, letting out sharp, drawn-out whimpers in his native tongue.

Oscar watched the scene with a frightening detachment. He wiped the splatter of blood that had caught his cheek with the back of his gloved hand, unhurried. He felt no remorse; he felt only a deep, territorial satisfaction. That hand would never touch his kitten again.

With a dull thud, he embedded the hatchet into the tree trunk just above Franco’s head, leaving it aside. For what came next, he needed something that allowed for more proximity, something that would prolong the suffering of that idiot Argentine who thought the world belonged to him.

Oscar reached for his belt and pulled out his hunting pocketknife. The dark steel blade snapped open with a sharp metallic click that made Franco focus his pain-filled, teary eyes on the killer.

"Did you think you could just come to my city, look at what’s mine, and walk away scot-free?" Oscar asked, his voice coming out in a calm, almost clinical whisper as he stepped forward, cornering the man against the tree. "You were very brave at the coffee shop, Franco. Let’s see how much of that bravery is left now."

The hunting knife began its work. Unlike the hatchet, which had been swift, the short blade with a serrated base was designed to tear and extract. Oscar pressed the tip of the steel against Franco’s shoulder, sinking it just deep enough to feel the resistance of the muscle, and began to trace slow, deep lines across the man's chest.

Franco gasped, his body arching against the ropes, trying desperately to pull away from the cutting touch, but there was nowhere to run. Oscar used the knife with the dexterity of a sick surgeon, knowing exactly where to cut to cause maximum psychological and physical pain without making him pass out too quickly. Every groan of pain from Franco fed Oscar’s possessiveness, his mind picturing Lando’s reaction when he saw the results of tonight's work.

He was going to dismantle this man piece by piece, saving the best part to deliver to his submissive little doll at the Parsons Mansion.

The hunting knife glided with a sadistic slowness across Franco’s skin, opening parallel cuts that mimicked claws ripping flesh. Oscar kept one hand firm on the man's shoulder, feeling the vibration of his desperate screams and the violent tremors racking the body tied to the tree. The smell of iron and cold sweat filled the damp forest air.

"Please... please, piedad..." Franco sobbed, his tears clearing tracks through the dirt and dried blood on his face. His voice was fading, turning into a hoarse, powerless whisper. "I didn't know... I didn't know who he belonged to..."

"Now you do," Oscar replied, his voice perfectly even, completely devoid of any rush.

He drove the tip of the knife a few millimeters deeper into Franco’s collarbone, twisting the blade slightly just to hear the man shriek again. Oscar’s mind, however, was operating on two different frequencies. While his hands worked the flesh of this wretched soul, his thoughts were still on Lando’s phone call. The echo of his kitten’s whimpers and the image of him pressing his fingertips against the marks with Oscar’s initials on his own pelvis were stimuli that kept Oscar’s cock painfully rigid inside his trousers.

He wanted to finish up here quickly so he could get back to the mansion. He wanted to see Lando’s bright eyes when he received tonight’s "present."

Oscar pulled the blade out, wiping the accumulated blood onto Franco’s coat before focusing on the man's other hand—the one still attached to the wrist. The Argentine watched every movement with eyes wide in pure psychological terror, knowing exactly what Nocturne’s calculated silence meant.

"That coffee shop is where he works. Where I allow him to play at having a normal life," Oscar continued, bringing his face close to Franco's, his black mask nearly touching the man's sweaty skin. "But he is my toy. And the rule is simple: whoever touches, breaks. And whoever breaks... I destroy."

With a swift, brutal movement, Oscar grabbed Franco’s other wrist. The hunting knife came down, not to slice through at once like the hatchet, but to work through the joints, severing tendons with millimetric precision. The scream Franco tore from his throat ripped through the canopy of the trees—a purely animal sound that died down as shock finally began to shut his nervous system down.

Oscar worked for a few more minutes until the silence of the forest was restored, leaving only the sound of his own breathing and the steady dripping of blood onto the earth. He folded the knife away with a mechanical click, picked up the tactical flashlight from the ground, and began to gather what he had promised his kitten, preparing himself for the long drive back to the Parsons Mansion, where his most devout prize awaited him in the dark.

Oscar cleaned his tools with methodical precision before gathering the bloody trophy from the damp forest floor. He wrapped Franco's severed hand in several layers of thick plastic and black tarp, locking the bundle in the trunk of his car before taking the road back up the hill.

The drive to the Parsons Mansion was made under the same icy silence as always, but Oscar's mind was racing. The passenger seat, now empty, seemed to cry out for the presence of the trembling, obsessed boy he had claimed on that very same road.

When the car finally crossed the iron gates and parked before the grim facade of the mansion, the lights of the solarium at the top of the hill were still on, glowing like a beacon in the fog. Lando was awake. He always waited.

Oscar climbed the oak steps without a sound, carrying the heavy package in one of his gloved hands. When he pushed open the doors to the solarium, he found Lando exactly as he had imagined: curled up on the large woven beanbag chair, wearing nothing but an oversized sweatshirt that left his pale legs exposed, his bright hazel eyes locking instantly onto the figure of the assassin. The boy's cheeks were flushed and his breath was slightly short, his fingers still tracing absentmindedly over the skin of his own groin, right where Oscar's initials had been carved.

"You took so long..." Lando whimpered softly, his voice thick and whiny, like someone who had spent the last few hours coming all by himself.

Oscar said nothing. He walked over to the center of the solarium and dropped the plastic bundle right at the base of the beanbag. The dull thud of the impact made Lando startle.

"I told you I'd bring you a present, kitten," Oscar's voice came out raspy, filling the confined space beneath the glass ceiling.

With fingers trembling in anticipation and a near-childish curiosity that contrasted terribly with the morbidity of the situation, Lando leaned forward. He slowly untied the knots in the plastic until the cold, pale, lifeless skin of Franco's hand was exposed beneath the silver moonlight. Lando let out an audible breath, a gasp of pure aesthetic and psychological delight. It was the hand that had dared to touch him; the hand his hound had ripped from the world just to satisfy the twisted possessiveness that bound them together.

Lando looked up, his eyes welling with adoration as he stared at Oscar.

"You killed him... because of me."

"No one touches what's mine," Oscar declared, stepping closer to grab Lando by his curls, forcing the boy's head back to lock eyes with him firmly. "But we both know we can't keep souvenirs like this inside."

Lando nodded immediately, understanding the implicit protocol. He knew that their fetish and adoration had rules for survival. That flesh needed to disappear before dawn.

Minutes later, beneath a drizzle that was finally beginning to let up, the two walked to an isolated clearing on the side of the hill, where the solitary mansion loomed against the cliffside. Oscar dug a small pit in the damp earth and tossed in dry branches, pouring lighter fluid over the wood and the severed limb.

Lando watched it all, wrapping his arms around his own body to shield himself from the cold wind, his chin resting on Oscar's shoulder as the assassin struck a match. The flames licked the darkness quickly, rising in a violent, orange hue that illuminated both their faces. The smell of burning flesh began to drift up, mixing with the wet earth and the scent of ozone.

For Lando, watching that pyre burn on the hill was the pinnacle of his consecration. He wasn't just a witness or a surviving victim; he was Nocturne's silent accomplice. As the ashes of the man who had dared to flirt with him scattered into the mountain wind, Lando felt Oscar's large, rough hand squeeze his waist from behind, pulling his hips against the jeans where the assassin's bulge was already making itself known again.

"Now that the trash has been burned..." Oscar whispered into Lando's ear, his voice sending violent shivers down the British boy's spine, "...let's go back inside. I still have a promise to keep to you in the solarium.”

The heat from the flames on the hill had barely begun to fade when Oscar grabbed Lando by the arm, dragging him back into the grim grandeur of the mansion. Lando stumbled over his own feet, his body limp and his mind in an electric haze after seeing Franco's remains turn to ash.

But instead of turning down the hallway that led to the solarium, Oscar kept a firm stride, pushing open the door to Lando's bedroom. The room was bathed in shadow, dominated by a large double bed with dark, messy sheets that still held the scent of them both.

"Oscar..." Lando whimpered, his voice needy as he was tossed onto his back against the soft sheets. He looked up at the assassin, confused by the change of plans. "Why here? I thought we were going to the solarium..."

Oscar began to strip off his clothes in a rush, his pale, muscular body revealing itself beneath the dim light filtering through the window. He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between Lando's open legs and pinning the boy's wrists against the mattress.

"Because I wanted it this way, kitten. Now shut up," Oscar commanded, his voice harsh and possessive, leaving no room for argument.

Without any traditional foreplay, Oscar sought out the blood that still insisted on welling up from the cut on the palm of his hand. He poured the warm fluid directly over Lando's already flushed and needy entrance, using his fingers to push the blood inside, ensuring the friction would be violent but workable. Lando arched his hips instantly, letting out a hissing moan as the heat of his owner's blood began to prep him.

With Lando's body stretched out on his back in a classic missionary position, Oscar lined himself up and buried himself inside all at once.

The impact was brutal. They began to fuck like two wild animals, the wet sound of colliding flesh filling the dark bedroom. Oscar moved like a dog in heat—relentless, tireless, slamming into the depths of Lando's being with every violent thrust. Lando buried his nails into Oscar's shoulders, his hazel, tear-filled eyes locked onto the assassin's dark stare. It was an intoxicating visual standoff; they held eye contact the entire time, a sick connection where pain and adoration blurred together.

"Look at you... so wide open," Oscar growled, the sweat from his chest dripping onto Lando's skin.

He looked down, staring at Lando's length. The British boy had a small cock that reacted to the stimulation almost timidly, leaking pre-cum as it throbbed against his own abdomen.

"Look at this pathetic little dick... so cute and completely useless," Oscar mocked cruelly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched Lando roll his eyes at the erotic insult. "You can't do anything on your own, can you? You need your owner to break you from the inside out just to feel alive."

"Y-yes... Oscar... harder... please!" Lando begged, his voice breaking into a sob of pure ecstasy, accepting the words and the humiliation like a good, whiny, stupid kitten.

Oscar brought his injured hand down to Lando's pelvis, flattening his fingers directly over the spot where his initials remained carved into the skin. He pressed down hard, feeling the scarred tissue burn under his touch, while using the weight of his own body to sink even deeper. The thrust was so deep and violent that, due to Lando's slight build, the distinct outline of Oscar's cock could be seen slightly shifting the wall of the boy's stomach beneath his skin.

The sight of that total invasion made Lando let out his loudest cry of the night, a high-pitched sound that bordered on delirium. Feeling completely deformed and filled by Oscar pushed him over the edge. Voluntarily, Lando spread his legs even wider, throwing his knees up nearly to his shoulders to give Oscar the perfect angle, allowing the assassin to keep pounding him without mercy under the watchful, possessive gaze of his one and true owner.

•••

The early hours of the morning pressed on without mercy, and Lando’s bedroom transformed into a temple of exhaustion and perversion. Oscar gave his kitten no rest. Every round was an exercise in possession and endurance. They shifted positions multiple times throughout the hours, but the savage pace never decelerated. Oscar fucked him from behind on all fours, pulling Lando’s hips up until the British boy's buttocks were red from slapping; he fucked him from the side, with one of Lando’s legs hooked over his shoulder, allowing for deep, angled thrusts that left the boy weeping, unable to articulate a single word.

The blood from Oscar’s hand, which continued to mix with Lando’s sweat and fluids, had already dried and been reapplied with every new round. The room was filled with an uninterrupted symphony of slamming flesh, the creaking of the ancient oak bed, and Lando’s raspy moans, his breath constantly pushed to its limit.

Oscar came inside the British boy a first, a second, and a third time. With each climax, he held himself firmly buried inside, pinning his body against Lando’s back or chest, growling as he spilled hot spurts of cum deep into the boy's canal. And to ensure that none of that submission went to waste, the moment he pulled out, Oscar grabbed a heavy silicone anal plug he had brought along and shoved it unceremoniously into Lando’s relaxed, pulsing opening.

"Hold all of it in there, kitten," Oscar ordered, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he watched Lando’s body contract around the object, whimpering at the artificial fullness. "That is your owner’s cum. You’re going to keep every single drop."

Lando lay there, trembling, feeling the hot cum pooling and trying to leak out, only to be held back by the plug. But his rest was short-lived. After twenty or thirty minutes, Oscar would simply yank the plug out all at once—eliciting a wet pop and a sharp cry from the boy—and fuck him all over again, driving the older semen even deeper with his own rigid cock, mixing it with the new load that was about to follow.

When the first faint rays of dawn began to pierce the fog outside, illuminating the bedroom through the window, the fucking finally ceased.

Oscar withdrew from Lando one last time and reinserted the plug, sealing the boy's canal. He sat on the edge of the bed, his chest rising and falling, observing the state of his creature. Lando was sprawled on his back, completely spent, his legs half-open and trembling so badly he could barely close them. His little dick, which Oscar had called cute and useless all night, was completely numb and smeared with fluids.

The most explicit detail of that night of excess was written across Lando's anatomy. Lying there like that, the absurd amount of cum accumulated inside him after so many uninterrupted rounds had caused a visible distension in his lower abdomen. There was a slight, distinct rounded swelling there, bloating the pale skin just below his belly button and making Oscar’s initials, carved into his pelvic line, stand out even more. It looked, in a deeply unsettling and erotic way, like a small pregnancy belly.

Oscar reached out and flattened his calloused, injured palm against Lando’s distended stomach. He pressed down lightly, feeling the hardness caused by the internal fullness, drawing a ragged, needy gasp from the boy.

"Look what you’ve become, kitten..." Oscar whispered, his voice raspy from the long night, his eyes fixed on the swell he had created himself. "You're completely full of my cum. It looks like you've been bred by your monster."

Lando looked down with effort, staring at his own bloated stomach beneath his owner’s hand. A faint, delirious, and proud smile spread across his chapped lips. He brought his own trembling hand up to cover Oscar’s, caressing the skin that carried the semen and the mark of Nocturne.

"It’s... so warm..." Lando murmured, closing his eyes, surrendering to sleep and exhaustion, knowing that even while he slept, the plug would keep Oscar’s signature locked inside him.

•••

The winter sun finally broke through the hill’s mist, casting beams of pale light through the cracks in the bedroom curtains. Lando was sleeping deeply, in a state of exhaustion so absolute that his body seemed almost lifeless, if not for the slow rise and fall of his chest. The anal plug remained in place, keeping Oscar's semen locked away and warm inside him.

After a few hours, Oscar woke up. The fatigue from the hunt and the torture in the forest seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a purely possessive urge as he rolled onto his side to stare at his kitten. He fixed his gaze on the slight, rounded swell in Lando's lower abdomen, which remained distinct under the morning light, shaping the boy's pale skin.

That belonged to him. Every drop inside carried Nocturne's signature.

Without rushing, Oscar reached out and pulled the plug out all at once. The wet sound caused Lando’s body to twitch slightly in bed, but he didn't wake; he only let out a ragged sigh through his parted lips. A thick, whitish trail threatened to leak out, but Oscar didn't give it time. He positioned himself over Lando’s sleeping body, lining up his cock—which had already awakened rigid and throbbing—and shoved inside.

Lando let out a tearful, drawn-out whimper, a purely subconscious sound. His eyes remained closed, but his head rolled to the side as Oscar’s size filled him once more, driving the accumulated cum even deeper.

This time, Oscar was in no rush. He initiated a slow, heavy, deliberate rhythm. Each thrust was measured, a weighty movement that made their flesh collide with a muffled thud against the sheets. With every plunge, Oscar flattened his large hand against Lando’s distended stomach, pressing the slight swell firmly enough to feel the internal stiffness. The touch made the semen shift inside, and Lando reacted in his sleep, squeezing his internal walls tightly around Oscar’s length and letting out whiny laments that filled the quiet bedroom.

"So responsive... even asleep you beg for me, kitten," Oscar whispered against the boy's skin.

While maintaining the slow, punishing back-and-forth movement, Oscar leaned his body over Lando's chest. His teeth found the side of the British boy’s neck, exactly where the first knife cut had been made the previous night. With a violent, possessive bite, he reopened the wound, sinking his teeth in until he tasted the iron of blood in his mouth. Lando arched his hips on the bed, his hands blindly clawing at the mattress, surrendering to the painful stimulation without even regaining consciousness.

Oscar kept moving down. His teeth marks began to spread across Lando’s collarbone and chest, replacing the purple bruises that had started to fade and creating fresh, red, raw wounds. He was redrawing his property.

The sleepy fuck stretched on for long minutes. Lando drifted between sleep and delirium, his useless little dick involuntarily dripping pre-cum against his abdomen once again. With every deep thrust from Oscar that struck his prostate, the British boy let out a muffled yelp, his toes curling. He didn't fully wake, but he knew, in the safety of his subconscious, that he was exactly where he always desired to be: beneath the body of his personal monster, being marked, bitten, and filled while the world outside continued to ignore the perfect darkness that united them.

Oscar’s movement maintained that hypnotic, dense, and heavy cadence. With every thrust, Lando’s hips were driven into the mattress, and the slight swell in his lower abdomen rose and fell, testing the elasticity of the pale skin under the pressure of the killer's hand. Oscar watched the scene with an almost scientific fascination: the way the semen he had injected all night now served as a buffer and lubricant for this sleepy fuck, creating a muffled, wet sound with each deep plunge.

With the fingers of his injured hand flattened firmly against Lando’s distended belly, Oscar pressed a little deeper, right above the pelvic line where his initials were engraved. The internal stimulation caused Lando’s body to react immediately with a spasm; the walls of his canal gripped Oscar’s cock in an involuntary, hungry suction.

Lando let out a sharper whimper, his eyelashes fluttering as his head tossed from side to side on the pillow. He was slowly waking up, his mind emerging from the torpor of sleep straight into the eye of the storm of his own perversion. When his hazel eyes finally blinked open, they were glassy, focusing with difficulty on Oscar’s silhouette bathed in the bedroom's shadows

.

"O-Oscar..." Lando stammered, his voice completely hoarse, barely a whisper.

"Awake, kitten?" Oscar growled low, leaning forward. He didn't break the rhythm; instead, he increased the force of the impact, making Lando’s body shake against the bed. "Good morning. Look down. Look what I did to you while you were sleeping."

Lando, with weak and trembling arms, tried to lift his head slightly. He looked down at his own splayed body. He saw his chest and neck covered in fresh bites, red and purple marks that burned beneath his sweat. But what truly captured his attention was the sight of Oscar’s hand pressing into his bloated stomach, shifting the semen inside with every thrust. His small, numb dick was leaking a mixture of pre-cum and fluids onto the skin of his abdomen.

A shaky breath, mixed with a delirious chuckle, escaped Lando’s lips. Seeing himself like that—completely violated, marked, and deformed by the semen of the man who terrorized the city—was all he needed to lose the rest of his sanity.

"It’s... so full... it hurts..." Lando whimpered, his eyes welling with pure pleasure as he threw his head back, exposing his wounded neck once more. "More, please... crush it... crush everything inside me..."

Lando’s absolute submission worked its usual miracle on Oscar’s mind. What little civility remained in him vanished. The killer abandoned the slow pace and began to fuck him with a punishing speed, slamming into the depths of Lando’s canal with all the strength he possessed. The thrusts were so violent that the oak bed creaked loudly against the bedroom walls.

Oscar brought his mouth down to Lando’s chest, biting down hard around the boy’s nipple, tearing a sharp cry from him that echoed through the lonely mansion. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted Lando to remember that every inch of that pain was the price for being Nocturne’s toy.

The climax came fast and overwhelming for both. Oscar felt Lando’s canal contract in a series of violent spasms. The British boy came without even touching himself, his thin semen spurting weakly against his own distended belly. Immediately after, with an animal growl that vibrated against the skin of Lando’s chest, Oscar reached his limit, discharging another massive, hot load of cum deep inside the boy, making Lando’s stomach look even firmer and more filled.

Oscar collapsed with the weight of his body over Lando, his chest heaving against his. Silence reigned once more in the Parsons Mansion, broken only by the ragged breathing of two monsters who had found, in each other, the perfect definition of their own darkness.

The silence that settled into the room was dense, almost palpable, broken only by the heavy sound of their breaths mingling in the shadows. Oscar remained draped over Lando's body for long minutes, feeling the frantic beating of the boy's heart slow down against his chest. Sweat glued their skin together, and the metallic tang of blood mixed with the heavy scent of semen soaked the dark sheets.

Lando lay motionless, his arms extended at his sides, his legs limp and half-open, simply lacking the strength to close them. His hazel eyes stared at the antique plaster ceiling, glazed over in a trance of pure exhaustion. The sensation of weight in his lower abdomen was almost unbelievable; the new load Oscar had dumped inside seemed to have stretched his skin to its absolute limit.

Slowly, Oscar propped his elbows on the mattress, lifting his torso to look down at the British boy. His brown eyes, cold and analytical, traveled down to examine the damage he had done. Lando’s neck and chest looked like a map of violence: the teeth marks, some already bruising and others still oozing a dark crimson ribbon, contrasted brutally with his pale skin.

"You're wrecked, kitten," Oscar noted, his voice low, raspy, nearly a possessive whisper.

He slid his right hand—his injured palm now slicked with a mixture of dried blood and fluids—back down to Lando’s distended stomach. The rounded swell was rigid, the accumulated cum from an entire night weighing heavily inside. Oscar pressed his fingers there with deliberate force, making a wet, muffled squelch echo from within the boy's body.

"Ah..." Lando let out a painful gasp, his hips twitching involuntarily under the touch. He looked up at Oscar, his parted, chapped lips curving into a weak, devout smile. "It hurts... it hurts so much, Oscar..."

"It’s supposed to hurt," Oscar replied coldly, tracing his fingers along Lando’s pelvic line, following the raised edges of his own initials that he had sculpted into the boy's skin. "I want you to feel my weight inside you with every step you take today. I want you to remember that every single drop in there belongs to me."

Oscar withdrew from Lando with a slow movement. The wet sound that followed was immediately accompanied by the start of a thick overflow, but Oscar was faster. He snatched the same heavy silicone plug from the nightstand and, without any warning or gentleness, shoved it back into Lando’s abused, gaping entrance.

The British boy let out a sharp cry, his fingers clawing into the sheets as the plug sealed the canal, forcing the hot cum back into the depths and keeping the distension of his stomach perfectly intact.

"You’re staying like that until I decide otherwise," Oscar ordered, stepping off the bed. The killer’s body was taut, his posture shifting back into that of a predator who needed to maintain control of his environment. He walked toward the attached bathroom without looking back. "Rest. If I come back in here and you’ve taken that out, I’m going to need to fuck you again, and I won't be so gentle next time."

Lando swallowed hard, a shiver of pure arousal and panic racing down his spine. He curled onto his side in the bed, pulling his trembling legs toward his chest with difficulty, feeling the firmness of his belly press against his thighs. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the shower water starting to fall in the bathroom.

He was broken, marked, used, and completely held hostage by Nocturne’s darkness. And as he caressed his own bloated stomach, filled to the brim with a serial killer's semen, Lando Norris knew he had never been happier.