Chapter 17
Lionel’s heart was pounding when he woke up.
His eyes snapped open so abruptly it felt like they might tear from his skull.
For a split second, he wasn’t sure if the sounds he’d heard in his dream—the snarls, the screams, the sickening scrape of nails on tile—were lingering echoes from sleep or something real.
Shadows clung to the edges of the room, and he stared upward, trying to catch his breath.
The ceiling was still, silent. There were no claws, no fangs, no dripping teeth waiting to descend.
It took a moment for him to realize he was still pressed into the curve of Mads’ body.
One of Mads’ arms was loosely draped around his waist, and the steady warmth of him was a stark contrast to the nightmare Lionel had just escaped.
His whole body was rigid, breath held as he strained to listen—waiting for that telltale sound of something skittering just out of sight, or a scream filtering in from the hallway.
But the building was quiet. There wasn’t even the creak of settling floorboards or the hum of distant pipes. Just the heavy, muffled stillness of a place too empty—too still. It felt like the whole place was asleep, dreaming alongside them.
Mads stirred beside him, lashes fluttering as he gave a soft, questioning noise. “Mm?” His voice was thick with sleep, his head lifting slightly from Lionel’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Lionel said quickly, too quickly. “Just… thought I heard something.”
Mads squinted at him, bleary-eyed, then let out a soft, unbothered hum and let his head drop back down with a sigh. He shifted against Lionel, his hand tightening briefly at Lionel’s side before going slack again.
And that’s when Lionel became acutely aware that his problem hadn’t exactly gone away.
The one that had stirred up last night while they were trying to fall asleep, nestled too close in too little space, in a situation that was too intimate for comfort.
He’d thought maybe it would pass overnight—but apparently the dream, or the closeness, or maybe both, had only made it worse.
Lionel swallowed hard, face heating. He didn’t dare move, didn’t want to risk Mads noticing.
But the shift in Mads’ hips had brushed too close, and now Lionel’s brain was conjuring up the wrong kind of images—ones that had no business being in his head right now, not in this hellish place, not when death could be knocking on the walls at any second.
But Mads just let out a sleepy sigh and tucked himself closer, mumbling something unintelligible into Lionel’s shoulder. Lionel stared up at the ceiling again, cheeks burning, heart still racing—but for entirely different reasons now.
Lionel hesitated, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he stared into the dark.
Lionel couldn’t calm his own heartbeat. It was a violent, irregular thing pounding in his chest. It was too loud, too obvious.
He felt like it might wake the whole damn building.
He squirmed slightly as he felt the constant press of his cock in his sweatpants that didn’t seem to be going anywhere.
He tried to force himself to think about something else, but his body wouldn’t listen—not when Mads was pressed against him like this, so warm and trusting. And especially not when his brain kept dragging him back to a place he didn’t let himself say out loud.
He should say something, explain exactly where his erection had come from. But the idea of it turned his stomach.
He’d never told anyone—not really. He’d hinted once or twice with past partners, testing the waters, soft-stepping around the truth like it might go away if he pretended it wasn’t there.
But it never worked. The girls never got it.
Sex had always been awkward, mechanical, like he was acting in someone else’s fantasy.
He tried to like it, he really wanted to, but something inside him refused to come alive , and he’d always been too ashamed to say it.
No one wants to fuck someone like that, he’d told himself a hundred times. Not really. Not without calling it broken. Not without calling him broken.
Maybe it wasn’t only his kink that made his relationships end—maybe it was a different lack of connection, or maybe it was his lack of aspirations, or the way the girl laughed.
But if he was realistic, it was definitely because of the lack of sexual chemistry every time.
It was the reason his last girlfriend ghosted him after two months of dry, half-hearted sex, and it was the reason he stopped trying after a while—the reason he started thinking something was wrong with him several years ago.
And now here he was again. It was worse this time, because now it wasn’t just some stranger or someone he only half-cared about. It was Mads.
Lionel actually wanted him, which was a strange enough feeling for him.
He didn’t just want his body, not just the weight of him against his chest; he wanted him in that specific way.
That dangerous, shameful, blood-hot way that Lionel had spent years trying to suppress.
The version of sex that lived behind his ribs.
His heart stuttered in his chest at the thought of it—of fucking Mads in a way that actually made him come undone; of Mads liking it, of Mads wanting it—wanting him like that.
But if he told him about his kink, Mads might look at him differently.
Might pull away or laugh, or worse, pity him.
That kind of thing wasn’t normal. It wasn’t something you dropped into casual conversation like, Oh, by the way, I get off on fear and blood and watching people die in slasher horror movies.
The words sat on his tongue like iron: bitter and heavy.
Maybe Mads would understand—or maybe he wouldn’t.
Maybe Lionel was about to fuck up the only real connection he’d had in years.
He clenched his jaw and stayed silent, letting the thought of saying something settle into the pit of his stomach like a stone.
Mads seemed to feel how stiff Lionel’s entire body had gotten, could probably hear the pounding of his heart in his chest, and peeked one eye open again after a while, a small smile curling up his lips.
“What’s gotten you so worked up tonight?
” Mads asked, voice low with amusement, but his gaze stayed fixed on Lionel’s face.
Lionel didn’t answer. His eyes darted away, focusing on a crack in the ceiling, on anything but the person inches from him.
He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, tasting metal.
Mads shifted slightly, the movement deliberate, and pressed his thigh against the front of Lionel’s pants just like he’d done the last time they woke up curled together.
It was almost teasing. Lionel gasped through his teeth, jerking slightly at the pressure.
His body betrayed him instantly, hips twitching forward like they had a mind of their own.
“This seems like a pretty big problem,” Mads murmured, his tone just a little wicked, “Why don’t you want to do anything about it?”
Lionel’s shame twisted hot and bitter in his gut.
He should have lied or made a joke, or pulled away and blamed it on adrenaline or nightmares.
But the pressure in his chest had been building for too long, and when he finally spoke, the words tumbled out of him in a rush, raw and unpolished.
“When you were killing the creature last night,” he said quickly. “That’s what got me worked up.”
Mads blinked slowly. He didn’t flinch or pull away. He just stared at Lionel, his face blank with mild surprise. “Yes?” he said. “What about it?”
Lionel swallowed hard. His throat felt too tight.
“That’s what got me worked up,” he repeated.
“That was it. Watching you— seeing you do that—” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
He wanted to disappear. He waited for the disgust, the confusion, the silence that meant everything was ruined.
The moment stretched long and awful. Long enough that Lionel had to force himself to look up, if only to brace for the worst.
But Mads wasn’t disgusted. He wasn’t confused either. He was watching Lionel with an expression Lionel didn’t quite know how to interpret. It was something sharp, something curious, something that almost looked like interest. “Oh?” Mads said. Just that, the words soft and deliberate.
Lionel panicked. “Sorry,” he blurted, already trying to pull back, shame flooding his voice. “That was— fuck, that was weird to tell you, I know it’s fucking weird, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”
Mads’ arms locked around him before he could get far, dragging him back until their bodies were flush again. His grip was strong and certain, his mouth brushing near Lionel’s ear as he spoke. “No, no,” he murmured. “Don’t apologize. Don’t do that.”
Lionel stilled, going somehow tenser than he was before.
Mads pulled back enough to look at him properly. His expression had shifted again—he looked interested, intrigued, something almost like lit up behind his eyes. “Now I’m curious,” he said, voice low. “Tell me more.”
Lionel’s heart was so loud in his ears that he wasn’t sure if he heard Mads correctly. “Tell you more?”
“Yes,” Mads nodded. Lionel shivered when his ice-cold hands slid down to cup his hip, his thumb running over the sliver of skin there. “Tell me what you like.”
Lionel had never actually thought of that; he had never put a word to what he liked. He wasn’t even sure if there was a word for someone like him. “I don’t really know how to explain it,” Lionel admitted. “I just… I jerk off to horror movies and slashers if that helps.”
Mads huffed out a laugh at that. “So you have a blood kink?”
Lionel’s eyebrows furrowed, and he shook his head. His eyes immediately caught on a stray droplet of blood on Mads' neck. “Kind of,” he said. “But I just… like seeing people being scared.” And die, he thought, but didn’t voice.