It started the way it always did—with trust.

You were the only one Mr. Crawling ever let near him without flinching. The only one he followed with unwavering loyalty through blood-soaked corridors and haunted ruins. Even the monsters who snarled and gnashed their teeth at everyone else lowered their heads when you passed by—with him crawling behind, all bones and reverence.

He loved you differently. Obsessively, yes. But never recklessly.

He’d crawl up beside you when you sat, arms circling your legs and cheek resting against your knee. He’d ask to be fed, to be dressed, to be held—until the roles blurred and you weren’t sure who was protecting who. Sometimes he was soft, trembling when you left the room, whimpering when your touch slipped away.

And sometimes…

Sometimes he got lost in it.

That night had started so simple. You’d both found shelter in the crumbling remains of an old manor—dusty curtains, broken chandeliers, and a single room with a mattress barely big enough for one. He’d been quiet all day, crawling slower, his eyes darker. Possessive. Restless. And you knew that look.

So you let him take control. You let him pin you, wrap his arms around you like a creature clinging to warmth after centuries of cold. His lips were desperate against your skin, every movement soaked in need—like he had to prove something, like he was afraid you’d vanish into smoke if he wasn’t holding you tight enough.

He growled your name between kisses. “Mine,” he said against your shoulder. “Always mine. Say it again.”

“Yours,” you whispered, voice soft as ever. You never raised it. Never cursed. You trusted him.

But as it went on, your body began to ache. His grip, too strong. His pace, too much. You squirmed, whispered your safeword—“Peanut.”

Nothing.

You said it again, louder this time, voice shaking.

Still nothing.

Your breaths turned to whimpers. Your legs trembled. Your fingers pushed at his chest. “Peanut,” you sobbed, voice cracking from effort.

And then—he stopped.

Frozen.

His head snapped up, eyes wide and wild. “...What did you say?”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him, tears streaking down your cheek.

He blinked once. Twice.

Then horror dawned.

“Peanut…” he echoed, the word like a knife against his tongue. He reared back instantly, crawling off you like you burned him. “Oh god. No. No, no—I didn’t hear—I wasn’t listening—”

You curled into yourself, shaking. He hovered a moment, wringing his hands, as if unsure whether he deserved to touch you.

“I hurt you.”

You didn’t respond. And that silence crushed him more than screaming ever could.

“I swore I’d never…” he trailed off, kneeling beside you like a sinner before a shrine. “I didn’t mean to become that. I didn’t mean to forget.”

He reached slowly, pulling the blanket around your shoulders, brushing your hair from your face with trembling fingers. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “Let me fix it.”

He gathered a damp cloth, warming it with his breath, and wiped your skin gently—touch like mist now, barely there. He found his old robe, ripped and faded, and draped it over you like armor.

“I want you wrapped in me,” he murmured, “but safe this time.”

You finally looked at him. “It just… it hurt. I said the word.”

He nodded. “I’ll never ignore it again. You come before the hunger. Before the need. Before me.”

Then he curled up beside you, no longer towering or terrifying—just a man with blood on his hands and regret in his eyes. He held you like you were made of stars and glass. Whispered apologies into your skin. Cried where you couldn’t see.

And when your eyes fluttered closed, he kissed your forehead, whispering, “I will earn you back. Every breath.”