CUT: Part 9

Seb’s lungs burned like fire as he crashed through the underbrush, branches whipping his face and snagging his clothing. He burst onto the trail leading to Milt’s property, legs pumping desperately toward the wide lawn flanking the oversized garage.

Halfway across the grass, he spotted two figures moving away down the driveway—a flashlight beam bobbing ahead of them, heading toward the road. Closer to the garage, another silhouette jogged toward the rear door.

“Channing!” Seb shouted, voice raw and cracking.

The figure stopped dead, turning sharply. Channing’s eyes widened in the spill of light from the garage. “Seb?”

Seb stumbled up to him, chest heaving, hands on his knees for a second before straightening. Up close, he knew he looked like hell: jeans spattered with dirt, black hoodie damp with sweat, dark hair plastered to his forehead. His skin had a ghostly pallor under moonlight.

“Jesus, Seb—what the hell happened to you?” Channing’s voice pitched with shock and worry. He reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the swollen bump on Seb’s temple. “Your head—”

Seb grabbed his wrist gently but urgently, pulling him closer. “No time. We need to get inside the farmhouse and call the cops. Now.” His eyes darted toward the garage door, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Mason and Dean Himbro are dead. I think the killer’s coming here next.”

Channing froze, processing. “Milt and the guys are already in the garage setting up. We’d be safer with them—”

“No,” Seb cut in, shaking his head hard enough to send a fresh throb through his skull. “I don’t trust anyone in there. I think one of them could be involved.” 

Channing swallowed dryly, glancing back at the brightly lit garage where muffled voices drifted out of the open rear door. “Seb… how do I know you’re not—”

The words hung heavy between them. Channing’s normally stoic face cracked—real fear in his eyes. He wasn’t sure of Seb, either.

Seb’s heart twisted. “Channing, please. It’s me. I’m begging you to trust me. We need the cops here now.”

Channing exhaled shakily. “They already are. Dezzy’s here—he just left with that reporter, Gusto Tormenta, to check something down the road.” He jingled the jeep keys in his hand. “He gave me the keys to his patrol car. Said to lock up and wait till he’s back.”

Seb’s gaze flicked to the large farmhouse, windows glowing warm and inviting. “Then we go to the house. I don’t want you anywhere near that garage.”

Channing hesitated one more beat, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Being out here in the open is freaking me out anyway.”

Milt Drabbs’ farmhouse was surprisingly tasteful—clean lines, modern rustic charm with ceramic table lamps casting soft light over low-slung Nordic furniture and exposed beams. The only clue to its owner’s personality was the gallery of framed posters on the walls: legendary bodybuilders and athletes, great sportsmen and showmen of the past.

They passed the open kitchen on the way to the living room. Boxes of FUCK merchandise crowded the island—branded towels, water bottles, trucker hats, and an open carton of jockstraps spilling out in neon piles.

Seb moved quickly from window to window, checking locks, peering anxiously into the dark yard beyond the glass. Every shadow outside seemed to shift, every rustle of wind a footstep.

“We’ll wait here until Dezzy gets back,” Seb said. “Then we’ll get him to call for backup.”

Channing dropped onto the leather couch, rubbing his face with both hands. “Seb… you need to tell me what’s going on. They had you confined to your dorm. How are you even here?”

Seb sank down beside him, staring at his own hands—fingernails rimmed with dried blood, palms scratched raw. He looked up, meeting Channing’s worried eyes.

“Kurt Stryberg gave me his cellphone. I kept it a secret. Hollowface used it to call me tonight—from inside the Dean’s house. He… played a game. Asked questions about my past. Said he’d kill the Dean and Mason if I got them wrong.” Seb’s voice cracked. “I failed. Then I tried to escape the dorm—fell, blacked out. Woke up down the road, next to an old car. Mask, cloak, knife… all there. Like I’d—” He couldn’t finish.

Channing’s jaw slackened. “Why the hell didn’t you turn that phone in?”

“Because I’d look even guiltier!” Seb snapped, heat rushing to his cheeks. “Kurt gave it to me on Monday, before the Glory Howl, saying that if I needed anything I should call him. Hollowface used it to call me there too—right before Gunnar…”

Channing reached out, resting a steady hand on Seb’s knee. “What does he want with you, Seb? Why all this?”

Seb’s eyes welled. “I don't know, but I think it has to do with what happened to me two summers ago."

Channing nodded, pushing him on. Seb grimaced.

"Back then, my parents sent me to a conversion camp. To ‘fix’ me.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I met a boy there—Chuck Lee. We… connected. Counselors caught us. They didn’t punish me much. They took it all out on him. Beat him. Isolated him. Starved him. Made me watch.”

Channing’s grip tightened, urging him on. 

“Chuck slipped me a note—meet him at the lake, paddle out in a canoe at sunrise. He’d jump overboard, swim away, disappear. I’d return and say it was an accident. We got to the middle… he jumped. Made it to shore. Vanished into the woods. I paddled back alone.”

Tears spilled now, hot on Seb’s dirt-streaked cheeks. “They didn’t believe me when I said he drowned accidentally. There were rumors that turned into a story that Gusto helped to spread. That I’d killed him in some lover’s rage, or mercy. My family disowned me the second I got home.” Seb shut his eyes hard, opening them to look at Channing.

“The only reason I’m at Coxwell is Kurt Stryberg’s sister—she pulled strings and gave me a place to stay until I was accepted. Kurt became my mentor here. Somehow, Hollowface is using all of this to taunt me. Draw me into this sick game, these killings. He said he wants to see me suffer. He thinks I killed Chuck, too.” Seb said, wiping his eyes.

Channing leaned closer, both hands now on Seb’s knees, grounding him. He slid one palm to the back of Seb’s neck, pulling him gently forward until their foreheads touched. “I know how hard it is for guys like us here, especially at a place like Coxwell” he murmured, voice soft but fierce. “But I promise you, the two of us will get through this together.”

Seb’s breath hitched. Their eyes locked—Channing’s steady, warm, unafraid. Guys like us. The phrase echoed in his head. 

Then Channing closed the distance.

The kiss was electric—soft at first, lips brushing tentative and sweet, then deepening as Seb surged forward, chasing the warmth, the safety. Channing’s hands moved to Seb’s shoulders, pulling him closer, fingers threading into damp hair as Seb melted into it, tasting salt from tears and the faint sweetness of relief.

For one suspended moment, the horror outside faded—just the two of them, breathing each other in on a stranger’s couch while the night pressed against the windows.

Channing’s lips lingered on Seb’s, soft and reassuring, the kiss deepening slowly as if time itself had paused to give them this one safe harbor. Seb felt the warmth of Channing’s breath against his skin, the steady strength in those hands cradling his face, and for the first time in days—maybe years—the crushing weight of fear eased just enough to let something else in.

Channing pulled back only far enough to search Seb’s eyes, thumb brushing away a lingering tear. “I’ve got you,” he whispered again, voice low and rough with emotion. “No one’s touching you tonight. Not while I’m here.”

Seb nodded, throat tight, and let himself lean forward into another kiss—this one hungrier, needier. Channing answered it instantly, arms wrapping around Seb’s narrower frame, pulling him close until their chests pressed together through layers of fabric that suddenly felt like too much.

Channing stood first, bringing Seb with him, never breaking the contact. Glossy auburn hair caught the warm lamplight as he peeled off his shirt in one smooth motion, revealing the full glory of his 21-year-old bodybuilder physique: six feet of dense, perfectly proportioned muscle—broad shoulders rolling into thick traps, heavy pecs over an etched eight-pack, obliques carving sharp lines into his narrow waist. His biceps flexed unconsciously as he tossed the shirt aside, veins threading across forearms. Powerful quads strained his jeans, glutes round and hard beneath the denim.

Seb stared in open awe, breath catching. He remembered the Glory Howl, where the drunk stud had been so clumsy and horny. This was different. This was more than just carnal desire. Channing was looking at Seb like he was the only thing in the world worth protecting.

“Your turn,” Channing murmured, voice tender. He stepped closer, hands gentle as they slid Seb’s dirty hoodie up and off, then eased the t-shirt beneath over his head. Seb’s body was lean and wiry—twinkish in contrast, narrow shoulders, flat stomach, pale skin marked with scrapes and bruises from the fall. Channing’s gaze softened further, fingers tracing lightly over a fresh cut on Seb’s ribs. “You’re so handsome,” he said simply, meaning it.

Seb flushed, heart pounding as Channing guided him back onto the couch, laying him down with careful strength. Jeans and underwear followed—Channing’s first, his neon-green FUCK jockstrap shucked aside, revealing thick, muscular thighs and an 11.5-inch cock already hard and curving upward, heavy with need. Then Seb’s, 6-inches and throbbing, until they were both bare, skin against skin.

Channing settled between Seb’s legs, powerful thighs spreading them gently. He leaned down, kissing Seb slow and deep, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other moved to his hips.

“I’ll be gentle,” Channing promised against his lips, voice a low rumble of reassurance. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Seb nodded, hands sliding up the broad expanse of Channing’s back, feeling the shift of muscle under warm skin. Channing reached between them, gathering saliva in his palm before slicking his thick length—slow, deliberate strokes that made Seb’s breath hitch at the sight. Then he guided the head to Seb’s entrance, pressing forward with infinite care.

The stretch burned at first, but Channing paused immediately, kissing Seb’s forehead, his cheeks, murmuring soft words—“Breathe… I’ve got you…I’ll go slow”—until Seb relaxed around him. Inch by inch, Channing sank deeper, eyes locked on Seb’s the entire time, watching for any sign of pain. When he finally bottomed out, they both exhaled shakily, foreheads pressed together. 

Seb felt full, overwhelmed—not just physically, but by the tenderness in Channing’s gaze, the protective way those massive arms caged him without trapping him. For once, he let himself be swept away, arms wrapping around Channing’s thick neck as the bigger man began to move—slow, rolling thrusts that lit sparks behind Seb’s eyes.

Channing’s rhythm stayed gentle, almost reverent. His auburn hair fell forward as he leaned down to kiss Seb again, deeper this time, swallowing the soft moans that spilled from Seb’s lips. One hand slid under Seb’s lower back, lifting him slightly to change the angle, drawing a gasp as pleasure flared bright and sudden.

Seb clung tighter, legs wrapping around Channing’s waist, heels digging into the hard muscle of his ass to urge him closer. In this moment, with Channing moving inside him, surrounding him, loving him with every careful thrust, the terror outside felt distant—manageable. Here, he was wanted, protected, cherished.

Channing’s breath grew ragged, thrusts deepening just a fraction as he neared the edge, but his eyes never left Seb’s. “You feel incredible,” he whispered, voice breaking with emotion. “I’m not letting anything happen to you, Seb. Not ever.”

The shrill trill of a phone sliced through the haze of warmth and safety, yanking reality back like a bucket of ice water.

“Ignore it,” Channing murmured, still buried deep inside Seb, his thick arms tightening protectively around his waist. His hips rocked slowly, gently, trying to pull Seb back into the moment.

Seb squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to sink into the rhythm—the steady glide of Channing’s 11.5-inch length filling him, the reassuring weight of that muscular body pressed against his own. For a few precious seconds, it worked. The ringing stopped.

“I’m sorry,” Seb whispered, voice trembling with lingering pleasure and fresh nerves. “After everything—”

Channing kissed the nape of his neck, hair brushing Seb’s skin. “You’re safe, Seb. It was probably nothing—just some telemarketer.”

The phone rang again, louder, more insistent, as if mocking them.

“Fuck,” Seb hissed. “FUCK!” He pulled away reluctantly, the slow slide of Channing leaving him drawing a soft, involuntary whimper from them both. Seb rolled off the couch, bare feet hitting the cool hardwood as he scrambled for his clothes. 

“Seb—don’t,” Channing pleaded, leaning over the back of the couch, his glistening cock still hard and heavy, chest heaving with frustrated need and worry.

“I have to,” Seb said, yanking his jeans up over slim hips, snatching his t-shirt from the floor as he padded toward the kitchen. “It could be Dezzy. Or the cops. And if it’s him…”

Channing’s expression hardened—stoic, resigned, protective. “If it’s him, keep him talking. Buy time until Dezzy gets back.”

Seb nodded, heart pounding. They were in this together now, no matter what waited on the line.

He reached the white cordless phone on the kitchen counter and pressed the answer button.

“Hello, Sebby.”

The voice slithered through the speaker—gravelly, cheerful, wrong. Sunny’s voice.

Seb’s grip tightened, knuckles whitening. “Hello, Hollowface.” He looked at Channing and frowned. Channing understood, his face going pale.

“We’re familiar now, are we? Hollowface—I like it. Rolls off the tongue. Though if anyone’s hollow behind the head around here, Sebby, it’s you.” Hollowface said, the line crackling. 

Seb gripped the cordless phone tighter, forcing his voice steady even as his heart hammered. He needed to buy time.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, injecting as much defiance as he could muster. “All this killing—what the hell do you get out of it? You’re just some sad, twisted freak hiding behind a mask.”

A low, theatrical chuckle came down the line. “Listen to you, Sebby—trying to get under my skin. Cute. But anger doesn’t suit you. You’re much better at playing the victim.” The voice dropped, menacing. “And I’m not hiding. I’m right where I need to be. Speaking of… let’s play a little game. You love games, don’t you? I know I love them. Especially when you lose.”

Seb glanced toward the living room, where Channing sat tensed on the couch, watching him with wide, worried eyes. “Fine,” Seb said coolly. “What’s the prize this time? Maybe you’d like the full Sunny experience with my fist up your ass.” He tried to sound tough. He didn’t. He winced.

“Nice try. Sunny’s a much better wiseass than you’ll ever be.” The voice paused for a moment. “Now listen up pansy. Here’s the rules: I’m looking at someone right now. You get two guesses who. Get it right, and maybe I’ll be nice for the rest of the evening. Get it wrong…” A deliberate pause. “Well, you’ve seen my work.” Seb could sense the grin on the other side.

Seb’s mind raced. The obvious answer—him and Channing—felt too easy, too straightforward for this psycho’s twisted logic. He wouldn’t give it away like that.

“You’re watching the guys in the garage,” Seb guessed, voice firm. “Josh or Leo… getting ready for their big photoshoot.”

“Bzzz—wrong!” Hollowface sang, glee dripping from every syllable. “One guess left, Sebby. Tick-tock.”

Seb swallowed, buying another second. Dezzy and Gusto were out on the road. “You’re looking at Dezzy.”

A disappointed tut-tut echoed down the line. “Strike two. Empty head Seb strikes again. You lose.”

Seb’s stomach dropped. “Then who—”

“Remember what I told you earlier?” Hollowface interrupted, voice dropping to a scratchy, urgent whisper. “The dangerous thing about being in a nice, bright bedroom at night? You can’t see out… but everyone can see in.” A mocking laugh. “You two were so careless, putting on that sweet little show for me. Lights blazing, curtains wide open. Tsk-tsk. But I’m feeling generous tonight—I’ll help you out. ” 

Before Seb could respond, a loud click echoed through the house—the main breaker flipping. Every light snapped off at once, plunging the farmhouse into sudden, suffocating darkness. The line went silent.

“Seb – what’s happening?” Channing said, fear rising in his voice.

Seb’s breath caught. “Channing—stay right there,” he hissed, dropping the phone as it went dead in his hand. “Don’t move. I’m coming to you.”

He edged forward blindly, hands outstretched, heart thundering as he navigated the familiar layout from minutes ago—the kitchen island, the hallway arch. Moonlight began to filter through the windows as his eyes adjusted, casting pale silver glows across the furniture.

Then he saw it: the basement door at the far end of the living room creaking open.

A black-cloaked figure emerged silently, Sunny’s painted grin gleaming in the moonlight like a ghost.

Hollowface.

The killer strode forward in three swift steps and drove the hunting knife upward—plunging it deep into Channing’s back as the auburn-haired hunk sat frozen on the couch. Channing’s gasp turned into a choked cry of agony, body arching as blood spurted outwards.

“AAUUGGHHH!” Channing yelled. Hollowface yanked the blade free and swung a heavy ceramic lamp from the side table. It shattered against Channing’s face in an explosion of porcelain and blood, the impact sending the nude hunk sprawling sideways onto the cushions, motionless.

Seb stood frozen in the doorway, horror rooting him to the spot as Hollowface turned the masked gaze toward him, knife dripping red in the moonlight. 

Then the killer lunged.

Pure instinct took over. The front door was blocked—Hollowface’s cloaked bulk filling the path. The side and back doors were bolted; fumbling with locks would cost seconds he didn’t have. To his right, the staircase rose into shadow. 

Seb ran.

He took the stairs two at a time, thighs burning, breath ragged in his throat. Halfway up, his foot caught an edge—panic or sweat or simple terror—and he pitched forward, palms smacking the steps hard enough to sting.

A gloved hand clamped around his ankle.

Seb twisted, looking back. Hollowface was right there, one step below, mask tilted up, empty black eyeholes staring. The grip yanked hard, dragging Seb downward.

“No—” Seb kicked wildly, twisting his hip and driving his free leg forward. His heel connected solidly with the mask—plastic buckling inward, the impact thudding sickeningly against the face beneath. Hollowface’s howl echoed up the stairwell, raw and startled, as the killer stumbled back, grip loosening just enough.

Seb scrambled upward on hands and knees, lungs screaming, and surged the rest of the way to the landing. No time to think—just the first door in front of him. He shoved it open, tumbled inside, and slammed it shut behind him. Fingers shaking violently, he fumbled the deadbolt into place. 

The tiny room was pitch-black at first, his heartbeat thundering so loud it drowned out everything else. He backed away from the door until his shoulders hit shelving—cardboard boxes, plastic bins, the faint smell of dust and old holiday decorations. A storage closet. Trapped.

Heavy pounding rattled the door—fists or shoulder, Seb couldn’t tell.

“Never thought I’d see you run right back into the closet, Sebby,” Hollowface called from the other side, voice muffled but dripping with theatrical mockery. The handle jiggled violently—once, twice—metal scraping as the killer tested the lock.

“Fuck you!” Seb screamed, voice cracking raw against the darkness.

A chuckle seeped through the door.

“Take all the time you need, Seb,” Hollowface purred. “I don’t mind a wait. And I promise—when you come out this time… well, it’ll be much, much more traumatic than the last.”