Gooner❤️‍🩹

Well, technically Tim’s belly was the best pillow in the mansion. It was the perfect place to lay your head; soft, warm, and Tim would usually run his fingers through your hair while you rested there. The gesture seemed to be equally soothing for him because he would often fall asleep with his hand gently resting on your head.

Today was no different.

You knew the signs by now, the little tells his body gave as he began to drift off to sleep. The movie was long over and the screen on the TV had gone black as the credits finished. Neither one of you bothered trying to find the remote. If you moved too much the moment would be ruined and you both enjoyed these quiet moments together so much it wasn't worth the risk. Tim had been so busy on missions for Slender lately that he deserved every moment of rest he could get. He mumbled something under his breath and you ran a hand up and down his arm to soothe him. His eyes blinked open and he glanced at the TV before catching your eyes.

“Do you want to watch another?”

You shook your head, reaching your hand up to hold his. “Not right now. Let’s just nap.”

Tim just nodded, letting his head rest back down on the arm of the couch. You settled your head more comfortably on his stomach, and he pressed a kiss to your palm before setting it on his chest.

You kept your hand there after he let go, his own immediately going to your head so he could start running his fingers through your hair. It wasn’t long before sleep began to creep in and you could tell by how his hand had slowed down that he was drifting off as well.

“This is perfect.”

Your words were sleepily mumbled into his shirt but his hand still paused. When he moved it to cup your cheek you shyly looked up at him, your own smile matching the soft one he was giving you.

“So are you, darlin’.” He closed his eyes and you followed suit, your smile still there as he softly spoke again. “So are you.”

Not just tired—drained. The kind of tired that settles into the marrow of your bones and makes you feel like even blinking is too much effort.

You stand on the front steps of your house for a second longer than necessary, keys in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, and try to summon the energy to go inside. Your muscles ache. Your neck hurts. Every part of your body begs for the sweet mercy of a hot shower and soft clothes. It’s cold out here, the nighttime air unforgiving. It’s all you can do not to collapse on the stairs outside.

The keys rattle in your hand as you finally slide one into the lock, twisting it until the door unlatches with a muted click. You shove the door open with your shoulder, stepping into the dark. The familiar scent of home greets you—laundry detergent, the faint trace of that candle you lit last night, something faintly musky that’s just… you.

You sigh, shoulders slumping with relief as you kick your shoes off one at a time. Your bag hits the floor with a muted thud, but you could care less to remember if there was anything valuable inside. You shrug your jacket off, tossing it haphazardly onto the hook. It’s your sanctuary, your space to finally breathe, not having to perform for your dumbass coworkers any longer. 

Work sucks. Everyone knows that, especially you.

There’s just something about a 2pm to 12am job that makes you want to rip everyone’s throat out, including your own. The money is nice, but some days you wonder if it’s worth your sanity and the constant back pain.

You start walking toward the kitchen, already reaching to loosen the tension from your neck, mentally checking off what leftovers might be in the fridge. Are you even hungry? You round the corner,

And stop cold.

The back door is wide open.

The long glass pane stares back at you like an eye, wind pushing it gently so it sways on its hinges, creaking faintly. The night air curls around your ankles, carrying the sharp, damp scent of wet leaves and earth. It raises goosebumps on your arms.

You blink, stunned for a moment, almost unsure you’re really seeing what you’re seeing. You never forget to lock that door. Ever. It's a habit, muscle memory, you could lock that thing in your sleep. There’s one too many home invasion cases on the news for you to just be comfortable with an easily accessible back door.

“…No,” you whisper under your breath. “No, I didn’t leave that open.”

Your heart gives a small jolt in your chest.

Immediately your mind reaches for something rational, something safe. Him. Maybe he came by. Maybe he used his key. Maybe he forgot to shut the door all the way. But even as you grasp for the thought, it doesn’t settle. He doesn’t forget things like that. He’s careful—always has been, he has to be. 

“Hello?” you call out, voice already tense. “Anyone here?”

No answer. You mentally punch yourself, you’re no better than the stupid girls who you make fun of in horror movies. 

Your house is still. The silence feels unnatural, forced, like it’s trying to hide something from you.

A pinprick of unease worms its way into your spine. You move quickly to the opposite side of the kitchen, flipping on every light switch available and illuminating the entire dining/living area. It doesn’t ease the pit in your stomach, but at least nothing can sneak up on you. You rummage through your broom closet in the laundry room, grabbing the wooden broom leaning against the doorframe. It’s not much, but at least there’s something for you to protect yourself with. You will not be as dumb as those horror movie chicks.

Your voice rises, more firm this time. “Seriously, if this is a joke, it’s not funny.”

Still no reply.

Your breath catches in your throat. You start moving from room to room, switching on lights as you go. The living room? Empty. Bathroom? Empty. Guest room? Nothing. You scan every corner, every shadow, peek behind every door with broom gripped tightly in hand.

The tension grows with every room you clear. The open doors groan behind you, the breeze from outside trailing in like fingers sliding across your back. The feeling of being watched is as strong as ever, and now you feel like you could throw up.

Your bedroom is the last place left.

You step in and flick the light on. The room is empty. Neat. Undisturbed.

And yet… your heart won’t stop racing. The hairs on your arms are standing straight up, and there’s a pit forming in your gut again, deep and cold.

You take a step back into the hall, gripping the flashlight tighter, half-waiting for something, anything, to jump out.

“Okay,” you whisper, trying to convince yourself. “Okay, it’s fine. I’m just tired. I’m overthinking this. He probably—he probably just stopped by, right? Left in a hurry. Right?”

You want to believe it. God, you want to believe it.

But then, just as your breathing starts to slow, just as you start to think maybe it really is nothing—

Arms wrap around you from behind.

A strong grip, smooth and steady, sliding across your waist, locking tight before you can even scream. You freeze. Your body goes stiff, lungs seizing as hot breath ghosts over your neck, close, too close.

You can’t move. You can’t even think. The broomstick is rendered useless in your hands. 

Until you hear that all-too-familiar chuckle humming into your ear…

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ JEFF THE KILLER

“Miss me, baby?”

You shoved the blunt end of the broomstick back with everything you had. It didn’t land hard, but it startled him enough that he stepped back with a laugh.

You whipped around, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum, and there he was.

Jeffrey.

His grin was still spread wide across that pale face, lips too stretched, eyes too sharp, the darkness under them as deep as ever. His hoodie hung off his frame like always, smudged with god-knows-what, hair falling wild around his face. He looked like something from a nightmare.

But he was your nightmare. And right now, he was standing in your hallway with his hands up in mock surrender and a cocky smirk like he hadn’t just scared the absolute hell out of you.

“God—Jeff!” you snapped, pressing a hand to your chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Too much to list, babe,” he said smoothly, taking a step toward you. “You looked so serious. I had to mess with you a little.”

“You left the door wide open.”

“I left it ajar.”

“Wide. Open.” You glared at him, storming past him toward the back door to slam it shut. “I thought someone broke in. I was about to call the cops.”

Jeff snorted, following you lazily. “Yeah? That would’ve gone well.”

You stopped and looked at him. “What if it wasn’t you?”

“It was,” he shrugged. “I got here first.”

“That’s not the point!”

Your voice cracked under the weight of the day. Between exhaustion, stress, and now this emotional whiplash, your eyes burned with unshed tears. You turned away, biting down on the frustration. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him, not now, not ever.

“…Hey,” Jeff said softly after a moment, voice losing that teasing edge. “C’mon. Don’t be mad.”

You didn’t respond, just walked toward the kitchen to start your evening routine, collecting your abandoned bag from the ground and dumping your keys and phone on the counter. You opened the fridge, stared inside, then closed it again.

Jeff padded in behind you, quieter now. The change in mood was subtle, but real. He watched you for a second, then leaned his weight against the counter beside you.

“Rough day?” he asked, voice quieter this time.

You shrugged. “Same shit. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” he smirked. “My day involved a guy’s trachea and a folding knife.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course it did.”

“I brought you something,” he offered.

You looked over at him warily. “Is it a severed finger again?”

“…No.”

“Because last time you said you brought me something, it was in a ziplock bag and I still have nightmares.”

Jeff chuckled. “Okay, this time, it’s better.” He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a single gas station chocolate bar, a little squished. He offered it to you like a peace treaty.

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “You stole this, didn’t you?”

“Obviously.”

You took it from him with a sigh and opened it. “Fine. You’re lucky I’m too tired to stay mad.”

He grinned and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You always say that.” His lips were cold and he smelled like outside, meaning he had definitely walked here from the mansion. Also meaning he probably intended on staying the night. You didn’t mind, him being here made you feel safe.

You munched on the chocolate and walked toward the couch, flipping off all the lights you had turned on in your panic, and shedding your outer layer again as you sat with a deep exhale. “You’re not even supposed to be here tonight. You’re still on call, aren’t you?”

“I ditched early,” he said, dropping beside you like a cat, legs sprawled, arms resting behind his head. “Told Masky I had important business. And I do.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, kicking your feet up. “What business is that?”

He tilted his head toward you, eyes hooded. “You.”

You shook your head with a soft, helpless laugh. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“And you love it.”

His hand found your thigh, fingers tracing patterns there while you chewed the last bite of chocolate. The warmth of his palm soothed more than it should have.

“…Missed you,” you admitted finally, softer now. “Even if you’re the worst.”

Jeff turned his face toward you, smile a little smaller now, but more real.

“Missed you too.”

You leaned your head back and closed your eyes, feeling the weight of the day finally start to lift. He didn’t leave your side. Just stayed there, content, his presence strange and comforting all at once.

Jeff’s hands were warm and steady, his touch deliberate as he pulled you closer onto his lap. The weight of your body against his felt grounding, like an anchor to the calm you hadn’t realized you’d been craving all day. His fingers curled lightly around your waist, easing the tension that had curled tight inside you since morning.

His breath brushed softly against your ear, low and rough in a way that sent a comforting shiver down your spine. 

“Hey,” he murmured, voice thick with something softer than you expected. “You don’t gotta be so tense.”

His lips traced a lazy path down your neck, featherlight kisses that felt like a balm on skin that had been cold and raw for hours. You could feel the slow unwinding beginning deep inside your chest, the tight coil of exhaustion loosening with each gentle touch.

One hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingertips ghosting along your ribs, memorizing the curves and the way your breath hitched when he found the tender spots. You closed your eyes, letting his touch carry you away from the harsh buzz of the day—the deadlines, the weight of responsibilities, the pressure that never seemed to ease.

Jeff’s other hand traveled lower, trailing along your thigh, fingertips tracing delicate circles that sent warmth blooming through your skin. 

“My girl is so stressed,” he whispered against your skin, voice a soft promise. “We gotta fix that, right?”

You leaned into him, back to chest, letting yourself breathe him in—the faint scent of smoke and earth and something darker, something utterly Jeff. His hands moved with slow certainty, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, skin pressing against skin, grounding you in a way no words could. His fingertips were cold, but it wasn’t a terrible sensation.

His lips pressed firmly against yours, coaxing, teasing. The kiss was patient, undemanding, the kind that made your whole body still except for the slow burn growing inside your chest. His hands explored without hurry, mapping every line, every shiver, every breath you let slip.

They roamed down, fingers pushing past the waistband of your pants and slipping them down slowly, as if you wouldn’t be able to notice if he did it easy enough.

“Jeff,” you sighed, lying your head back onto his shoulder. 

The tightness in your jaw eased as he pressed his chin atop your shoulder, his eyes half-lidded with something raw and hungry. “Just relax,” Jeff breathed, his thumb tracing small, lazy patterns along your skin. “I’ve gotcha.”

You could feel tears prickling at the edges of your eyes—not from sadness, but relief. Relief that someone saw you, that someone wanted to take this burden away from you, even if only for a little while—even if that person used these same hands to end lives.

“You don’t have to fight it,” Jeff whispered, voice low and steady, coaxing you into surrender. “Let me help my baby out.”

He pushed the fabric of your pants down past your knees, the garment pooling onto your ankles as your thighs fell apart, kicking them off onto the carpet beneath.

The fabric of your panties was already damp, Jeff’s arm reaching around your hips to press his palm atop the fabric. He hummed in your ear, planting one wet kiss after another against the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe that he knew made chills run up your back.

You sighed, hands falling down beside you to grip the fabric of his jeans underneath, his arms wrapping around you tightly as you let your body relax into him.

“What so ever could they be doin’ to you at work to make you this tightly wound?”

“Jeffrey, do not talk to me about my job right now,” you huffed, gripping the side of his leg when he began to rub his thumb in tiny circles against your clothed clit. “You’re so mean.”

He chuckled, pressing his thumb down firmly. “That so?”

Jeff’s fingers were now rubbing against your folds through your panties, causing you to moan at the friction. He playfully nipped at your neck before looking at you with eyes that look like he wanted to eat you alive.

You were close to nagging at him for teasing so bad, until he’s moving both hands away from your cunt and up under the fabric of your shirt, sliding it up your stomach and over your bra, letting it bunch up on your chest under your chin.

“Jesus, I love you,” he groaned, palming your tits through your bra, squeezing them enough to make you whine, then letting them go. You could feel his bulge hardening against your back, the length pressing against your tailbone as Jeff slid his hands back down your stomach to the hem of your panties.

You reached your hands behind you, blindly searching for Jeff’s belt, before his hand snatched your arms forward.

“Nuh uh,” he warned, moving both of your hands back to your front and readjusting the two of you so you weren’t sitting directly on his bulge. “I’m takin’ care of you, baby.”

“You’re telling me the Jeffrey Woods doesn’t want to get off? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

“Enough,” he groans, slipping his fingers under the hem of your panties and dragging them down your thighs. You lift your hips, helping him get them down your knees and off your ankles. He cups his left hand under your knee, pulling your thighs apart as you place your right foot on the couch next to his leg. You gasp when the cold air hits your damp folds, but Jeff’s hand quickly comes to remedy that.

“Now shut up,” he grumbles, licking lewd little circles on your neck, thumbing open your puffy folds to watch in amazement at the way you glisten and clamp around nothing.

You sigh, letting your head fall limp against his shoulder as you watch his face, his brows knotted and concentrated as he runs his fingers through your slick, easing you more.

He pressed the pads of his fingers against your clit, swiping slowly back and forth, sending the nerves in your legs and stomach jerking, legs nearly closing if it weren’t for his hand tugging them back apart.

You tilted your hips up, trying to get his fingers to push down further to where your cunt was weeping and clamping around, sadly, nothing. You’re soaked, pussy lips practically glistening in the glow of your table-side lamp. Your whines were enough to make Jeff chuckle, the vibration of it against your back. “So impatient.”

“I don’t like to be teased, you kno—oh…”

You can’t even finish your sentence before his two middle fingers are pushing against your entrance, the first inches of them slotting in and out, loosening you up. You huff a gasp, stomach clenching as your walls immediately clamp tight around the thick digits, sucking them in greedily. Jeff watches over your shoulder with hungry amusement.

“This all for me? Shit, baby, I’m gonna have to ruin you.”

Jeff never has and never will be a patient man, no matter how breathy your moans are when his two middle fingers begin to pump deeper and deeper into your cunt with each jerk of his wrist. He doesn’t stop until he gets knuckle-deep, letting your filthy hole clamp and flutter around him, before massaging his fingertips against your walls.

“Ah, yeah—right there-” you groan, letting your knees fall limp apart as you reach behind your head to grip into the back of Jeff’s hair. The veins running up his forearm are bulging, muscles tensing as he begins to pump his fingers in and out, dragging the hilt of his palm against your clit with every jerk.

There’s no room to catch your breath, no time to readjust your body as it slips down his chest and further into his lap, only relying on Jeff’s hold on you to keep yourself upright. You grab and tug at his hair, searching for anything grounding as his knuckles bulge in and out of the first tight ring of muscle, cunt stretching across his fingers when he begins to scissor into you slowly.

You didn’t get to dwell in the feeling for too long before his fingers were slipping out of you, fingers soaked all the way to the knuckles as he dragged them back up to your clit and began massaging, faster this time. Harder.

“Oh shit—okay-” you whine, thighs instinctively trying to close back together, but Jeff’s grip holding tight as always. You tried to sit back up, to give your body some relief, but Jeff just pressed his fingers down harder.

“You’ve got it, babe. Don’t go runnin’ from it.” He growled, plunging them back into your cunt and starting to fuck them inside of you quickly. He gave you no time to adjust, curling and crooking his fingers to snag against every sensitive spot he knew all-too-well, his thumb rubbing circles into your clit.

“Jeff—hah—hold on-”

“No can do. Gotta finish what we started, right?”

Pulling back to tease your folds with your own slick, he plunges into your swollen pussy once more, easily hitting that spot over and over. 

“Hngh- Jeff, more!” You grind your hips to meet his merciless rhythm, clenching around his fingers. 

You feel as if you’re losing your sanity when he adds in another finger, walls burning as your cunt stretches around his thick digits, rhythmically curling upward. The noises are so lewd, wet squelching and skin slapping filling up the quiet noises of your house.

It’s halted when he’s dragging his fingers out again, moving to swipe against your twitching clit as he had before, but this time with a faster pace. More focused on making your lips fall open and whines of sensitivity slip from you. “Ah—hah, Jeff, c’mon-”

“Now now…not yet,” he tuts mockingly.

“Please, Jeff. Please let me cum.”

“Begging? Really?” He chides, pushing three fingers back into your sloppy with no resistance anymore, your cunt open and weeping around the stretch. “You really must be tired, huh?”

You feel his cock twitch against your back, jeans stretching over the bulge that reminds you he’s enjoying this just as much as you are. Well, you’d be enjoying this a lot more if you could fucking cum. Every time you get that familiar feeling, his fingers are slipping back and forth between hole and clit, ruining any build-up you had.

It took you jerking his hair and turning your face into the side of his neck with pitiful whines before he finally nestled his fingers deep inside again, sheathing them to the knuckle. Increasing his pace, abusing your g-spot relentlessly, Jeff knew by your breathy moans of his name that you were getting close. 

His left hand moves from under your knee, letting it drop atop his leg and dangle with all the exhaustion you held. His now-free hand wanders the expanse of your body—groping your breasts, gripping your hips back, forcing your ass to grind back into his clothed length. All the while your soft mewls making him grin.

Jeff’s hand, blister riddled and fingers calloused from years of weaponry, finally rest on your face. He pushes your cheeks together, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth and forcing you to look at him. Your dazed eyes meet his darkened ones, a smug grin as he rubs his thumb hard against your clit.

“Look at me when you cum,” he murmurs raspily into your neck, teeth ghosting over your rapid pulse. You couldn’t look away if you tried, his lips ghosting up your jaw and across your cheek until they planted firm on your puffed ones.

He tugs his fingers out, before slamming them just right inside of you. All you know is you’re cumming all over Jeff’s fingers, hands clutching into his hair and eyes rolling just enough to make your head feel light. Jeff watches the entire time, wide eyes trained on the way your lips fall open.

“Fuck! Jeff- Jeffrey!” You whimper.

“Yeah, there you go. There you go.”

He keeps his palm pressed flat against your cunt, fingers clamped together by your constricting walls, letting you ride out every rippling wave of your orgasm. His hand is soaked, your juices dripping from your cunt and down the roundness of your ass, down onto his jeans. You’ve made a mess.

As your climax bates, he buries his face in your neck, kissing softly over your slowing pulse. “Did so good, baby. You did perfectly,” he breathes out, hugging you closer as if to hide this vulnerable moment. But you feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin. You also still feel his cock pressing into your ass.

Lifting your head, you admire Jeff’s hardened features. Face flushed, lips swollen, dark eyes half-lidded as he stares down at you in admiration.

“You’re merciless. Ruthless, even.” You huff out a low laugh.

“No doubt about it.” He finally slips his fingers from inside you, your teeth gritting as your walls try their best to hold him in place.

His fingers are soaked, tips nearly pruning from the wetness. More juices pool from your cunt, sending a shudder down your skin, goosebumps rising on your legs from the cold. But even with all the uncomfortableness of it, you can’t help but notice your head has quit hurting, body isn’t as sore, overall attitude less fogged from the day you’ve had.

“I need a shower. And food. And to sleep for the rest of my life.”

“I’m pretty good at making people sleep for the rest of their lives.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, Jeff’s arms wrapping under your back and twisting you sideways, his one arm scooping up your legs and lifting you up as he stands off the couch. He carries you towards your bedroom, holding you close to his chest.

“You take a shower, I’ll make you food.”

“Your cooking sucks.”

“You’ll get over it.”

He set you down on the bathroom counter, the cold tile making you hiss as he sauntered over to start the water in the shower.

You couldn’t help but notice the obvious stain on his thighs, dark wetness soaking into the thick fabric. You smiled, glancing up just enough to see that he was still very-much sporting a boner.

“Are you still hard?” You smile, teasing him as the water begins to warm, steam rolling over the glass. Jeff doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and walks over to help you off the counter, pushing you towards the shower.

You think for a moment before stepping in, turning to run a hand down his chest, heart thudding against his ribs.

“If you make me a grilled cheese, I’ll suck your dick before we go to bed.”

Jeff doesn’t need to be convinced any further. With a kiss against your cheek and a helping hand to get the rest of your clothes off, he’s disappearing back toward the kitchen with a jittery laugh.

“Deal. But don’t get mad if it’s burnt, alright?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ MASKY

You froze.

A rush of cold spilled down your spine as two arms wrapped around your waist from behind, tight. But before panic could reach your throat or your hands could react with the broomstick, you heard a familiar breath—low, steady, a little tired.

“Hey,” came the voice, muffled against your shoulder. “It’s just me.”

Masky.

You let your tensed shoulders sag, releasing a sharp breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, and nearly dropping the broom on the ground.

He pulled you back a step, chest against your back, hands smoothing over your sides like he was trying to melt the stress out of your skin. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said quietly. “The door, I didn’t have time to close it before you were unlocking the front. My bad.”

You twisted in his arms enough to look up at him. Even with the mask still on, his body said everything—guilt in the way he ducked his head slightly, gentleness in the way he held you like something he didn’t want to break. Still, you glared with all the anger and fear burning in your body.

“You think?” you grit, voice shaky but slowly recovering. “I thought I was about to get murdered.”

“Evidently.” He eyed the broomstick squeezed in-between the two of you. You nudged him, and he gave a slow exhale, cupping your face like he was handling porcelain. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Really.”

And you believed him.

“I should have grabbed a knife. Maybe getting stabbed will teach you to not to sneak up on people.”

“I promise you, it wouldn’t.”

You leaned into his touch just a little. “You always sneak around like a damn ghost. You ever think of just knocking?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Wouldn’t be me if I did.”

You rolled your eyes, but the tension was already ebbing. You wanted to be upset with him, but the constant hardened look in Masky’s eyes always rolled unease off your shoulders. He kissed your forehead through the mask, then nodded toward the kitchen.

“Sit. You’re gonna tell me about your day, and I’m gonna make you something before you start melting into the floor. You look beat.”

You didn’t argue. You dragged your feet to the living room, switching off all the lights you had flipped in your panic, throwing the broom back into the closet, dropped into the couch, and watched him bustle around like someone who had done this a dozen times before. He made sure to shut the back door, too. Coffee brewed, a pastry from your cupboard was plated, and all the while, his eyes flicked back to you with that quiet protectiveness he wore like a second skin.

When he returned, he gently nudged your legs to drape over his lap as he sat next to you. You crossed your legs, calves lying atop his thighs, back pressed into the arm of the couch, as he handed over his gifts.

“Eat first,” he muttered. “Talk later.”

You sighed at the first touch of his hands kneading into your calves, thumbs pressing into the tight spots just right. It was maddening how good he was at this. The kind of man who knew the exact angle to dig into the muscle, the exact pressure to make it all unravel.

You ate what he had made you, sipping on the steaming coffee that Masky just always seemed to know how to brew just right no matter what brand you bought. When finished, you laid it on the table next to your couch.

“Long day?” he asked, his voice quieter now, slower. He ran a hand up to your knee, not asking for more than you were willing to give.

“The worst,” you murmured, letting your head fall back. “You ever feel like no matter how much you do, it’s never enough?”

“All the time,” he said simply.

He worked his way up your legs, then, shifting until your knees bent and he could pull you into his lap without resistance. You settled into him with a quiet sigh, your cheek against his shoulder, cradling you. He smelled like cold air and pine needles, something earthy that grounded you instantly.

He tilted your chin gently, mask still on, but his mouth pressed atop your head, chin resting there. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But I’ll listen if you do.”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

And for a while, you just… talked. About the manager who wouldn’t leave you alone. About the customer who screamed over nothing. About how tired you were of pretending to be okay when really you just wanted the world to stop spinning for five minutes.

Masky didn’t say much—but his hands did. One arm around your waist, the other slowly brushing up and down your spine. Reassuring. Real. His mask shifted up his face while you spoke. First, above his mouth so you could see the dark facial hair across his jaw, then above his nose, then completely off, left on the table next to your dirty dishes. You tried not to make a show of seeing his face, but it always made you a little giddy when he removed his mask on his own.

And then—quietly, like he was asking permission—he lifted you just enough to shift you deeper into his lap. His other hand skimmed up your side, drawing idle circles as he began to press kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.

“Forget the rest of it,” he murmured. “Right now, it’s just me and you.”

The heat of him, the slow way his fingers ghosted over your ribs, the softness in his voice—it was everything you needed and nothing you deserved.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he whispered. “Not with me.”

“Sam can be said about you, tough guy.”

He chuckled, but didn’t respond, so you continued.

“How was your day?”

He waited, thinking over his answer. “Had worse. But still not good. Left after everyone went to sleep ‘cause I decided I wanted to see you.” He paused for a second, glancing between you and the window outside. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”

“Don’t. Stay as long as you want. Anything to get you out of that mansion for a bit, yeah?”

“If you insist,” he chuckled.

You melted then, entirely, your fingers curling in the front of his shirt. Letting him kiss your worries away, one soft press at a time. Every nerve in your body quieted. Every fear, every sharp edge the day left behind, dulled under the warmth of his touch.

You didn’t need anything else.

Until his hand dipped in-between your thighs. 

It wasn’t rushing or assuming, but just a flat palm slid between the warmth of your legs and resting against the apex of your body. The touch was lightening, tired body shifting to life when the hilt of his hand pressed firm against your center.

”Masky…” you breathed between kisses, half a question and half a sigh of want. He didn’t make any movement, but he didn’t pull away either, just continued kissing.

“Tell me to stop if you wish. Just want to help you relax a lil’.” He hummed against your temple, his facial hair tickling against your cheek.

“No— Uh, no.” You hesitated, evaluating your own body and tiredness, then accepting the fact that now you would be too stirred to relax anymore after the move he had just made. “Want you. Need you.”

“Easy now, don’t get worked up.”

“Hypocrite,” you shoved his shoulder, twisting off of his lap and planting your feet on the ground. You stood in front of him, facing away, and began to unbutton your pants. Your cheeks burned, no doubt Masky being able to see the deep red on the tips of your ears as you shimmied your pants down your thighs and off your legs.

You heard the unstrapping of laces behind you, boots being kicked off of feet and jacket being thrown to the other side of the couch before hands were planting on your hips and turning you around.

You placed your hands on Masky’s shoulders, his fingertips tracing the stitching of your panties as he leaned forward to place slow, breathy kisses against your stomach through your shirt. He hooked your panties around his thumbs, then slowly slid them down your thighs and off with your pants behind you. 

Masky lifted the hem of your shirt, placing another kiss just below your belly button before he was sitting back to look up at you, eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks a dark shade of red. You ran your fingers through the short hairs at the back of his head, but before you could make a move to remove any more clothes—his or yours—Masky was grabbing your arms, turning you, and pulling you down onto his lap.

He shuffled you both back, laying long-ways on the couch with his back sitting up against the armrest. He laid your back against his chest, planting his feet into the cushion so your legs hard to spread around them, cold air hitting your center with a chill.

“Wha- You’re not even taking your shirt off?” You question, readjusting and making yourself comfortable on top of him, entire body laying against his. Masky just chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist and planting kiss after kiss against your neck.

“No need,” he hummed, running his hands down your waist and over the tops of your thighs, dipping under them to tug your legs back, pulling them apart. You planted your feet against each of his knees, socked feet slipping against the material of his jeans. “I scared you, so I have to make up for it somehow.”

“Ah, don’t say that,” you mumbled, hands tugging up the hem of your shirt as Masky’s rubbed further and further down. “I already forgave you.”

“Mhm. But I don’t see you stopping me.” You could feel his smirk against your jaw as he spoke, the deep baritone of his voice vibrating against your back. You would have given a retort back, but Masky was suddenly sitting up and hissing in pain.

“Wha-”

He reaches behind him, a click of something being unsnapped, and the rustling of metal. You’re jarred, until Masky pulls out his pistol that usually stays strapped to the holster on the back of his belt. He grimaced, setting the gun back on the nightstand next to the dishes.

“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

“Whoops,” he chuckled, lying back down and dragging you back with him.

It was a blur of hands and lips next—Masky’s arm came to wrap around your middle, while his free hand grabbed your jaw and turned your head to kiss him fully. You smiled into the kiss, but found yourself being cut of when two fingers pressed between you, fingertips pressing against your lips.

You happily obliged, parting your lips as Masky sunk his thick middle fingers into your mouth, your hand wrapping around his wrist when he tried to push back further, slightly coughing on the digits.

“Nice and wet. There we go…” he hummed, feeling your tongue slip around his fingers and groan at the salty taste of them. Only when your drool began to coat your own lips and shine on his knuckles did he draw them out, leaving you breathless and flushed.

One arm still gripped around your middle, he let his spit-glistened fingers trail down between your legs. He found your clit immediately, wasting no time in pushing his fingers through your folds and spreading you open, fingertips pressed firm against your sensitive nub and drawing small circles.

“Ah, hah- Masky-” you huffed, planting your hands on his forearms and digging your nails into his sun-kissed skin. Thick veins ran up his arms, strong muscles from countless missions toning his body in all the right ways. It was mouthwatering, really. The only downfall? Every part of him was thick, fingers especially.

“Let it out, there you go.”

If there was one thing about Masky you knew for certain, he knew what he wanted and he always knew how to get it. Whether that be your noises, a specific body reaction, or just your pleasure all over his fingers—he was going to have it, and it was going to be now.

Another circle on your clit before Masky was pressing downwards, scissoring his fingers to spread your pussy lips apart and hum at the glisten that shone in the lamp light. You were dripping, and he hadn’t even done anything yet.

Your nails dug into the skin of his forearm when he began to prod his middle finger against your entrance, swiping up and down the slit but never fully pressing in. You whined, shifting your hips with each movement and praying that he would just finger-fuck you already.

“C’mon-”

“Shhh, don’t be whining,” he smiled, planting an open-mouth kiss against your neck, sucking the skin lightly and sending shock after shock through your body. “Need’a just let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

He tightens his grip on your waist, and you release a spell of air, giving Masky the chance to slip the first knuckle of his middle finger into the warmth of your cunt. You mewl, head lying back on his shoulder, eyes blinking slowly as he works the digit slowly in and out. It’s thick, and Masky can’t help but groan to himself at the way your folds stretch around it.

His bulge pressed against your back, the subtle shift and grind of his hips against you making you reel.

“More…” You huff, pushing his arm down and angling your hips up, whining for the entirety of his finger, not just the first knuckle.

“Greedy, greedy girl…” He purrs, popping off of your neck and moving up to your jaw, continuing his abuse there. Your neck is shining with his spit, little flowering bruises slowly fading in with each minute.

Masky obliges, curling his middle finger and pressing it deeper, warming his finger in your wetness and feeling the fluttering of your walls just begging for more, more.

You grovel, tilting your hips back and forth in time with his wrist, his one finger pumping in and out of you quickly, stirring your stomach with shocks of pleasure. It’s still not enough, you decide, turning your face into the side of Masky’s neck and whining there.

“Oh, what? C’mon, tell me what you want,” he slows his finger, teasing it in and out, the digit soaked with your arousal. “Don’t get all shy.”

“Another…”

“Another what, sweet girl?”

You huff, digging your nails into his arm just to prove a point, “Your fucking finger, Masky. Please.”

“Atta girl.”

Masky free arm unwraps from your waist, hand snaking down to press finger pads against your clit, hard—enough to make you flinch. You feel a second finger begin to stretch against your entrance, the tight ring of muscle sucking in the thick digits like they belonged there.

“Yeah—yeah—yeah-” You chant against his neck, tilting your gaze down to watch as one knuckle after another dips inside of you, just to tug back out again. He begins to slowly pump his two middle fingers in, your hips jerking to meet every pass.

His other hand does wonders, swiping lewdly across your clit, sounds of wet skin and arousal overtaking the silence of your home. You brace your hands on his forearms still, fingers clenching in time with his.

“Tell me what you’re feelin’, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your ear, biting at the carriage and sending goosebumps shooting across your skin. It’s accompanied with the repetitive massaging of that sweet spot deep inside that only he can reach, fingers pumping and knocking against every sensitive nerve on their way out. Masky knows your body like the back of his hand, and it’s proven here and now. “Let me hear that sweet voice.”

“Good—hah-” You gasp, gritting your teeth when he curls his fingers upwards, scissoring your cunt wider. “Jus-hngh-Just keep going.”

He gives a heavy circle onto your clit, fingers tugging at the nub, before his hand is retreating. You nearly whine, exasperated that he did exactly what you told him not to do, until his hand is wrapping around your wrist.

He maneuvers your hand down, pressing his fingers atop yours directly onto your clit, showing you how to rub yourself. When you slowly start doing the motion on your own, he lets your hand go.

You want to question, but he’s wrapping his hand around your jaw and tilting your face up, pressing a firm but wet kiss against your swollen lips. Then his fingers are slipping down, until his fist is wrapping around your throat and—

Oh.

The lightheaded sensation is instant, brain growing fuzzy with the little oxygen that you’re not getting to your head. He places the pressure on either side of your neck, right under your jaw, and squeezes until your lips are parting and you’re gasping.

Your fingers stall their movements on your clit, his two still pumping mercilessly into your sopping cunt, and a low rumble erupts from his chest.

Then his fingers inside of you come to a dead stop.

You whine, sucking in a rattled breath against the pressure constricting you, and try rocking your hips. Masky stays still.

“Move them fingers, sweetheart.”

You immediately light up, your hand getting to work at rubbing your cunt until tears prick the corners of your eyes, thighs jerking to close with every circle. Masky catches up immediately, the palm of his hand hitting against your fingertips every time he fucks his fingers into your wilting hole, his digits glistening.

His grip on your throat tightens, your eyes rolling back as your mouth creates an ‘oh’ shape, gasping for air. The air swimming in your brain makes your vision hazy, but it also heightens the sensations of every nerve lighting up in your cunt, every curl and jerk of fingers against yourself.

“You’re gettin’ close, pretty girl,” Masky hums, pressing his lips directly against your ear, gritting his teeth when your free hand comes up to wrap around his wrist. “Let it all out. Come all over me, sweetheart.”

His fist tightens one final time, your airway completely shuts out, and that’s what does you in. Your orgasm hits you like a train, hard and fast, and with barely any warning. Your nails are tearing into his arm, fingers rubbing your clit so hard you see stars, and his fingers—they’re slamming into your g-spot, legs shaking so hard they slip off his knees and fall wide. 

You cum into his palm, your arousal soaking his fingers and dripping down his wrist, absolutely covering your inner thighs and plush lips. Masky growls, deep and low, nipping at the corner of your ear while your cunt convulses and grips his fingers impossibly tighter.

He lets his grip off your throat, a crying gasp for air that has your stomach tightening and eyes shooting wide. He shushes you, rubbing methodical circles against your cheek as your head falls back limp against his shoulder. You’re shaking all over, body absolutely wrecked.

It took more effort than you care to admit for Masky to slowly tug his fingers out of you, muscles clamping down against the digits like they were begging him to stay.

The couch creaked softly beneath you both as you lay draped over him, cheek pressed against the side of his neck, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat in his pulse.

Masky’s arms slung lazily around you, one hand tracing slow circles onto your chest, the wiping against his pant-leg. His chest rose and fell beneath you, and you felt his lips brush your temple.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick and gravel-warm, like it had melted under the weight of contentment. “So damn good for me.”

Your tired body softened further at the praise, sinking against him with a faint sigh. He could feel your heartbeat syncing with his, slower now, soothed. There was no residual work-related emotion left in your body, no room when now all you could think about was how good you felt, how full.

His fingers ghosted along your jaw again, dragging a quiet shiver from you despite the warmth still lingering between your bodies. “You’re so pretty,” he added, quieter this time, like it wasn’t meant to be said aloud—but he said it anyway. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You nuzzled against him, and he chuckled — low and affectionate. Then, gently, he shifted beneath you.

“C’mon,” he whispered, sitting up with you still loosely wrapped in his arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You wanted to protest, say you were fine, but your legs felt like jelly and your brain wasn’t quite caught up to your body yet. He carried you effortlessly, strong arms cradling you to his chest, his jacket and your pants abandoned on the floor behind him.

He carried you to your bedroom, sitting you on the bed while he disappeared to the bathroom. You could’ve fallen asleep right there, if the chilly air was lighting your body with goosebumps.

The bathroom lights were low and the tub was already half-full, steam curling upward like fog in the amber light when he gathered you back up and guided you to the bathroom, helping you remove the rest of your clothes.

Masky sat on the edge of the tub with you still in his lap, his skin warm where it met yours, holding you like you were something fragile and precious. The water lapped gently at the porcelain.

He ran his hand along your arm, soothing, grounding. “I got you,” he said. “Always.”

Once he eased you into the water, you sank with a small moan, the heat cradling you like a second set of arms. You leaned back against the edge of the tub, head falling to the side where Masky sat on a folded towel beside it, one arm slung along the rim, fingers trailing in the water next to yours.

You blinked up at him through the haze. There was this softness in his eyes he never showed anyone else. Not even the others. Just you.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

“Yeah…” you breathed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Just… floaty.”

He smiled, barely there. “That’s the idea.”

Silence stretched comfortably between you, the kind that doesn’t need filling. Just the sound of the water sloshing quietly as he washed your legs, gentle and unhurried.

“I’ll be gone in the morning,” he said suddenly, not looking at you. “Long mission coming up, some out of town stuff.”

You opened your eyes at that, meeting his gaze.

He reached forward to brush wet strands of hair from your face, thumb trailing down your cheek. “I promise not to sneak up on you when I get back. Keep yourself safe until then.”

Your hand found his, fingers curling around his wrist, and you smiled—soft, tired, but real.

“Will you wake me up?” you whispered. “Just so I can kiss you bye.”

His lips quirked, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.

“Of course.”

You knew he wouldn’t, knew that he would get too sentimental about letting you sleep, but that was for tomorrow.

Tonight, you just couldn’t wait to kiss his face and tell him your every thought before slipping off to sleep.

And maybe repaying the favor, too.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ TICCI TOBY

You heard the fast cadence of feet moving behind you before you ever saw who it was, so obviously, you swung around broom-handle first. 

You felt the CRACK of wood against something hard, then turned the rest of your body around to see—

Toby?

His shoulder slumped against the wall, hands up in defense, and a sheepish grin on his now-red face. You knew he didn’t feel the pain of the hit, but he definitely felt the way it shook his brain for a second.

“Toby—!” you snapped, whirling towards him and swatting at his chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He was already grinning—goggles askew in his messy brown hair, hoodie half unzipped like he’d just walked in from a tornado. He ducked your halfhearted hits with an exaggerated lean, still giggling.

“You should’ve se-seen your face,” he said, wheezing through his grin. “I was gonna jump out from the closet but figured you might act-actually kill me.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t just now,” you muttered, heart still racing.

Toby tilted his head. “Yeah, but then you’d be stuck all alone again. Didn’t y-you miss me?” He stepped closer, hands slipping around your waist.

Your lips pressed into a line, still too wound-up from the fear to melt into his teasing right away. “Maybe. A little. But not enough to forgive you sneaking in through the back door like a horror movie villain.”

He leaned in, rubbing his nose gently against the side of your face. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Just… couldn’t help it. You’re so fun to surp-surprise.”

You sighed, the weight of the day still pressing down on your shoulders. He felt it too—because his smile dimmed, his hand reaching up to trace the curve of your spine over your shirt, slowly and carefully.

“Tough day?”

You nodded. “Always is.”

“Then let me fix that.”

Before you could argue, Toby grabbed your hand and gently tugged you toward the couch, taking the broom from your hands and throwing it back into the hall closet. “C’mon. Si-Sit down. You can yell at me later—right now you need to unwind.”

Toby’s hand was warm, his grip light as he tugged you toward the living room. You didn’t resist, not this time. After the day you’d had—and the scare he gave you—you didn’t have the energy to argue. Not when your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts were foggy from pushing too hard for too long.

The two of you flipped off every light you had anxiously flipped on on the way back, and made sure to shut the back door tight.

He plopped onto the couch first, legs spreading carelessly as he sank into the cushions with a groan that sounded far too satisfied, kicking his boots off. Then, without waiting, he grabbed your arm and pulled you down with him—until your body was tucked into his side, your head resting against his hoodie-covered chest, the rhythm of his breathing loud in your ear.

“That’s better,” he mumbled, shifting slightly so he could wrap both arms around you, folding you into his warmth like a blanket he’d been missing for days. “You always smell like… I dunno. Like so-soap. And work.”

You chuckled weakly, your body already starting to sink against him. “That’s probably accurate.”

He made a content little noise in the back of his throat, the sound vibrating in his chest under your cheek. Then one hand came up—calloused fingers brushing your hair back, again and again in soft, soothing strokes. He played with the strands absently, combing them through with care, sometimes curling a few around his finger and letting them slide loose.

You didn’t realize how much you needed this until you felt yourself beginning to melt.

No pressure. No noise. Just the low hum of his breathing, the sound of the wind against the house, and his fingertips skimming over your scalp like he was drawing patterns only he could see.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to.

Toby was always better at this than you expected. For someone who buzzed with chaos and laughter and unpredictable energy, he could be surprisingly… still. When it counted. And right now, he knew better than to fill the space with words.

You closed your eyes.

“Want me to get you anything?” he murmured after a while, quieter now. “Water? Snacks? I saw a bag of chi-chips in the pantry that looked lonely.”

You shook your head. “Just this.”

“That’s easy,” he whispered, a soft smile curling against your temple. “I can do this all night.”

He pulled the blanket off the back of the couch with one arm, dragging it around both of you with a lazy flourish, then curled tighter around you. His chin rested gently on top of your head, and his thumb traced a lazy, slow circle on your side. Over and over. Repeating the motion like it meant something. Like maybe he was grounding himself too.

You didn’t have to talk. You didn’t have to think. He made sure of that—kissing your forehead now and then, humming softly under his breath, keeping his arms steady and his presence warm and close and real.

“You’re good now,” he said, so quiet you barely heard him. “I’m here, okay? I’m here.”

And for the first time that day—hell, maybe the first time that week—you believed it.

And in the lull of your stress fading and his fingers gently massaging behind your ear, it finally clicked: no matter how weird or chaotic or infuriating Toby could be, he always came back to you like this—like home.

But every home has its cracks, and every crack is a breach at the foundation. And sure as hell, you both had your cracks.

You tried and tried to get comfortable, but after a little bit, your body was just too sore, mind too hazy with work. But, like the adult you were, gritted your teeth and scrunched your brow. Toby, however, wasn’t going to let you get off so easy.

“‘Just this’ my ass,” he laughed, pulling your hips back against his when you turn off of his body and onto your side, back flush against his front. “You’re still sw-swimmin’ in stress.”

Even though he can’t see you, you roll your eyes at his dramatics. It’s hardly the first time you’ve forced yourself to sleep through a muddy brain, and usually by yourself. If anything, Toby’s pestering is making it more of an impossible task.

And yet, here he is wrapping his arms around your middle and pressing his face into your hair. His body shifts closer, the two of you laid out against the other, trying your best to play sleepy, knowing full well the other was wide awake.

You can’t help it.

You peel yourself from his body, sitting up and planting your feet off the ground. Toby groans, hands trying to grip at your shirt, but you’re already moving to the kitchen by the time he’s up.

“Whe-Where’re you going?

The kettle’s old, a little too loud when it clicks onto the burner. You reach for the tea tin, fingers trembling slightly from the built-up static in your bones. You didn’t even realize how deep the tension ran until you peeled yourself away from the couch. Every joint ached like your body was still clocked in.

Toby isn’t far behind, of course.

You hear the soft pad pad pad of his mismatched gait, socks barely making a sound on the floor. He doesn’t say anything right away—just leans his shoulder against the doorway, watching. You feel his stare like a heat across your back.

“…You didn’t answer me,” he says after a beat, voice thick and scratchy, like it’s caught somewhere between sleep and screaming.

“I needed something warm,” you mumble. “Can’t settle.”

“Couldn’t se-settle with me,” he teases, pushing off the doorframe. “Ouch.”

“It’s not you,” you say with a soft huff, grabbing two mugs out of the cabinet. “It’s just work. Manager’s still refusing to hire more help.”

He hums, unconvinced, and steps closer. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his hands find your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, just enough to touch skin. The contact makes you shiver. Not cold—never with him around.

“I said you were st-still swimmin’ in stress.” His voice is closer now, the warmth of his breath skimming the curve of your shoulder. “Bet your head’s still full’a ema-email chains and shit.”

“It is,” you admit, biting back a sigh, scooping loose tea leaves into the strainer with slow, practiced fingers. “And tomorrow’s gonna be worse. I should be in bed.”

“So let me help,” he murmurs, all faux-innocent as his hands start to travel. “Didn’t I alrea-already do such a good job loosening you up earlier?”

“Toby,” you say warningly, but there’s no bite in it.

He grins into your shoulder.

The kettle isn’t even halfway to boiling when you feel him really close the distance — chest to your back, hips pinning you lightly to the counter, the twitchy energy in him turning molten. His lips brush your neck, first a feather-light graze, then a drag, then a kiss, slow and open-mouthed, right at the base of your throat.

Your breath catches in your lungs.

“Tobes…”

“You smell like me now,” he says into your skin, nose nuzzling behind your ear. “You got no idea how hard it is not to wanna crawl here after every day, just to see you, touch you, feel you.”

His hands spread wide across your stomach, palms flattening to keep you close. The gentle motion of his thumbs stroking absent patterns is a stark contrast to the heat coiling behind his kisses.

You let your head tip slightly, involuntarily—the smallest invitation.

“Still stressed?” He murmurs, one hand skimming undernesth your shirt and up to your ribs, not quite groping—just holding, grounding. “Or do I fi-finally feel you easin’ up?”

Your body is softening against him despite yourself. “You’re cheating.”

“You’re too uptight,” he counters, tone half-mockery, half-concern. “I’m just multitasking. Bein’ g-good for you and selfish at the same time.”

The kettle starts to whisper with pressure.

You could push him off. You should, maybe—wait for the tea, try to rest like an adult. But he feels safe against your back, fingers warm, breath warmer. Your thoughts slow a little under his touch, each kiss tugging you further from the work-stained haze you’d been drowning in.

“You’re not gonna let me drink that tea in peace, are you?”

Toby chuckles, the sound dark and fond and unmistakably turned on. His lips graze lower, teeth barely grazing where your shoulder meets your neck.

“…Nope.”

And then he bites, hard—enough to make you groan.

You grip the counter harder, bracing yourself as he presses fully into you from behind. You can feel him—hard, twitching, needy, through the thin fabric of both your clothes, and it makes your breath hitch again.

“I thought this was about helping me relax,” you say shakily, lips tugging into a grin despite the heat pooling between your legs.

He laughs, husky and low. “Oh, I am helpin’,” he mutters, biting gently at your earlobe. “You’ll be too tire-tired to think by the time I’m done.”

Toby watches over your shoulder as he unbuttons your pants, tugging them open as he dips his hand in and under the front of your panties, barely giving you time to gasp before his fingers are pushing through the growing wetness at your center.

Your hips buck against the counter as he drags two fingers over your folds, slow, testing. You’re already out of breath.

“Well fuck, sweetheart,” he growls, voice suddenly wrecked with want. “I haven’t even gotten st-started yet.”

“Your fault,” you whisper back, trembling, eyes fluttering shut as he teases his fingers through your folds, swiping slick against your puffy lips. “You started it.”

“And I’m gonna finish it,” he promises darkly, licking up your neck again. “Right here.”

Your eyes almost roll into the back of your head as he crooks one evil finger through your folds, gathering your slick to aid the taunting circles he begins to draw over your clit. He doesn’t care to drag your pants down any further, perfectly content with shoving your front against the counter and pressing his bulge against the roundness of your ass.

“Aha—Toby-” You whine, his fingertips rubbing merciless circles against your clit, your knees resisting the urge to buckle and crash you into the floor. Toby, all the while, is littering your neck with bites and kisses, disregarding exactly how much whiplash this is giving you. “Slow, agh—slow down.”

He lets off your neck, his free hand coming up to grip your jaw with wincing force, twitchy fingers dragging your deeply flushed face to turn and look at him.

He bores wide eyes at you down the length of his nose. He looks gloriously smug as he eases his middle finger inside you, but his mouth curling upwards at the wanton moan that spills from your lips as you clench around him.

“Naughty girl,” he murmurs, as he curls it just so. You nod fervidly and capture his lips in a desperate kiss, as though eager to prove his point. You whimper against his mouth when he repeats the movement, and he swallows the sound of your pleasure; opening up to you and delving in with his tongue.

His finger is quick, edgy jerks of his wrist lighting your cunt up with shock after sensitive shock as your thighs shake under you. His tongue explores your mouth, spit coating each other’s lips with each hungry kiss Toby plants upon you.

Pressure builds against the kettle's spout, air growing louder. 

“Think I can make my sweet girl cum before your pre-precious tea is ready?” He grits, popping off of your mouth with a satisfied grin and spit-glistened lips. You go to shake your head, go to tell him to take it easy, but he’s already bullying another finger into your sopping cunt, panties soaked nearly through your work pants.

“Jesus, Toby—yeah, yeah okay-” you spread your legs a little wider, leaning just a little further against the counter as Toby’s palm nudges ruthlessly against your sensitive clit.

He smiles wide, pressing his hips harder against your ass, grinding himself in time with his curling fingers as his free hand snakes up the front of your shirt, groping your tits. He’s becoming frantic, and you can only hope to keep up.

You bite down on your tongue to cut short your whiny moan as Toby presses the pad of his fingers into your g-spot. The depths of his eyes glitter dark with malevolent glee as you writhe between him and the counter—your body caught in a battle between wanting to chase what his fingers are doing and needing him to stop for two damn seconds so you can focus on not buckling under both his and your weight.

“Let it all out, c’mon sw-sweet girl, let me hear you,” he growls against your jaw, nipping against the skin there. Your hips jerk in time with his hand, body following the rub of his palm on your clit, feeling the ever-closer tightness in your gut.

He pulls out of you and begins to circle your clit once more.

Your frustration materialises in a noise that’s partway between a whine and a growl, and you throw your head back against his shoulder—dishevelled breathing nearly overshadowing the faint whistle building on the kettle.

There’s no controlling the way your hips roll to compliment his movements, even though you’re trapped against the counter thoroughly enough that your own movements are limited by Toby’s arm.

“Please,” you beg.

“Please what?”

Your hips buck when he catches on a particularly sensitive spot, a desperate attempt to have his fingers press into your entrance again. But he moves with you, continuing only to draw stuttering patterns.

“Let me hear you, sweet girl,” he repeats.

Your breaths have increased to a heavy pant, broken only by the small gasps and mewls at each movement he makes—all at once too much and not nearly enough. 

Maybe it’s the stance, or the overstimulation, or the fact that you’re about the cry if Toby doesn’t put his fucking fingers in your fucking pussy. But you’re slipping one hand off the counter and reaching back to tangle into his hair, dragging his gaze to meet yours.

“Please, Toby,” you pant. “I don’t care how fast you go, I do—hah—don’t care what you do. I just need to cum, right now. I need you to make me cum, Toby.”

Each word from your rambling mouth makes Toby’s eyes widen, grin growing wider and wider. He doesn’t need to be convinced any longer.

You mewl as he curls his fingers inside you, dragging against your walls as he begins a rapid, tear-jerking rhythm. He kisses and sucks at your ear, tugging on the lobe with a sharpness that has your eyes clamping shut and moans shrieking from your lips.

His free hand slithers from under your shirt to snag a bruising grip on your hips, encouraging you to grind your hips down onto his hand, his own hips rutting against you like a dog.

“Yeah, Toby—Yeah.”

You moan as he scissors his fingers inside you. You’ve been so overwhelmed by sensations until now that you’re only just realising the kettle is nearly ready, faint whistle growing louder—as Toby’s fingers grew faster.

“C’mon, baby, almost there—al-almost there.”

He adds a third finger, and begins to pump into you with much more intention than before, the hilt of his palm purposefully rutting against your clit, cunt absolutely sloppy with your arousal in your panties.

“I’m close—Toby, ‘m so close, c’mon-”

“Let me feel it, sweetheart.”

His fingers hit a particularly sweet spot, and you gasp in approval as he begins to pick up speed, hitting that spot again and again, coaxing and curling and grinding his palm relentlessly against your clit.

Toby pays rapt attention to your face as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. His eyes dart between yours, and his lips curl upwards with every desperate sound that spills from you. He supports your weight while your legs tremble beneath you, and you cling to him for dear life as your stomach muscles shake, and coil ever tighter until everything inside you is pulled taut and—

The tension snaps. Your spine arches against him, his hips plowing against yours, and you cry out as the first relentless waves of your orgasm crash over you. Toby guides you through each pitiful swell with deep strokes that have you seeing stars. He doesn’t dare to let a single ripple of pleasure pass you by.

You’re still gasping for breath, knuckles white against the counter, thighs twitching where they press together, trying to regain some sense of control—but your body is spent, trembling, soaked through.

Toby’s palm is warm and steady where it rests between your legs, the heel of his hand applying just enough pressure to keep the mess contained while you come down from the high. His fingers slowly slip from you, careful not to overstimulate, though the ghost of them lingers, making you shudder in place.

Then—

The kettle screeches, high whistle filling the air.

Toby snorts through his nose, resting his forehead against your shoulder with a groan.

“Well, looks like I win,” he mutters, sounding slightly dazed himself.

You’re still catching your breath, legs barely cooperating. “I can’t move.”

He doesn’t hesitate—just guides you easily by the waist and back towards your bathroom, minding your still-sensitive body. He keeps one hand on your hip while grabbing a rag with the other, wetting it with warm tap water.

“Stay put,” he murmurs. “Lemme clean you up.”

You hum softly, dazed and grateful as he shimmies your pants and panties off of your hips and down your legs, this time not with lust, but with care. He eyes your soaked panties.

“Ruined ’em,” he comments, not unkindly. He gives you a cocky little smirk. “Might fra-frame ’em.”

“Gross,” you whisper, but there’s a sleepy smile on your face now.

His hands are gentle now—soft wipes between your thighs, slow dabs where the fabric is soaked. The wet heat of your panties clings uncomfortably, and without asking, he hooks his fingers into the waistband and peels them down.

Once he’s done wiping you clean, he presses a lingering kiss to your cheek—reverent this time—and tugs your shirt down to cover you back up before standing. He moves with less twitch now, more grounded, like something has calmed the buzzing in his own nerves.

He wipes you gently, but when he shifts to toss the rag into the sink behind him, the movement presses his hoodie up just enough for you to see.

A dark, unmistakable patch soaks through the front of his jeans.

Your brows lift slowly, a smile creeping across your face. “Toby.”

He freezes, mid-reach. “…Yeah?”

You lean forward, tapping a finger against the wet spot on his pants. “Did you seriously come in your pants?”

He jerks slightly at the touch, groaning as if you’d just caught him doing something far worse. “Fu-Fuck, don’t say it like that,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears flush red through his messy hair. “You were… God, you were makin’ noises, s-squeezin’ my fingers, it felt so good grinding against you… I wasn’t exact-exactly in control.”

You snort, amused and charmed all at once. “Didn’t even get your dick touched, and you still—”

“Don’t,” he whines, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh again, light and warm, and slide to stand in front of him. His hands instinctively land on your hips to steady you, but he avoids your eyes, embarrassed even though he’s the one who just made you come undone with his fingers alone.

“Hey,” you say gently, hands smoothing up under his hoodie, resting at his waist. “Let me take care of you now.”

His eyes open at that—cautious, a little wide. “You d-don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in, smiling softly. “But I want to.”

He swallows hard as you pull him toward the sink where the rag lies, damp and forgotten. You grab a clean one instead and dampen it with warm water, testing the temperature before turning back to him. “Pants down, killer.”

He stares at you like you just said the most blasphemous thing imaginable. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” you counter.

Toby groans in defeat, tugging open his jeans and boxers with minimal ceremony, wincing at the sticky mess inside them. You don’t laugh—not this time. Instead, you step between his legs, towel in hand, and meet his gaze with soft, adoring mischief.

“You really did make a mess,” you murmur, crouching slightly as you press the towel gently against him. You wipe him down with care, the same way he did for you—slow, soothing, careful not to tease too much, though it’s hard when you hear the little breathy sounds he makes.

He grips the edge of the counter behind him, watching you like you’re some kind of religious experience. “Fuckin’ hell, watch your hands.”

“I just like seeing you flustered,” you tease, brushing the inside of his thigh lightly.

He hisses softly. “You’re mean.”

“I’m sweet,” you correct, finally finishing your gentle cleanup and tossing the towel into the sink behind you. “You’re just really easy to get riled.”

He grabs your waist again and pulls you up against him, nose brushing yours. “You keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna make us both miss tea and bedtime.”

You press a kiss to his jaw, light as a feather. “Tempting. But I think I’ve earned my tea.”

You both fix your clothes, you slipping on a fresh pair of bottoms, and shuffling back to the kitchen.

The kettle is still whistling softly, having clicked off on its own. He moves to pour the water, and you slide to grab the mugs, still a little wobbly in the knees.

He steadies you with ease, eyes flicking down to check on you.

“You okay?”

You nod, curling into his side. “Yeah. Sleepy, now.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “My duty has been fulfi-fulfilled.”

He hands you your mug first—your favorite one, the one he always pretends not to use but definitely steals when you’re not home. He hands you a steaming cup of tea steeped to perfection, then takes his own and nudges you toward the couch.

You settle in against him, tucked under his arm, legs draped across his lap. He presses a palm to your thigh, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you sip.

There’s still tension in your muscles, yes—but it’s softer now. Quiet. Manageable.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say quietly.

He hums, resting his head against yours. “Yeah, I did. You weren’t gon-gonna stop. You never do.”

“Hypocrite,” you snide, but he looks down at you with that rare, unfiltered softness.

“I want you tak-taken care of,” he says simply. “I beat too many randos up everyday. Sometimes I just wanna take care of somebody.”

Your heart swells. The tea in your hand warms your palms, but it’s nothing compared to the heat that fills your chest.

You lean into him, nose tucked into his hoodie, your body finally able to melt against something solid. He holds you there in silence, kissing the top of your head every so often.

The night is quiet now—no stress, no thoughts of work.

Just tea, Toby, and the steady, rhythmic beat of a heart that’s completely and totally in sync with yours.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ HOODIE

Arms wrap around you from behind. Firm. Familiar. Gloved hands press against your stomach, steadying you as you flinch and try to spin around, broom handle gripped tight.

“No need to scream,” his voice is low, calm, muffled slightly by the fabric of his mask. “It’s just me.”

You tense. “Jesus, Hoodie!”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You turn in his arms to face him—not able to see his expression beneath the worn fabric of his hood, but it doesn’t matter. The tension bleeding from his shoulders says enough. He’s tired, like you. But he’s here.

“You left the door wide open,” you mutter, pushing against his chest with a huff, his hand leaving your waist to remove the broom from your hands. “You know I’ve had the worst week. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I thought something happened.”

He nods, quiet, and doesn’t let you pull away too far. “I got the weekend off. I was going to surprise you. Thought I’d beat you home.”

You raise a brow. “So you decided to break in?”

“Technically, I have a key,” he mumbles under his breath.

You cross your arms, unimpressed.

“Okay,” he concedes with a sigh. “I messed up.”

Despite your irritation, a little huff of laughter escapes. He always does this—makes you want to stay mad just a little longer than you can actually hold it. Still, the adrenaline is slowly leaving your system now, and your body remembers how exhausted you are.

He watches you for a moment. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He doesn’t press you. Instead, he steps out of your space and heads to the kitchen like he owns the place—and honestly, after all this time, maybe he kind of does. You hear the sounds of a mug being pulled down, the soft trickle of water filling the kettle. Cabinets opening. The scrape of a plate. It’s methodical. Gentle. Like he’s trying to undo the jolt he gave you.

You follow him, arms still crossed, trying not to let your annoyance outweigh your relief. On your way back, you flip off every light you had turned on in your frenzy, and make sure to shut the back door firmly.

Hoodie sets a steaming cup of tea in front of you a few minutes later and tugs the kitchen island chair back. “Sit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I’m the one who scared you half to death. Let me make it up to you.”

You blink at him. That’s as close to a romantic apology as you’re probably going to get. So… you sigh, scoop up the tea, and scoot into the stool. 

The mug’s warmth sinks into your palms. You lift it to your lips, take a slow sip—earthy, floral, a little sweet—and let out a sigh. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t disappear, but it dulls a bit, enough to make you realize how tightly you’ve been holding everything inside.

Across the island, Hoodie leans against the counter, his own mug cradled loosely in one gloved hand. His head is tilted slightly, watching you in that quiet, patient way of his — like he’s giving you time to unwind, wordlessly encouraging you to talk without pushing. 

You glance up at him through tired lashes. “Long week,” you murmur.

He nods. “Figured.”

“You?”

A grunt of acknowledgement. “We were out on rotation. Recon, mostly.” He shifts a bit, pulling his hood down with one hand and sliding the mask up above his nose just enough to drink. “Nothing exciting, but… exhausting.”

You frown a little. “You’re back early. That usually means something went wrong.”

He shrugs. “Not wrong. Just… tense.” A pause. “Tim’s been on edge.”

“More than usual?”

“Mhm.”

You blow softly on your tea, letting the heat curl against your lips. “Work’s been hell. My boss is a micromanaging narcissist and I’ve had two people quit in the last ten days. One of them cried in the break room before they left.”

Hoodie hums, like he’s picturing that too vividly. “You quit yet?”

You let out a dry little laugh. “I fantasize about it. Daily.”

“Do it,” he says simply. “I’ll hide the body.”

You roll your eyes, but the grin sneaks in anyway. “Not every problem can be solved by murder.”

“That’s where we differ.”

Another beat of silence passes, but it’s not awkward. Just shared weariness between two people who trust each other to hold the quiet without needing to fill it.

Then Hoodie lifts the front of his sweatshirt to his nose, sniffs himself, and grimaces.

You raise an eyebrow. “Charming.”

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. “We really are disgusting.”

You smirk into your cup. “I didn’t want to say anything, but you do smell like old sweat and outside.”

He glares at you over the rim of his mug. “You smell like stress and three-day-old coffee.”

“Fair.”

He finishes the last of his drink, sets it down with a soft clink, then pushes away from the counter. “Come on. Shower.”

You blink, surprised. “Together?”

He pauses. His body language doesn’t change, but you can feel the way his attention snaps to you—heavy and focused like a shift in air pressure.

You weren’t trying to sound suggestive, not really. But the way his eyes darken just slightly beneath the mask, the subtle way he squares his shoulders—it hits you low in your stomach.

“…That an invitation?” he asks, voice lower now. Rougher.

You stare at him for a long moment. Then nod. “Yeah. It is.”

The tension that follows is thick—not awkward, but heavy with something slow-burning, simmering beneath the exhaustion. Craving contact and comfort in the most stripped-down way.

He doesn’t move quickly. Just steps around the island and stops in front of you, gloved fingers brushing yours where they rest against the mug. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to.

Because when his hand slides into yours and you let him lead you down the hallway, it’s not about rushing or undoing the tension with heat—it’s about scrubbing off the week, the weight, the grime, together.

The bathroom is quiet, lit only by the small bulb over the mirror and the faint orange glow bleeding in from the hallway. You pad in behind him, feet soft against the tile, while Hoodie reaches for the knobs on the shower.

The pipes groan as hot water spills from the head, steam rising slowly. His gloves come off first, dropped beside the sink in a damp little thud. You reach out without a word, your hands brushing his as you move to help—first with his sweatshirt, tugging the hem up, his arms lifting in silent permission.

He watches you the entire time. You can’t see his eyes fully behind the fabric, but you feel them. Heavy. Focused. You pull the hoodie up over his head and it catches briefly on his mask—the cloth tight over his jaw—and you freeze. One hand lifts gently, thumb brushing the edge of the mask just above his cheekbone.

His body tenses.

“I don’t have to,” you whisper.

But he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t speak. He just watches.

So slowly, carefully, you slide the mask up and off—exposing his mouth, his knotted brows, the quiet twitch of nerves along his throat as he swallows. His blond hair is messy, but you don’t care to fix it. You don’t stare. You just fold the fabric and set it aside, stepping close enough to press a kiss just beneath his chin. He exhales—long and low—and his hands settle on your hips, grounding himself.

Then it’s your turn.

You tug your own shirt over your head, his hands slipping around your back as soon as it’s gone. You feel him press a kiss to your collarbone, soft and unhurried, while you make quick work of the rest—pants, socks, underwear. He follows suit, until the only thing between you is warmth and anticipation.

The shower is fogged by the time you step in.

The hot spray hits your shoulders first, drawing a sigh from you both. You lean back against him as he closes the curtain behind you, his body flush against yours, his arms slowly wrapping around your waist. The water beads down your skin, over your back, between your bodies.

Neither of you speak.

His hands start slow—washing, soothing, mapping the lines of your body like he’s grounding himself in the shape of you. You do the same, fingers sliding across the plane of his chest, up to his shoulders. You trace the curve of his neck, the muscles tense beneath your fingertips, and he lets out a low hum that vibrates against your back.

His hands wander lower, over your stomach, hips, the inside of your thighs. Not demanding—just feeling. Exploring without pressure.

You tilt your head back against his shoulder. “Still feel gross?” you murmur.

His lips brush your ear. “Not even a little.”

You laugh, breathless, and twist in his arms so you’re facing him. The spray catches you both in the face, so he shifts slightly, shielding you with his body. One hand cups your jaw, the other smoothing over your lower back, pulling you closer.

Your chest presses to his, slick and warm under the water.

He doesn’t kiss you yet—just watches, eyes roaming your features like he’s trying to memorize every expression. One of your hands comes up to brush his damp hair back from his forehead. He’s so much more real like this. Human. Not the shadow you’ve grown used to meeting in alleyways or at your back door.

You lean in. Your lips touch his.

It’s slow. Not rushed or hungry—just hot, steady, present. He kisses you like he means it, like it matters. Like being here, with you, is the only thing that’s made his week feel real.

His hand slides down again, fingers brushing the swell of your ass, pulling you in. Your thighs meet his hips. Your body melts against him.

And it’s not just comfort anymore. It’s hunger in disguise.

The spray from the shower rolls heat around you, hot and soothing—but the real heat is pressed against you. He turns you, Hoodie’s chest flush to your back, his hands skimming up your sides, palms calloused but purposeful. Every touch is unhurried, deliberate, like he’s tracing your nerves from memory.

One hand finds your jaw, turning your face slightly so he can kiss you again—slow, deep, his lips dragging across yours like he’s trying to sink into you. The other dips lower, brushing your stomach, your hip, until he’s between your thighs.

You gasp, fingers gripping his wrist.

His palm flattens across your mound, his fingertips dipping between your thighs with featherlight pressure—teasing, exploring. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches your face tilt slightly toward his, breath quickening when his fingers stroke along your slit.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. “Just relax for me.”

Your body leans into his, already giving in.

You’re already wet. Not just from the water—him.

A low, satisfied hum escapes his throat. “You’re soaked.”

You whimper as he drags his middle finger up slowly, parting you, brushing right over your clit. His fingers are big, his entire palm covering your cunt and making you squirm.

“Sensitive?” he murmurs against your temple.

“God—yes…”

You feel his smirk more than you see it. His lips graze your ear, breath hot, teasing.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

His hand moves with a firmer purpose now. His middle finger dips between your folds, gliding down to your entrance, and slowly—so fucking slowly—he pushes the first knuckle in. Your back arches against him as his finger sinks deep, curling slightly, testing the way your walls squeeze around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, the sound husky, almost reverent. “So tight…”

You whine, eyes fluttering shut. His other hand comes up to brace your chest, sliding across your ribs, then down again—holding you still as he starts to move his finger, curling it gently with each pump. The water pours down over both of you, but all you feel is him—every slow press, every filthy grind of his palm against your clit.

You’ve barely had time to adjust when he’s pushing another finger.

Your legs nearly give out.

“Easy,” he murmurs, shifting his body behind yours to support your weight. “I’ve got you.”

The stretch of his fingers—thick, deep, perfect—has your mouth falling open in a gasp. He keeps them pumping in a steady rhythm, thumb circling your clit now with increasing pressure, drawing tight little spirals that make your stomach flutter.

“You feel that?” His voice is in your ear again, ragged and dark. “How wet you are for me? How fucking hard you’re squeezing?”

You nod helplessly, body tensing with every thrust of his fingers.

“Say it,” he demands softly.

“I—fuck—I’m so wet for you,” you breathe, barely able to form the words. “Feels so good, Brian—”

“That’s it,” he growls, voice cracked with restraint. “Let me make you cum. Let me feel you lose it.”

His fingers drive deeper, faster now—fingers still curled, stroking that sweet spot inside you over and over, his thumb unrelenting on your clit. Your knees start to shake. One of your hands flies up to brace the slick tile while the other scrambles to grip his wrist, holding on for dear life.

Your body is falling apart under him.

Every drag of Hoodie’s fingers has you writhing—hips rocking, thighs twitching, your hands scrambling to grip the slick wall for leverage as your orgasm builds fast and hard. The water from the shower pelts your chest and stomach, but all you can feel is him—his broad chest flush to your back, his breath hot and steady in your ear, and those thick, relentless fingers stroking deeper inside you with every second.

But your body’s fighting it.

Too much pleasure. Too intense. Your hips twitch forward, your spine arches, your whole body bucks instinctively to escape the overwhelming stimulation—

He doesn’t let you go.

Suddenly his chest is pressing harder into your back, and both your wrists are yanked behind you, caught in his grip. His free hand locks around them tight, pulling your arms behind you in a rough, controlled hold that drags a breathless cry from your lips.

“Stay still,” he growls into your ear, voice low, commanding, not up for argument.

Your gasp is punched out of you as the new position throws your balance off—spine arched, chest pushed forward, legs shaking as you try not to collapse under the weight of your own pleasure. You’re pinned now. Arms locked behind your back, completely open to him, vulnerable, dripping wet, and aching.

The fingers inside you don’t slow down. If anything—they get rougher.

“Don’t stop—don’t stop—” you gasp, hips grinding into his hand, chasing the release that’s almost too much too fast.

“Not gonna,” he grits. “Wanna feel you break for me. Right here. Right now.”

He plunges deep with every stroke, knuckle-deep, curling his fingers in a punishing rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. His palm grinds against your clit now, adding even more pressure—building you to a fever pitch, pushing you over that edge harder than you were ready for.

“F-Fuck, Brian—!” you cry out, voice shaking.

“You wanted to cum so bad,” he hisses into your hair. “Then cum for me. Right here. Let me feel it.”

Your whole body goes tense—knees buckling, thighs squeezing shut around his hand as your orgasm hits like a lightning strike. Your scream tears from your throat, raw and high and completely involuntary. 

“That’s it… good girl… fuck, that’s so hot. You’re so good for me.”

Your walls clench around his fingers like a vice, pulsing so violently it almost hurts. He groans low against your ear, gripping your wrists tighter behind you, holding you steady while you thrash against him, shaking and twitching through it.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice reverent. “Look at you…”

You’re panting, trembling, your body sagging against him as your orgasm crests and crashes. Your knees start to give, and Hoodie finally releases your wrists, catching you before you can drop. His arms wrap around you, one hand slipping to your front again to gently cup between your thighs, rubbing softly as the aftershocks leave you whimpering.

“Shhh… easy now,” he whispers. “I got you. It’s over. You did so good.”

His nose nuzzles against your temple. His other hand lifts to brush the hair back from your face as you catch your breath.

You melt back into him, boneless and flushed and soaking wet—in more ways than one.

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You nod weakly, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Jesus.”

He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Let’s get you clean. Then I’ll carry you to bed.”

His fingers leave you slowly, the tight ring of muscle clamping as you gush around him, and you can feel your body flutter around the absence, still sensitive, still twitching. But now it’s gentle again—his touches soft, calming. And the steady weight of him holding you upright, even when you can’t stand.

The water runs warm over your skin, steam curling lazily around your shoulders as you lean your back into Hoodie’s chest, heart still hammering beneath your ribs. Your thighs twitch now and then with the aftershocks, but his arms are steady around you—one curled low around your waist, the other reaching for the washcloth.

You don’t even flinch when he starts cleaning you up.

He does it slowly, gently—as if he’s smoothing away every trembling breath you let out. Between your thighs, the soft cloth catches the slick remnants of your release, and he’s careful. Tender. Like it’s important to him you know you’re not just some frayed thing he unraveled for fun.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers and kisses you once, slow and warm, then returns to washing you, rinsing off the sweat and tension like he can scrub away everything that made your week hard.

“You good?” he asks quietly after a while.

You nod, leaning your head back on his shoulder. “Yeah. I think I just melted a little.”

He chuckles low. “That was the goal.”

You roll your eyes, smile soft. “You’re smug.”

“Only when I earn it.”

You hum in response, watching the water swirl around your feet. It’s quiet for a few seconds. The kind of silence that feels like the weight has been lifted from your chest. You take a long breath in—and for the first time in days, your muscles don’t resist.

Your voice comes softer now. “I don’t feel as tense anymore.”

“Because I fucked the stress out of you?” he deadpans against your ear, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.

You reach behind you and swat his hip.

“No,” you say, turning your head slightly. “Because you’re here.”

That gets him.

You can see his face, but Hoodie has always been more of a body language guy—the way his arms tighten around you, the way his chin dips slightly to rest on your shoulder—yeah, you got him.

“I missed you,” you add. “Even your dumb sarcasm.”

“I missed you more,” he says without hesitation. “And I hate everything, so that’s saying a lot.”

You huff out a laugh and press a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “Come on. Let’s rinse off so we don’t turn into raisins.”

He grumbles but helps you finish washing the rest of your body, then lets you return the favor—dragging the cloth over his chest, down his arms, across the curve of his hipbone. You take your time, watching the way his muscles twitch beneath your touch, the way he bites back little groans when your fingers wander too low for too long.

“Careful,” he warns under his breath as you rake your nails over his abdomen. “You’re gonna restart something you just recovered from.”

You give him a slow smirk. “I’m just learning the terrain, soldier.”

He stares at you for a long second, then turns off the water without a word—stepping out first, grabbing two towels and handing you one. You both dry off, sharing lazy touches and lingering glances in the soft bathroom light. 

You glance at him in the reflection.

Still bare, hair damp, mask long gone—Hoodie looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your spine, the way your expression softens when you catch him staring.

“What?” you ask, toweling off your arms.

He just shrugs, eyes warm. “You look like you again.”

Your hands slow. “Was I looking like someone else?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Just… you look lighter.”

You smile, small and sincere.

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to pad into the bedroom, bodies warm and lazy from the shower. You throw on one of his old black shirts, oversized and soft, and he tosses on some sweatpants he left here last time, towel-drying his hair half-heartedly before flopping onto the mattress.

You climb in beside him, crawling over his chest until you’re straddling his hips.

He raises a brow. “Starting round two?”

You grin and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Not yet. Just getting in position for when I do.”

He groans, palm dragging over his face. “Jesus. You were just screaming five minutes ago.”

“And now I’m thriving.” You dip down and murmur against his ear, “Next time, I’m gonna make you squirm.”

His hands find your thighs, squeezing once. “Promises, promises.”

You settle in beside him, curling against his side, the both of you tangled under the covers, body to body and nothing between. It’s the kind of peace that only comes after wreckage—the kind that settles in your bones and refuses to let go.

And as you close your eyes, cheek pressed to his chest, you realize something.

You’re not thinking about work. You’re not thinking about deadlines. You’re not thinking about anything but the weight of his hand on your hip and the sound of his breathing. You’re not just less stressed.

You’re home, and falling asleep easily for the first time in days.

This was an anonymous request!

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

Feeling sick? Gotta pee? Could you fake puke? Maybe just sneak away to your room—But before you could settle on anything useful, the bottle neck drifted to a stop.

It pointed straight at Brian.

A loud whistle cut through the room. Toby was sprawled across the loveseat between Natalie and Jack, clearly more drunk than he’d realized or cared to acknowledge. His wonky grin took up the majority of his face as he pointed his finger at Brian like he’d just won the lottery.

Brian stood up slowly, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his shoulders like he had all the time in the world. The picture of calm. Toby scrambled up after him, wobbling on his feet before slinging an arm around Brian’s shoulders and smacking his chest.

“C’mon, man! T-This is perfect,” Toby slurred, grinning at you. “Brian’s a great guy. R-Re-Real stand-up. You should give him a chance, he’s got thh-that whole good guy vibe going on. Suuuuper reliable. Never le-leaves dishes in the sink or n-nothin’!”

Tim, leaning against the wall behind them with a beer in hand, tried (and failed) to hide his grin behind the bottle. His shoulders shook with silent laughter as he watched the whole thing unfold, having to look away to get a grip.

Brian let out a short laugh and pushed Toby off of him with a playful, “Fuck off, kid.”

Toby dramatically stumbled backward and collapsed back onto the loveseat, landing right in Natalie and Jack’s laps. Natalie ruffled his hair while Jack just sighed, all resigned as he took Toby’s legs atop his lap. The rest of the room stumbled into teasing whistles and catcalls. Jeff yelled something crude about Brian finally getting lucky, and Nina clapped like she was watching a sports game, but everybody was slowly turning their attention to you—who was still sitting on the floor, dumbfounded.

Brian ignored all of them. He waved the noise off with one hand and walked over to you, stopping right in front. He held his hand out for you to take with a grin on his face.

“I’m a gentleman,” he made sure to emphasize, “unlike these freaks. You ready?”

You stared at his hand for a second, your nerves wobbling in your chest. It felt more awkward to just sit here and stare at him, so you stomped down your hopes of escape. After a beat, you took his hand.

Brian’s fingers closed around yours. He gave you a gentle tug to help you up, then kept hold of your hand as he led you down the hallway toward the closet. The music got louder behind you as someone, probably Ben, cranked it up again, right before you heard Toby yell something about ‘more beer.’

When you reached the closet door, he opened it for you first, releasing your hand.

“Go on in,” he said easily.

You stepped inside. Brian was right behind you, but just as he moved to follow, he paused like he’d forgotten something.

“Hold on a second,” he told you, leaving the door cracked open. “I’ll be right back.”

You watched him disappear back down the hall. With a sigh, you reached up and tugged the pull chain. The single bulb clicked on, casting a weak yellow glow over everything. The closet was crammed with old coats hanging on the rod and stacks of dusty boxes shoved against the walls. It was tight, but not suffocating, with enough room that you wouldn’t be stepping on each other’s feet.

That wouldn’t make it any less awkward, however.

A moment later, you heard footsteps coming back. Brian reappeared in the doorway, two cold beer necks clutched between his fingers. He stepped inside, ducking slightly under the low frame, and pulled the door shut behind him with a tug. The loud music from the living room instantly dulled to a distant thump.

He held one of the beers out to you with a sheepish smile, showcasing the gap between his teeth.

“Figured we could use these,” he said. “Didn’t want to spend the whole time sober while everyone else is losing their minds out there.”

You took the cold bottle from him, the chill biting pleasantly against your palm. Brian leaned back against the wall across from you, twisting the cap off his own beer with a hiss from the air-tight seal. He took a sip, then looked at you, his eyes giving you a quick up-down.

You gave him a quick once-over as well. Brian was dressed like he always was, but somehow it looked a little nicer tonight, if only because of the lighting—worn jeans, a baggy black t-shirt, and a gray zip-up jacket thrown over top. His usual work boots were on, scuffed and familiar. No mask, though. Nobody was wearing one tonight, which was an extremely pleasant change from the usual Halloween-ish nightmare you all lived in. His short brown-blond hair was a little messy, and the unkempt stubble on his jaw made his already tired, sad-looking eyes seem even more downturned. Still, it worked with the constant grin he was wearing right now—definitely helped along by the alcohol.

You popped the cap off your beer and took a sip. The cold liquid felt nice going down, but the bitter taste made you cringe. Brian must have noticed and let out an amused chuckle.

“Yeah, it’s not great,” he said, taking a sip of his own. “But who drinks for the flavor anyway?”

He leaned back against the wall, looking comfortable even despite the little space. For a moment it was quiet, just the muffled thump of music and distant laughter filtering through the door.

“So,” Brian kept his voice casual, “how’s your night been so far? Besides getting dragged into this whole game, I mean.”

You let out a laugh, shrugging. “It’s been… loud. Before we kicked everyone out, I was mainly just crowd-watching. Other than that, I’ve mostly been trying to stay out of the worst of it.”

Brian nodded, smiling a little. “Smart. I saw Jeff spike the punch with a couple of different things. Not sure what he put in it, but I’m staying far away.” He took another sip, eyes flicking back to you. “Who else have you talked to tonight? Anyone give you trouble?”

It was kind of like he was cataloging what you’d done tonight.

You shook your head. “Not really. Toby tried to get me to shotgun a beer with him, but I managed to dodge that one. Other than that… just floating around, I guess.”

He hummed, “Floating around isn’t bad— Which reminds me.”

Brian cut himself off, reaching around into his back jean pocket. He fished out a small, slim handheld camcorder, tucking his beer against his side as he flipped the screen open and turned it on. You leaned in a little, curious as to what he was doing. The tiny screen lit up, glowing a dim blue across his face.

“Have you been recording all night?” you asked, watching as he tapped through the menu.

Brian nodded, a little mischievous smile pulling at his lips. “Secretly. I like to collect blackmail. Never know when it’ll come in handy.”

He pressed his back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him. He pulled his legs to the side to give you room.

“C’mere. Sit with me.”

You hesitated for half a second before sliding down the wall opposite him, knees tucked up against your chest. It felt better sitting like this, more relaxed and less like you were trapped in here. Brian’s calm energy was contagious.

He took a sip from his beer and started flipping through the clips, thumb clicking the side buttons as he searched for something. The screen flashed with blurry moments from the night, and you’d catch familiar faces and rooms, but he’d click onto the next one before you could really register any of them. Brian chuckled under his breath at one clip, then paused immediately on the next.

“Mmh— here,” he said, turning the screen toward you.

You took the camcorder from Brian’s hand, the small device surprisingly heavy for its size. You clicked the play button.

It was Tim.

He was out on the back porch, leaning against the railing with a cigarette between his teeth, just like always. The camera shook a little as Brian’s voice came through the speaker behind the screen, teasing the shorter man.

“Smile for the camera, Timothy.”

Tim turned his head, eyes narrowing with irritation. “Get that thing out of my face.”

Brian’s laugh crackled through. “Relax, man. It’s just for posterity.”

In the background, Jeff and Ben came strolling into frame, both of them already looking pretty gone. Jeff shoulder-checked Tim as he walked past, not even trying to be subtle.

“’Scuse me, old man,” Jeff headed toward the far end of the porch.

Tim grumbled something under his breath, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Jeff set his red Solo cup—probably full of tequila or vodka, knowing him—down on the railing next to him. He and Ben started rolling a joint, laughing about something stupid as they looked out towards the yard and away from their cups.

Brian leaned in closer on the recording, whispering something to Tim that the camera mic didn’t quite catch. Whatever it was, it made Tim’s mouth pull into a grin.

You watched as Tim casually reached over, picked up the ashtray he had sitting on the railing, and tipped it straight into Jeff’s cup. The ashes and cigarette butts settled into the liquor without a sound.

The clip ended with Jeff reaching for his drink, completely oblivious, as Tim and Brian briskly walked away and fumbled the camera off.

You let out a surprised laugh, looking up from the screen. Brian was grinning at you, clearly pleased with himself.

“He drank the whole thing,” he said, his tone warm with amusement. “Didn’t even notice until his entire drink was about gone”

You shook your head, “You two are evil.”

Brian shrugged, “I could always do worse.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can I look at some others?”

Brian nodded, satisfied to sit back and nurse his bottle.

You flipped through the library. There were dozens of short clips—some familiar faces, some you didn’t recognize at all. A lot of them were exactly what you’d expect from a party like this: full of blurry footage of people slamming drinks, someone throwing up into a plant, Jeff doing something stupid. Toby doing something stupid. You skipped past most of those pretty quickly.

Then you landed on one that made you pause. It was Toby.

He was standing in the kitchen, his head tilted back as he chugged a beer straight through the gash in his cheek. At the same time, he was trying to take a shot with his actual mouth. Beer and liquor both spilled messily down his chin and neck while he laughed. You cringed, nose wrinkling at the thought of the taste and the burn he wouldn’t feel.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, moving on to a clip of Kate.

She was curled up in the corner of the dining room, her arms wrapped tightly around Smile Dog like he was a giant stuffed animal. The massive canine looked surprisingly content, his tongue lolling out as she drunkenly scratched behind the husky’s ears. Kate’s voice came through the speaker, slurred and grumpy as it had been earlier.

“Go away, Brian… Leave us alone.”

Brian’s voice filtered through the speaker again. “Kate, you can’t bring him down here. Jeff’s gonna lose his shit if he sees you snuck him out of his room.”

Kate just hugged the dog tighter and flipped Brian off without looking up.

You flipped through a few more clips, skipping until your attention was caught again.

Brian was walking up the stairs, the camera pointed forward as he pushed past a few people crowding the hallway. He reached the bathroom door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. The camera pushed in as the door swung open.

Inside, Jane stood between Nina’s legs, Nina perched on the sink counter. The two of them were kissing, lost in the other and clearly not expecting company. Nina gasped against Jane’s mouth when she heard the door open, then goofily waved at the camera with a tipsy little grin. Jane whipped around and slammed the door shut so hard the camera shook.

Brian’s laugh crackled through the speaker right before the clip cut off.

You looked up at him, eyes wide with shock, but Brian just nodded. “Can’t wait to use that one later,” he grinned.

You let out a stunned laugh and shut the camcorder, handing it back to him. Brian took it and slid it into his back pocket again before draining the rest of his beer in one go.

“I never thought about how many people probably sneak around at parties like this,” you said, still a little amazed. “Or how many weird pairs end up together once everyone gets drunk.”

Brian set his empty bottle on the floor beside him and leaned his head back against the wall, looking at you down the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah. You’d be surprised. People get loose when there’s not a big boss around. All the tension, all the pretending… it comes out eventually.” He gave a shrug. “Sometimes it’s just for the night. Sometimes it sticks around longer than you meant for it to.”

He just eyed your expression as he spoke.

“Doesn’t always make sense,” he added, almost like he was talking to himself. “But that’s half the fun, I guess.”

You leaned your head back against the wall too, letting out a breath as you thought about what he said.

It was funny, really. Tonight felt different. People weren’t just tolerating each other like they usually did for the sake of missions and appearances with Slender. They were actually with the people they liked. EJ, Toby, and Natalie had been glued together all night, moving from room to room together like it was the most natural thing in the world for them. Jeff and Ben hanging out for more than ten minutes without fighting. And then there was Jane and Nina in that clip—which was clearly not their first time.

You let out a laugh.

“What?” Brian grinned.

“Nothing, just… thinking about how many weird pairs there are tonight,” you rambled. “Like, people are really hanging out with who they actually want to be around instead of who they’re forced to work with. It’s kind of nice.”

Brian hummed in agreement.

You kept going, the thought unfolding as you spoke. “And now here we are. You and me. That’s pretty unusual too, right? It could’ve been anyone in here with me. Could’ve been Tim. Or Jeff.” You shivered visibly at the last one and laughed. “God, imagine being stuck in here with him right now.”

Brian sat up a little straighter, keeping his speaking tone level.

“Would you have preferred it to be Jeff?” He kept his expression blank.

You shook your head quickly. “Nah. He’s too full of himself tonight. I don’t think I could’ve had an actual conversation with him without wanting to smack him.”

Brian chuckled at that, leaning back again. “Fair enough.” He then paused, before asking, “Is there anyone else you would’ve preferred it to be?”

You weighed the question for a second, staring at the dusty boxes across from you. Then you looked back at him.

“No,” you said honestly. “This is… nice. A lot less awkward than I thought it was gonna be.”

Brian’s demeanor softened. He looked at you for a long moment, before his tone evened out to a nice hum.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It is.”

You felt your cheeks warm a little and quickly tried to push the feeling down, focusing on picking at the beer label in your hands instead. You went to ask how much time he thought was left when—

A loud slam echoed through the walls, followed immediately by the sharp shatter of glass. The floorboards vibrated under you. It sounded like someone had taken a hard fall.

You went to speak—

Then another slam, this time quickly followed by loud voices and the thumping music cutting off. You sat up straighter. “Should we go check that out?”

Before Brian could answer, two voices rose above the rest—one of them unmistakably Toby’s, which was very loud and very angry. Brian was already climbing to his feet.

“Yeah,” he held out a hand to you, hauling you up when you took it. “Come on.”

The two of you pushed out of the closet and hurried down the hall. The moment you rounded the corner into the living room, the mess became clear. The lamp that used to sit on the coffee table was now in pieces across the floor, shards of glass scattered everywhere across the rug. Playing cards and half-empty bottles were scattered everywhere, like someone had swept an entire game off the table in one angry motion.

You looked left, finding Toby storming toward the front door, his shoulders up and tight, yelling at someone just ahead of him. Whoever it was yelled right back. The rest of the group was already spilling outside after them, the screen door slamming again and again.

You and Brian followed, stepping out into the brisk night air.

The night air hit you immediately, cool and refreshing after the stuffy warmth of the house and the intense amounts of cigarette smoke in the air. At the uproar, the party had migrated onto the front lawn and porch, forming a loose, noisy circle around whatever was happening out in the yard. You stepped down the porch steps with Brian right behind you, both of you pushing through the loose crowd.

In the center of it all stood Toby, his shoulders squared and fists clenched, looking mad as hell. And across from him, of course, was Jeff. Because who else would it be?

Brian came up beside you and let out a long, exhausted groan at the sight. “Every damn time. This kid.”

Before you could say anything, someone else slid up to your other side. You turned to see a worn out looking Tim with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, chewing tensely on the filter.

You opened your mouth to ask what happened, but Tim beat you to it, his tone drenched with irritation. “Tell your boy to give me my lighter back.”

Brian chuckled under his breath and reached into his pocket, pulling out the lighter with a sly, “Sorry, man. Must’ve slipped in there.” He handed it over, and Tim snatched it, lighting his cigarette quickly.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke and muttered, “This is the second fight tonight. Christ.”

You glanced between them. “What happened?”

Tim took another long pull from his cigarette, his tired eyes roaming the scene before you. “They were playing King’s Cup. Jeff made some nasty fucking comment about Natalie. Called her Toby’s ‘sleeve,’ said he could show her a much better time and wouldn’t ghost her at the end of the night like Toby does.”

He shook his head, smoke pushing through his nose.

“I watched Toby fly across that table like a goddamn dog. That’s when I told them both to take it outside before they break anything else in the house. If they wanna fight, they can fight out here.”

Brian sighed beside you, running a hand through his hair. “Should’ve known it was gonna end up like this.”

Tim just continued to nurse his cigarette, muttering under his breath, “Idiots.”

Jeff went first.

With a big smile splitting his face, he launched himself at Toby like an animal. The collision was a very heavy thud of bodies hitting each other, then the grass. Toby hit the ground on his back under the weight of Jeff, but he didn’t stay down. Within seconds they were a mess of limbs, fists, and grunts, rolling and scrambling for the upper hand as they slapped and punched at the other.

Jeff got the first real swing in first, clipping Toby’s jaw just enough to make his head snap to the side. Everyone flinched at the sight, but Toby couldn't feel the pain of the impact. Instead, he drove his elbow straight into Jeff’s ribs, shoving hard and fast enough that you heard the impact. Jeff made a shrill noise, like a pained laugh, before grabbing a fistful of Toby’s hoodie and yanking him forward, cracking his forehead into Toby’s nose.

Brian crossed his arms beside you, shaking his head. “Not a smart idea to get into a punching match with a guy who can’t feel your punches,” he muttered dryly.

You nodded, eyes glued to the fight. Toby was landing hits one after the other, sending punches that looked like they should’ve hurt way more than Jeff made them seem like they did. Jeff was faster and more careless, smiling through every hit like the pain fueled him. Blood was already starting to show through a cut above Toby’s eyebrow from Jeff, and a nasty split in Jeff’s lip that had opened and was now dripping down his chin.

It was incredibly interesting to see how they fought now that they were impaired with alcohol and other things. Toby, who tonight had been nothing but a funny drunk, was now the embodiment of hatred. You don’t think you’ve seen his face this dead set on someone before, let alone this passionate about a fight. And Jeff? He just seemed like he was having more fun. All over a stupid comment about a stupid problem.

You scanned the crowd quickly. Natalie was nowhere in sight. At least not near the fight.

“Nat’s not here,” you said quietly.

Brian shrugged. “If somebody called out my weird cookout relationship like that, I probably wouldn’t want to stick around for the fight either.”

He nudged your side with his elbow, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out his camcorder. He held it out to you expectantly.

You lit up a little, rolling your eyes even as you took it. “You’re terrible.”

Still, you flipped it open, turned it on, and angled it discreetly toward the fight, pretending you were just holding it casually. The little screen flickered to life as you started recording. You captured it all. On the lawn, Jeff had finagled his way on top of Toby and was raining down punches. Toby blocked some with his forearms, then suddenly bucked his hips and flipped them over, slamming Jeff into the dirt. He got a solid hit in—a nasty right hook that snapped Jeff’s head to the side and sent blood spraying from his already split lip and now his nose too.

“You talk about her like that again and I’ll cut off your dick and feed it to your mutt.” Toby growled, snarling his teeth.

Jeff just laughed, kicking at the other. “What’s the matter, twitchy? Can’t handle the truth? She deserves better than your defective ass—”

Toby cut off his sentence with a punch to the jaw.

The crowd reacted in waves—some cheering them on, others groaning or shouting for them to stop. You caught Ben and Nina in the crowd, both of them onlooking the fight and cringing every time Jeff got hit. Alternatively, Kate was drunkenly yelling for Toby to smear Jeff’s face on the pavement.

Toby let out a furious shout and shoved Jeff off him with both hands, sending the other boy scrambling backward across the grass. Jeff’s grin never faltered. He shuffled back on his hands until his fingers closed around something on the ground. You couldn’t quite make it out through the camcorder screen at first, but when you looked up, your stomach turned a little in your gut.

Jeff had grabbed a discarded beer bottle someone littered in the yard. In one sharp motion, he smashed it against the ground. Glass shattered, broken shards shooting out into the grass. He rose back to his feet holding the broken neck, the jagged shards pointing outward like a crude knife.

Tim dropped his cigarette from his mouth and stomped it out. “Alright, that’s enough,” he grumbled. “Someone’s gonna end up killed.”

Brian groaned beside you, clearly disappointed that the entertainment was ending. “I wanted to see who wins, though…” He shot you a gapped toothy grin. Tim shot him a withering look instead and started forward. Brian sighed but followed, both of them pushing through the circle of onlookers to break it up.

But the second Jeff saw them coming, his wild eyes lit up as he spun around, brandishing the broken bottle toward Tim and Brian like it was a real weapon.

Toby was panting on the ground, but grabbed a handful on dirt and flung it at the two approaching, “I don’t need your fu-fucking help.”

But when did Tim and Brian listen to anyone but Slender?

Jeff lunged at Brian with the glass, swiping wildly to try and get a hit in. Brian took a last-minute step to the side, grabbing Jeff’s wrist to keep the jagged edge away from his face. At the same time, Toby scrambled up and threw himself at Tim, who cursed loudly as he tried to restrain the boy without hurting the both of them.

You kept the camcorder going.

Toby was swinging at Tim with reckless abandon, screaming something about not needing babysitters. He’d seemingly forgotten about Jeff, who was now trying to stab at Brian, the two of them grappling at each other and trying to get a good hold. Brian was clearly trying to de-escalate while also not getting sliced open, while Tim was using his size to pin Toby down, grumbling the whole time about “goddamn children,” and their “dicks for brains.”

Fiddling with the camera to try and find the zoom button, you felt someone step up beside you and turned your head. EJ looked thoroughly bored by the whole spectacle unfolding before him, seemingly coming from inside the house.

“Where’s Nat?” you asked.

Jack let out a tired grumble. “She ran off somewhere with a bottle of whiskey. Probably doesn’t want to be disturbed right now.”

You nodded, turning your attention back to the fight just in time to see Toby land a solid punch on Tim’s jaw. Tim had been trying to pull him off Jeff, but the hit made him stagger back a step, cursing before he stepped back in.

You glanced at EJ again. “Why aren’t you getting in on this too?”

He grinned, showcasing the sharp points of his teeth. “I fight my own battles.”

You went to laugh, but the sound hadn’t even fully left your mouth before a blur of movement slammed into you from the side. The camcorder flew from your hands, clattering somewhere in the grass. The impact knocked the air straight out of your lungs as your back hit the hard ground. A heavy weight landed on top of you, pinning you down.

You grabbed at the body instinctively—and found yourself staring up at Jeff’s bloodied, grinning face inches from yours.

“Whoops,” his voice sounded hoarse. “Hi, pretty.”

He panted as he hovered above you, droplets of blood sliding down his chin and the front of his shirt. One hand braced beside your head, the other fisted in the front of your shirt from the collision. He looked completely unrepentant—and way too pleased with himself.

You cringed, but were too stunned and out of breath to shove him off of you the way you wanted to. His tangled hair fell like a curtain around his face. “Didn’t mean to knock you over like that,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Though… I’m not complaining about the view.”

You tried to scramble Jeff off of you, shoving at his chest with avail, but before you could get any leverage, Tim’s voice cut through the noise like a whip, “Brian—!”

Behind Jeff’s shoulder, you saw Brian—the picture of absolute hatred. He grabbed a fistful of Jeff’s hair and hauled him upright in one brutal motion, then slammed him down into the dirt in the opposite direction.

You scrambled up as quickly as you could. Jack steadied you with a hand on your arm as you both watched the fight explode into something much messier than what it was previously.

You think Brian might kill him.

He didn’t hold back. His fists came down hard and fast, knuckles cracking against Jeff’s face with wet, ugly sounds. Jeff laughed at first, like he always does, but it soon turned into grunts and curses as Brian kept swinging. Toby and Tim rushed in, trying to pull Brian off, but Brian was furious, locked in on nothing else. He shook them off like they weighed nothing, landing another heavy punch that split Jeff’s cheek open.

You wiped dirt and grass from your clothes, your heart hammering in your chest, when Jeff suddenly snatched the broken beer bottle again. He swung blindly, catching Brian across the shoulder and then the side. Blood immediately soaked through Brian’s shirt, dark stains spreading across the fabric.

You yelled out, cringing at every thunk of fist on flesh.

Eventually Jeff struggled his way out from under the brunet, his nose clearly broken but going completely ignored. He looked feral, if anything.

You watched as EJ moved from his spot next to you.

The tall figure walked straight into the fray, grabbed Jeff by the back of the neck with one large hand, and shoved his head down toward the ground. Jeff struggled, snarling and swinging, but EJ’s strength was undeniable. He held him in place like a disobedient dog, guiding him away from Brian with terrifying ease.

You rushed over to Brian. He was still on one knee, breathing hard, blood seeping through the rips in his clothes. You grabbed his arm and helped pull him up, ducking under his shoulder so he could lean his weight on you.

“I’ve got you,” you said, acting as a crutch while he steadied himself. Brian winced but didn’t complain, one hand pressing against the cut on his side. His face was tight with pain and lingering anger, but he let you support most of his weight.

Around you, the yard was loud with overlapping voices of laughter and conversation, but you couldn’t focus elsewhere at the moment. Tim had finally gotten a solid hold on Toby, who was still whirring with adrenaline and spitting curses. Jack kept Jeff held next to him. He gave Toby and Brian a quick once-over before turning to Tim.

“Take Toby on a walk,” he said firmly. “Get him away from here.”

Tim nodded without argument, grabbing Toby by the back of his hoodie and steering him toward the treeline. Toby was still muttering curses under his breath, but he let himself be led away.

Jack’s gaze shifted to you and Brian. “There are spare bandages and stuff in the laundry room. Take him there. I’ll handle Jeff.”

Jeff immediately started cursing. “The fuck you will, you freak—”

But EJ was already moving, hauling Jeff toward the house without a word. The two of them disappeared inside, Jeff still spitting insults the whole way.

You slipped your arm more securely around Brian’s torso. “Come on.”

Brian winced as you helped him up the porch steps, but he didn’t complain. Halfway across the yard he paused you, bending down with a small groan to scoop up his camcorder from the grass. He tucked it into his pocket.

The house felt strangely quiet after all the yelling outside. You guided Brian down the hall, pushed open the laundry room door, and flipped on the light. The fluorescent bulb buzzed to life overhead as you shut the door behind you, cutting off the distant noise from outside. Brian leaned against the dryer and tried catching his breath. His gray zip-up was dark with blood in a couple places, it having soaked through his shirt now. You turned to the cabinets and started rifling through them, looking for the first aid supplies.

“You alright?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder as you pulled out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a box of medical wrap and bandages. Brian let out a tired huff and started shrugging off his jacket, wincing when the fabric pulled at the cuts on his shoulder and side.

“I’ve had worse,” he strained. “Jeff’s got a mean swing when he’s pissed, but he’s sloppy. Mostly got my shoulder and side.”

You set the supplies on the counter and turned to look at him properly. The cuts weren’t too deep, but they were bleeding steadily, and bruises were already starting to bloom across his skin. You grabbed a clean towel from one of the shelves and stepped closer. 

“You’re gonna have to take your shirt off,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I can’t clean them properly like this.”

Brian smiled at you, which turned into a chuckle. “If you just wanted to get my shirt off, you could’ve asked nicely.”

You swatted at his arm, your cheeks burning hotter with every second. “Shut up and take it off.”

He obliged with a small hiss of pain, reaching back to pull the black t-shirt over his head. The fabric dragged against the cuts, making him grimace.

Your eyes betrayed you the second the shirt came off.

Brian was… unfairly built. Neat, blond hair dusted across his chest, trailing down over the defined lines of his abs. His shoulders and arms were strong and corded from years of rough work, and a sharp V-line disappearing beneath his belt buckle made your mouth go a little dry. The happy trail that led downward only made it worse. He wasn’t even doing anything, and yet just looking at him felt vulgar.

You had to physically blink yourself out of it before stepping closer.

You pressed the clean towel against the worst of the bleeding on his side. Being this close to him made the already small laundry room feel more cramped than the closet, which definitely had significantly less room. You could feel the heat rolling off his skin, could almost see steam rising where the cool air met his body. The bleeding had mostly slowed, but the cuts were still open enough that they needed covering to prevent any infection. You dabbed carefully, trying to be as gentle as possible.

“Sorry,” you whispered when he groaned.

“It’s okay,” Brian teased. “I can take it. I’m tough.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled despite yourself. Once the area was as clean as you could get it with the towel, you picked up a rag from the same laundry stack and wetted it with the hydrogen peroxide.

“This might burn,” you warned.

He nodded, tightening his jaw as you pressed the rag to the cuts. He hissed through his teeth but stayed still, one hand gripping the edge of the dryer for support.

You worked in silence for a moment before the question slipped out. “Why did you fight Jeff like that?” you dabbed at a particularly nasty slice on his shoulder.

Brian didn’t answer right away. You glanced up at his face. His gaze was softer now, more focused on your face than on the pain.

“Is it because he fell on me?” you asked quietly. “It was an accident, Brian.”

He shook his head, eyes fixed somewhere above your head now. “It wasn’t.”

You paused, looking up at him. “What do you mean?”

Brian let out a deep breath. “Jeff saw you weren’t looking. He crashed into you on purpose. He knew it would piss me off.”

You blinked, processing his words. Your hand stilled against his side. “Are you… jealous?”

Brian didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted slightly so you could reach the cut under his arm better, ignoring your question. “He hurt you on purpose,” that was the only thing that mattered.

You didn’t push the jealousy question. “Still… nobody else reacted the way you did.”

Brian stayed silent as you finished cleaning the last of the cuts. You tore open a few bandage packets and started placing the squares over the worst ones, smoothing medical tape over them with careful fingers. He moved when you needed him to, lifting his arm or turning slightly without complaint.

When you were almost done, he spoke again, startling you a bit.

“He didn’t hurt you at all, did he?”

You shook your head. “Just knocked me down. I’m fine.”

“I’ll kill him.”

You let out a surprised laugh. “Why are you so mad?”

He didn’t answer.

You pressed another bandage into place, then looked up at him. “You’re dodging my questions. That’s three tonight.”

Brian huffed, exasperated that you’d called him out. “I’m not dodging. You’re just asking very difficult things.”

You raised an eyebrow, wiping your hands on the towel. “Okay. Fine. Simple questions only.” You smoothed one last piece of tape over his ribs. “What made you get so mad at Jeff?”

Brian watched you for a long moment. “Because he hurt you,” was all he said.

You sighed. “I’m not hurt.”

“You could’ve been.”

The words hung between you. You leaned back a little, studying him as you crossed your arms and reviewed your work. Brian’s bare chest rose and fell steadily under your gaze, the fresh bandages standing out against his skin, but staying secure nonetheless. It was a hack job, but at least he wasn’t bleeding anymore.

“Okay. You so many questions. My turn.” Brian crossed his arms. “Jeff hit you. Why aren’t you angry?”

You thought about it, then shrugged. “Because I know he’s an idiot. He does stuff like that to get a rise out of people, to get attention. If he actually wanted to hurt me, he would’ve been. It wasn’t about me. It was about getting under your skin.”

Brian looked at you for a long second, then glanced down at the fresh bandages on his side. He smoothed his fingers over one of them absently.

You crossed your arms too. “Why didn’t you haul Jeff off of Toby in the first place instead of jumping in?”

“Because Toby needed to get a little of his own back,” Brian said. “And he had a reason to fight.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t?”

Brian shook his head, a little smile tugging at his mouth. “My turn.”

You grumbled but let him have it.

“Did I look cool fighting Jeff?” he asked, completely serious.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the question breaking your faux seriousness. “Yeah. You looked awesome.”

Brian’s grin widened, pleased with himself. But you quickly got back on track. “Why do you keep asking me questions about Jeff?” 

He shrugged. “Just want to know your opinions on him.”

You opened your mouth to ask another, but Brian was already speaking again.

“Why are you being such an interrogator tonight?”

“I’m not,” you said, a little defensive. Then you turned it back on him. “Why are you being so defensive? You literally fought for me in front of everyone, but now you won’t even answer my questions about why?”

Brian blew out a long breath and ran a hand over his face. He looked tired all of a sudden, but more of a restless type.

You pressed anyway, asking the same question from before. “Are you jealous of Jeff?”

He didn’t answer right away. The feeling of this silence was more thick than the cigarette smoke outside. Then Brian pushed off the dryer and stepped forward, crowding your space until your hips were nearly against the dryer. He looked down at you, grumbling as he spoke.

“No.”

You swallowed. “Liar.”

Brian’s eyes stayed on yours. For a moment, the only sound was your own heartbeat in your ears. When he spoke, he basically mumbled it.

“I don’t want anyone’s hands touching you but mine.”

It was around that moment that you began to smell the dried blood and peroxide in the air, and it made you a bit dizzy. Paired with the intense rush of adrenaline that shot through your gut at those words, you couldn’t do anything but blink at him. You could feel the warmth coming off his bare chest. Your hands itched to reach out, but you kept them at your sides, your heart racing as you looked up at him.

The outside world felt very far away now.

“Was that too forward?” His eyes looked all over your face, eyeing any expression you’d make.

You swallowed, throat suddenly very dry. “No.” The word came out quieter than you meant it to.

Brian let out a deep breath. Then his hands moved. They came up from his sides and settled on the edge of the dryer on either side of your hips, effectively pinning you back against the machine. The heat of his bare skin radiated toward you close enough that you could feel it even without him fully touching you.

Your heart kicked into a wild pace. Your eyes couldn’t decide where to settle—darting between his face and the toned lines of his chest, the sheen of sweat drying on his skin from the fight, the fresh bandages you’d just put on him. It was all so close.

It was your turn to ask something. You forced the words out.

“Why did you get so mad at Jeff… really?”

Brian breathed in deeply, his chest rising and falling right in front of you. For a moment he didn’t answer. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes.

“Because it made me so fucking mad,” he admitted, his voice turning a little gritty, “seeing him on you like that. He was so careless. Like you were just something to push around. He wouldn’t know how to handle you. He wouldn’t know what to do with you if he tried.”

The words hit you square in the chest. You stared at him, stunned into silence again. Brian watched your expression carefully, like he was bracing for you to pull away or tell him to stop.

Then, “Is this okay?”

He slid one hand from the edge of the dryer to rest on your hip. His palm was warm but rough from years of hauling weapons and bodies. The skin underneath erupted with goosebumps. His thumb brushed an absent circle over the fabric of your shirt.

You nodded, barely trusting your voice. Your hand came up slowly, your fingers wrapping around the forearm of the hand he still had braced on the dryer. Brian’s eyes flicked down to where you touched him, watching for a moment before his other hand slid from your hip up to the small of your waist, settling just atop your ribs. He leaned in just a tad closer.

You swallowed around the question you needed to ask. “Are you only doing this because you’re drunk and you want to hook up?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it. Your mind flashed back to your talk earlier—all those drunken pairs, Nina and Jane in the bathroom, the way people get when they’re under substances and lonely.

But Brian shook his head, giving you a certain look. “I’m not drunk.”

You blinked at him. “I’m… not either.”

He grinned just a bit. His thumb swept slowly across your side, catching just under the curve of your breast. The feeling made you gasp.

Brain looked at your lips. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t even have to think about it. “Yeah,” you whispered.

You both leaned in at the same time.

Your hand slid from his forearm up to his jaw, cupping his face as your lips met. Brian’s mouth was soft against yours, tasting faintly of beer and cigarette ash. Then he tilted his head slightly, deepening it, and everything seemed to melt in your brain and your nerves.

His hand on your waist pulled you closer, pressing your hips against his as his jaw worked to kiss you as deep as he could. You sighed into his mouth, your fingers sliding into the short hair at the nape of his neck and gripping there. Brian made a quiet sound in response and gripped at your waist a little harder.

When you finally pulled back for air, your foreheads stayed pressed together. Brian’s eyes were half-lidded, breathing a little uneven as his thumb continued its soothing stroke along your side.

“Been wanting to do that for a while,” he admitted.

You let out a shaky laugh, still cupping his jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pecked at your lips. “Way longer than just tonight.”

Brian kissed you again. Both of his hands settled on your waist, sliding slowly over the fabric of your shirt, exploring the curves he found. “I was so happy when the bottle landed on me,” he admitted between kisses. “I wanted to tell you. Wanted to kiss you the second we stepped in here. But you seemed content to just hang out and talk… so I was okay with that too.”

“You should’ve.”

Brian shook his head. “But when Jeff hit you… I was so mad. I just wanted to tear him to pieces. I didn’t know what to do with it.”

He leaned down a little, his hands sliding behind your thighs. In one smooth motion, he hauled you upward. You gripped his shoulders for balance, careful of his bandages, as he lifted you onto the top of the dryer, stepping between your legs. His hands splayed over your thighs, pushing them open just a little wider so he could press in as close as possible.

Then he kissed you again.

Your hands came up to cup either side of his jaw, and Brian made a frustrated noise as he spoke between more kisses.

“Jeff wouldn’t know how to touch you,” he murmured against your mouth. “Wouldn’t know how to be gentle. Wouldn’t know what you like… how you sound when you’re feeling good.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, raising an eyebrow at his statements. “And you do?”

He nodded very seriously, as if that were even a question.

“I can show you,” he mumbled. “If you’ll let me.”

Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, tugging you forward until you were sitting right on the edge of the dryer. He stepped in closer, pressing his hips between your spread legs.

You felt him immediately—felt the hard, unmistakable outline of his cock pushing against you through both your jeans. You couldn’t help but gasp. Your hand flew down to his abdomen, your palm pressing flat against his warm skin to keep him from pressing any harder. You didn’t know if you could handle it right now. You let your other hand fall behind you, bracing your weight up. His abs were firm under your fingers, and the heat of him made your head spin.

“We shouldn’t do this in here,” you whispered.

Brian’s eyes stayed locked on yours.

“But you want to,” he hummed. “I can see it.”

You shivered, glancing over his shoulder at the closed laundry room door. “Someone could come in… there’s not even a lock on that door.”

Brian didn’t answer with words. Instead, he rolled his hips forward in the barest grind against your clothed center. Your eyes fluttered shut at the friction, a quiet groan catching in your throat. When you opened them again, Brian was looking down between your bodies, watching the way he pressed against you with heavy-lidded eyes.

The sight of him like that made something hot twist in your stomach.

Your hand slid from his abs down to the waistband of his jeans. Your fingers curled into the hem, gripping his belt. Then, almost without thinking, you tugged him forward, pulling his hips firmer against yours.

Brian’s eyes rolled back slightly as he grabbed your hips, letting you guide the rhythm while he ground against your clothed cunt. Sparks shot through your entire body with every slow roll of his hips against yours.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Your resolve was dissolving by the second, and as Brian began to speak endlessly, it didn’t help in the slightest.

“That’s it… feels so good already,” he breathed. “Look at that cute face. You feel good, don’t you?”

He pulled back just enough to give a little faux thrust between your legs, bumping his hard cock right against your center through your jeans. The quick bump made you jump, a sharp whine escaping you. Brian grinned against your lips as he leaned in, clearly enjoying your reaction, and did it again. And again.

He kept that rhythm—grinding hard when your hips met, then pulling back to give those teasing thrusts that made your thighs tremble. Somewhere in the middle of it, one of his hands slid up from your hip, cupping your chest over your shirt. His thumb brushed across your nipple through the fabric, and your head fell back against the wall.

“Brian—” you whined as quietly as you could.

“Tell me how you feel,” he murmured.

You swallowed, trying to catch your breath. “It feels good… really good. But you have to talk quieter. Please.”

Brian laughed quietly. “It’ll be alright,” he whispered. “Nobody’s coming in here.”

Before you could respond, he gripped your hips and tugged you off the dryer, setting you on your feet. He turned you around, pressing up behind you until your hips met the edge of the machine again. You braced your hands against the cool metal as he pushed forward, grinding his cock against your ass through your jeans.

Brian’s arms came around your waist, hugging your torso from behind as he pulled you back against his chest. His lips found your cheek, then your jaw, kissing you softly while he rolled his hips in little pushes.

“You okay?” his lips brushed against your ear. “I can stop if you want me to.”

You shook your head quickly. “No… just be easy.”

He hummed, “I’ll be so easy for you.”

His hands slipped under the hem of your shirt and his palms splayed across your stomach. He explored anything he could feel, his fingers tracing your skin as he pulled you tighter against him. Then his hands traveled higher, cupping your chest over your bra and squeezing handfuls.

You tried your best to push back against him, rolling your hips in time with his, but Brian was doing most of the work of guiding you with his hands and the rhythm of his body. Every grind against you made you feel the hard length of him, the friction sending heat curling up through your stomach.

“Can I finger you?” he whispered.

You barely had time to nod before his hands slid down your stomach, his fingers deftly popping the button of your jeans open. He tugged your zipper down, and you felt your face growing hotter by the second. 

“Why do you have to be so vulgar?” you groaned.

Brian chuckled, “I like how you react.” He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and panties together and started pulling them down your hips. “Can I?”

You nodded quickly. “Yeah…”

He pushed your jeans down just past your hips, letting them bunch around your thighs. The cool air hit your exposed cunt and you shivered, but Brian made sure to quickly warm you up. 

“These are cute,” he murmured, running his fingers along the waistband of your panties before tugging them the rest of the way down with your jeans. “But they’re in the way.”

His hands roamed over you—his palms sliding across your pelvis, your upper thighs, then between them. You pushed your hips back against him instinctively and Brian groaned when his fingers finally pushed between your folds, feeling just how wet you were.

“Fuck… you’re soaked,” His middle finger found your clit immediately and started rubbing eager, tight circles. You gripped his forearm as you whined, gritting your teeth.

“I should’ve done this sooner,” he groaned. “You clearly need it.”

His fingertips teased at your entrance, massaging the tight ring of muscle before swiping back up to your clit. You reached back with one hand, threading your fingers into his hair as he kissed and nipped at your neck, whispering filthy little comments between kisses.

“Would anybody else be able to make you feel this good? Nah, just me.”

Your hips rocked against his hand. Brian pressed his middle finger against your entrance and slowly pushed it inside.

You groaned, falling forward a little to brace against the dryer. The little stretch felt so good it made your head spin.

Brian hummed. “Ah, you can take more than that.”

Before you could respond, he pushed a second thick finger in alongside the first, stretching your cunt open. You clamped your hand over your mouth to muffle the moan that tried to escape, your eyes squeezing shut as pleasure flooded through you. His fingers curled and pressed against your insides.

“Brian—hold on—”

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He fingered you irritatingly slowly, letting his knuckles push in and out rhythmically. You felt every bit of it—the stretch, the drag, the way his fingers curled and pressed against your walls with intent. Your eyes rolled back each time his knuckles sank back into you.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Brian huffed. “Gonna stretch you out nice and slow, don’t you worry.”

“It feels good… really good—”

“You think Jeff could make you feel like this?” His fingers curled distinctly on each word, like he was making a point. “Think his fingers could do this?”

You let out a frustrated whine. “Can you not talk about another guy right now?”

Brian chuckled, “Sorry, hun. I just want you to know exactly who’s making you feel this good.”

You melted a little at the pet name. “You are,” you whispered.

“Yeah, I know,” he kissed your temple. “Let me hear how good it feels.”

He pumped his fingers a little faster, thrusting deeper and more thoroughly than before, the wet squelching sounds of his hand working between your legs filling the small room. You moaned openly now, unable to hold your voice back, your hips rocking back to meet every movement as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core.

Brian’s free hand left the warmth under your shirt and moved behind you. You heard the clink and shuffle of his belt buckle coming undone, followed by the sound of his zipper. A fresh rush of anxiety hit you as he shoved the front of his jeans down against your ass, then pushed his boxers down too. Something hot, heavy, and wet pressed against your bare skin. You felt him grip himself, tapping the thick head of his cock against your ass a couple of times.

Your hand flew back, gripping his hip tightly.

“Wait— Brian, wait a minute,” you panted.

He tugged his fingers from your insides, taking to steadying you instead with his hand on your hip. “What’s the matter?”

You looked back over your shoulder at him. Your eyes trailed down his body—the strong shoulders, the defined chest, the sharp V-line and happy trail that led lower—and then you saw it.

Oh my god.

He was long. Nauseatingly. Thick enough to match the rest of his tall, toned frame. The flushed red tip glistened with pre and throbbed against your skin. It looked intimidating resting against your ass.

You faced forward again, whispering under your breath, “Oh my god…”

Brian made a funny “ahh” sound, like he understood immediately what was troubling you.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “If I’m gonna fuck you, it’s gonna be in a much better setting than this dusty old room.”

You felt a strange little pang of disappointment in your chest. You turned your head slightly, wanting to say something, but decided against it.

Brian noticed anyway. “What’s wrong?”

You stayed quiet. After a second, he let out another soft “ahhh,” like the realization had clicked. You wanted to flog him for saying “ahh” more than once at a time like this.

“I know what you like,” he murmured.

He pushed his flat hand on your back, guiding you to lean further over the dryer. You braced your hands on the cool metal as he tapped the thick head of his cock against your skin again, then angled it downward.

You opened your mouth to say “wait,” but Brian was already moving.

He slid the hot length of his cock between the gap in your thighs, pressing it up firmly against your soaked cunt from below. The thick shaft nestled perfectly between your folds, the head nudging out past your clit.

“Fuck… do you feel that?” Brian breathed against the back of your neck as he leaned over you. “Haha, you’re gonna kill me.”

He rolled his hips again, letting the thick length of him slide back and forth between your thighs, rubbing right against your clit with every pass. Paired with the slickness of you, it felt maddening.

Brian groaned happily. “That’s it… Here, here. Press your thighs together a bit more. Yeahh, like that.”

You did as you were told, and it pushed Brian’s cock against your cunt more firmly. The two of you sighed, holding onto anything and everything to stabilize yourselves as Brian began to shallowly fuck your thighs. The head of his cock would catch on your clit, then push through the front of your thighs, before retreating right back in.

You moaned as Brian’s fingertips dug into your hips, tugging you back against him with every pass. The friction of his cock sliding between your thighs and against your soaked cunt was driving you crazy.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he pantsd. “Soaking my cock like this… You’d love it if I just pushed into you right now, huh?”

You gave a little “yeah, yeah” pushing back against him. But you felt his pace falter and his hips turn a bit like he was reaching for something behind him. You turned to look over your shoulder, just to see Brian had fished out his camcorder and was turning it on.

You turned your head away quickly. “Brian—”

“Shh. I wanted to document all of tonight,” he muttered, flipping the screen open. He watched as the screen lit up and started recording. “This is arguably the most important moment.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t stop him. Instead, you bent forward a little more over the dryer, arching your back and pushing your ass out toward him.

Brian groaned in approval. He kept one hand on the camcorder, angling it down to capture the sight of his cock sliding between your thighs, while his other hand returned to your hip. He started thrusting again, slower this time, letting the wet head of his cock drag along your folds and bump against your clit with every pass.

The new angle made your ass slap softly against his pelvis with each bump of his hips, a little rhythmic pat-pat-pat that filled the room alongside your shaky breaths.

“Goddamn… look at that,” Brian muttered. “On the camera it looks like I’m actually fucking you. Hnn, I wish I was inside you right now.”

You moaned louder, arching your back even more so the tip of his cock bumped harder against your clit on every thrust. 

“You want that?” he played at the thought. “Just say the word and I’ll fuck you right here, hun.”

Filthy promises. Filthy promises that made your stomach flip over on itself.

“I think… I think I want to cum,” you whimpered, each thrust punching the words from your mouth.

You could hear him smile as he spoke, “That works too.”

He pulled the camcorder away from where he’d been filming your ass and reached around in front of you, setting it on the top of the dryer before you. The lens pointed directly at your torso and below. The little red recording light blinked rhythmically, capturing it all.

You suddenly felt very embarrassed about your compromising position. You brought both hands up to cover your face when you felt your cheeks begin to burn.

Brian didn’t like that much.

He caught your wrists and pulled them down, folding your arms behind your back. You felt his strong hand come to grasp your wrists, contorting your arms behind you. His other hand returned to your hip, an iron grip pressing into your skin as he fucked your legs.

You moaned out loud, pulling weakly against his grip, but it was useless. He was so much stronger than you. You wondered if anyone could hear the noises you were making, or at least the tink, tink of Brian’s belt buckle hitting against the back of your thighs every time he thrusted. Probably. The thought made your face burn even hotter.

Fuck… you were gonna cum.

You looked down between your pressed-together legs, watching the flushed, drooling tip of Brian’s cock thrust back and forth, breaching between your thighs before retreating back in. The sight was obscene. You couldn’t stop staring.

How did it look on camera? You thought through your dizzy haze. Was the lens catching your face right now? Would they be able to see your mouth falling open? Or how badly you were shaking? You couldn’t stop. Would Brian watch this back later? Would he jerk himself off to it in his room, replaying the sounds you made? Would he show it to Tim? To Toby? Would he use it as blackmail against you someday?

The thought should have horrified you.

It didn’t.

If it felt this good without him even fucking you yet… you’d probably let him do whatever he wanted.

Brian must have noticed how lost you were in your own head, because he suddenly wrapped both arms around your middle, hugging your body tight against his chest. The warmth of him surrounded you completely.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

You turned your head, and the moment you did, he caught your lips in a hungry kiss. Your arms were trapped between your back and his torso, feeling the flex and tension of his muscles as he moved. You pushed your hands lower, sliding them down until your fingers brushed the trail of hair on his pelvis, then wrapped around the thick base of his cock.

Brian hissed sharply against your mouth, his hips stuttering for a moment at your touch.

You could feel how wet he was—his length soaked from sliding between your folds, practically pulsing in your grip. He was rock hard.

“You feel how hard I am for you?” he smiled.

You nodded frantically, squeezing the base of his cock as he started thrusting between your thighs again, and now thrusting into your hand. The grip let you angle him so the head of his cock rubbed right against your clit directly instead of bumping it as it passed. Brian’s arms tightened around you, holding you up as your legs started to shake.

“If you keep doing that…” he panted, “I’m gonna cum. Yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna cum.”

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The pressure was too much, too good. Your climax snuck up on you suddenly, crashing over you without warning.

Your eyes clamped shut as your body went limp in his arms. Your walls clenched pitifully around nothing, pulsing as waves of pleasure ripped through you. You rode the length of his cock desperately, grinding your clit against him as you couldn’t do much more than whine.

Brian grunted, “Me too—me too, fuck—show the camera, hun. Tell ‘em how good you feel.”

You gasped, barely able to form words as your orgasm rolled through your muscles. “I’m cumming—Brian, I’m cuu-cumming—” you babbled. “Feels so good—oh god—mmhn—”

“Yeah, you are,” his words were slurred a bit. “I can feel it. Fuuuck, I feel you throbbing—”

His hips could barely stutter forward anymore. He hurriedly reached over and grabbed the towel you’d used earlier, pressing it against your thighs right where the head of his cock kept popping out between them.

“Gonna cum—” that was all the warning you got.

You felt him throb against you. Then he was spilling thick ropes of cum into the towel as he buried his hips as firmly as he could against your ass. His fingers dug into the skin of your waist, branding into your muscles.

You felt the warm stickiness of his cum press against the front of your thighs, soaking into the towel.

It felt like an eternity before Brian’s arms around you eventually loosened, and when they did, your legs gave out. You slumped forward, bracing yourself against the dryer with both hands as you lost all the strength you previously had.

Brian chuckled and reached past you to grab the camcorder. You blindly fumbled for it first, shutting the screen and ending the recording before he could think to capture anything else embarrassing of you. He took the device from your hand and set it aside, then grabbed a fresh towel from the stack of laundry. He was gentle as he cleaned you up, making sure to wipe the mess from between your thighs, along your skin, careful not to press too hard where you were still sensitive. Once you were clean, he took care of himself, wiping the bits of cum and your arousal from his cock and lower stomach before tossing the dirty towel aside.

You tried to push yourself upright, but Brian’s hands were already on your thighs and tugging your panties and jeans back up your legs. He helped you wiggle lthem over your hips before spinning you around to face him. He pressed your hips back against the dryer, caging you in with his body like he had before.

“Fuck you,” you muttered, though there was no real heat behind it.

Brian just smiled his little crooked smile that showed the little gap between his front teeth and reached down to zip and button your jeans for you. He cupped your jaw as he tilted your face up to his. He kissed you again, slower to savor the moment, or maybe something dumb like that.

“Thank you,” he hummed.

You blinked up at him, a little dazed. Then you reached behind you, grabbed the camcorder, and handed it back to him. Brian took it with a nod and slid it into his back pocket. “This will come in handy later.”

You rolled your eyes, but your gaze dropped to his shoulder and ribs. The fresh bandages you’d put on him were already blooming with red stains, the cuts having restarted their bleeding due to all the jostling and movement.

“Fuck, Brian,” you hissed, reaching out to gently touch the edge of one bandage that was peeling up a little. “They’re bleeding again.”

He glanced down at himself, then back up at you with an unrepentant grin.

“I didn’t want to stop,” he said simply with a shrug.

Now that your senses were starting to come back online, you could hear the music had restarted in the living room. Underneath it was the dull rumble of conversation, people laughing and shouting like the fight outside had already been forgotten and their quarrels were set aside.

You pressed off the dryer, testing the steadiness of your legs before deciding they were usable. Brian reached down and grabbed his torn shirt and blood-stained jacket off the floor. He pulled them over his head and cringed, the dried blood making the fabric stiff and uncomfortable against his fresh bandages.

“Someone definitely heard us,” you grumbled, smoothing your own shirt down.

Brian waved you off. “C’mon now. Nobody would care anyway.”

He reached for the door handle, cracked it open, and peeked out first. Then he let out a very dry laugh.

You felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Brian looked out at whoever was there and said, “How long have you been here for?”

Oh god.

A familiar voice answered from the hallway. “Long enough.”

Tim. Of course it was Tim. These two couldn’t stand to be more than ten feet apart at any given time.

“Somebody had to stand guard out here and make sure you didn’t get walked in on.”

Brian glanced over his shoulder at you, then opened the door wider so you could see each other. You gave an awkward little wave, wanting very much to disappear at this moment. Tim had his arms crossed, leaning against the opposite wall of the door. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes looked as bored and flat as ever.

You felt like you were about to get scolded, but instead Tim looked at Brian and said, dry as bone, “Only you’re allowed to touch, huh?”

Brian grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh c’mon man, you know I’ll always put out for you.”

Tim huffed a laugh and shook his head, pushing off the wall. You and Brian walked out and fell into step with him. You walked between them, standing just like when you went out looking for them earlier tonight. 

You glanced up at Tim. “How’s Toby?”

“Threw up about twice. He’s somewhere with his little posse now. Probably getting babied.”

“And Jeff?”

“Jack’s relocating his nose downstairs,” Tim said flatly. “Might be a while.”

You shook your head. “Everyone should make those two clean up everything by themselves. Since they wanted to make more of a mess.”

Brian nodded beside you, his arm sliding around your shoulders as you walked. You turned your head to see him digging into his back pocket and pull out the camcorder, shaking it lightly toward Tim.

“And I’ve got a fun idea for a movie Tim should watch later,” he said, grinning.

Tim’s eyes narrowed, “I’m not watching your porno.”

“C’mon. You know… for posterity.”

You elbowed him, but not without smiling a little too.

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ prologue

๑ back to my masterlists

Wears layers - hoodies, jackets, flannels, tactical gear when needed - mostly neutral tones. His mask is scratched and worn, but not falling apart. He keeps his style maintained and functional. He never dresses for aesthetics, it's always for work

General Behavior

Not a talker. Doesn’t waste words, doesn’t overexplain. But compared to Brian, he’s practically a social butterfly. He’ll hold a conversation if it matters, if it gets something done, or if he actually likes you. He’s blunt, but not cruel unless he wants to be

Definitely the type to bark orders - his brain’s wired to move fast and take control. If there’s chaos, he’s already in the middle of it shouting “Move!” or “Stay here.” His voice cuts through the noise, sharp and gravelly, like he’s been yelling since he was born. Doesn’t ask twice. Doesn’t wait around for confirmation

Has this underlying “man’s man” kind of vibe. Opens doors, carries the heavy shit without asking, lights cigarettes with one hand. It’s not at all performative, it’s just how he is. He’s naturally protective, naturally steps forward when shit gets tense

He’s got that rough-around-the-edges provider instinct. Doesn’t matter if he’s broke or pissed, if you’re hungry, he’ll buy you food. If you’re cold, he’ll give you his jacket. If you ask for a smoke, he’s already holding the lighter out. Doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t brag about it. That’s just how he shows care - by giving, by doing. Even shares his cigarettes with Jeff, which says a lot, because Tim hates that "filthy, smug son of a bitch" as he likes to call him

Moody as hell. Some days he’s decent company - dry humor, quiet jokes, sarcastic smiles. Other days he’s a storm cloud in human form, and you learn to read his mood by how hard his jaw is clenched

Anger issues he tries to manage. Pills when he remembers. Deep breathing that usually turns into pacing. When he does explode, it’s loud and you’ll feel it in your bones. Slams his hand on the table hard enough to rattle glass, throws whatever’s nearby, storms out and comes back hours later without a word

Eats like someone who didn’t grow up with much - like every meal might be his last. Big, heavy bites. Chews like it’s serious business. Doesn’t talk while he eats, just hunches over his plate and goes in. It’s primal. He’ll finish his burger in like three bites and still swipe a few fries off your plate without asking

Keeps to himself most of the time. Observant. Notices everything - where you place your drink, how many hours someone’s been quiet, the way someone’s hands shake. Doesn’t always speak on it, but he knows

When he laughs (which isn’t often), it’s this deep, chesty thing. Catches you off guard. Doesn’t last long, but when it hits, it hits. Usually something dark or stupid that sets him off

In a relationship, Tim is jealous as fuck, and it runs deep, the boiling under the surface kind. The kind that comes with icy silence, clenched jaw, and eyes that follow you a little too sharply. You’ll feel it before he says a word. The air gets tight when he sees you laughing with someone else, especially if it’s a guy. He doesn’t trust easy, and he trusts even less when it comes to you

He doesn’t like you going out without him. He won’t forbid it outright at first but you’ll hear it in the way he says “Where are you going?” and “With who?” over and over, like he’s testing the story for cracks. And when it becomes a pattern? Yeah, then it’s “No. You’re not going.” Just like that. Final. No debate

Tells you not to wear certain things. Says it’s for your safety, or because “you don’t need other eyes on you.” But really, it’s because it drives him crazy knowing someone else might get to see what’s his. Short skirts, tight tops - if you wear them, expect him to either make you cover up or stick to your side all night like a fucking shadow

Random Details

Always carries a Zippo lighter. Even when he’s not smoking (which is rare), it’s in his pocket. A sleek, silver one. Clicks it open and shut when he’s thinking, annoyed, or just needs something to do with his hands

Music taste is darker, heavier. Think Nine Inch Nails, Tool, maybe some grungy 90s rock. Doesn’t talk about music much, but if you hear it leaking out of his room, it’s always angry and low

Has a soft spot for old horror movies - the grainy, practical effect kind. Says the new stuff is "too flashy." Will never admit it, but he gets weirdly into the atmosphere and aesthetic

Keeps a notebook. No, seriously. Doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t write in it daily, but it’s filled with messy handwriting, checklists, thoughts he can’t say out loud, and half-sketched maps or memories. There’s probably a page with your name on it, written over and over in the margins from a night when he couldn’t sleep and didn’t know what else to do

Good with his hands - in a mechanical, practical way. Can fix a busted pipe, rewire shit, stitch up a wound. Doesn't complain, just does it. There's something steady and sure about him when he works

Drinks black coffee, doesn’t do sweet stuff

Toby’s the only one who can make Tim laugh on command. Usually something stupid, like making weird faces at Brian when he's not looking or imitating Jeff’s voice in a high-pitched whine. Tim will try to hold it in, but you’ll catch the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. Sometimes even a real laugh - rare, but sharp and short like it caught him by surprise

You'd expect him to like whiskey, but he's a beer guy through and through. Cold, cheap, no-nonsense. The kind of guy who pops the cap off with a lighter and drinks straight from the bottle, no glass in sight

He’s into girls who don’t break easy, girls with teeth. Someone who’ll bite his lip back, roll her eyes at him, match his sarcasm. He doesn’t want soft and docile, he wants real, wants someone who’ll sit on the porch with him at 3AM, share a smoke in silence, hold space for the shit he doesn’t know how to talk about

A girl who can cook? Game over. He won't say anything about it, won’t compliment it outright, but if you feed him something good - hearty, made with intention - you’ve earned a kind of quiet respect from him. Might kiss your neck from behind next time you’re at the stove, arms wrapped around your waist like he needs you. Might even mutter “Don’t fuckin’ leave,” into your hair without thinking about it

NSFW (18+)

The kind of man that runs hot and intense, but quiet. Doesn't talk much in bed - a few gritted-out words, low and raspy, but most of what he gives is in the way he moves, how he grabs, how he breathes. Every inhale like he’s trying not to lose control

Strong. He knows it. You feel it in the way he holds your hips, in the press of his chest, in the way he leans in and you don’t move unless he lets you. Never reckless, but there’s weight behind everything - he wants you to feel it

Can be rough, definitely, but not without care. You’re not breakable to him - you’re durable, something to be used, but not disrespected. He’s not cruel unless you ask him to be. And even then, there are limits he won’t cross

Quiet dominance. Not flashy or cocky - just this natural control. A hand on your throat, a quiet “stay still,” the way he waits to see if you’ll obey without raising his voice. It’s never a question who’s in charge when he’s in that mood

If this man really likes you - like, deeper than he knows how to say - he’ll go down on you. Not often, not out of obligation, but when he does, it’s intense, like he’s trying to prove a point without words. Still, Tim is more of a pounding, take-what-he-wants kind of guy. He wants to fuck, he likes the grind, the weight, the rhythm of it. He gets off on the raw physicality. Fast, deep, hard - that’s his language

Definitely prefers receiving over giving. He's not selfish, just wired that way. There’s something about your mouth on him that turns his brain off in the best way. He doesn’t even have to be in control during it - he’ll lean back, smoke in hand, and let you go to work while his eyes burn holes into you. Might say something rough, low, like “Don’t stop,” and you can feel the restraint in his voice

Tim likes curves - hips he can grip, an ass he can smack, thighs that leave marks when he holds you too tight. He likes that hourglass edge, that balance between softness and structure. Something strong, feminine, and made to take a hit - and give one back

Definitely carries that “he hit me and it felt like a kiss” energy. If you’re into pain, he’s not shy. He’ll slap you across the face without thinking twice. And then his fingers are brushing your cheek right after, voice low as he mutters something like “You're so beautiful.” That’s his apology. That’s affection, in his language

Tim lives for being called daddy, even if he pretends it doesn’t do anything for him at first. That first time you say it - maybe soft and breathless, maybe with a little smirk just to test him - you’ll see it hit him like a brick. His jaw tightens, his eyes flash, and whatever restraint he had? Gone

He doesn’t ask for it directly, but he rewards it when you say it - harder thrusts, rougher grip, maybe even a quiet “Say that again.” The word flips a switch in him. Makes him go darker, deeper, meaner. You’ll be wrecked by the time he’s done

Series

Sweet Tooth (Ticci Toby x F!Reader) || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || pls check #sweet tooth for discussions

Deer Season (Tim Wright/Masky x F!Reader) || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8 || Part 9 || Part 10 (Finale) || pls check #deer season for discussions

The Cabin in the Woods (Tim Wright/Masky x F!Reader x Brian Thomas/Hoodie) || Part 2 with Toby (Finale) || pls check #cabin fic for discussions

Safety Off (Brian Thomas/Hoodie x F!Reader) || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 (Finale) || pls check #safety off for discussions

One-shots

Blood Money (Jeff the Killer x F!Reader)

Bus Stop (Ticci Toby x F!Reader)

Tainted Meat (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

The Hunt (Tim Wright/Masky x Proxy!Reader x Brian Thomas/Hoodie)

Green Light (BEN Drowned x F!Reader)

The Pit (Jeff the Killer x F!Reader)

Scared Little Bunny (Ticci Toby x F!Reader)

Halfway Gone (Jeff the Killer x F!Reader x BEN Drowned)

General character headcanons (click HERE for more)

Liu Woods/Homicidal Liu Headcanons

Eyeless Jack Headcanons

BEN Drowned Headcanons

Tim Wright/Masky Headcanons

Brian Thomas/Hoodie Headcanons

Ticci Toby Headcanons

Jeff the Killer Headcanons

Creeps' Zodiacs

Visual Headcanons: The Creeps & Their Bodies

How I Imagine the Creeps’ Living Situation

Where are the creeps from?

The Creeps' Childhoods

How the Creeps Like to Dress

What the Creeps’ Hair Looks Like

The Creeps' Sense of Humor

Creeps’ Deepest Insecurities

Tim and Brian Sharing a Girl in Bed: A Rant

Would Tim and Brian Share a Girlfriend? A Rant

Tim and Brian x Feminine Reader: A Rant

What is Jeff's relationship with Liu like?

Brian's truck

Other headcanons/drabbles (click HERE for more)

Creeps Reacting to Their S/O Being Insecure

How Noisy the Creeps Are in Bed

Ben's mommy kink

How the Creeps Feel About Marriage

Primal play with the creeps

Creeps Seeing Their S/O Without Makeup for the First Time

Would the Creeps Make Love to Their S/O?

Creeps Reacting to Their S/O Getting Emotional While Patching Them Up

Toby with a muzzle

Creeps saying "I love you" to their S/O

Creeps' Reaction to their S/O Getting Pregnant

Tim and Brian with a rope bunny

Brian with a Broken Hand x F!Reader

Do Tim and Brian have a daddy kink?

Proxies in a Toxic Relationship

Would the Creeps Cheat on Their S/O?

Creeps Sleeping Next to Their S/O

Creeps Showering With Their S/O

Creeps With a Bratty S/O

What Creeps Do in Their Free Time with Their S/O

Creeps Going Down on a Girl

Creeps After an Argument With Their S/O

Creeps With a Girly S/O

Creeps' Favorite Body Parts on a Girl

How the "Girlfriend Air" Would Hit the Creeps

Toby with an old crush before he became a proxy

Tim and Brian with an ex-girlfriend before they became proxies

How the Creeps Like a Girl to Dress

Creeps React to S/O Sending a Spicy Pic

Creeps React to Another Creep Landing Their Ideal S/O

How the Creeps Flirt and Pin After Their Crush

How the Creeps Handle Post-Sex Affection

Creeps React to Their S/O Getting Hit On by Other Creeps

Toby and EJ x Autistic S/O

When Someone Flirts With Their S/O

Tim and Brian with a soft, devoted reader who can’t hide how much she loves them || Part 2 with Toby, Jeff, Ben, EJ

Ticci Toby x Sassy, Flustered, Understanding Proxy Reader

Ex S/O Is Engaged to Someone Else

But everything in this lousy mansion is out of your hands anyway.

The bottle spun on the coffee table, wobbling through the leftover alcohol and cigarette ash stains before it slowed and finally stopped.

It landed on—

You looked up.

Tim.

Before the room could go completely silent, Jeff let out a loud, ugly laugh.

“Well shit,” he crowed, leaning back on the couch and covering his face with his hands. “Looks like Timmy gets the consolation prize. Try not to bore her to death in there, old man.”

Tim didn’t snap back. He just stared Jeff down from across the circle, his eyes dark and narrowed. There was something almost smug in the way he tilted his head, like he already knew exactly how much this was eating Jeff alive, how he could practically see right through his asshole demeanor. 

He stared at Jeff long enough for the boy to sink back into himself a little, but not without rolling his eyes and crossing his arms as he broke the stare down to glare out the window.

But then Tim turned and walked straight past you, his boots thumping on the floorboards as he headed down the short hallway toward the closet like he had all the time in the world.

You stayed seated for a beat, your heart suddenly kicking harder than it should.

Nina wasn’t having it. She popped up behind you with a bright, mischievous laugh and hooked her arms under yours, hauling you to your feet.

“Nope! Don’t be a baby, babe. Go on!”

She gave you a firm shove toward the direction Tim just went. A couple of the others whistled and clapped as you stumbled forward, but as you looked back one final time in anxiousness, all you saw was Jeff’s wide eyes watching you fade around the corner. In amongst the distraction, Brian had moved from his spot and was now leaning against the wall nearest the hall towards the closet. As you approached, he rummaged into his jacket pocket and fished out a silver flip lighter, pushing it into your hands before you could pass.

You looked down at it, feeling the cold weight in your hand, before looking at him—only for the blond to give you a very confusing nod before he let you go. You shoved it into your back pocket.

Tim was already at the closet door. He yanked it open, reached up, and pulled the chain for the single bare bulb dangling inside. Weak yellow light spilled out over the hanging coats and junk boxes, flumes of dust floated out, and you had to wave the air in front of your face to keep from coughing. He stepped aside, one hand still holding the door, and tilted his head toward the inside.

You hesitated. “Tim, I can just—”

“Get over yourself,” he cut you off, keeping his face flat and unreadable. Before you could retort again, he stepped in close, using his body to herd you forward until you were inside the cramped space. The door pulled shut behind him with a final click.

The muffled music and laughter from the living room dulled instantly, only the floorboard thumps under your shoes to keep you company.

Tim reached down and fiddled with the dials on his wristwatch, setting the timer with a few soft clicks. Seven minutes. The little hands began ticking immediately.

You both stood awkwardly about a foot and a half apart, your backs pressed against opposite walls of the cramped closet. You kept your eyes glued to the floor, occasionally fiddling with the hem of your shirt or picking at your fingernails. Tim, on the other hand, didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was watching you. His gaze was steadily honed on you, occasionally flicking toward the closed door like he was listening for footsteps or somebody snooping outside. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, digging around until he found his trusty pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and slid it between his lips like he always did.

Then he started patting his other pockets.

“Shit,” he grunted under his breath. “Left my lighter with Brian.”

“Oh, wait.”

You hesitated for a second before reaching into your back pocket and pulling out the worn silver lighter Brian had given you moments ago. You held it out to him without a word.

Tim’s eyes flicked down to the lighter, then back up to your face. A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he took it from your fingers, his hand brushing yours.

He flicked it open, lit the cigarette, and took a long, deep drag. The tip glowed bright orange in the dim light. He exhaled a thick plume of smoke toward the ceiling, watching it curl and drift in the stale air, pockets of smog dancing like little ghosts around the lightbulb.

You raised an eyebrow. “You really think it’s smart to smoke in a closet this small?”

Tim shrugged one shoulder, completely unbothered. He took another drag, then lowered the cigarette, smoke pooling from between his lips as he spoke.

“Probably not.” His voice was gravelly. “But I've already decided to be in here with you. Might as well add this to the list of bad choices tonight.”

You laughed.

He leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes never really leaving you. The smoke continued to drift lazily between the two of you, filling the small space with the sharp scent of tobacco.

You shifted your weight against the wall under the intensity of his stare, your arms loosely crossed. The smoke was already starting to make the small space feel even stuffier.

“Do you think Jeff’s gonna retaliate at all?” you asked one-offedly, reaching for anything to conversate about.

Tim took another slow drag, then exhaled through his nose. “No.”

He sounded sure. Almost bored.

“Jeff’s emotional and jealous and got a nasty fucking temper,” he continued, flicking ash onto the floor. “But if he’s actually mad, he’ll turn that shit on somebody else. He’s too scared to come at me.”

You let out a laugh, nodding. “Yeah… that sounds about right.”

Tim tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Why’re you concerned?”

“No reason,” you said quickly, shrugging. “Just… you two seem like you’re in some kind of secret competition. It’s weird.”

Tim went quiet for a long moment. He brought the cigarette back to his lips, taking two slow puffs while he thought. Smoke curled up between you like a hazy curtain.

“Maybe we are,” he finally admitted.

You shook your head. “You’re not the type to do childish shit like that.”

Tim let out a short, rough laugh, almost like he was surprised by your response.

“For the right person?” he said, “I might.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than moments before. The muffled noise from the living room seemed to fade even further away, only the cadence of the speakers thumping enough to let you know the party was still happening. You were both just… looking at each other. 

Then Tim pulled the cigarette from his mouth and held it out to you, offering it between two fingers.

You took it carefully. When you brought it to your lips, you could still feel the warmth from his mouth on the filter. You took a puff, the smoke filling your lungs with that familiar burn.

Tim’s gaze stayed locked on your mouth, watching the way your lips wrapped around the same spot his had just been. His head tilted slightly, something unreadable shifting in his face as he tracked the motion.

When you lowered the cigarette and exhaled, he was still staring. So you stared right back at him, no longer pretending to study the floor.

Tim looked… different tonight, even if only slightly. His clothes were his usual thick jacket and jeans, but they were cleaner than normal, no random gunpowder smudges, no dirt or dried blood. His hair was a little more put together, and that ever-present stern, gruff expression sat heavy on his face like it always did. 

It was nice seeing him without his mask amongst so many people, but that also meant that he couldn’t hide behind it, that he had to face you and everyone else with his whole self—no Masky there to save him.

“You’re being tense,” he said bluntly, breaking the silence.

“Well, yeah,” you answered, letting out a short breath.

Tim shrugged one shoulder, reaching out to take the cigarette from you and promptly taking two deep drags. “We’ve been alone together plenty of times before. This isn’t any different.”

“It is different,” you countered. “This isn't a mission or some supply run or something. This is… this.” You gestured vaguely at the cramped space left between you.

“I didn’t know context mattered that much to our relationship.”

You let out an awkward little laugh, shifting against the wall. “It’s funny you’re even calling it a relationship.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

You just shook your head, laughing again under your breath, unsure how to answer. He was being so blunt tonight, more direct than usual, like the straightforwardness was a shield. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw kept flexing, but he wouldn’t relax. It was like he was ready to punch you and run at any moment, if he wasn’t going to yell at you first.

“…Are you nervous?” you asked quietly.

Tim didn’t answer right away. He glanced down at the watch on his wrist, studying the little ticking hands.

“Six minutes left,” he said instead, completely sidestepping the question.

You let out an awkward laugh and shook your head.

“It’s okay if you’re nervous, you know,” you told him. “This is weird, but it’s just a stupid game to embarrass everyone. It’s not serious.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “I know that.”

He passed the cigarette back. You brought it to your lips and inhaled, mostly just to give your hands something to do. The smoke filled your lungs, but it did nothing to ease the thick tension sitting between you, even if it did make you a little lightheaded.

The two of you kept staring at each other.

You finally spoke again. “Are you only playing because Jeff egged you on?”

Tim let out a dry laugh and looked down at his boots for a second before his gaze returned to yours.

“No,” he said simply. “I’m playing because I wanted to.”

“Why would you want to play something like this?”

“Why would you?” he asked, turning the question right back on you.

The air felt heavier. You swallowed. “I’m… not sure.”

Tim’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

“Really?” It seemed like he was almost teasing you.

You held his gaze for a long second, then let out a breath. 

“No.”

He took the cigarette back when you offered it, but he didn’t bring it to his lips right away. He just kept watching you, smoke curling slowly from the tip.

The timer on his watch continued its quiet ticking. Five minutes left.

Tim finally spoke again. “Good. At least we’re being honest now.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“You think I’m not being honest?”

Tim shook his head slowly. “Not with yourself.”

You let out a short, disbelieving breath. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not being honest with what you want.”

“Oh, so you know what I want now?” you shot back, irritation rising fast. “You know what’s best for me?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

That irritated you more than it should have. You pushed off the wall slightly, glaring up at him.

“You’re just being rude now, man.”

“You’ve never had a problem with my rudeness before.”

“Context,” you muttered, reiterating the idea he couldn’t seem to grasp.

“Ah, yes,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Context.” He took one last drag before dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his boot. “Like the context of Jeff pretending he’s got some kind of claim over you… and you going along with it.”

Your stomach twisted. “Jeff does not have a claim over me.”

The words had barely left your mouth before Tim took a single, big step forward.

The already cramped closet shrank instantly. He loomed over you, his broad shoulders blocking out most of the weak light from the bulb overhead. The smell of smoke and pine and that familiar warm scent that always clung to him filled the air between you, almost overwhelming you. You pressed your back against the wall once again.

He stared down at you, almost looming.

“Then who does?”

His face was close now, close enough that you could see the thick stubble on his jaw and the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. He wasn’t touching you, but the sheer presence of him made your back press harder against the wall.

You glared up at him, your heart kicking against your ribs as the silence stretched, but after a long moment, you finally answered.

“Nobody.”

You caught it.

For just a split second, Tim’s dark eyes flicked down to your mouth as you said the word, watching the shape of it on your lips. He snapped them back up to yours almost immediately, probably hoping you didn’t catch it. But you did.

You swallowed, then added, “Not even Slenderman.”

Tim let out a short, rough laugh.

“He wouldn’t like hearing you say that too much.”

“Well…” you tilted your head slightly, still staring up at him, “he’s not here, is he?”

This time, Tim didn’t even try to hide it. His gaze dropped to your mouth again and stayed there longer. You watched his jaw flex, the muscle ticking under the skin as his eyes traced the curve of your lips. 

It felt like it was getting harder to breathe.

When his eyes finally dragged back up to yours, they seemed darker than before.

“No,” he murmured. “He’s not.”

Before you could say anything more, Tim reached into his jacket pocket again, pulling out the same pack of cigarettes.

You huffed. “Seriously? It’s been, what, two minutes since your last one. Can you really not take a break?”

He didn’t answer. He just shook another cigarette out, lit it with the same silver lighter you’d handed him earlier, and took two puffs. The tip burned bright orange, and exhaled the smoke through his nose. 

Then his hand moved.

He reached out and clasped your jaw firmly, his thick fingers pressing into your cheeks and smooshing them together until your lips puckered. Your hand flew up on instinct, grabbing his wrist and tugging down, but he didn’t budge an inch. His grip was strong.

“Tim—” your voice was a little muffled against the strain of his grip. For a second you wondered if you’d actually pissed him off.

“Open.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Open your mouth.”

You searched his face, looking for any sign that he was joking, but there was nothing playful there. You didn’t know if you could laugh out of caution of making him more mad, so… you did what you were told.

When he was satisfied, Tim leaned in and placed the lit cigarette between your puckered lips, then used his thumb to close your mouth around it.

“You know what to do,” he murmured.

He didn’t let go of your jaw.

You had no choice but to inhale. You took a normal, comfortable drag, the smoke filling your lungs before you exhaled it through your nose. You stared up at him, confused, waiting for some kind of explanation. Was this supposed to be degrading? Some weird power move? Or some weird one-off joke that you’ve never known him to make?

But his grip stayed firm on your cheeks, and his expression didn’t change. He didn’t look satisfied.

You started to squirm, pawing at his arm. “Tim—”

“More,” he said.

You tried to speak around the cigarette, fumbling the filter between your teeth. “What’s happening right now—”

He stepped even closer, one of his boots planting between your feet so your legs were forced to part slightly. His other hand came up to tilt your chin higher, making you look straight up into his face. The overhead light cast harsh shadows over his stern features.

“Keep going,” he grunted.

You furrowed your brows, but obeyed, taking another drag. Then another. He watched every inhale with utmost interest.

“C’mon,” he said quietly, almost coaxing you. “Don’t stop.”

You inhaled again, deeper this time, pulling harder on the cigarette. The smoke burned hotter going down. Your head started to feel light.

“Again,” he continued. “As much as you can.”

You kept going, breath after breath, the nicotine hitting harder with every pull. Your vision began to swim. A heavy, dizzy fog rolled over your mind as the rush flooded your system. Your knees felt weak. The hand you had on his arm tightened, trying to steady yourself as the world tilted slightly.

Tim’s grip on your jaw stayed iron-still, holding you in place while he watched your face closely, seeing every detail of your flushed cheeks and drooping eyes and your steadily relaxing muscles.

“That’s it,” he muttered, soothing, almost. “One more. Big one.”

You whimpered softly around the cigarette, head spinning badly now, but you did it anyway. You pulled long and deep until your lungs were burning and the dizziness crashed over you like a wave. The nicotine buzz was overwhelming and sharp and heady, and making everything feel floaty and too warm.

Tim finally pulled the cigarette from between your lips.

You immediately exhaled hard, right into his face—a thick cloud of smoke rushing out as you tried to empty your burning lungs. The motion triggered a coughing fit. Your eyes watered, your vision became blurry, and you felt completely dizzy and messy, probably looking a little disheveled.

But Tim kept his hand firmly on your jaw, holding your face in place. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched you struggle, not out of malice but he was clearly satisfied now.

Your head was still swimming badly. You tried to steady yourself, taking shaky, deep breaths of the thick, smoggy air in the tiny closet. The nicotine buzz was intense, making everything feel too floaty and too warm and too out of your body.

“Tim… I feel really dizzy,” you managed, a little breathless.

You heard him chuckle, “I know.”

His thumb slowly dragged across your bottom lip, wiping away the spit that had gathered there from coughing and your heavy breathing. His eyes followed the motion.

Then, without warning, he brought the cigarette back to his own mouth, took one long, final drag, and dropped it to the floor. He crushed it under his boot right next to the first one.

Before you could even catch your breath, Tim leaned down and kissed you.

He grabbed both sides of your face with his rough hands, holding you firmly as he brought your faces together. Your hands shot up and pressed against his chest, bracing yourself against the embarrassment that was breaking through your mental haze. This was ridiculous. It was some weird, controlling kink thing… but your brain wasn’t working well enough to care.

All you could focus on was how warm his hands felt against your cheeks and how good his mouth felt on yours.

Then his tongue pushed past your lips, and he breathed the smoke from his lungs into your mouth.

The sudden rush made your head spin all over again. You let out a muffled groan and gripped the front of his jacket tighter, your fingers twisting into the thick fabric. Tim responded by dropping his hands to your waist and yanking your body flush against his.

Oh.

He was hard. You could feel him clearly through his jeans, pressed against your lower stomach. For a split second, nervousness flared in your chest.

Should you be nervous? Probably.

But the thought dissolved almost as quickly as it came.

Fuck it.

You kissed him back harder, desperate to feel something solid amongst all of your dizziness. Tim groaned in his throat and tilted your head, kissing you like he was starving for it, like this was all he’d ever wanted.

It became too much.

The smoke, the nicotine, the heat of his body—you couldn’t breathe. You pushed against his chest with both hands. Tim pulled back just enough for you both to gasp for air.

Thick smoke wafted out of both of your mouths, curling between your faces and up into the muggy air. You noted how Tim’s face looked, how the smoke parted around his jaw and up above the dark hair in his head. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide as he stared down at you. His hands stayed locked on your waist, but his chest rose and fell rhythmically under your palms.

It was getting hard to tell if Tim had always looked this good, or if the overwhelming amount of nicotine in your bloodstream was making your brain go numb.

But after a minute of panting, you felt your senses returning—most notably, the loud pulse of the music from the living room vibrating through the walls and into your shaky bones. You slowly started regaining your steadiness, the dizzy fog beginning to lift. Tim slid a flat palm up your back.

“Deep breaths,” he hums.

You obeyed without thinking, too deep in whatever headspace he’d pushed you into to pretend it didn’t feel ridiculously good. Each inhale felt almost euphoric, your chest rising and falling as you breathed in the thick, smoky air. You gripped the shoulders of his jacket, and after a moment you noticed he was breathing in time with you, drinking down fresh air as you did.

You glanced up at his face. The usual stern mask he wears had fallen into something lazier, almost hazy. He looked a little lost just staring at you with his half-lidded eyes.

When you blinked long enough to reset your vision, you met his eyes again, and he began to lean in toward your lips, his eyes dropping to your mouth in time with his movement. You let him come to you, tilting your chin up to meet him—

His watch started beeping sharply under his sleeve, knocking the moment right off kilter.

You both jerked back, staring at each other like you’d completely forgotten why you were even in the closet in the first place. Whatever obnoxious spell you both were under vanished. From outside, the music in the living room suddenly cut off. You could hear laughter and the sound of people scrambling down the hallway toward you.

Tim stepped back, putting space between you again. He adjusted his jeans, and tried his best to smooth his jacket out. By the time the door flew open, you were both standing roughly where you started with your backs against opposite walls, trying (and failing) to look casual.

The closet door swung open and you were immediately hit with fresh air and very nosy faces.

Toby’s was the only one you registered, though. The thick cloud of smoke rolled out past them into the hallway. He wrinkled his nose dramatically, grimacing at you two.

“J-Jesus, man,” he laughed. “You’re really smm-smoking in h-here? In a fucking clo-closet?”

Tim just blew air through his nose, clearly unimpressed. He shoved Toby’s head to the side and stepped out, brushing past the group without another word. He didn’t even glance back at you before heading down the hall.

You tried to follow, but Toby’s eyes locked onto you and he let out a shrill laugh.

“Ho-ly shit. You don’t loo-look too hah-hot right now.”

“Shut up,” you groaned, brushing past him as he started firing off questions.

“What’d h-he do? D-Did he make yo-you cry? Why do you smell like an ahh-ashtray? Wait—did you guys actually do an-anything or—”

You ignored him and made a beeline for the kitchen, desperate for something cold to drink. Your head was still swimmy and light, the nicotine making everything feel slightly tilted as you stumbled through the still-trashed house.

You passed Tim on the way. He had already found his usual spot right next to Brian, the two of them leaning against the wall like they were physically incapable of being more than three feet apart for more than ten minutes. Tim’s eyes flicked to you as you walked by, but he didn’t say anything. Brian, however, didn’t take his eyes off of you as you passed, gathering all the information he needed just from the state of you.

You yanked open the fridge, grabbed the first beer you saw, and popped it open. You drank nearly half of it in one go, the cold yeasty liquid soothing your raw throat and helping ground you a little.

Unfortunately, you weren’t alone for long.

Toby wandered in after you, Natalie right beside him and EJ trailing quietly behind them. The three of them formed a little triangle, watching you like a very nosy, very abrasive little troupe of bastards.

Most of the party in the living room had devolved into loud chugging contests and some money-gambling version of Go Fish that involved way too many rules and even more yelling. You were grateful almost everyone else was too distracted to notice how obviously rattled you were—except for these dipshits.

Toby leaned on the island counter, grinning wide enough to make your blood boil a bit. “So… you guh-gonna tell us what hah-happened in there or do w-we have to guess?”

Natalie tilted her head. “You look like you just got punched in the face… but, like, not in a bad way.”

You opened your mouth, ready to snap something mean and defensive, but before you could get it out, Brian walked into the kitchen.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he waved a hand at the trio. “Move along. Go have your little orgy somewhere else and leave people alone.”

Jack let out a raspy little laugh, which was rare enough that it surprised you into laughing too. Toby whined dramatically but let Natalie tug him away. The three of them shuffled out, Toby still throwing questions over his shoulder until they disappeared back toward the living room and out of your field of vision.

Once they were gone, Brian opened the fridge, rummaged through the junk and pulled out a beer for himself, then popped the tab. He leaned against the counter across from you and took a sip as he studied your face, which you were trying very hard to make seem normal.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, sipping at your beer if only to give your hands something to do. “Yeah… just a little… shaken up.”

Brian gave an understanding nod. “Tim can be a little intense sometimes. He’s either completely honed in or not interested at all. Sometimes he forgets that not everybody is like that, too.”

Your face burned with embarrassment, but if there was anyone you could talk to about this, it was Brian. He knew Tim better than anyone.

You tapped the cold glass of the bottle in your hands for a second, then asked, “Do you think he only did it because he was pissed about Jeff?”

Brian shook his head immediately.

“Nah. Tim doesn’t work like that. Jeff’s just an annoying, loud mouth kid to him. He doesn’t lose his head over shit like that.”

You stared down at your beer, chewing on your lip. “Then… why?”

Brian took another sip, then jerked his chin toward the back door.

“He’s out on the porch right now. And—he’s not smoking.” Brian raised his eyebrows. “When Tim’s not smoking, it means he’s thinking. Thinking real hard.”

He pushed off the counter, nodding toward the fridge.

“Go take him a beer. That’ll ease him up.”

You watched Brian disappear back into the living room, then immediately pressed the cold beer bottle against your forehead and closed your eyes. The chill helped a little, but your stomach was still doing nervous flips. Not scared-of-Tim flips. Just stupid, schoolgirl-crush, heart-in-your-throat flips. Barf. It was embarrassing as hell.

“Get it together,” you muttered to yourself.

You popped open the fridge again, grabbed the last beer, and started heading for the back porch. 

But the second you reached the kitchen doorway, you froze.

Jeff was standing there, leaning against the frame, and blocking your path. He didn’t say a word. Just stared at you. And it was so… unreadable. His eyes flicked over your face, your slightly messy hair, the flush still lingering on your cheeks.

You stared right back.

The silence stretched uncomfortably. For a moment it felt like neither of you would move, but for as much ruckus as Jeff had caused tonight, you were more-than-willing to be rid of him right now. You had bigger things on your plate. 

You squared your shoulders and shoved past him, knocking his arm out of the way with your shoulder.

He didn’t try to stop you.

You moved quickly through the hallway, the noise of the party fading behind you as you pushed through the back door and stepped out onto the wrap-around back porch.

The night air was cooler out here compared to the thick mug of coffee alcohol and smoke inside, trading the damp smells for fresh pines and wet dirt. Most of the party had moved or stayed inside, so the porch was vacant for the most part. But at the far end, where the railing curved into shadows and no one could see if they didn’t come outside, stood Tim.

He was leaning forward on the railing, staring out into the dark tree line like he was looking for something. He didn’t turn when he heard the door open. He didn’t glance over as your shoes creaked across the wooden planks. But you knew that he knew it was you.

You walked up and stopped beside him, setting the unopened beer on the railing near his hand, little beads of condensation dripping onto the wood.

For a few seconds, there was only the sound of crickets and the low hum from inside. You looked out into the treeline too, seeing how the dark shadows gave way to a black void beyond where the porch lights could reach. There were so many creatures and monsters out there, but none of them even came close to shaking your nerves like the man standing right next to you.

“Hey.”

Tim finally turned his head, his eyes sliding over to meet yours. 

Tim’s stare had always been like iron, so sharp and guarded and prickling with intensity that kept almost everyone at arm’s length. But right now it looked… weary? Tired in a way that seemed deeper than just the late hour and the shitty beer. 

Then his gaze dropped to the bottle in your hand. 

“What’s this?”

“Peace offering,” you said, pushing it toward him a little further. “You looked like you could use one.”

Tim looked at you again, then at the bottle, before taking it. He twisted the cap off and took a long pull. Almost immediately his face twisted and he huffed through his nose.

“Jesus Christ, that’s awful.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you took another drink from your own. For a while, the two of you just leaned against the railing side by side, listening to the crickets and the distant rustle of the woods. The party noises inside felt miles away.

Eventually Tim huffed again, almost like he was annoyed with himself.

“I’m sorry for overstepping in there,” he said quietly. “I got lost in the theatrics of it all.”

You shook your head. “I would’ve told you to stop if I didn’t like it.”

…

You both caught it at the same time—the admission, the way it lingered. Your eyes met again.

Tim turned his head fully toward you, that weary look sharpening into something more focused.

“Did you like it?” he asked, and it’s like the words turned to static as they reached your ears.

You looked down at your shoes for a minute.

It had thrown you off, sure. The tightness of the space, the weird dynamic between you two, even the sheer amount of embarrassment from having to play this game at all made your brain feel like mush. But you couldn’t deny it.

It felt good.

The dizziness. The way your head went fuzzy and floaty. The way he took control of you completely and didn’t let you hide from it. The way every thought in your brain is stamped out the moment oxygen is absent from you.

Yeah… it felt good. A lot better than you were ever going to admit.

You took a big drink to buy yourself time for something witty to say, only to realize you’d already finished the entire bottle and there were only droplets left. You sighed and met his stare again.

“It’s a weird question,” you grimaced with an awkward little laugh.

Tim didn’t laugh with you.

He pushed off of the railing and stepped closer, close enough that you were suddenly the same distance apart as you’d been in that stupid closet. And who would’ve thought, but the fresh air out here suddenly became thicker in your lungs too.

His free hand lifted slowly. You watched it rise, your heart kicking off its rapid thumps like shoes in a washing machine once again. His fingers brushed the side of your neck first, and he was sure to feel the goosebumps that were rising there, before they slid from their position to lace around either side of your throat. His palm rested just under your chin.

You stalled completely. Went stock-still.

Heat flooded your face so fast you were sure you looked ridiculous. That familiar, stupid nervousness rushed back over you like a wave, making your breath catch and the tips of your fingers feel numb.

“Do you know your answer now?” he grumbled.

You stared up at him, completely dumbfounded. The words wouldn’t come. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Before you could find your voice, Tim reached down with his free hand and pried the empty beer bottle you’d forgotten about from your fingers. He set it on the railing beside his own, then closed the last bit of distance between you until your noses almost bumped.

His fingers flexed against the sides of your neck, applying the easiest amount of pressure to your airway.

You gasped sharply and your hands flew up on instinct, grabbing his wrist tightly.

“Is this okay?” he murmured.

You didn’t answer right away. The pressure made your breath go shallow, a warm, heavy feeling blooming in your head. It wasn’t painful—just intense. Overwhelming. Your pulse hammered against his palm.

After a second, you gave him a small nod.

That was all he needed.

Tim leaned in and kissed you, his beer-tasting lips sliding to meet yours, while his hand squeezed a little harder around your throat. It pinpointed your senses onto him—onto how labored he was making your breaths, how fuzzy he was making you feel, how warm and mushy and light all at once. 

You whimpered against his mouth, the sound embarrassingly whiny and needy as you squeezed your eyes shut. Your fingers tightened around his wrist, doing little to keep yourself afloat as your knees weakened.

Tim’s other hand slid down and grabbed your hip firmly, fingers digging in as he pulled you tighter against him.

You tilted your head up further, sliding your hands from his wrist all the way up to the collar of his jacket. You tugged at him, yanking his chest flush against yours. Tim grunted, growling into the kiss and pushing his tongue between your lips, invading your senses.

Things started to get muggy really quick.

His hand around your throat tightened just enough to make your airway feel suddenly shallow. Every breath came out smaller, sweeter, turning your little gasps and whines into something embarrassingly needy between kisses. The more you whimpered, the more Tim chuckled warmly against your mouth.

He finally pulled back just enough for you to gasp in a proper breath, but his hand stayed glued around your throat firmly. Spit glistened on your swollen lips. You were the picture of bliss right now with your hazy eyes and flushed cheeks and lightheaded demeanor. Tim studied your face for a second, then shook his head slightly, like he wasn’t satisfied.

“You’re still too coherent,” he grumbled.

His hand left your hip and rose to your mouth. His thumb traced slowly around your wet lips, smearing the spit across them until they shone. Then he pushed his thumb between your parted lips, sliding it over your tongue.

You tasted the salt of his skin and sighed.

He gently bobbed his thumb in and out of your mouth, teasing, his eyes locked on the sight. You wrapped your lips around it instinctively and started licking, swirling your tongue under the pad of his thumb like it wasn’t completely desperate and embarrassing.

The effect on Tim was immediate, though.

“Fuck…” He pressed his thumb deeper for a moment, then pulled it out slowly, dragging it across your bottom lip. His hand around your throat flexed again, applying that perfect amount of pressure that made your head swim even more and your blinking grow more rapid.

“You have no idea what you look like right now.” His hips pressed forward against you, letting you feel exactly how hard he was. “How good you look.”

Tim dipped his thumb back into your mouth, sliding it slowly over your tongue. Without thinking, you started bobbing your head, sucking on it with gently eager pulls.

“Good job,” his voice dripped with approval.

The words hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your stomach flipped, heat flooding low in your belly.

He pulled his thumb out, dragging it across your bottom lip and leaving your mouth open and wet. Then he latched his mouth back into yours, kissing you deeply while his hand squeezed tighter.

You moaned into his mouth, the sound snagged as your air began to dissipate.

The kiss turned heated, your tongues sliding hot and messy, teeth nipping each other's lips, both of you breathing hard through it. Tim growled against you, devouring every little sound you gave him.

He pulled back just enough to speak. “If you wanted this the whole time, you could’ve just asked, sweetheart.”

Then his grip on your throat tightened hard.

Your eyes widened. A sharp, shrill sound escaped you as your airflow suddenly cut off completely. Your hands flew back to his wrist, gripping tight. Your eyes fluttered with tears and rolled slightly as the pressure built fast in your head.

“That’s it,” he kept his voice steady. “Don’t be too loud now, can’t have anybody seeing what a mess you are, now can we?”

In your haze, everything felt overwhelming. The rush of blood making your face burn hot. The tight, rigid tension in your body. The floating sensation in your head. It was turning you on so badly you could barely think, could barely keep tabs on the rest of your body.

So, you gave in.

Your body went a little limp in his hold, trusting him, melting against his chest. Failed little breaths turned into choked, whimpering moans that rumbled against his palm. Your thighs pressed together as heat throbbed between them horribly. Tim groaned in time with your sounds, pressing his hard cock against your hip and grinding away, letting you feel how much this was affecting him too.

“Does it feel good?” his lips brushed your cheek as he kissed you almost tenderly. “You can let go. I’ve got you, doll.”

You were clawing at his wrist now, not to pull him off, but because the pressure in your head kept building at a staggering rate, a bright white heat spreading through your senses, numbing everything else. It felt so fucking good. So freeing. Like every nerve in your body was lit up and floating at the same time.

You felt warm lines of tears roll down your cheeks.

“Awh… poor thing,” he breathed. “Don’t you know anybody could walk around this porch right now and see you? Anyone can see what a… fuck… what a mess you are.”

He stilled up after he said that, like he realized something, like he just had the air punched out of him.

Then he finally let go.

The rush of air back into your lungs hit you like a truck. You coughed violently, your chest doing great swoops as you gasped and choked, desperately trying to pull oxygen back in and getting interrupted by your own coughs. Your legs buckled, but Tim caught you, his arms wrapping around your waist and holding you upright against his chest.

He grumbled his support through it, “There you go. Take it easy.”

When you finally felt steady enough, you lifted your head from its position of staring blearily down at your shoes. Your cheeks were wet with tears, and you could still feel the mess of spit on your swollen lips. The embarrassment tries to wash over you, but is ultimately overpowered by the thumping ache in your stomach and head.

Tim tilted your chin up with his thumb, studying your face carefully.

“You alright?” he asked, glancing from one eye to the other, registering how much wider your pupils had become.

You took a shaky second, then nodded. “…Yeah.”

It was silent for a moment, before you both spoke again:

“You satisfi—?”

“Can you do it again?”

Tim groaned. “Fuck.”

He grabbed your arm and tugged you backward along the porch, moving you both around the corner of the house where the wrap-around deck tucked against the wall. It was much more private here—someone would have to step fully outside and round the corner to see you.

The second you were hidden from view, Tim’s hands landed on your shoulders and pushed you down.

Your knees hit the wooden planks without any resistance. The dizziness was back full tilt, so you swayed a little as you settled, fighting the fog in your head to look up at him. Tim towered over you, broad and dark against the night sky, the porch light casting sharp shadows across his burly face.

Jesus Christ, he’s hot as fuck.

He stared down at you for a moment, breathing harder now, his chest rising and falling in big pulses. He brought both hands to either side of your face, cupping your cheeks and curling his fingers under your jaw. His thumbs brushed over your tear-streaked skin, wiping some of it away.

You broke eye contact and looked straight ahead, right at your eye level.

Fuck.

Tim’s bulge was obvious, straining hard against the front of his jeans, the thick outline pulsing slightly with his heartbeat. Your lips parted on a shaky gasp. Even with your vision still a little blurry from the lack of oxygen, it was so evident, you couldn’t look away. Your mouth watered.

You wanted it. Horribly. 

Tim slid one hand to the back of your head, cupping it to keep your limp, oxygen-deprived body from tipping over. Your skin felt prickly all over, your nerves buzzing and firing off in little shivers.

You dragged your gaze back up to his face, swallowing hard.

“I want it,” you whispered, your voice so small you barely even heard it.

Tim’s lips curved into a grin, his eyebrows raising in mock question. The sight of it made your stomach flip.

“Yeah?” he murmured, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “You want it so bad… then you’re gonna have to take it for yourself.”

Your eyes dropped back down in front of you, then up to his belt. Your hands felt weak, but you raised them anyway and you worked at his belt buckle, the metal clinking as you pulled the leather through the clasps, fighting to get it open.

Tim didn’t help you. He just stood there, letting you struggle with the button and zipper, punctuating every step of the way with little sighs or grunts of approval.

“That’s it,” he said when you finally got the zipper down. “Go on, then. Show me what you want.”

Tim leaned his shoulders back against the side of the house, the wood creaking under his weight as he rolled his hips forward just slightly, like he was offering himself to you—or asking you to hurry up—you weren’t sure.

He was wearing dark navy boxers, and right at the tip of the very prominent bulge there was a small, damp spot where the fabric clung to him. Heart hammering, you shifted higher on your knees. Your hands were still shaky from the lack of oxygen earlier, but you reached up anyway, curling your fingers into the waistband of his boxers. His skin was warm, almost hot, under your fingertips. You noticed the dark trail of hair starting just below his navel, leading down and disappearing beneath the fabric.

You swallowed hard and tugged his boxers down.

The second you pulled them past his hips, his cock sprang free, so heavy, bobbing once right in front of your face.

Oh my god.

He was big. Not porn-star scumbag long, but thick like the rest of his body, girthy in a way that made your stomach tighten with nervous excitement. The flushed head was already glistening with pre-cum, a shiny bead forming at the slit and threatening to drip right there in front of your lips. He was thickest in the middle, the length curving a bit where a prominent vein snaked the underside, throbbing every few moments. You could see it twitch slightly in time with his pulse. All to lead to a dark, messy patch of hair at his pelvis.

Everything felt hazy. You were a little awestruck and more than a little intimidated.

Tim let out a relieved huff when his cock finally fell free, almost like he’d been holding his breath. You could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the musk of his skin and the air from the night. Your thighs pressed together instinctively as another wave of dizzy heat washed through you.

Tim’s voice groveled from above you, “You gonna just stare at it all night?”

There was a punch of amusement in his tone, but mostly it was strained, like he was trying very hard to stay patient while you knelt before him, wide-eyed and visibly overwhelmed.

His cock gave another twitch right in front of you, another bead of pre-cum forming at the tip.

“I… I’ve never… I mean—”

Tim chuckled. “Use your words.”

You swallowed over the lump in your throat, your cheeks burning hotter. “I’m nervous,” you mumbled. “I’ve never done… this before.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, tilting his head so he was looking down the bridge of his nose at you. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Nobody’s used this mouth before?” he asked, almost disbelieving.

He slid his hand from the back of your head to cup under your chin, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip before tugging it down and parting your lips for him. His brows furrowed as he stared at your open mouth.

You licked your lips nervously. “Will you… be easy?”

Tim let out a chuckle, the sound warm in his chest.

“As much as I can be,” he grinned.

Then both of his hands moved to either side of your head, cupping your jaw and cheeks. You placed your hands over his, clutching his fingers tightly as he guided your head forward. Your heartbeat was so violent in your chest you thought he’d be able to hear it.

“Open up.”

You parted your lips wider, your eyes fixed on his tip as it disappeared under your nose and he eased the head past them. The tip bumped your tongue, the salty taste of his pre-cum spreading across your mouth. You let out a shaky breath through your nose, squeezing his hands harder.

The thick head of his cock slid over your tongue as he pushed in slowly. You opened your mouth wider on instinct, trying to make room for him. He tasted warm and a little gritty, exactly like how he always smelled naturally. Your eyes fluttered closed as you tried to relax your jaw, breathing quickly through your nose.

Tim let out a groan above you, “Fuck… so wet,” his voice tight with restraint.

He angled your head a little more with both hands and pushed forward again. The tip bumped against the roof of your mouth, making you jerk slightly. Tim hissed through his teeth.

“Watch your teeth, sweetheart.”

He adjusted the angle and pushed a little deeper. You felt your lips stretch around him as roughly the first third of his length filled your mouth. It was a lot and heavy on your tongue, stretching your jaw in a way that made your head spin even more.

You ran your tongue slowly along the sensitive underside of the head, licking at the leaking slit.

“Shit—” Tim cursed sharply, his hips twitching forward on their own.

He shifted his weight, steadying himself against the wall, then tugged your head back and forth, bobbing you along the first few inches of his cock. The motion was slow, letting you get used to the size and weight of him.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just like that. Relax your jaw… good. Suck a little harder when I pull you forward—mmh—yeah, fuck, just like that.”

He guided your head forward and back, daring to pull you a little deeper on his length every time.

“Easy now,” he instructed, stroking your cheek. “Don’t try to take too much yet. Just focus on relaxing—good. Yeah. You’re doing good.”

You could feel his hesitance in how he grabbed you, how he was holding himself stiff to not jar you too roughly. But you asked for this, so he shouldn’t hold back for your sake.

So when he pulled your head back, you scrunched your brows and pushed forward instead, taking more of him into your mouth. Tim groaned, his thumbs pressing harder into your cheeks as you stretched your lips wider around his size. Nearly halfway now.

You coughed around him, your eyes watering as he filled your mouth so completely. The stretch burned pleasantly at the corners of your lips and your jaw ached from the awkward stretch, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let go of his wrists. One hand braced against his pelvis, feeling the tense muscle straining there, while the other wrapped around the thick base of his cock and gave a tentative squeeze.

Tim cursed sharply under his breath, his thumbs digging harder into your cheeks. “There you go,” he grunted.

You leaned in and took him deeper, sucking on the first half of his length as best you could. The hand wrapped around his base made it easier to angle him, letting you slide your lips further down his shaft. You bobbed your head slowly, trying to find a rhythm, your tongue pressing and sliding along the underside as you worked him. 

Tim's hips tried to buck forward before he caught himself.

“Shit… you sure you’ve never done this before?” he breathed, staring down at you. “You’re a fucking natural.”

He slid one hand into your hair, gripping just tight enough to guide you, and started pulling your head back and forth rhythmically. You let him set it, relaxing your jaw as much as you could while your hand continued stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach. Your spit was already coating him, making everything slick and messy, dripping down his shaft as your tongue ran over every inch you could reach.

Tim’s breathing grew ragged, broken up by low grunts and curses every time you sucked harder or swirled your tongue around the sensitive head.

“That’s it… ahh—fuck,” he murmured when you choked a little. “Who would’ve thought you’d be this good.”

He rocked his hips in time with the movement of your head, fucking shallowly into your mouth while his fingers stayed tangled in your hair. The obscene wet sounds coming from your mouth were the only noise rivaling the crickets and bugs in the woods, besides Tim’s heavy breathing and the mumbled jump of music from inside. Please let it be loud enough so nobody can hear, you thought.

You tried to take more of him, pushing forward eagerly, but the thick head of his cock nudged against the entrance of your throat and you immediately choked, coughing hard around him. You had to pull back, gasping with watery eyes.

Frustration burned in your chest. You wanted this—wanted him—so you tried again, forcing yourself deeper. Same result. Your throat closed up, and you gagged, pulling back with a wet, embarrassing sound.

One more try. You opened wider, shoved your face forward, and immediately choked again. Lewd, messy noises spilled from your throat as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

Tim’s hands tightened on the sides of your head.

“Easy,” he cooed. “Slow down, doll. You’re pushing too hard.”

He guided you back until just the swollen tip rested on your tongue. You sucked on it obediently, apologetically, swirling your tongue over the leaking slit, tasting the salty pre-cum that kept dribbling out. Tim let out a moan, gritting his teeth as he watched.

You tried again anyway, your jaw aching in protest as you shoved forward, furrowing your brows in concentration. The wet sounds that came out of you were filthy. Tim groaned again, but this time he pulled you off completely, his cock slipping from your lips with a slick pop.

You gasped for air, spit and tears smeared across your chin and cheeks as you recollected your senses. Tim wiped at your face with his thumb, smearing the mess even more as he looked down at you.

“You’re doing perfectly,” he strained. “What’s the matter?”

You swallowed, still catching your breath, staring at his throbbing, spit-slick cock hovering in front of you—which you wanted so desperately.

“I want you to go harder,” you choked over a hoarse voice.

“You’ve barely started. You need to get comfortable first—”

“I don’t care,” you cut in, looking up at him with watery eyes. “I want you to use me. Like how you choked me earlier… I want to feel that. I want you to make me feel that way.”

Tim stalled, staring down at you. His cock gave a big twitch right in front of your face, drooling another thick bead of pre-cum that slowly dripped down the shaft. You could see the conflict in his eyes—the careful, controlled part of him warring with raw want.

Then something in his expression shifted.

He reached down and planted his hand firmly on the crown of your head, his fingers curling tight into your hair. He jerked your head back so you were looking straight up at him. His face was dark now, eyes laden with lust.

“I’ll tell you what to do,” he gripped. “But you listen to me. You fight me and you’ll hurt yourself. Understand?”

You nodded quickly, your heart racing.

Tim gripped the base of his cock with his other hand and pulled your head forward. He tapped the glistening tip against your bottom lip a few times, teasing the spit that gleamed there.

“Open.”

You parted your lips obediently, slipping your tongue out to meet him. He slid the head into your mouth, letting you close your lips around it. Then his hand moved to the back of your head, planting a base there.

“Relax,” he ordered. “Don’t fight it.”

Before you could even nod, he pushed forward, sliding deep in one smooth thrust until the head bumped the back of your mouth and pressed against the entrance of your throat. You gagged instantly, but he pulled back just as fast, only to push in again, setting a relentless rhythm.

“Oh, there we go,” he grumbled through his pleasure. “Good fucking girl. Just let me use this pretty mouth.”

Tim didn’t hold back anymore.

He tightened his grip in your hair and started fucking your mouth with punctuated thrusts, his hips snapping forward to push deeper into the wet heat of your mouth with deep grunts and growls. You grabbed onto his jean-clad thighs for balance, digging your fingers into the rough fabric as you squeezed your eyes shut, trying your best not to fight the constant intrusion despite how your body wanted to.

Every forward snap of his hips made his belt buckle jingle beside your ear. Lewd gags and choked little noises escaping you with every thrust as the thick head of his cock battered the back of your mouth.

“Fuck…” Tim hissed through gritted teeth, tugging your hair. “That’s it—just take it. Christ, your mouth feels so goddamn good.”

He moaned when you gagged harder around him, his hips stuttering for a second before he pushed in again, a little deeper this time.

“Shit—easy, sweetheart, easy,” he panted, even as he kept thrusting. “I know it’s a lot—mmh—but your choking is so pretty. C’mon, try again.”

You grunted around him with every deep push, spit dripping down your chin as your throat convulsed. Tears slipped freely down your cheeks now, but you didn’t pull away. You held onto his thighs tighter, trying to take deep breaths of air through your nose whenever he pulled back.

Tim cursed under his breath, half at you, half at himself.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this to you… not like this—ah, shit—” He groaned loudly as you swallowed around him. “But you feel too fucking good. This greedy little mouth… sucking me like you were made for it.”

Tim slowed his hips, easing you forward until just the thick middle of his cock rested between your lips. He let you suck him slowly, dragging your wrapped lips from the middle of his shaft all the way up to the swollen, leaking tip.

“Relax,” he sighed. “Don’t fight it. You’re gonna take all of me.”

A sharp jolt of nervousness shot through you like electricity, but it only made the heat between your legs throb harder. You blinked slowly with glassy eyes, and nodded around him.

He cupped the back of your head firmer. “Lean your head back a little… yeah, just like that. Open wider for me, doll. Relax your throat. Let me give you what you want.”

You did as he said, tilting your head back and opening your mouth as wide as you could, sucking gently on the tip while your tongue swirled around it.

Tim started pushing in again. This time he didn’t stop where he had before.

You felt the prominent vein along his shaft slide over your tongue as he fed more of his thick cock into your mouth. Your jaw ached from the stretch, especially when he reached the widest part of him. You coughed around his length as the head pressed firmly against the tight entrance of your throat.

“Easy… easy,” Tim breathed, holding you still. “Just breathe through your nose.”

He abused that spot, shallowly fucking the head of his cock against the beginning of your throat with small, insistent nudges that made you gag and choke wetly around him. Spit dripped down your chin in messy strings.

“Relax your throat,” he grit out. “Let me in. Come on, sweetheart, open up for me. I know you can take it.”

You whimpered around his cock, tears slipping down your cheeks again, but you tried—focusing on his voice, on relaxing your throat even as your body instinctively fought the intrusion, on every buzzing nerve in your head.

He pushed forward again, feeding more of his thick cock past the uncooperative ring of muscle at the back of your throat. The stretch burned, and you choked around him, again and again, but Tim didn’t pull back.

“C’mon,” he growled. “Let it happen.”

You tried. God, you tried. But the deeper he went, the harder it became. It was like he was pushing into your brain. You couldn’t tell if you were more frustrated that you weren’t being choked on his cock, or that him choking you like this wasn’t working.

“Look at me.”

You forced your watery eyes to peel open and up to his. The intensity in his stare was almost too much—you had nowhere else to look. Only his tan skin, dark hair, and everything you never knew you wanted so badly.

“Just focus here,” he muttered. “Keep lookin’ at me.”

He kept pushing, inch by inch, until the widest part of his cock forced its way past that tight ring. Your throat spasmed violently around him. You coughed and gagged, your body jerking and trying to pull away, but Tim held your head firmly in place, refusing to let you pull away.

“Shh. Relax… just relax,” he growled, trying to be soothing even as his own breathing grew ragged. “You’re doin’… so good. Takin’ me so deep. Fuck, I can feel your throat squeezin’ me…”

Finally, with one last slow push, he bottomed out.

Your nose pressed flush against his pelvis, buried in the coarse patch of dark hair. His length throbbed deep down your throat, completely cutting off your air. The fullness was overwhelming to an alarming rate. 

Tim let out a long groan, his hips jerking and settling as he held you there.

“Jesus Christ… all the way. You got every fuckin’ inch.” His voice was hoarse, something you’d never really heard before. “Good. Such a good fucking job for me.”

You were getting lightheaded fast.

The world blurred at the edges, a warm, floaty haze settling over everything. Your throat fluttered and squeezed around the thick length of Tim’s cock, every tiny twitch and throb pulling another noise from him. But underneath the strain, the ache, the burning stretch… you felt nothing but bliss.

He’d bottomed out completely. The heavy head of his cock nestled deep in your throat like it belonged there. It felt like a bell had rung somewhere inside your skull—a deep, resonant thrum. The pressure, the fullness, the way your body fought and then haphazardly surrendered… it was overwhelming in the best way. You couldn’t breathe. You were gagging softly around him, tears streaming down your face, but none of it mattered. It felt too good. Like being choked from the inside out. Like something filthy touching a part of you no one else had ever reached.

Tim’s hand slid tenderly over your wet cheek, his thumb brushing away some of the tears as he looked down at you.

“So pretty,” he rasped. “So warm.”

His hand drifted lower, cupping under your jaw for a moment, petting you almost sweetly. Then it kept going.

You felt his palm settle over the front of your throat.

Your dazed eyes blinked into focus.

Tim’s fingers curled around your neck, squeezing with a good amount of pressure while his cock stayed buried. Your hand flew up and gripped his forearm where you felt it. A muffled whine vibrated around his length as your vision began to tunnel, black creeping in at the edges. Your head felt like it was floating, pulsing with white-hot heat, but the lack of air made everything sharper and softer at the same time. Everything was contradictory.

“Settle down… I’ve got you,” Tim murmured. “Look at you. You’re doing great.”

He kept the pressure steady, not crushing, but firm enough that every shallow, failed attempt at breath turned into a weak, pathetic gag that made your head strain further. Your body trembled. You felt like you were burning alive—every nerve lit up, body aching, head spinning so badly you thought you might actually pass out.

And you didn’t care.

It felt too good. The numbness, the heat, the overwhelming fullness, how Tim was looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world… it was addictive.

Tim’s thumb stroked over the front of your throat, feeling the way his own cock bulged there as he held you pinned.

You gazed up at him through puffy, tear-blurred eyes, barely separating where his face began and the porch lights ended. But what you could see was flushed raw, his stern mask cracked open to leave nothing but visceral need.

He gave one involuntary bump of his hips, nudging just a little deeper, and cursed sharply under his breath.

“Shit… I’m not gonna last like this,” he growled.

Then something shifted in him. Anxious, restless energy took over, and his hands moved to either side of your head, his fingers threading into your hair as he carefully dragged his cock back. You felt every thick inch sliding out of your throat—the sudden rush of air, the wet, obscene pull, the way your throat shuttered and clenched around nothing once he was almost all the way out.

You barely had time to breathe before he thrust back in.

Fuck.

The stretch burned as he pushed deep again and bottomed out. Then he did it again. And again.

Tim started fucking your throat in earnest.

He was growly now, almost animalistic with deep, frustrated grunts escaping him with every rough snap of his hips. He’d pull back halfway, just enough for you to feel the head drag across your tongue, before slamming back in, forcing himself past that tight ring and burying his cock to the hilt.

“Fuck—that’s it,” he rasped, voice breaking. “Take it. Just fuckin’ take it all.”

Your jaw had gone completely slack, your lips stretched wide around the base of him as he used your mouth. Every thrust punched a wet, choked gag out of you. Spit poured down your chin in messy strings, dripping onto your chest and the wooden porch below. Your hands stayed clenched tight on his thighs, holding on for dear life while he fucked your throat with growing urgency. Your body fought desperately for air that never came, but your brain couldn’t be more happy.

Tim’s hand slid from your hair to your cheek, his rough palm surprisingly gentle as he brushed away some of the tears still rolling down your skin. Then his thumb slipped into the corner of your mouth, hooking inside and pulling your lips open even wider, exposing your tongue for him buried under the weight of his length.

You blinked slowly and let your head go completely lax in his hold. You wanted him to use you exactly how he needed.

“I’m close,” he rasped, groaning as his thrusts turned sharp and frantic. “Fuck… I’m gonna cum.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes. His usually neat hair had fallen forward, dark strands messy and sticking to his forehead, hanging into his eyes. He looked completely undone.

“Shit—fuck,” Tim cursed sharply.

He pulled his cock out of your throat in one smooth motion. You gasped in wet, raw breaths, your chest heaving as fresh air finally rushed back into your lungs. Before you could even steady yourself, his thumb tugged your bottom lip down, holding your mouth wide open for him.

He pressed the swollen, leaking tip of his cock right against your tongue and started stroking himself in fast, frantic strokes. His body shook with how close he was.

You whined loudly around him, the desperate sound vibrating against his tip as you looked up at him with teary, needy eyes, silently begging the best you could.

That did it.

Tim practically growled when he came.

Thick, hot ropes of cum spilled across your tongue and flooded your open mouth. He kept stroking himself through it, gritting his teeth hard to stay quiet, his shoulders shaking as pulse after heavy pulse poured over your tongue. You moaned, the taste so satisfying and evidence of your hard work.

“Ah, God… swallow it all,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Swallow what I give you.”

Even as he came, he kept his thumb hooked in the bottom of your mouth, holding you open so he could watch every rope land on your tongue. His whole body trembled with the force of it, his hips twitching as the last few weak spurts dribbled onto your lips.

“Christ.”

When the last of his release had spilled across your tongue, you closed your lips around the sensitive head of his cock and gently sucked.

Tim’s hips twitching at the overstimulation. “Mmnh… you’re gonna kill me.”

You pulled off, then swallowed, feeling the warmth of him slide down your throat. The taste of him lingered on your tongue, so salty and warm.

Exhausted, you slumped down, your chest heaving as you dragged in deep, full breaths. Your head was still spinning, and you could feel the mess of yourself, all the spit and tears drying on your face. You lifted a hand to wipe at your chin, but Tim caught your wrist and swatted it away.

“I got it,” he muttered.

He slid down the wall, his back pressed to the wood as he tucked himself back into his boxers and jeans, quickly fixing his belt. Then he leaned forward, using his rough hands to haphazardly clean the mess from your cheeks and chin. When he was satisfied, he wrapped his hand around your arm and tugged you forward to turn your back against the wall too, your shoulders leaned against the other’s. The warmth of his body grounded you amongst all the haze.

For the first time you could hear it over the rush in your head, the party was still kicking inside, random yelling and loud music still evident against the quiet out here now.

“You okay?”

You looked over at Tim, whose face was the picture of exhaustion, mental and physical. You nodded, bumping your shoulder against his playfully.

He watched you for another second, then turned his head to stare out through the porch rails into the dark woods. The crickets kept chirping like nothing had happened.

“I shouldn’t have done that to you,” he muttered. “Not out here.”

You let out a tired laugh, leaning your head back against the wall.

“You’re dumb if you couldn’t tell how badly I wanted it,” you said, your voice a lot more hoarse than it had started. “I’m more disappointed you didn’t pull something like that sooner. You clearly wanted it, too.”

Tim quietly chuckled, a bit of light breaking through that dark stormcloud that always hovered above his head. For a moment the two of you just sat there, catching your breath and relaxing again. Then you both turned at the same time, your eyes meeting together. You leaned in slowly, and he did the same, faces drawing closer until your lips were barely a breath apart—

“Whoops.”

You both snapped your heads toward the voice.

Brian stood a few feet away, looking mildly awkward but mostly amused, three open beers clutched between his fingers. He was trying and failing to hide the smirk on his face.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, tone far too innocent.

Tim let out a long, exhausted sigh and dragged a hand down his face. “C’mon, man.”

Brian stepped closer anyway and handed over two of the beers. Tim took them, passing one straight to you without a word. You accepted it gratefully and took a big, long drink. The cold, bitter liquid felt like heaven on your raw throat.

“Toby had a whole stash under his bed,” Brian explained, leaning against the railing across from you. “Party’s kinda revived itself since you two disappeared. People are doing chugging contests again.”

He took a sip of his own beer, eyes flicking between the two of you with barely-hidden amusement.

“So… had a good time mingling?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tim shot him a flat look. “How much did you hear?”

Brian shrugged, the picture of innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just guarding the door like a responsible friend looking out for his pals.”

You nearly choked on your beer. Tim just shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he took a long drink from his own bottle.

The three of you sat there for a moment in surprisingly comfortable silence, the distant chaos of the party drifting through the walls while the cool night air brushed over your heated skin and wore off the strain. Brian’s smirk never quite went away, but he didn’t push it.

Tim’s shoulder, however, stayed pressed right against yours.

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ prologue

๑ back to my masterlists

Tim

Tim says you make him feel old, because of all the gray hairs you give him. You run him in circles with how much you mouth off to him. Always trying to get in his pants for at least a week straight. Can't say that he minds though, means the missus is happy and content is what he tells Brian when rubs his sore bicep from where you were gripping on for dear life as he railed you into the mattress, loving the way he gets your eyes to cross as you finish around him for the third time that night.

Might’ve been around the time your period ended, and Tim was very busy that week anyways which made you emotional. He had Toby run errands for you to make up for his absence and called you when he could. Often finding himself falling asleep on call with you in the back of his truck next to Brian who’s already knocked out with Toby in the bed of the truck.

When he got home, definitely sore and way more tired than usual, kicking off his boots with a sigh as he drops some goodies he got you on the counter you couldn’t help it really, most of the teases just slipped out.

One here when he groaned sitting down, tilting his head back and sighing. Going to rub his shoulders as you lightly kiss his head and ask if the old man wants a pain killer. Which got you a groan and huffy yeah. Another when he needed his glasses that you just so happen to be sporting. But the last straw was when he went to get his long awaited beer, ready for bed and to fall asleep on the couch next you watching some shit tv show.

He bent over searching the fridge, not seeing the beer he specifically placed at the front anywhere in sight. Tim swore he felt his back pop, most likely from sleeping sideways next to Brian’s loud ass. And that’s when he heard it.

Your giggles. Not just any giggles, the mischievous ones where he knows you’ve done something at his expense. Straightening up he looks over his shoulder only to see you smiling and waving his beer at him.

The fridge slams shut with a rattle as he rasps out through pinched brows, “Darlin, don’t you do this. Gimme the beer, please.” Except, when he expects you to hand him the beer and laugh out apologies he’s met with the sway of your hips as you turn away saying “If you want it so bad, hun. Come and get it.”

Now damn does he want to chase that real bad. Beer and his woman what more could he need? Sleep, probably. He could feel it creeping up his back and into his limbs.

With the last bit of energy he puts into restraint, he walks up behind you, arms around your waist as he leads you to the living room. Pulling you down with him into his lap, as you both sunk into his arm chair making a yelp emerge from you as you clutched onto the wet beer bottle.

Adjusting you so his knees keep yours spread over his as he plucks the bottle popping it open with his teeth and taking the cap from his mouth to set it on the side table with a swig. Letting himself slide further into the chair bucking his hips up under you, your jeans rubbing against him to feel how hard he is.

Biting your lip and gripping the arm chair you wait for him to settle down you realize he's got you trapped when the beer hits the table too, an arm now snaking around your waist and holding you in place as his other hand rub light circles over your pulsing aching clit still protected by your jeans.

"T-Tim.. want more, please.." You whine so deliciously, the pleasure he gives you isn't enough to sate you, even as you feel him grunt and groan into the crook of your neck, his hot breath against your skin makes you dizzy as he grinds into your ass.

"Want more? Your real greedy sweetheart, teasing your poor man while he's tired. If you want it, work for it, c'mon." He huffs out, reaching up for your zipper, letting you raise your hips to pull them down just above your knees.

He lets you grind on his jeans, with feather light touches that pull away when your almost there. You're drunk on it, craving the release as he lets you do most the work even when your hips feel so tired. Tim will give you the smallest reprieve, grinding up to meet you as you go back and forth, staining his jeans in your slick.

Your so close, and you don't even know how long you've been at it. Tim sees it, hears it, with the way your moans get higher pitched, damn near whimpering his name like a mantra. He removes his hand from your thighs dragging it up to squeeze your throat, tilting it back as he kisses you. The taste of beer mixing with your saliva as it pushes you over the edge. Squeezing your eyes shut with a cry Tim swallows.

The hand on your waist moves down to your hips as he moves them in time with his, tilting his head back with a breathy groan as he cums in his pants, staining his boxers. It's the closest thing you've gotten to see as he doesn't stop, too pussy drunk and almost as whiney as you. Breathing heavily with tired eyes, "Oh you're so in for it, woman."

Toby

Toby wasn't much older than you, but since he anyway had a couple years on you, you poked and called him old. Said he couldn't keep up with you like that. Which was a massive lie. He could go for hours, but he's to scared he'll hurt you.

He always does want to be your good boy, even if he does have to put you back in your place sometimes.

You love to tease him. Get him flustered and stuttering at your bratty behavior only to leave him pent up. In your defense you didn't really know he was trying to hold back, and in his, he thought you were doing it on purpose. Not a horrible surprise, but a very overstimulating one.

Toby took you out tonight, nothing to special, just a walk around the park and back home through the woods. As he listened to you talk, intently, his eyes never leaving you, it was all interrupted by two douche bags cat calling you. Instead of telling them off like you normally did, you laughed. Not even, you giggled and kept walking.

He short-circuited catching up to you, wondering where his sharp tongued girlfriend went, "Wh-What did you d-do with m-my angel?" Toby said looking you over trying not to trip.

"Tobes what on earth are you talking about?" You said confused, but still smiling. It was funny watching him get this way, even if it turned him in circles.

"You, You g-giggled!" Toby exclaimed wildly next you, gesturing between you and back where those guys were. You really couldn't hold it together, stifling your smile that dared to get wider, "Yes I did, I tend to do that don't I?"

"B-But they were those, those w-weird frat g-guys! Y-You hate.. You're messing with me again a-aren't you." Toby trailed off piecing it together that he fell for it yet again.

"Don't know what your talking about, babe- OH-!" A shriek emitted from you as he hauled you over his shoulder stomping down the path home. No amount of reasoning could save you because he refused to respond, just twitching violently under you.

The house came back into view and the steps creaked harshly under both of you, the old weathered steps wanting to deny the weight. The door didn't receive much better treatment, since he just kicked it open and slammed it shut with his boots.

Toby dropped you on the fur rug in the hallway and loomed over you, his goggles reflecting your confused and almost timid expression. He seemed to enjoy it, since he smirked, his scar showing off more teeth as he said, "Y-You really love m-making me p-pent up and fr-frustrated don't you angel? B-Be a good girl for once a-and fix it." lowering himself on top of you just to hold you and flip you both over.

It was dizzying, watching the world spin landing you on top of toby seeing the freckles and the sunburn around his goggles that he doesn't take off. Taunting you with your reflection, making you see how you fall apart as he watches it in real time too.

"C-Come on! Don't you w-wanna make it u-up to me?" His hips thrust into yours making you feel the friction of his pants under the seem of your jeans that's thinned out due to you being spread over him, making it so easy to imagine the way his hard on would fill you out. Your slick and clenching cunt wanting the real thing so desperately. But Toby wants you to finish first this way.

So you start moving your hips grinding onto his and feeling the bulge under makes you whimper, as you essentially ride him. His smirk faulters the first time you moan out his name, his head tilting back into the plush rug. Toby's hair fanning slightly the way yours way earlier.

Your hand on his chest feel the way his breath hitches every time you spark pleasure in him. You can see the way you both enter a sub space, but Toby swallows his whimpers for growls as he's reminded of why your both in this situation in the first place and jerks his hips into your without much rhythm making your arms buckle.

Your cheek squishing into his jacket, the one with the ripped off sleeves to battle the heat. The pocket of it most likely leaving imprints along with Toby's bruising grip. Your arms wrapping around him, bracing as he speeds up. Slapping your thighs lightly to remind you to keep moving.

His heads tilted back, as he moans out, "F-Fuck, always such a bitch t-to me, b-but it's just us. R-Right a-angel face?"

"Uhhuh, just.. just us, a-always.. mhm!" You spasm and twitch above him as you cum, fingers digging into his sides. Your panties soaked through to your jeans as Toby ruts up into you finishing soon after, spilling into his jeans, making a wet patch as he moans out for you.

Your both breathing heavily, thinking it's over until he maneuvers you onto your back again, starting to strip his jacket, goggles askew as he says, "G-Gonna take c-care of you. M-Make it s-so you never entertain a-anyone but me, cause I'm so good t-to you, f-for you."

Brian

Brian has always taken care of you, made sure you were comfortable, it reminded you of those old collard breadwinners. Even if he wasn't exactly raised that way, he knew how to take care of his lady.

It's something he prides himself on. And when you get upset it feels like he's failing you. But honestly, you never really do get upset. This man said wherever and whenever you want it. So why not take advantage of it?

Teasing him lightly in public with lingering touches, gently grazing up his thing when he drives just to see his hands flex on the steering wheel.

Since he's gone for almost a week out of every month he makes sure to spend more quality time by taking you with him on errands. And when you launch out of his truck before he can open the door for you, and teasingly yell "Hurry up old man! I wanna check out all the new stuff!!" He just sighs, and strolls up behind you to rest a hand on your lower back.

He doesn't even look that old just really tired, apparently not to a kid who heard you and started pointing at him calling him an old man too, making his eye twitch slightly.

Oh he was gonna make you pay for that. But as you kept shopping he smiled warmly, and paid as usual. Only asking you to put the bags in the back while he looked something over in the drivers seat.

When you were done, you walked up to see what the issue was. Finding him sitting with his legs spread looking over some papers from the console. When he noticed you he gestured to his lap, "Up, dolly. Wanna show you somethin' neat."

As you pulled yourself up, thighs spread over his he check to make sure your legs were tucked close and shut the door. He always did like to park a little farther from everyone, making it easier to do this.

"Now sweet thing," He said setting the papers down, noticing your curious look. "Your gonna do me a favor, and hump my leg. Better finish too cause I can't guarantee you will when you get home."

"Your joking.." You laugh out hesitantly, but his dead serious look tells you otherwise. His eyebrow raises next, "Am I laughin'?"

Head shaking you gulp out a, "No sir." and steady yourself holding onto his shoulders as you drag your hips up his thigh. His hands holding yours steady and occasionally pulling you to grind down harder, pulling sweet whimpers out of you.

"Bri.." You call out, tears pricking your eyes as you work yourself up. His thumb rubs over your pouting lips and pushes slightly waiting for you to open. His thumb rest on your tongue now, feeling as you suck. Tracing the pad as your hips never slow even as they burn with fatigue.

It brings you so close, seeing as Brian had gotten worked up too. His labored breathing and the tent in his jeans causing him to whisper out curses. "Fuck. Doin' so great f'me. Cum on my thigh now doll, wanna take this back home. Punish you real good, won't be callin' me old man ever again after."

The thought is enough to make you clench around nothing, a wet line going up his jeans and staining them as you cum with a cry around his thumb. Your own jeans sporting a wet patch covering the entire crotch. Thighs twitching as you hold onto him like a life line watching him kiss your forehead gently, spilling more praise as he helps you back into the passenger. Adjusting himself with a smile the entire ride home as you sit there a bit dazed.

➽──────────────❥

Brian was quite the romantic, in his opinion.

A full week off, the cabin that he and Tim ransacked months ago was finally of use. However, his companion had been sent on another solo job, and the house was empty aside from him.

He had his laptop propped up on the counter, the screen displaying a recipe he’d been wanting to try. It was rare that proxies got downtime, and he’d finally had the chance to unwind.

A home-cooked meal, ingredients he’d painstakingly saved up for, and an ice-cold beer on the side. It was going to be perfect.

In theory.

The thing with being a killer was that you didn’t get to practice your culinary skills much. Which meant that he couldn’t just eyeball it. Which also meant the chicken was burning and slightly oversalted.

He was glad he’d only used a third of the meat to start with, because this was not going as well as he wanted it to. He sighed, shucking the charred remains into a bowl- when a clatter echoed from the hall.

He switched the stove off, wiping his hands on a rag. He was wondering when you’d show up.

You were his stalker- affectionately. He’d caught you staring at him across the gas station two months ago, and you’d been tailing him ever since.

At first, he was cautious. You could’ve been a spy or someone who got too nosy about business that wasn’t your own. However, after a week of his own research, he realized you were neither.

You just had a crush on him. It was obvious that, less than five days in, you were beyond flustered even being near him. A cute little thing, he thinks.

Your lack of skill was endearing, and he didn’t mind playing pretend. If you wanted to watch, he’d indulge you. Hoodie was going out of his way to pose for your pictures, doing the absolute most in broad daylight.

Stretching with a grunt, flexing his arms more than necessary. He’d wipe split liquor from his chin with the bottom of his shirt, giving you a direct view of his V-line and pecs.

Yet you would be too nervous to even hold the camera properly, sprinting off with a blurry shot at best. He had worked his abs the day prior, too. A shame, really.

Don’t get him wrong; he liked the whole cat-and-mouse act, but you were hopeless. He doubted you’d ever follow him home or break in, so he had to lure you out of your shell. Use a breadcrumb trail to get you into position. The works.

Earlier that week, he’d talked obnoxiously loud on the phone. Telling Tim about his plans, about how he thought he should “Go shirtless more often.” Maybe even invest in a pair of low-hanging sweats, you know?

He ducked into an alley, waiting for you to linger just around the corner, then he dropped the exact address. It was like shaking a bag of treats at a stray cat. Almost too easy.

Now, standing in the kitchen, Brian decided to make you a taste tester. You were already here, and he’s sure you’d be willing.

The sound of shuffling, followed by the thump of footsteps, grew closer. He could hear you cuss quietly; your struggle to sneak around had him holding back a laugh. How polite of you to remove your shoes.

Craning his neck to the side, he occupied himself with re-oiling the pan, his chain catching the light in slivers. He was bare from the waist up, his boxer band snug against his hips. He was a man of his word, after all. Though he was curious about how you’d react. If it were an enclosed space with no readily available exits, would you be bolder?

You had come all this way, and he hoped that you’d push yourself out of your comfort zone. It’d be rude not to. He prepared this evening for both of you; the least you could do was surprise him a bit.

His back was still turned when you tiptoed into the room, hunched over to make yourself smaller. He saw you nearly trip in his periphery, and he grinned, a plan stitching itself together in his head. He wanted to check exactly how inexperienced you were. And yeah, perhaps he didn’t have the right to be jealous- but he’d be lying if he said the idea of not being your first didn’t bother him.

You liked him so much that you probably walked here despite the trek. Probably giggled thinking about him, cheeks warm as you debated on what to take as a souvenir. To Hoodie, that was special.

Watching was a love language, one that he was uniquely fluent in. Who better to settle down with than someone who understood it perfectly, right? The muted padding of your socks on hardwood.

Two creaks to his right, about three paces away. Then silence. Three paces… Ah, you were going for his jacket. Except that the coat in question was his usual one, the leather thick, made for harsh weather. As much as he wanted to let you take it, he’d need it on the way back.

He clicked his tongue, speaking curtly. “Take somethin’ else, baby. I’m still wearin’ that one.” The metal tapped the glass stovetop, the burner switched back on, and you hummed. “Oh, okay. Thank you.” You swivelled on your heel, scanning the room for other items.

Thirty seconds passed. You picked up a stray glove lying on the coffee table. One full minute. You debated between snatching the empty cup near the sofa and going for his sweater thrown across the armchair. If you organized the items well, you could fit both in your bag. Another minute. The clock ticked by, repetitive while you searched.

“You hungry?”

“Um, a little-”

You shot up.

Eyes wide, your satchel fell to the floor, and Brian arched a brow. “I’m testing a new recipe. Thought you’d wanna’ try.” He was facing you now, a smirk gracing his lips when he cocked his head to the left, giving you a once-over. “You gonna’ stand there all night? It’s bad manners not to greet the host.” Teasing.

With his arms crossed, the contours of hard muscle were etched harshly under the dim light. His happy trail peaked over the elastic band, leading up to his navel, scars littering his torso. His chest was covered in sparse hair, the plush squished together. And he was so tall. Broad, his shoulders sculpted, a steel cross pendant framed in the middle of his pecs—

“It’s also bad manners to stare.”

You met his gaze in an instant and stuttered, unsteady on your feet. “Sorry- I didn’t mean to, you know. Well…” Your palms were clammy, heart racing a mile a minute. Yet he seemed relaxed, too calm for someone who had just found out their home was being intruded on.

He raised his hand, beckoning you with a finger. “C’mere.” He swivelled around after, and you were quick to obey, scrambling over when he placed two chicken breasts into the skillet. You stood awkwardly by his side, the meat sizzling against blistering oil. The kitchen felt claustrophobic. You didn’t know what to do with your hands.

Brian was right there. You could practically smell him.

Why would you think that?

That was weird. This was a terrible idea. But he clearly wasn’t normal either- he couldn’t be. No regular person would be unbothered by a situation like this.

“You’re good with chicken, yeah? It’s all I got, but if you really ain’t like it, we can order something.” You nodded at that, shoving down your inner monologue. “No, it’s okay. Chicken’s good.” He mirrored your response. Flipping the meat with tongs as he grunted. “Mm. I made a salad to go with it. You want a vinaigrette or ranch?”

“… Ranch. Please.”

“Water or beer? There’s wine in the cellar, too.”

“Water’s fine.”

The chicken had developed a sear. Golden brown when he gave it another flip. “You sure? We can open a bottle. Promise, I don’t mind.” He said, unhurried. The kitchen was quiet aside from the sound of his tongs hitting the pan once in a while, the proximity making you sweat. You fidgeted with your sleeves. “Okay.”

A meek reply, he smiled, checking the meat's internal temperature with a food thermometer. “Alright- help me plate this; then we’ll eat.” The heat was shut off, and he moved to wash his hands, opening the cabinets a second later. He pulled out two bowls, balancing them in one hand, and grabbed wine glasses with the other.

Once he’d placed the cutlery on the counter along with everything else, he glanced at you. “Well, I’ll be damned- I didn’t burn it this time. Should call you my lucky charm, darlin’.” Your ears were warm, and you avoided his eyes, stepping closer. “Y-yeah. It looks good.” The meal was put together swiftly, Brian handling it alone despite his earlier request.

You should do something. He had asked- maybe he just forgot?

“I’ll bring the food to the table while you get the wine.” You tittered, a nervous laugh escaping you.

He stared at you for a moment, features blank enough to have your blood running cold, then he grinned. Chuckling as if you’d said exactly what he wanted to hear. “Sure. Dining room’s right around the corner; I’ll be back in a bit.”

He walked past you, and you swallowed, picking up the bowls carefully before trudging into the hall. A light switch was flicked up, porcelain sliding onto the oak surface when you set the bowls down. You made another round to return with the glasses, taking a seat afterward.

He breached the doorway with a bottle in hand and settled in across the table. “That coat ain’t stuffy?” Nodding at you, he uncorked the wine. The dark red sloshed against the glass, both your cups filled halfway. “I mean, I don’t notice it. I guess.” This was definitely not how you thought this would go.

He stabbed his fork into the chicken, taking a bite as you followed hesitantly. “It’s warm in here. Yer’ gonna’ melt in that thing.” He snickered, and you tried your best to smile. “I can take it off if you want.”

A pause, then he gave you a look. “If I want?” Twirling the utensil slowly, he tapped it against the bowl once, sighing.

“You’re acting like I’m keepin’ you hostage, honey. Relax.” He drawled, lazily chewing while you faltered. “I’m relaxed- I was just saying.” Now that he had pointed it out, you were overly aware of the jacket’s weight.

The material hung heavily on your shoulders, almost dragging you down, your body heat simmering beneath the layers.

The once spacious table had shrunk, the walls closing in like you were trapped in a bubble. You could suddenly feel everything. The way the wooden chair stuck to your thighs even through the denim, the clink of glass each time he took a sip.

It was as if the air around you had grown tight, and the bulbs overhead thrummed loudly. Buzzing on your skin, suffocating you with its vibrance. You tugged at the zipper despite his reassurance, shrugging off the coat. Conversation. Be present.

“Thank you for cooking.” You said, breathing out at the ease in temperature, as he chuckled. “Oh, of course. It’s your first time here. I gotta’ impress you.” Winking at you, he reclined a tad, cutting off another chunk of the meat. “So, you do this often?”

A casual question. His tone was unhurried, still eating like this wasn’t absurd. You were simply a friend dropping by, a fun companion he’d met at work, and not a stranger who broke in. Your nerves fought your infatuation, your mind at war with itself.

Should you be grateful that he was so forgiving, or concerned that he wasn’t? He hadn’t interrogated you at all. Hadn’t shouted at you, sneering in disgust, appalled at the extent of your obsession.

The man was treating you shockingly well, nearly too friendly in your presence. The uncanny fondness he showed you made your head hurt- but you liked him.

His attention was addicting. The laughs he’d give you had your cheeks hot. It’d be smart to run, to sprint as fast as your legs could carry you. It was just that your crushes never really worked out, and he was everything you’d wished for, served on a silver platter.

Brian had been courteous all night, considerate towards your preferences. Regarding you with thought and flirting with you as if he returned your feelings. You couldn’t help the sugary giggle that slipped past your lips.

“No, I don’t get out much. I haven’t had dinner with someone like this since last year.” He grinned at that, humming when you swallowed a mouthful. “Yeah?” His fork clattered against the bowl's rim, chair squeaking under him, and he arched a brow.

“What about the stalking, then?”

You choked.

Blinking, your sputter was rushed. Posture turned stiff. “I- I wasn’t trying to. I just- I don’t know. Um.” He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “Wasn’t trying to… what?” His gaze was analytical, and he shrugged, tapping a rhythm onto the oak. “It’s okay; we can be honest. I saw you takin’ pictures of me earlier, but ya’ ran off before I could pose properly.” His cheery nature had you restless in your seat.

Taking off your jacket had been a godsend, because you were currently boiling from the inside out. Had you been that obvious? You shifted in place, rubbing your ankles together. “Sorry.” Your sad mumble made him snigger, head slumping down, with his shoulders shaking. “Yer’ real cute, I’ll tell you that-” He straightened himself, exhaling.

“Really, though. You ever done this with anybody else?”

He was having fun- maybe you should too.

He appeared content when you acted comfortable, so it couldn’t hurt to banter.

You steeled yourself, suppressing the butterflies in your stomach. “What if I have?” You were ready for a laugh, a witty remark, but the second you glanced up, the hairs on your nape rose.

Brian’s grin had been wiped clean off, and he stared with an iciness you weren’t expecting. Slowly, as he stuck his tongue against his inner cheek, he narrowed his eyes.

Head tilted by a fraction. “Who?” While his cadence was monotone, his body language was screaming at you. Wound up like a caged tiger waiting for you to drop the key.

You simpered, strained. Attempting to brush it off. “Ah, I wasn’t-” He interrupted you, tunnel-visioned on your previous statement. “Did you like ‘im? I swear I won’t say nothin’.” The way his jaw tensed told you otherwise. He was smiling again, but it was off. Too sharp, not reaching his eyes, his chuckle hollow at best.

He spoke with barely contained animosity, working himself up the more he thought about it. “You keep the photos you took back then, or no? Tell me, c’mon. Do ya’ think about him?” His gaze was bordering on manic, agitated in his own skin. You rambled quickly. “No! There- there isn’t anyone else. I was kidding.” He froze at that, expressionless.

The silence prickled you, tension thorny amidst the stalemate- before he whistled low. Teasing lilt returned when he shook his head playfully. “You’re cruel, dolly. Thought you were gonna’ break my heart there.” The mood switch was jarring, and you forced yourself to adjust, scooping up another bite. He gestured to your still-full glass.

“Try it. It’s good.”

“Right- yeah.”

The cup was chilled in your palm, and you took a large swig, downing the rest in record time. The alcohol wasn’t terribly strong, but it burned nonetheless. You cleared your throat, and the glass was set back on the table, liquor kicking in almost immediately.

Being a lightweight had perks, though you weren’t sure that applied to your current predicament. It was fine- just something to calm yourself down.

Yet, drink after drink, the wine’s effect increased tenfold. Every time you emptied your glass, he’d pour you one more, evening the playing field by matching your pace. Except his tolerance was far higher than yours.

You had gone through a full bottle, on your second, and he was still impeccably upright. But he’d take care of you if you got too messy, wouldn’t he?

His hand smacking against the surface made you jolt, his cheer loud. “Goddamn, pretty miss. You sure can drink!”

You laughed at his excitement, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. It was easy to forget how scary he’d been only a moment ago. Especially with the intoxication settling in, you were on cloud nine.

You swayed a little. “Only if I’m trying to look cool.” The buzz soothed your jitters, and all you could focus on was the curve of his jaw. He was so pretty, charming like the princes you’d read about in storybooks. His scars gave him an edge, while his dimples made him appear sweet. A perfect balance.

Your eyes drifted to his lips, memorizing the hue. They looked soft, perhaps a bit chapped from the weather, but you’re sure they’d feel nice. You had dreamed about him daily, fantasizing about his hands on you, thinking about what he’d say.

It had begun about two months ago- the stalking, that is.

You had met him one year prior.

The rain had been brutal, flooding the roads and drenching you in the downpour. Winds so strong that the water droplets battered against the concrete like hail, thunder shrieking into the night. You were terrified, shaking in a thin jacket on the side of the road. The man you’d been chasing had lied to you.

He had smiled when you confessed, asking you to dinner. Texting you for days, swearing he was over the moon. He picked you up that night, and the drive was grand, filled with laughter the entire way. However, when you arrived at the designated location, instead of a cozy picnic under the stars, you found an empty parking lot.

He ushered you out of the car, and trusting him, you did so happily. Then it happened. The skidding of tires, overlapping voices, your heartbeat in your ears. His friends yanked you by the hair, snipping off chunks.

They jeered, they mocked and humiliated you- for believing someone like him could ever love someone like you.

They left you in pieces, sobbing on the cold cement. The storm began shortly after, and you were forced to drag yourself home, lost in the whirlwind. And that’s when you ran into Brian.

His truck had come to a stop on the highway, engine still rumbling, while he stepped out. You were blocking the road, and even though he seemed annoyed, he let you hitch a ride.

If he noticed your state early on, he didn’t say anything- not until you asked.

“Is there something wrong with me?”

He’d grunted, glancing at you briefly. “No.” He was probably just pacifying you. Probably just making sure the stranger in his passenger seat didn’t throw a fit. But it was enough.

You had spent your entire life being unsure. You never knew where you fit in. The town was small, and for whatever reason, it seemed like you were born wrong. You were always too loud or too quiet. Either too promiscuous or a prude. Your affection was viewed as an abomination, the person at the centre of your desire recoiling at the idea.

You were the one just slightly out of frame in photographs, the friend who walked on the grass, and was never saved a seat at the table. A background character in a picture-perfect scene, unneeded.

You would be alone in a full room, forgotten about, even if you screamed at the top of your lungs. Isolated since the moment you opened your eyes, in a broken home with parents who held you for necessity's sake.

Nothing ever made sense; nobody ever had the right answers. But he did. You asked him if you were off-putting; you asked if you were disgusting to be around. You asked him over and over again if he thought you didn’t belong. Not providing any information for him to logically respond to. Yet that didn’t matter, and his reply would remain the same.

“No.”

Because Brian was different. Because he understood.

You tried so hard to ignore the constant flashing memories of that drive. You did things to distract yourself, going out more, indulging in new hobbies. They never stuck, though.

Soon enough, all you could think about was him. He was the only person who made you feel seen, the only one who comforted you when you offered nothing in return.

Because Brian was good.

You had the pictures of Brian taped to your wall. You saved Brian’s half-smoked cigarettes to kiss when you were sad. Brian was sweet to you. Brian’s voice was smooth like warm honey. Brian was—

“— Alright?”

Your pupils snapped up to his, and he huffed, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I said, are you alright?” When you failed to answer, he snickered. “I’ve been callin’ yer’ name for the past five minutes.”

You pouted, tittering while you slumped forward. “Oh, sorry.” He got to his feet, rounding the dinner table and snagging the nearly empty bottle along the way.

“We hafta’ do something about those nerves of yours. Apologizin’ after every sentence- you’re worrying me, baby.” His grasp was firm on your jaw, tilting your head back.

The glass rim nudged against your parted lips, and he grunted. “Don’t worry, I got you.” Bitter, with undertones of sweetness coating your palate. You gulped desperately, deep scarlet dribbling down your chin.

It was starting to overwhelm you, and you clumsily reached for his wrist. Pawing, trying to pull back, but his grip refused to waver.

“Shh, s’okay. Nice an’ easy- jus’ like that.” He murmured, hushing you. Your lungs burned, the lack of oxygen making your head spin. Your eyes were barely open by the time he withdrew, and he brought the bottle to his mouth, downing the remaining liquor. He exhaled after, breathless.

The wine hung limp at his hip, his grin satisfied. “Atta’ girl.” He ran his tongue along his teeth and slouched slightly.

Tapping your bottom lip once. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.” With that, he hauled you up, your arms wrapped loosely around his neck as he walked down the hall.

He kicked open the bedroom door, stepping to the mattress before laying you down.

He crawled to kneel between your legs, resting on his haunches. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” You giggled drunkenly and nuzzled your head against the sheets. You were floaty, the duvet soft beneath you. “Mm… ‘m pretty?” You slurred, making him laugh. “The prettiest thing I ever seen, sweetheart.”

The linen smelled like him. He was looking at you. Hazy, you were so excited it felt as if your chest would burst. “Fuckin’ perfect.” His touch brushed over your collar, dragging down to your stomach, an inch above your waistband. “Did you pretend it was me when you used yer’ fingers?” He muttered, drawing shapes.

You hid your face behind your knuckles, bashful under his gaze. “Mhm.” The mellowed light from the bedside lamps bathed him in gold, his grin sultry as he hummed. “Show me.”

You pouted at that, and your whine had him hungry. “You wanna’ be good for me, don’t you?” Urging you softly, he nudged your shirt by a smidge, thumb hooked along the edge. You’d do anything he asked. Anything at all, even if it was mortifying.

The cotton scrunched over your chest when you tugged up your shirt, and his eyes flickered to the button of your jeans, expectant. “Go on.” He hadn’t even done anything, yet you were already on the brink of tears.

Complying anyway, unsteady fingers reached to undo the zipper, your hips shimmying slightly. You slid a hand into your underwear, gathering the wetness, before you circled your clit.

Your little gasps were mouthwatering. The plush of your chest squished together in a frayed bra, moving a bit every time you’d jolt at your own touch. He rubbed his thumb up and down against your skin, one palm on your hip, the other settled beneath your thigh. Keeping your legs open despite your embarrassment.

“Does it feel good?” He uttered, and you nodded pitifully. You’d done this countless times, but his focus had heightened your senses.

Brian was so close to where you needed him, separated by only a couple of layers of fabric. Your mind wandered, images of how he’d take you filling your head.

Would he be rough, or would he break you with care? Ruining you, leaving you crying for more when he’d slow his rhythm to a grind. Would he make you cry, or would he have you high off endorphins, nurturing your obsession until you couldn’t handle it anymore?

You slipped your fingers into your messy cunt, humping your own hand in desperation. He clicked his tongue. “You can do better than that.”

With thinly veiled disapproval, he squeezed your waist. It had you scrambling to appease him, and your cunt squelched loudly. However, it appeared your pace wasn’t up to par.

His warmth left your hip, and he cupped his knuckles atop yours over denim. Forcing your digits inside deeper, rocking you onto his large palm. “Ah- Brian.” You whimpered, soaking your panties.

It was sloppy inside your underwear, with arousal sticking to your inner thighs. “Did you say my name like that by yourself, too? Or did ya’ get shy?” He said mockingly, drinking in the view, when he continued.

“Imagining me touchin’ you here- bet you made a fuckin’ mess on your toys.” He had your darkest secrets laid bare, and you whined.

The weight of his hand had your body in overdrive, the constant shlick-shlick of your fingers pumping inside loud and exposing. “Not my fault- couldn’t help it- mmph.” You couldn’t even defend yourself properly, pitchy gasps interrupting your argument. It had greed gnawing at the base of his skull, the need to break you spiking.

He drawled the words, lazily bouncing you. “C’mon, princess. Give it to me.” The coil in your gut curled tightly. Your clit was rutting against your palm with every thrust, the reality of his proximity crashing into you.

Your pussy pulsed, twitching wildly as you came. Lids shutting while you arched. You hadn’t even caught your breath yet, and he grabbed your wrist.

Your fingers glistened with the proof of your orgasm, held in the air. “Mm.” He cocked his head to the right, amused. Then he pulled your hand to his lips, swirling his tongue around your digits. He groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

Brows furrowed, swallowing, his saliva mixed with your slick, dripping down your arm. Depraved- starved. He withdrew a second later, swiping away the residue with his thumb.

The sight made you clench down on nothing, and he smirked, releasing your hand. He traced up your ribs, kneading your breasts through the bra. Toying with your sensitive buds until you writhed. Hickeys were littered all over your throat, down the valley of your chest, with Brian hovering above you.

He snagged your waistband blindly. Yanking your jeans and panties down your thighs before he reclined, hauling them off completely, the pair thrown aside. He was back over you in a blink, his patience dwindling.

His cock was throbbing, so hard it ached as he dropped his hips, grinding against your bare core. The coarse cotton slotted between your folds, making you mewl lewdly.

You were drenching his sweats, staining the fabric with your lust. He had your cunt pressed flush to his bulge. “You want me?” Grunting into the hollow of your shoulder, husky. You could feel him twitch, the ridges of his length snug to your cunt. You ran your fingers through his hair, your arms thrown around his neck. “Please- please.”

You were too empty. Needy to the point of anguish. “Want it- I-I wan’ it, please.” Your begs landed like burnt sugar, blistering and tooth-rotting.

He pulled away just enough to examine your desperation, nose brushing yours, and you slipped your hands down past his chest. Palms flat on his shoulder blades, holding him close. He cooed. “Poor baby. I’m so mean, hm?” Yet the way he angled his face to lick a stripe up your cheek betrayed his sincerity. You were crying.

You didn’t notice the blur in your vision, didn’t realize how pathetic you’d become. “Brian.” His name sounded close to a prayer coming from you, and all he did was hum, basking.

He tasted your tears sweetly, so coddling it was suffocating. “I know. It’s okay; I’ll take care of you.” He mumbled against your skin, extending an arm down to untie the drawstrings.

The elastic sagged, and he freed his shaft out of his boxers, cockhead sticky with pre. He lined himself up to your neglected pussy, tip catching on your weeping hole. “Deep breaths, yeah?” Then he sank in by an inch, stretching your entrance to accommodate his girth.

Just his tip thrusting in was enough to have you shaking. It was almost too good, the pleasure making you want to go limp. Mind-numbing and wracking you in waves. You were drooling, stupid on him before he even filled you.

Brian was thick. His cock felt heavy, bullying its way inside slowly as he rolled his hips. “Hah- nngh, s’good.” You slurred, eyes unfocused- he chuckled roughly. “Actin’ like you ain’t ever been fucked, my girl.” He rocked himself deeper, halfway in while you squirmed. “Not the same.” You whined, and your nails dug into his shoulders.

“No?” Whispering over your mouth, he gritted his teeth- and it took all his willpower not to split you in half when you shook your head. “Mm-mm, wasn’t you. Doesn’t-ah- feel good if it’s not you.” You were too adorable for your own good.

Pliant under him, staring at him as if he were your saviour, the hero in your story. It made him possessive. Dangerously so.

It made him want to keep you. Trap you here with him with bolted locks on the doors. The outside world wasn’t fit for people like you. You didn’t deserve the harshness it offered, didn't need to be subjected to the cruelty of strangers.

You’d clearly been through so much already; this level of obsession doesn’t just manifest overnight. You had most likely been struggling with no one to turn to. A sweet thing like you, all alone? It wasn’t right. The only logical option would be to protect you. That’s what any caring husband would do— wasn’t it?

If you were sick, Brian had to be decaying by now. He thought he could suppress it, but his fixation had begun consuming him.

Latching onto his organs, infecting him like a parasite. He’d lived as a ghost from his early adulthood till the present. He didn’t have an identity, never had a real place to call home. Feared wherever he went. Yet you never saw that.

You never categorized him into an isolated box. Instead, you held onto him for comfort. He was someone you deemed safe, and the feeling it gave him was indescribable. You wanted this- you wanted him. You loved him.

But he loved you more.

Hysteria pumped through his veins, the last of his sanity shattered. “Such a smooth talker, huh? You’re too good to me, dolly.” He snapped his hips forward without warning, piercing you to the hilt. His calm demeanour had developed an edge, and you jerked off the mattress. He was ripping you, forcing his cock in mercilessly.

You wailed, pain shooting through you sharply. He was so big it hurt. Tearing your poor cunt, the sting making you sob- yet he was finally inside. Brian was really here; he was inside of you, and it felt fucking euphoric. All the nights of picturing this very moment were incomparable.

Nothing came even close to his weight on top of you, nothing paralleled the fullness of being speared on his length. The scent of his need, his sweat tacky against your skin when he rocked in further.

Your head was spinning, heart beating violently behind your ribs. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. The wires in your brain fizzled, bolts sparking before they ruptured.

The thick drag of his cock was driving you insane. You could feel each throb of him, every vein, the curve of his shaft prodding against your most sensitive spots. He had carved his signature into your womb, branding your core with his lust. It was drowning, limerence so strong it was unbearable. Its hands had wrapped around your throat, and your lungs were on the brink of collapse.

He was here and fucking you. You were finally Brian’s girl. The sheets were a disaster beneath you, crickets chirping outside in tune with your pants.

Your breathing grew short, overwhelmed, while you struggled to hold back from arching.

It was too much. It was too much- you couldn’t handle it. He was making your pussy feel too good— you love him, you love him- youlovehimyoulovehim—

Brian watched in awe as your shoulders bowed. You scratched at his arms, frenzied. Eyes wide, with your spine lurching to form a semi-circle. “Hah- ah -'m cumming- can’t-” You rambled, irises rolling up, your ankles locked around his waist. You had hearts in your pupils, and he cooed. “Oh, sweetheart. Yer’ makin’ it hard to wanna’ let you go.”

Pulling out to just the tip, he slammed back inside your abused hole. Snickering drunkenly at the moan you let out. “You’d let me keep you, yeah?” He rasped, setting an agonizing pace. Slow and deep strokes, his girth pumping in and out. The bedframe creaking, his toned pelvis smacking against your mound wetly.

“Let me be selfish an’ have you to myself-” The smell of sex and fever was pungent in the air, aphrodisiac-akin. “I’d treat you nice, baby. Keep ya’ real pampered.”

Brian looked debauched. His hair stuck to his forehead with perspiration, skin flushed from the heat. The sculpted muscle under your touch had you whining, and he grunted when you twitched around him. You were so fucking tight, milking him for all he was worth.

“I’d spoil you, get you a diamond bright enough to make bastards cry.” His words rumbled deep in his chest, the bass of it making you shiver. “I’d show you off good- my sweet little wife; they’d be seething jus’ lookin’ at you.” He rolled his hips skillfully, grinding his cockhead against your cervix.

“So jealous they’d lose their fuckin’ minds cause they couldn’t touch you-” Your thighs trembled fiercely. His base kept rutting into your clit, your lids drooping. Eyes crossed as he worked you open. “Because they couldn’t fuck you the way I do.” He murmured, his baritone hypnotic next to your ear.

“They’d never reach this deep, hm? Couldn’t make you sound this pretty, not like I could.” He nipped at your jaw, leading up to the corner of your mouth. “Cause yer’ my baby, ain’t you?” Then he molded his lips to yours, groaning into you. He tensed his arms, his hips ramming forward- hard. Fisting the covers near your head when he sped up.

You choked. Suffocated by the kiss, his tongue shoved down your throat, starved and ruthless. “B-Brian-” You hiccuped, muffled by his hunger. Your teeth clacked together, and he licked at your canines, devouring you greedily. The mattress squeaked with every thrust, mahogany battering against the wall.

The headboard slammed into the plaster, decorative frames tumbling onto the ground from the force. Brian was fucking into your cunt like he was mad at it.

Balls slapping against your ass, harsh as he reclined, with ribbons of spit connecting you. Your kiss-swollen lips and lewd expression had him crazed, irate at the thought of anyone witnessing you vulnerable.

It was barbaric, pummeling into you animalistically. Bruising your pussy and splitting you on his cock like a toy.

“Fuckin’ look at you-” He yanked at your bra swiftly, snapping the front wire clean in half. Your tits spilled out, bouncing in rhythm with his hips. He had one arm bracketing your head, his free hand groping your chest- the calloused grip making you jolt.

“You’re mine. Nobody else’s.” He snarled, each syllable spat out with ice. He could see the fear fighting against your lust at his change in tone, and he snickered meanly. “Don’t get scared, now. You wanted this.” The pleasure was sharp, Brian refusing to take mercy on you for even a millisecond. “You chased me- followed me around like some lost puppy desperate for cock-”

The noises coming out of your throat barely sounded human. You were dizzy, orgasm building rapidly from the nonstop stimulation. “So you’re gonna’ act like it, you understand?” He sat up a tad, wrapping a large palm around your windpipe, your leg thrown onto his shoulder. His chain swung over your face, clinking when it’d hit his chest.

You snatched the pendant between your teeth, and the groan that left him was guttural.

A gluey ring had formed at his hilt, spilling down his balls, off-white lacquer staining the linen. He squeezed harder, and you were lightheaded from his clasp, drooling. “If I catch any motherfucker bein’ sweet on you, I’ll fuckin’ gut him.” He sneered, his lip curling up in a borderline growl. Utterly livid.

“I’ll blow his brains across the wall- cut him up and feed him to the fucking dogs, you hear me?” The threat made you clamp down on him like a vice, and you writhed aggressively, the steel slipping from your mouth. You mewl, cumming, with your vision blacking out at the edges. The tightness had him hissing, his chest heaving as he spurted against your cervix, stuffing you to the brim.

The room was quiet for a minute, nothing but your shaky breaths and his rough exhales ringing in your ears. You were boneless atop the sheets, sleep creeping in, only for your nervous system to restart when he abruptly freed himself. “You ain’t impressing me that easy-” He slumped next to you, sprawled on his back; then he grinned.

“Sit on my face.”

Despite your weak limbs, you hurried to follow his instructions. Stumbling closer and clumsily straddling his head, you hesitated before he clicked his tongue. “Not like that. You gotta’ earn it, dolly.” He gave your hip a pat, nodding past you. Oh.

Fire lit your cheeks, and you readjusted accordingly. Now facing away from him, your palms resting on his stomach, you’d never felt more exposed. It was such an embarrassing position, your still leaking pussy shoved right in front of him- but his voice disrupted your panic. “You’re a smart girl. I know, you know what to do.” You swallowed thickly.

Pitching forward, your body lowered until you were flush on top of him. His length was coated in your release, glistening when you let your jaw fall slack. You took the head into your mouth, and suckled at the tip, your hand stroking up the base. He tasted heavy. Like salt and musk, you moaned around him. Lashes fluttering closed.

You forced him deeper, tears bubbling on your waterline- you jumped at the warmth of his tongue. He was circling your clit, licking up your spillage. His nose buried in your slit while he lapped at your cunt.

The lingering sensitivity from your last orgasm had yet to fade, and you shuddered above him. Pathetically clawing at his thighs, your nails raking against the skin. Leaving angry red scours as he gorged himself on you.

You were attempting to focus with all your might. It was simply difficult to form a coherent thought, let alone use your mouth, when Brian was eating you from front to back.

He would hum around the throbbing bud, tracing figure-eights, then he’d tug your hips backward. Fucking you onto his tongue, the muscle probing past your entrance just to return to flicking along the rim.

Slick and spend covered his lips, pouring down his chin and onto his collar. It was debased, dirty the way he had you spread wide. Your jaw had become worthless. You could hardly crane your neck to suck him off properly, practically limp. He didn’t mind too much, though. He had promised to spoil you, so this was par for the course.

He bucked up suddenly, planting his feet for leverage. The new angle had your folds smothering his maw, and he gulped languidly. Taking advantage of your exhaustion, fucking your throat with the only anchor being the weight of your head. Every time you gagged at the intrusion, the vibrations would cause his eyes to disappear up into his skull.

Your pooling saliva made your mouth feel fucking perfect. Warm and sopping wet, the best cock sleeve he’d ever felt- second only to your pussy. You hollowed your cheeks, and he cussed against your heat. “Fuck- good puppy.” You wanted to stay here forever.

The praise had you burning alive, and you gathered whatever pitiful strength was left to take him all the way. Nose shoved into his hilt, slurping pornographically. It was disgustingly messy.

The entire lower half of your face was smeared with cum, his tip knocking into the back of your throat over and over. Being stuffed like this had you hiccuping. The dual-ended pleasure ransacking your frame, making you quiver uncontrollably.

You didn’t have time to warn him; your vocal cords were basically useless at this point. Good puppy. You were good. The phrase replayed on loop, and you spasmed.

Squirting as he pumped hot milk down your throat. You drenched his chin, splattering up to his brow, soaking the pillow.

And Brian laughed. Pinching your ass just to hear you whimper.

His cock slid past your teeth, flopping plump on his navel. Syrupy strings clung to your lips, and his seed bubbled when you coughed. You were the definition of obscenity. Skin painted with white ropes, your puffy cunt on display.

He manhandled you off him effortlessly, flipping you onto your stomach before propping up your hips.

Your thighs were trembling something awful, yet, if anything, he thought that made you more beautiful. Wrecked and corrupted, all by his hand. No less than stunning. He fisted himself, jacking off against your slit. His length collected your dripping arousal, and he tapped it against your clit.

“Jus’ one more, princess. Be strong for me, yeah?” Taunting, he steadied you with a firm hand on your waist, nudging himself in line with your pussy. He could see it clear as day.

Sitting down after work with you, his pretty wife, joining him for dinner. He was sure you’d be happy, fitting just right into his life. Keeping you was fate, the natural order of things.

“T-Too much- nngh- Brian- ah.” Aw, you didn’t even know what you wanted. How precious. He hummed, gently petting your hip. “Oh, it’s alright. You ain’t gotta’ worry about talking.” Then he bottomed out in a single quick thrust, groaning in pure satisfaction. “Fuck-” The overstimulation made you so tight, like doused silk around him.

With his head lolling back, he rolled his hips. Fucking you lazily, low pants punching up his throat. A muted, simmering ecstasy. Brian believed that you were heaven-sent.

His balls slapped against your folds while he used you to chase his own high, the soft plap-plap-plap of skin on skin echoing through the room. Stretching his neck, he glanced down, entranced. Watching his girth slip back and forth from your ruined hole.

You were crumpled into the pillows, eyes glazed over. It felt as if you couldn’t breathe, your air stolen by the repetitive thumps of his length. In and out, in and out. Deliberate and measured. You scarcely remembered your own name, and you could do nothing but moan. Taking him face down ass up like a cock-drunk whore.

Your clipped gasps were muffled by the stuffing, and he sniggered, sounding absolutely gone.

“I’ll get ya’- mmh- all the jewels y’want. Gonna’ set you up real comfortable- we can renovate. Make the cabin so pretty you’ll never wanna’ leave.”

He was force-feeding you the fantasy, injecting it into your bloodstream before you could even comprehend the gravity of his fixation. “I’ll build you a little swing in the yard. It’ll be nice to relax out there when you’re carrying.” He glided his tongue over his canines and hauled you back onto him. “It’s good for you to get some sun, dolly.” Pounding into your cunt with abandon, rabid.

Your need had created a puddle on the duvet, your pussy drooling incessantly. You thought you were going to die like this- your nerves scorched at the ends, his ardour devastating and inescapable.

His chest heaved, every muscle tensed from exertion. Hoodie’s pupils swallowed his irises until his eyes resembled voids. Obsidian tinting with mesmeric transfixion.

“Sounds like a fuckin’ dream, don’t it? S’why I gotta’ make sure it takes.” He slurred, lids heavy. “Treat this pretty pussy the way it deserves.” The liquid filth rolled off his tongue like molasses, and he snapped his hips sharply, making you paw at the cushion.

Brian stretched you on his girth for hours, having your tunnel memorize his shape. Fucking you through the mattress, then yanking you up.

Pressed against his chest, with his bicep locked around your throat. He bounced you onto him, and your shoulders bowed. Spine curving beautifully, your lover as the archer.

He was breeding you mean, and loving you tender. Filling you steadily, his promise of “one more” was simply a courtesy.

You had gone fucking dumb on it. Blacking out between the orgasms that he pulled from you, only to awake mid climax, your frame convulsing.

Snot and spittle smearing all across your features. Everything was spinning, your mouth permanently fixed in an ‘O.

However, the cant he had your hips at made his shaft strike onto the extra delicate spot inside you. Pushing right against your bladder. You’d finished almost a full bottle of wine, and the unrelenting friction of his cock inside you was catching up.

Overflooded, his appetite seemingly endless. The heat in your gut was blending with sharp spikes- your body sending out alerts in flares.

“Wait- ah- ah- B-Brian. Guh- gonna’—” You jerked forward, struggling against the iron bar over your neck. Though your fight was useless. His hand on your waist wrenched you back before his touch descended. “S’alright, darlin’. Make a mess for me- I got ya’.” He purred, drawing letters onto your clit.

‘B-R-I-A-N’. Over and over, claiming. Marking you, obsessed by classification. Your legs quaked, joints locking- you flung your head back. “I can’t-please- feels different- I can’t.” Your peak was approaching speedily, and he kept hitting your sweet spot. Striking bull's-eye, not missing even once. You writhed, your walls squeezing him desperately.

His palm pressed flat over your lower tummy, feeling the protruding bulge. You were so fucking cute, it made him want to cry.

“C’mon, you wanna’ cum? yeah? Give it to me- fuckin’ give it to me, honey.” He rambled, cock throbbing inside you. “Ngh- Oh, fuck-” You sobbed, thrashing, your blunt nails sinking into his hips.

The added pressure was nauseating. You’d been holding it in too long- it hurt. His weeping tip rammed into your cervix, once, twice, three times—

Your eyes rolled, and it gushed out of you furiously.

Warm as it poured down your thighs, drenching both his pelvis and the covers. Humiliation- exhilaration taking hold of you. The pleasure had you going slack. Arms limp by your sides, a complete factory reset.

He dropped his head, teeth piercing your shoulder when he spilled hotly into your cunt. Brian’s hips jerked as he rode out the aftershocks, grunting. “Shit.”

He mouthed at the bite, kissing up your neck. “You really are a puppy.” His chuckle was hoarse, and he unwrapped his bicep from your throat, easing you two down.

Now, with you resting in his lap, he swept the hair away from your damp forehead. Pecking your temple sweetly like he hadn’t just rearranged your guts.

“We can go for a drive tomorrow. Stop by yours an’ pick up yer’ things- get you settled here.” Your delirious nod had him grinning, and he slipped his length out from your pussy.

Shuffling to lie on his back, your cheek resting on his chest. Brian hummed, trailing his finger along your spine. You phased in and out of consciousness while he spoke. “Poor girl, I really tuckered you out, huh?”

He was terribly comfortable, and you felt so safe. Snug in his embrace, your body was exhausted, your breath finally evening out.

His voice acted as a lullaby, and sleep threatened to drag you under. But not before he pressed his lips to your crown, muttering to himself.

“Bet Tim’s gonna’ be excited to meet you.”

➽──────────────❥

This fucking ice pack is dripping all over your hand.

It’s all you can think about. The blackening bruise on your ribcage pulsates sickeningly, and every time you breathe, pain lashes through your intercostals courtesy of the snapped ribs you’ve acquired. Your head is throbbing – steel-toed boots to the skull make for a fairly severe concussion, as it turns out. Every nominal turn of your head to one side or the other inspires a sweep of nausea throughout your entire body, so you’ve taken to sitting very, very still, with your eyes squeezed shut. 

Well. Eye.

The one you’re icing swelled shut hours ago, purpled flesh ballooning to completely obscure the vision on your left side. 

You’re an exposed nerve, every inch of your body pulsing or aching with electric licks of pain, and yet the thing that’s foregrounded in your mind right now is how fucking uncomfortable the icy water dribbling down the back of your hand is. 

Frustrated, you lash the half-melted ice pack into a corner. It splatters against the wall and spits lumpy chunks of ice in your direction, and you’re certain you’re going to slip in the resultant puddle later if you don’t go mop them up, but if you try to stand, you’ll either vomit, keel over, or both. You draw in as deep a breath as you can manage.

Hold it.

Let it out.

In. Hold. Out.

In. Hold –

“What the fuck were you thinkin’?”

– Out. Air hisses past your pursed lips, and you squint ahead at the angry smears of shadow standing at the foot of your bed. You purposefully didn’t switch the lights on when you stumbled into your bedroom, but you know that voice, you know their smell, and you knew from the second that first blow landed against your temple (fuckin’ lowlifes hit you from behind first, who does that?) that this was coming. 

“I seem to recall getting the go-ahead from both of y’all to go on that run,” you mutter. And then, because you’re in pain, and nauseous, and the taste of blood is starting to sour on the back of your tongue: “Not that I fuckin’ needed it.”

“Like hell you don’t,” Rick snaps. You flinch, mostly because any volume he can achieve above a whisper feels like getting cracked in the head with a baseball bat (again). You barely make out Daryl clapping Rick upside the back of his head, and you’d like to laugh, but the first sharp expulsion of air out of your busted nose makes your ribs twinge and bloody snot shoot out across your lips.

“What happened?” Daryl asks quietly, which does fuck all to disguise how freaked out he sounds. You scrub your forearm across your mouth and sniffle.

“It’s not a big deal,” you start, and you don’t need to see to know that Rick just rolled his eyes. “I was finishing up the run and some fuckin’ scumbags laid a spike strip in the road. I didn’t see it, blew my tires, they got the drop on me before I could even get two feet away from the truck. But I handled it.”

Rick scoffs, and Daryl’s shoulders snap into a stiff line.

You did handle it. Contrary to what you might pretend around these men, you’re quite capable out on your own, beyond the walls of Alexandria. Hell, you survived for years without the aid of another living soul before you met Rick and Daryl, and if need be, you could do it again. Not that you want to (good God, do you really not want to), but the point is, you’re not helpless or fragile. 

That pack of survivors descended upon you like wild dogs, two of them raiding your truck for the medical supplies and food you’d trekked all the way out there for, the other three taking turns beating the ever-loving shit out of you. They got some good hits in, you’ll give them that, but they underestimated how much of a beating you could take – you’re sure you looked very convincing, crumpled on your side, mouth open, blood and drool puddling on the asphalt beneath your cheek, eyes rolled grotesquely into your skull, playing possum like you were trying to win a goddamned award. It’s not easy being totally limp and silent while sustaining blows from three desperate, starving people who no longer see you as human, but rather an obstacle, a thing that is needlessly obstructing their path to food and medicine, but you fucking did it.

You didn’t jump up right when you heard the baseball bat that’d initially clocked you clatter to the road. Or when the ragged panting above your head receded into the distance. Or when you cracked an eye open – the one that wasn’t clouded with blood and rapidly bruising shut – and saw that these people were gearing up to leave you dead in the street. Some of them had the duffel bags you’d packed full of supplies slung over their backs, the others were bundling up the spike strip they’d unfurled across the road, but they were all talking amongst themselves. You saw one, a man with sweaty blond hair and missing teeth, looking back at you over his shoulder.

And he fucking laughed.

You waited until he turned back around before sliding the gun out of your boot.

You aimed, squinted against the harsh sunlight bouncing off the road and the ringing in your ears, and shot him square in the back of the head – blood and brain matter splattered all over the face of the tiny, redheaded woman he was talking to, and just as she opened her mouth to scream, you popped her between the eyes. 

You were a good shot before meeting him, but knowing Rick Grimes has made you an excellent shot. 

Guns are, unfortunately, fucking loud, so the other three survivors whirled on you quickly after you’d eliminated their friends.

You squeezed the trigger. Click. Clickclickclick.

That’s what you get for not heeding Daryl’s warnings about checking that your weapons were fully loaded before going on a run. 

You’re still not sure how you managed to encounter maybe the only group of survivors in the whole fucked up world who didn’t have guns strapped to every extremity, but such was your luck today. The other two were dispatched with the baseball bat, and you were about to do the same to the third when he stumbled over the outstretched leg of his fallen friend. Down he went, arms pinwheeling, eyes bugging out –

Right onto the spike strip.

You’ve never heard someone try to scream around two lungfuls of blood before. You can’t say that you’re itching to hear it ever again.

He would have died anyway if you’d turned and left, collected your bags and stalked down the road like these people were planning on doing to you, but…well, you’ve done a lot of things in the name of surviving the literal apocalypse, but you still don’t feel good about dooming people to a shambling, half-aware, undead existence.

So maybe the dozens of blows you delivered to the motherfucker’s head – or the fact that you beat him until his nose was flattened and squashed into the glistening, cavernous wound that once was a human face – were overkill, but, hey. Beats being a walker, in your humble opinion.

All of that, you feel, indicates that you are a grown woman who is fully capable of taking care of herself, and yet –

“Shouldn’t have let you go out there alone,” Daryl murmurs, shaking his head. Rick is pacing, hands on his hips, the heels of his boots thud-thud-thudding across the hardwood, a blur that flits from one end of the room to the other. The sun hasn’t fully vanished over the horizon yet, leaving the cool blue of dusk to linger and press against your window panes; both men exist only in silhouette without the aid of your bedside lamps. Even so, you feel Rick’s gaze on you like a hand curved around the back of your neck, demanding your attention.

“Shit happens. I’m fine,” you insist. Rick scuffs to a stop in front of you.

“You call passing out at the wall like that fine?” he asks, volume blissfully lowered. You chew on the inside of your bottom lip and cast your bleary gaze down to your lap, flexing your still-frozen fingers.

The truck’s tires were, in a word, fucked. You’re not sure you could’ve even called them tires at that point, because most of their rubber was scattered in shards all over the road instead of wrapped around the rims, so the spare wouldn’t have done you any good. 

A six-mile walk doesn’t seem like much until you’re half-conscious, heavily concussed and seeing triple, wheezing around splintered ribs, and at the mercy of the August sun at its highest point. By the time you finally made it back to Alexandria, your skin was tingling with the itch of a nasty sunburn, and all the sweat pouring into your good eye rendered you nearly blind. 

You didn’t think when you saw Rick and Daryl at the wall, blithely unaware of your current state. You just fumbled forward, duffel bags crashing to the ground, and whimpered, “Daddy…”

They both turned around, but Rick was closer, and so he was the one who caught you under the arms when you fell, face-first, into his chest.

You heard them both calling for you, felt warmth beneath the backs of your knees and around your back, the whoosh of air as Rick sprinted for help, but everything else was dragged under the powerful black tide of unconsciousness. 

“I call it a natural consequence of walking for six fuckin’ miles with the sun beating down on my back and no water,” you grumble. “Y’all act like that shit wouldn’t make anybody pass out.”

“That’s not the…ugh.” Rick wipes a hand down his face and fixes you with a look. Normally, it’s the look that means you’re about to get pulled over his knee and spanked until you cry, but you have it on pretty good authority he wouldn’t do that when you’re a walking, talking bruise. Still, you find yourself shrinking, even more so when Rick squats down between your knees and gazes up into your face, blue eyes sharp and shadowed. 

“Ain’t the point,” he finishes, tenuously calm. 

“What’s the point, then?”

“Watch your tone, girly,” Daryl warns, and your tongue glues itself to the roof of your mouth. You live to antagonize Rick; it’s what gets you out of bed in the morning, knowing you have a full day ahead of you with ample opportunities to piss him off. In your defense, Rick fucking loves it. You’ve never met a man so willing to take your attitude in stride and then give as good as he was getting. Honestly, it’s one of the reasons why you love him.

Daryl, however…you know better than to be a brat to Daryl. When he tells you to watch your mouth, you listen.

“You are not goin’ on a run by yourself again,” Rick says definitively. “Ever. You hear me?”

“But–”

“You start arguin’ with me, I will tan your hide, little girl,” Rick says, and you know he means it. “I am not in the mood.”

You look up at Daryl pleadingly. He crosses his arms, expression stony.

“Uh-uh, don’t gimme that face,” he chides, and you are powerless to stop your bottom lip from pouting out. Yeah, really selling the whole “grown woman” thing, here.

“Daryl agrees with me,” Rick says, tapping your knee. You glance back down and have to forcibly swallow around the lump in your throat in order to speak next.

“But…I can do it,” you say feebly, voice cracking. “I can. I’m not helpless, I…this was just one time.”

“Yeah, the one time was enough,” Daryl says, settling onto the bed next to you. He presses your bodies together, shoulder to hip, and delicately brushes a blood-crusted lock of hair off your face.

“It’s not that we don’t think you can do it, baby girl,” Rick says, and wraps both of his hands around yours to stop them from fidgeting. You follow the thick blue veins in his hands down the length of his muscled forearms, mentally tracing their branching paths over and over again to avoid looking at his face. His weary, exhausted, scared face.

You put that expression there. That knowledge tastes like guilt, slides slick and oily down your throat, and squirms in your gut. 

“We know you can. But you scared the shit out of your Daddy and me today, and I don’t ever wanna feel like that again. So you’re done. You wanna go on a run, you ask me or Daryl if we can come with, and if we can’t, you sit your ass at home. You understand me?”

You want to cry. You nearly do. Because it’s not that you’re itching to run around in the blistering heat all day, fending off walkers and feral survivors and rooting around in abandoned buildings – you just wanted to take some of the burden off Rick and Daryl’s shoulders, and you failed. Shame scalds you from the inside out, and when you sniffle this time, it’s to try and suck back the tears that are threatening to fall.

You nod because you don’t trust yourself to speak, but it’s not enough. 

“Use your words,” Daryl interjects. “Yes, or no?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you say, glancing between both men. “I understand. I’m sorry.” 

Rick’s face softens considerably. His thumbs smooth circles into your roughened palms, stroking sweetly over years-old scars and callouses. You’re sure you reek of blood and sweat and filth, but Daryl doesn’t seem to mind, because he drapes an arm around your shoulder and noses at the side of your face.

“You know we ain’t mad at you, right?” he asks, and you make a small, affirmative noise in the back of your throat. 

There’s solid heat at your back, fingers sliding across the delicate skin of your wrists, and suddenly you’re vertical; Rick cups both of your hands and takes small, careful steps backward while Daryl nudges you toward him, his grip firm on either side of your waist. The room jerks and spins violently, and you have to slam your eyes shut to avoid puking down Rick’s front. “Gonna shower and get some food in you,” Rick says, and there’s the creeeakk of rusted hinges to your right. They’re guiding you into the bathroom. “And then you’re gonna get some rest.”

The bathroom fan buzzes to life, and light prods persistently at your closed eyelids. It smells like mildew and eucalyptus soap in here, and the ratty old towel you all decided could serve as a bath mat is still damp beneath your bare toes as Rick and Daryl shuffle you into (what you assume is) the middle of the room. 

“Can you stand by yourself?” Rick asks.

“Mmhm.”

“You wanna get undressed, or d’you need our help?”

The fiercely independent part of yourself, the part that carried you through life for years, wants to sneer, turn her nose skyward, and demonstrate that you don’t need help with something as simple as peeling your nasty clothes off, thank you. The part of you that willfully and enthusiastically calls these men Daddy, however, calls the shots more often than not these days, and she’s the one who has you spreading your arms to the side and saying, “Help, please.” 

While Rick and Daryl busy themselves with peeling your ruined T-shirt from your body and shimmying your pants down your legs, you crack your good eye open a slit. 

And that, you realize, was a stupid fucking idea, because you’re parked in front of the mirror overhanging the sink, and you hadn’t bothered looking at yourself until this very moment. Yikes.

Your hair is slicked down to your scalp in gravelly, bloody snarls; your broken nose tips noticeably to one side, and smudges of dried blood flake off around your crooked nostrils; your face is lumpy and swollen from all the radiant purple bruising daubed into your flesh; there’s a fucking boot print on your ribcage, clear as day, in mottled red and indigo, and you don’t know what pisses you off more – the fact that it’s there at all, or the fact that you cannot, for the life of you, remember getting stomped on hard enough to warrant such an ugly mark. 

You’ve…certainly looked better.

“Eugh,” you groan, low enough under your breath that Rick, who’s delicately lifting your feet out of your panties and jeans one at a time, doesn’t hear you. Daryl, however, does.

“What?” he asks, meeting your gaze in the mirror.

“Sorry y’all have to…look at me…like this.” You gesture broadly at your body, from face to hips. “At least for a while. I know it ain’t pretty.”

A beat of silence passes. Rick finishes stripping off your socks; Daryl successfully unhooks your bra and tosses it into a corner. 

“Dunno what you mean,” Daryl says measuredly, leaning over to twist on the faucet. Water splatters noisily into the bottom of the tub and mists Rick’s curls through the gap in the curtain. He’s looking up at you, brows pinched, jaw set.

“You look plenty pretty to me, baby,” he says, and it should be fucking illegal for someone to not only look the way Rick Grimes does, but sound like that too, all rumbly and earnest.

“Y’all don’t have to lie to me.” You poke at the boot print, frowning. It’s narrow enough that it could be from that redheaded woman. Bitch. You hope some chunks of her friend’s brain landed in her mouth.

“I don’t give a shit what you look like,” Daryl says, pivoting you away from the fogging mirror and pointing you toward the shower. “You’re alive. Bruises heal.”

“And why the hell would we be lyin’?” Rick asks sharply, climbing to his feet. You never considered yourself a particularly short woman, but both Rick and Daryl tower over you all the same, and when either one of them gets up in your face like this, you feel even smaller. 

Rick’s staring down his nose at you, a muscle in his jaw jumping every time he clenches it. It’s both intimidating and stupidly arousing. “We ever lied to you before?”

“Well, no, but –”

“I don’t appreciate bein’ called a liar, little girl,” Rick says, but he’s not looking at you. His eyes are focused on a spot above your head, glittering with something you can’t discern. “Don’t think Daryl does, either.”

“Sure don’t,” Daryl chimes in, chest butting against your bare back. 

“I wasn’t – I didn’t mean –”

“Hush up an’ take your shower, girly.” Daryl splays his fingers across the small of your back, urging you forward, and you huffily oblige. Truthfully, you’ve been dying to scrub the grime off your skin since the moment you regained consciousness. Rick cradles the bend of your elbow in one hand, just to steady you as you lift a foot over the lip of the tub and step inside the spray of the shower. It sears the wounds on your scalp and face, but you dive into it anyway, inclining your head toward the stream and allowing rivulets of hot water to caress your cheeks. 

You’re not sure how much time passes – could be seconds, could be ten minutes – but eventually the shower curtain rustles and captures your attention. You squint through the deluge of water pouring into your eye and realize it’s Rick.

A very, very nude Rick, sidling up behind you, hands somehow already soapy and smelling of eucalyptus as he beckons you closer.

“C’mon, baby,” he says, “this’ll go faster if I help you.”

You, admittedly, are too distracted to argue. You’re more focused on the droplets of water clinging to his beard, the way they wobble precariously close to his full lips, the piercing blue of his eyes behind the dark, wet curls that have plastered themselves to his forehead. He is a fucking sight, one that, during the thorough ass-kicking you received today, you wondered if you’d ever see again. 

There was a moment, a fraught, blood-soaked moment, in which you were sure those survivors were going to kill you. Surely, the next blow would be the last, and then what? Rick and Daryl would never know what happened to you or who did it. Would they eventually find you out there, a withered, sun-bleached husk in the middle of the street?

Or would you plod up to the walls of Alexandria, unwillingly reanimated, a blundering corpse who wouldn’t recognize the faces of the men you loved? Something that would try to kill them? 

Another loved one they’d have to put down like a dog.

You lurch forward, burying your face in the crook of Rick’s neck before you can stop yourself. 

“Woah – y’allright?”

“Mmhm. Fine.”

The silence that lapses between the two of you says that he doesn’t believe you, but he also doesn’t press the issue. He starts to work the shampoo into your tender scalp, careful to skirt around any particularly raw areas when you hiss or wince, and you watch fat clumps of soap plop around your feet before swirling down the drain. He grasps the back of your head and angles you into the water to rinse the shampoo out, thumbs circling the hinge of your jaw.

“M’sorry,” you say after a while, after Rick’s wetted down a washcloth and lathered a bar of soap against its fibers. He’s washing you, movements especially delicate around your heavily bruised areas, and the peeling patches of sunburnt flesh on the tops of your shoulders.

“For?”

“Today.”

“Mm. Well. We shouldn’t have let you go by yourself. That’s our fault, not yours,” Rick says, not meeting your eyes and gingerly lifting your arm so he can scrub under it. “Don’t gotta be sorry.”

“I am. For scaring you.” You jut your chin toward the shower curtain. “And Daryl.”

Rick’s cheek hollows slightly, which means he’s gnawing on the inside of it. He wrings the washcloth out and drapes it over the showerhead before cranking the faucet off, leaving both of you dripping wet in the resonant silence. He whips back the shower curtain and steps out, hands extended to help you, and pats you dry with a towel.

Then, he pushes your hair off your face and plants a kiss right between your eyes. 

“Just happy you’re safe,” he murmurs. “We both are.”

“Food’s gonna get cold if y’all keep screwin’ around in there,” Daryl calls suddenly, and it’s only then, when the steam has begun to roll out of the bathroom, that you detect the smell of something warm and delicious. Your stomach audibly seethes, a boisterous reminder that you haven’t eaten since this morning. 

You snatch the shirt Rick had been wearing off the bathroom counter and slip it over your head as Rick drags his jeans on. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror again – still not pretty, still swollen, a kaleidoscope of rotten purple and sour yellow and injurious pink, but then there’s Rick. His gaze is soft as it roams over the exposed sections of your body, lingering where you know your ass is peeking out beneath the hem of his shirt.

Rick helps you into the bedroom, where Daryl has made himself comfortable. He’s sprawled out over half the bed, one leg dangling off the side, mindlessly thumbing through a dog-eared copy of The Lord of the Rings. There’s a scrap of blue fabric dangling out of the top, a makeshift bookmark so he’d stop losing his place every night after he read you a chapter.

You’re hesitant to call it a “bedtime story,” because you’re a grown-ass adult, and grown-ass adults don’t typically get bedtime stories read to them by their partners who are also (and by a much wider margin than you) grown-ass adults, but it’s the only thing that lulls you to sleep after particularly hard days, or calms you down enough after a nightmare, so…

Yeah, fuck it, whatever. Daryl reads you bedtime stories.

Next to him is a plated grilled cheese sandwich, cut diagonally, and a tall glass of water. It’s a very simple meal, one he’s made for you probably dozens of times, but your stomach growls and saliva collects under your tongue as you hobble toward the bed anyway.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you say, without having to be reminded. You wouldn’t call what you usually do “forgetting,” per se – you know you’re supposed to say thank you after one of them cooks for you, but the stern “Hey, little girl, what do you say?” from Rick when you “forget” is deeply thrilling. You’re far too tired to bother with the pretense, however, and you can tell by the faint smile on Rick’s lips that you’ve pleased him.

“Slow down, baby, you’re gonna choke,” he says as you hork down several mouthfuls of the sandwich in a matter of seconds. You pare the crust from the bread and drop the brown curls back onto the plate.

Daryl waves a hand, then rests it on your bare thigh. “She’s fine, ‘m watchin’ her.” He picks at your discarded crusts, popping a few into his mouth and stealing a couple of sips of water.

The majority of your sandwich is gone in a minute flat. Crumbs litter the front of your – Rick’s – shirt and sprinkle onto the bed. Daryl sweeps them casually onto the floor, and it’s then that you realize something…strange.

Rick hasn’t joined the two of you in bed. He’s still standing at the foot of it, damp and rosy from the shower, jeans slung low and unzipped on his hips. You’d assumed when he dictated the plans for the evening – shower, food, bed – that he’d climb into bed after you, but he’s...not. 

His eyes flicker back and forth between you and Daryl, like the two of them are having a silent, deeply engrossing conversation, and you’d very much like to know what that’s about, so you swallow around the hunk of cheesy bread in your mouth.

“Something wrong?”

Rick shrugs. “Nope. Just waitin’ for you to finish your dinner.”

You look at Daryl, who also shrugs, unhelpfully.

You pop the last corner of your sandwich into your mouth, chew, swallow, and tip the rest of your water down your throat. You feel remarkably more like a human being now, albeit a very injured one, but the longer Rick and Daryl linger over you, silent and attentive and trading these knowing glances, the more you start to feel like a very stupid human being who hasn’t realized she’s caught in a trap.

Then, Rick grabs his belt by the buckle. He tugs it; the worn, brown leather hisses through the loops on his jeans until it’s dangling, unfurled, from one large fist. 

“Daryl, tie our baby’s hands for me, wouldja?”

Huh?!

“Wh-What – what’d I – Daddy –”

Rick’s belt is soaring through the air and into Daryl’s waiting hands before you can finish stammering out a reply.

“Don’t squirm so damn much, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” Daryl chastises, because you’re unsuccessfully attempting to wriggle out of his grasp, more out of practiced habit than anything else. He skillfully guides both of your wrists behind your back, encircling them with twin loops of smooth leather and then yanking – one of Daryl’s toned arms bands around yours, pinning your elbows to your sides, and the stubble on his chin tickles your neck as he rests his head there.

“Daddy?” you try again, batting your lashes up at Rick. Puppy dog eyes never work on him, try as you might, but that doesn’t ever stop you from doing it. You think he likes watching you supplicate just as much as he likes telling you no. 

Rick glides around the edge of the bed and bends at the waist, smelling warm and herbal and there’s a lock of hair that’s fallen into his face and God, it shouldn’t be this fucking easy. You shouldn’t be this easy, and yet, you are – you’re so fucking easy for these men you know it makes you look stupid.

But you love it.

“Yeah, baby?” Rick hums.

“Why am I…what did I do?” you whine, purposefully making your voice thinner, higher, and looking up at Rick through your eyelashes.

“Like I said, your Daddy and I don’t appreciate bein’ called liars,” Rick says simply. He cards a hand through his curls, and you shamelessly track the motion, watching the muscles in his arm twitch and flex. 

“But–”

“We just figured,” Daryl says, warm breath fogging over your throat, “that you could use a reminder about how pretty you are, girly. Got whacked in the head somethin’ awful today, s’okay if you forgot.”

“But,” Rick says, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Little girl like you has no business telling us what we think. Assumin’ a couple bumps an’ bruises are gonna turn us off to you, like you know better. Gonna knock some sense back into you, yeah?”

You don’t get the chance to respond, even though the answer is a resounding fuck yes. Rick surges forward and doesn’t bother easing you into it – he kisses you filthily, beard scratching against your cheeks, tongue running along the seam of your lips until you part them with a gasp and allow him access. Daryl hooks a finger into the collar of your shirt and pulls it out of his way, and the edge of his teeth sinking into the meat of your shoulder sends heat rippling down your spine. He nips and licks at your flesh, climbing higher and higher until he’s sucking fresh hickeys into the soft skin just below your jaw. Meanwhile, Rick’s fingers dance up the length of your leg, nudging it aside, searching and searching until –

“Aww, sweet thing,” Rick drawls, and the sound you make in response is truly pathetic, but you can’t force yourself to care because he’s dragging his first two fingers against the slick mess your pussy has turned into and it feels fucking incredible. You try to arch into his touch, but Daryl drags you back into his chest by the slack length of belt between your wrists.

“She wet?” he asks, amused.

Rick nods, a wicked smile quirking the corners of his mouth. “Soakin’.” He removes his hand from between your thighs and displays his glistening fingers. The intrigued sound Daryl makes in response vibrates into your back. 

“That all for us?” he coos. “Barely even touched ya.”

“Cunt’s drippin’ all over the blankets,” Rick breathes, like he’s amazed, and he must see the way your lips slide apart – to say what, you’re not sure, because your brain ceased proper function the second Rick started rubbing your pussy – because he clamps his free hand down over them.

“Don’t need your input, little girl,” he says, “the grown-ups are talkin’ now. Come feel for yourself.” The last part is for Daryl, who eagerly complies. He relinquishes the grip around your waist in favor of gliding his hand down your belly and grazing rough digits across your oversensitive clit. You buck your hips, whimpering into Rick’s palm, and both men shush you.

“Push her legs back for me, wouldja?” Daryl rasps, and Rick does – he clambers onto the bed and slots his thighs beneath yours, forcing them up and apart. Your knees bump either side of his ribcage now, and you’re so thoroughly, embarrassingly exposed it makes you shy, so you try to duck your face into your shoulder.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Rick admonishes, flexing his fingers against your cheekbones and dragging your eyes back to him. “You know better than that, look at me.”

You’d love to argue – really, nothing would make you happier – but Daryl and Rick choose that exact moment to both try to stuff their fingers in your pussy, and then you’re clutching for air, spine bowing and legs struggling to snap shut as their thick digits prod inquisitively at your entrance. They chuckle, like they’re two old friends bumping clumsily into each other at the supermarket and not dizzyingly sexy men trying to synchronously fill your cunt.

“Think she can take all that?” Daryl asks, and Rick sucks his teeth thoughtfully.

“Sure wouldn’t mind finding out.”

“‘S a little mean.”

“She can handle it.”

“Yeah?”

“If I say so, she will. Ain’t that right?” Rick jostles you a bit by the face, prompting you to answer even though you know it doesn’t matter what your response is. You can’t hide the way you’re throbbing from him, can’t hide the effect being spoken about like you’re not even here, like your opinions on what should or shouldn’t happen to your body are wholly irrelevant, has on you. 

And you don’t want to.

You love this. You love feeling like a toy, like a pretty, silly thing created for their amusement, pushed and pulled in whatever direction suits them at the moment. This game the three of you play, however temporarily, relieves you of all your responsibilities, of having to worry about whether the wall requires maintenance and, if so, where, and how urgently, of busying yourself with tedious chores around the house when either Daryl or Rick is out on a run by themselves. (Which, if anyone were to ask you, is a little fucking hypocritical given the rule they just implemented for you, but whatever, arguing that point would be as effective as shouting at two brick walls.)

You don’t have to think. You don’t have to stress. You’re handed this reprieve, this perfect little pocket of the world that feels suspended in time, to shut your brain off and just be, on a silver platter, and you’d be foolish not to take it. 

So when Rick and Daryl both start to push inside of you, their fingers stretching and searching until four are buried in your pussy up to the knuckle, you let it happen. Your eyes whirl back into your skull, body sagging against Daryl’s chest, broken moans suppressed by the palm of Rick’s other hand, and you take it.

Right now, all you are is Daryl and Rick’s little girl, and your sole job is to let them use you.

“Look at our baby,” Rick says, deceptively sweet. “Not even puttin’ up a fight, just takin’ it, huh? Knew you could, told ya she could.” Daryl grunts in your ear, a sound that’s half-impressed, half-annoyed. 

When he thrusts in, Rick pulls out, and vice versa. It’s maddening, it’s too much, pain and pleasure scorching through you indiscernibly, but you know you’d sob and throw a fit if they stopped. You feel so full, and the angle of Daryl’s hand, in particular, is causing you to be stretched open more than you think you’ve ever been. If only they’d rub your clit, one of them, if Daryl adjusted his wrist just so, maybe you could –

“What’s that?” 

Rick’s dropped his hand from your face, palm smeared with your saliva, and is staring at you. 

Oops. You must’ve been trying to say all that out loud.

You swallow hard, throat clicking dry. “Rub my clit, please, Daddy,” you plead. “I need it, I really need it.”

“Aww, you hear that?” Daryl taunts, hooking his fingers and pressing the pads into just the right place. You suck in a breath, one that shatters into a moan the second Daryl starts fervently rubbing your g-spot. “She needs it, Rick.”

“Bet she does.” 

“I do,” you insist, and Rick shakes his head, tsking like you’re very, very stupid.

“That ain’t up to you,” he says, slowing the pace of his fingers to nothing, an action that Daryl replicates immediately, and you can physically feel the tantrum building inside of you like gathering storm clouds. However, before you vocalize that, something catches your attention.

Rick is hard. Wonderfully, obscenely hard – because his jeans are still on (for some fucking reason) his cock is squished up against his belly, thick and flushed and dribbling precum into the coarse, greying hair thatched between his hips. It’s then that you finally realize that there’s something poking you rather forcefully in the ass. When you rock back against it, Daryl sips a breath through his teeth, quiet enough that, if his face wasn’t pressed so close to yours, you wouldn’t have heard it.

“Daddy,” you mewl, not quite sure which one of them you’re talking to. Both, you suppose, or whichever one will give you what you want the fastest. You shift, angling your thighs further apart, hitching one ankle over Rick’s shoulder and turning your pretty pout his way. You’re staring openly at his cock, unabashed, because you know how the wetness beading at the head of it tastes, how the length feels filling your throat, the sounds Rick makes when you gag on it so hard your eyes well with tears, and you’re fucking ravenous for it. “Daddy, please, I want it…need it…don’t be mean…”

“Oh, ‘m mean now, huh?” Rick asks, brows knitting together and mouth split wide in what you can only describe as a shit-eating grin. You call him mean more than you call him his own name, but he is goddamned mean, and a tease, and he knows it. He loves to make you beg, loves to give you the most paltry taste of what you want just to snatch it away the second after. He admitted, once, when he’d had a bit too much whiskey and was feeling candid, that the sight of you pleading, tears sparkling in your eyes and clinging to your lashes, cheeks flushed pink and mouth slick with drool, pitifully and wantonly on display, made him hard as a fucking rock. 

You called him a pervert. He used your pussy until you sobbed and made you call him that while you came.

“This what you want?” he asks, taking his dick in hand and pulling it out of his jeans. Saliva threatens to spill onto your chin. 

When you first met him, you surmised (to yourself, of course, because you’d yet to make any friends with whom you could share this theory) that Rick felt comfortable acting the way he did, all brazen and domineering, because he was hung. 

Was it a juvenile assumption? Perhaps. But for one thing, you are about twenty years his and Daryl’s junior, and for another, you were fucking right. 

You’ve never been able to take all of it at once, as much as you would love to, because it’s just physiologically impossible – your gag reflex has remained obstinate, and your pussy can only accommodate so much of him before he starts battering your poor cervix.

Which isn’t a bad thing, but you can’t always afford to be waddling around Alexandria, almost incapacitated, when you’re trying to accomplish your chores.

Daryl’s not as big, but that’s never mattered. He knows precisely what he’s doing with what he has, and besides, he’s fucking pretty, all pale and veiny and thick enough that you have something to choke on whenever he eases himself down your throat.

Oh, and the snug, silver barbell pierced through the head of his cock is endlessly fun to play with.

“Yes,” you gasp, canting your hips and driving the fingers inside you even deeper. “Yes, I want that – want you – both of you, please, please –”

“Whatcha think, Daryl?” Rick asks, stroking himself lazily and looking over your head. “Think she deserves it?”

Daryl hums contemplatively. “Dunno. Still kinda sore about her doggin’ on herself earlier, don’t think we should reward that behavior. Do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Rick says, and you’re about two seconds away from screaming at the top of your lungs. Your pussy is pulsing, drooling all over their fingers and making a sticky mess of your inner thighs, and you think if they keep teasing you like this you’ll literally spontaneously combust. Rick crowds you further into Daryl’s lap, and the junction of your thigh and pelvis burns from the stretch he’s forcing, but he’s dipping his face close to yours like he’s gonna kiss you again, he’s right there –

“Apologize,” he murmurs, low and dangerous. “For talkin’ about our little girl the way you did earlier.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Please.”

“Sorry for what?” Rick’s touching himself faster, now, the slick sounds of his palm stripping up and down his length speeding up, and the way he’s slotted between the lewd spread of your legs means that every pump of his fist just barely misses your cunt. He’s so close, so fucking close, and Daryl is twitching under your ass, and you’re going to lose your goddamned mind.

“For…for sayin’ I wasn’t pretty,” you pule. “And for thinkin’ that I know better.”

“‘Cause you don’t know better, huh, girly?” Daryl asks sweetly, voice so thick with condescension it rolls off his tongue like syrup. You whip your head side to side, flinging damp hair into Daryl’s face. 

“No, Daddy, I don’t, I don’t know better,” you relent.

“Who does?” Rick asks raggedly.

“You. Both of you,” you whimper, heart rabbiting inside your chest, your breathing quick and shallow. “You know better. I’m just a little girl, I-I shouldn’t…shouldn’t tell you what to do…I won’t do it again, I swear, I won’t, just please, please fuck me. Use me, breed me, I can’t take it anymore.”

You’re lying. You absolutely will tell them what to do again, probably as soon as an hour from now. You live to boss them around, high up on the throne they built just for you, and they live to grumble and roll their eyes and fulfill your every whim. Because beneath every scoff or exasperated complaint, there’s a softness there, an undeniable affection that rolls off the two of them in waves, even when you’re being downright unreasonable. 

You’ve got them wrapped around your little finger, which is probably why Rick glances at Daryl, nods, and says, “Lay her back for me.”

You wheeze when they pull their fingers out of you, devastatingly empty, but Daryl shushes you and ushers you onto your back. He’s mindful of your broken ribs, risking only featherlight touches over your bruised skin, and stuffs a pillow under your ass before his weight lifts off the bed. Your shoulders tingle in their sockets, pins and needles vibrating down the length of both your bound arms, and your wrists are chafing where the leather’s bitten into your skin, but you don’t dream of complaining. You love being tied up like this, love being totally helpless and at their mercy. That’s why when Rick shuffles you further down the bed, until your head is dangling off the side, the most you offer is a small, puzzled noise.

You feel Rick positioning himself between your thighs, and then Daryl is striding into view, deftly unbuckling his belt and pulling himself out through the zipper. Precum pearls around the gleaming silver stud at the very tip of his cock before dripping onto the floor, and you want to catch every single drop of it with your tongue. 

“Open up, pretty girl,” he says huskily, like he read your mind, and your body obeys before your brain fully processes what he said. You drop your jaw and stick your tongue all the way out, and Daryl snickers.

“Nice an’ open for me here too, baby,” Rick mumbles, and you gasp like you’ve been electrocuted as he drags his fat cockhead around the rim of your hole, over and over again. “Made you fuckin’ gape.”

“Ain’t surprised,” Daryl sighs, smearing the driveling mess at the crown of his cock down the length, slicking his slow, languid strokes. “Tiny little cunt, can barely handle anythin’.” 

“She manages just fine. Don’t you, baby girl?”

“Yes, Da – ah!” You jerk, hard, spine curving, head pinning itself against the side of the mattress as Rick suddenly thrusts forward, thick fingers bruising into your hips, burying over half his length inside in one swift push. 

You choke – or, well, you start to, because Rick’s never just fucked into you like that before, and the burning pressure in your cunt takes your breath away, but then Daryl’s sliding into your throat and you actually choke. There’s a long, stupid moment where you forget how to breathe out of your nose, and so while Rick is groaning between your thighs, and Daryl is tossing his head back onto his shoulders, you’re breathlessly struggling against the sheets. Every inch you swallow further hinders your airway, but you can’t stop, you don’t have a choice, because Daryl cradles the back of your skull and bullies deeper, deeper, deeper, until eventually his balls are crushed against your nose. 

“Your Daddy was right,” Daryl says, a bit winded. “You take anythin’ we give you, huh?”

Rick sniggers, beard etching along the soft skin of your sternum as he bends to kiss you, still sheathed inside your pussy. It’s then that you finally remember how to fucking breathe, because that tickles, and you kick out involuntarily with a wet, broken gurgle.

“She’s sure tryin’,” he says, patting your flank patronizingly. “Can only go so deep inside her ‘lil pussy before I hit the back of her.”

“Don’t stop you from fuckin’ her stupid,” Daryl fires back, thrusting shallowly into your mouth. You want to hollow your cheeks, swirl your tongue around his head, pull out all the stops to impress and dazzle them like normal, but you can’t. You’re so overwhelmed that your weak, jellowy limbs are trembling, and so all you’re capable of is lying there and taking whatever these men decide to give you. “I see her limpin’ everywhere after she spends a night with you, like you’re tryna split her in half.”

“Can’t help it,” Rick purrs, and there’s an edge to his voice, something feral and mean that makes you shudder. He picks up the pace, nestling himself between your legs and digging his fingers into the meat of your ass for purchase as he pumps his hips. Daryl’s not wrong – Rick fucks you like he’s trying to break you, like he’s trying to brand himself into the core of your body, but you don’t mind. 

In fact, you beg him for it. 

You splutter, voice high and strangled as Rick inevitably bumps your cervix trying to fit his whole length inside your cunt, and it hurts, of course, but it’s exquisite. Every thrust forces you to take Daryl’s cock deeper, as well, until you’re gagging and leaking drool down the sides of your face.

Daryl strokes his thumbs across your cheeks, breath rasping out in short bursts, tracing the bruise encompassing the left half of your face with something that feels like reverence. He’s gentler with you than Rick is, handles you more like you’re something that might crack apart at the slightest provocation, but he’s no less passionate. He just likes to take his time with you, likes to wind you up take you apart, piece by piece, until you’re a shivery, blabbering mess – and he’s so fucking good at it. 

He backs up, dragging his cock out of your throat completely, thick strands of saliva stretching and snapping between your lips and the glistening ball of his piercing. You whine, immediately on the verge of tears, because your slow, cottony brain can only comprehend pleasure and more, and his absence directly defies both of those imperatives. If your arms weren’t numb beneath your body, you’d grab him by the root and put him back where he belongs, but they are, so you can’t, and so you cry.

“Aww, see whatcha did,” Rick huffs, rhythm undisrupted. With your mouth now (painfully, wretchedly) empty, he keeps punching these pitiable uh uh uh sounds out of you. “Made the little baby cry.”

“Daddy, c…come back,” you implore, gazing up at Daryl’s flushed face, the way his hair is falling into his eyes, the sheen of sweat glowing on the hint of exposed collarbone beneath his shirt. He pushes air out through his pursed lips and smiles, bright and sweet, down at you.

“I am, I am, shh,” he soothes. “Don’t gotta cry. My knees are killin’ me. Scoot ‘er back, Rick, I gotta get up on the bed.” 

Rick snorts but obliges, hooking his arms in the ditches of your knees and dragging you further up the mattress, damp sheets skidding beneath your ass. The blood that’s pooled in your head starts to sluggishly flow back into the rest of your body, which is more than a little disorienting, but then Daryl’s back, kneeling by your head, and suddenly you couldn’t give a fuck about how dizzy you are.

“Showin’ your age, old man,” Rick pokes, and Daryl cuffs him on the shoulder.

“Fuck you, dude,” he says, grinning, combing your hair out of your face and gripping himself by the base. He guides his dick back to where it belongs, hot and throbbing in the back of your throat, and he’s pulling your hair just a little too hard, but only because he’s supporting your head. He doesn’t mean to, and even though pain is seething along the barely-scabbed wounds dappled at your temple, it’s grounding. Without that little bite of pain, you’re worried you might float away from these men. 

Rick moans, a low, rough sound that twirls the blood-hot coil winding between your hips tighter, and places one calloused palm on the cushy swell of your lower stomach.

“Fuckin’ pokin’ outta your tummy, baby, goddamn. You seein’ this?” He juts his chin down at you, and you know he feels how you spasm around his length when Daryl reaches down and replaces Rick’s hand with his own, massaging the spot where Rick’s cock is pounding against your insides. Your flesh ripples and bulges in time with Rick’s pistoning hips, and beneath the thinly affected veneer of irritation, Daryl is fucking impressed.

“Showoff,” he says.

“I can see you stickin’ out her throat, man,” Rick points out. “Takin’ that shit like a champ, baby girl, lookit you go.”

Daryl looks down and flashes you that adoring, small smile again. You can hardly make it out through the tears spilling over your waterline, but it warms you from the inside out nevertheless. 

That’s for you. Daryl doesn’t really smile at a whole bunch of people, but on the rare occasion one slips across his face, it’s never like this. You know that this expression is meant for your eyes alone, and it’s equal parts exhilarating and heart-melting.

Then, of course, Daryl grips you gently around the throat, and his eyes round at the edges once he realizes he can, indeed, feel his cock through it. The way he raises his other hand and digs his teeth into the knuckles makes you throb, because you’ve fucked enough times to know that means he’s close and trying to stave off an impending orgasm. He never stops thrusting, though, doesn’t even slow his pace, and when he bumps your soft palate hard enough to make you gag, Rick groans.

“Fuck, do that again, man,” he wheezes, sitting back on his haunches. He lifts your lower body and holds your hips in place, ensuring that you’re tilted at the perfect angle while he fucks into you like a life-sized cocksleeve.

“Huh?” he huffs after a moment, clearly distracted. 

“Gag her,” Rick elaborates, and when you cut your eye to the side, you see the pink of his tongue darting out to wet his lips, like a wolf salivating over its kill. “Gets so fuckin’ tight when she can’t breathe. Do it again.”

Daryl shakes his head, his laughter coarse and quiet. “You’re sick, man,” he says, and it sounds like a reprimand, but he must not think Rick’s all that sick – he cups the dip of your skull and thrusts aaallll the way into your throat in one long, smooth motion until you’re kissing the mound of dark hair on his pelvis.

Predictably, you gag, hard. What you don’t expect, however, is for Daryl’s thumb and index finger to come down and pinch your fucking nostrils shut. 

Your lungs cramp, and you stare up at Daryl with wild, imploring eyes, but he just pumps his hips and shushes you.

“I know, I know,” he coos. “Y’look so fuckin’ cute when you choke, though, baby, jus’ relax. You can take it.”

“If you wanna breathe,” Rick pants, lightly smacking your hip to draw your attention back to him, “you’re gonna cum on Daddy’s cock while I breed your pretty ‘lil cunt. Gotta make sure it sticks, baby girl.”

Your body fights to draw a breath, chest squeezing, throat contracting, as your eyes spin back into your head and you cum hard. It fucking hurts – your body reminds you it’s still deeply injured as every muscle you have goes taut, so pain simmers beneath the staggering pleasure that crashes through each of your nerve endings. It’s like pressing your thumb into a fresh bruise, achy and uncomfortable but fucking addictive, and Rick just keeps going, and going, and going.

If you had any air to spare, you’d scream. 

But you don’t, and that’s made abundantly clear by the way black creeps into the edges of your vision, further and further, until you can hardly make out either of the men inside you – 

Rick’s cumming, filling your cunt with so much liquid heat you know it has to be gushing down your inner thighs, soaking the sheets, and he’s grinding the heel of his hand into the pouch of your stomach so hard that you feel fuller than you ever thought was possible –

What is that? There’s a ringing in your ears, tinny and obnoxious, and it drowns out whatever Rick is saying – 

The room grows dimmer and dimmer still, and the primitive part of your brain dedicated to survival is wailing at you, urging you to run, to escape, to do something, but even if you could, you don’t want to –

It dawns on you, distantly, that you’re going to pass out, any second now, speared on both his and Daryl’s cocks, and you don’t care because you’re still fucking cumming –

The pressure on your nose abates at the same time Daryl pulls himself out of your mouth. 

Fresh, cool air quenches your burning lungs, so much that you choke on it, and the world snaps back into vivid color. You cough, though it comes out more like a sob – oh, well, that would be because you’re actively crying. Weeping, really, might be the better word for the way big, fat tears cascade down your flushed cheeks, and how you’re hiccupping around the lump in your throat. You sink back into the bed, and it’s only when your pussy starts clenching around nothing that you realize you’re suddenly, woefully empty. Once you swallow a few mouthfuls of drool and have your breathing (somewhat) under control, you call out.

“Daddy?”

You’re not sure which one of them you’re talking to – both, you suppose. Either way, it’s Daryl who responds.

“Easy, girly,” he says, voice further away than it was a second ago, “‘m right here.”

“Ain’t done, sweet thing,” Rick says. He’s taken Daryl’s spot beside your head, a fact you’re only marginally aware of by the time he’s grasping both of your shoulders and tugging you into a sitting position. He unloops his belt from around your wrists, and your arms ache with fresh blood once you roll your shoulders out and drop your hands into your lap. The leather rasps and the buckle clinks once Rick tosses it to the ground, and then your back is colliding with his sweaty chest while he noses at the column of your throat.

“Still gotta take care of your Daddy,” he murmurs, slipping both hands down the length of your arms. He laces his fingers through the gaps in yours, and at first, you think he’s just doing it to be sweet, to hold you – you understand however, once your head rolls forward and you focus on what’s happening between your thighs, that this is Rick’s way of keeping you still. “You don’t wanna leave him hangin’, do ya?”

You blink with leaden eyelids. Daryl’s inching himself closer to your slit, one hand braced on the tender give of your inner thigh, the other stroking up and down the length of his cock. His piercing glitters among the mess of precum and spit welling at the flushed tip, and air hisses out through your teeth once he slaps it once, twice, three times against your messy little hole.

“She looks sleepy,” he says, head tilted slightly to one side. You drop your legs open further, and let Daryl hitch his palm in the ditch of your knee and push it toward your chest. 

“Well, she ain’t gotta be awake for you to cum in her, man,” Rick laughs. “Right, baby?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s our big girl.” He’s warm and solid at your back, and his thumbs are swirling circles into the mildly excoriated flesh of your wrists, and when Daryl eases himself inside you, Rick peppers kisses along the slope of your shoulder.

You’re so sore already, and your swollen walls almost force Daryl out before he’s had a chance to notch the head of his cock past the edge of your hole, but you just sag against Rick and take deep, slow breaths. Because the burn of Daryl’s cock inside of you is soothing, distracts you from the way your battered body is beginning to throb anew as the glow of your orgasm dissipates, and when you whimper, he bends and presses his lips to your forehead.

“You can doze if you wanna, pretty girl,” he says, but if the way he’s pulsing inside you is any indication, you know he’s seconds away from blowing his load.

“S’okay,” you say, breath stuttering around a yawn. “I’m okay.”

You jolt and cry out like you’ve been hit with a live wire when you feel fingers at your clit, rubbing tentative circles around the oversensitive little nub, and Rick snickers.

“Oh, I know,” he mocks. “But you can give us another, baby. Know ya can. ‘S gotta catch, remember?”

“I-I…I can’t, Daddy, I–”

“Shhh, none a’ that,” Daryl chides, and he’s not fucking you nearly as hard as Rick was, but you’re gasping and twitching around his length all the same. You can’t believe their ministrations are actually bringing you to the edge again, because you were certain they’d wrung you dry, but pleasure licks up your spine and smolders between your hipbones as Daryl bucks away at your cunt. 

“Wonder which load’s gonna take,” Rick muses aloud, and you whine. “But even if it don’t this time, we’ll just keep tryin’. That sound good, baby?”

“Y-Yes, Daddy, fuck, please, ah –”

Rick’s mouth is at your ear, beard scuffing your jaw. “Better pray it’s mine, sweet thing, or I’ll just have to fill you while you’re dreamin’,” he says, quiet enough that you know Daryl can’t hear, nasty and possessive.

“Oh, fuck, there it is – ”

Daryl embeds himself inside you to the hilt as he cums, shoulders trembling and brows knotted together, and there’s the unmistakable sound of liquid gushing out of your pussy as you follow right behind, sobbing and thrashing.

“That’s it, girly, fuck, keep goin’ –”

“Knew you’d squirt if I promised we’d knock you up,” Rick brags, and you feel your face bloom red.

You’re half-asleep by the time Daryl finally pulls out, spent and soft, and mostly asleep after they’ve both finished cleaning cum off your lower body, checking the bruises on your ribcage again, and feeding you sips of cold water. Rick even fetches some oily, medicinal-smelling cream and rubs it into your wrists, but not before he flips each one and presses a chaste kiss into the thin, raw flesh. They strip you, flinging Rick’s shirt into the same corner your deflated ice pack resides in, and pile your various, mismatched blankets on top of you. You’re tucked against Daryl’s side, his chin balanced atop your sweaty head, when the hard line of Rick’s body shimmies up behind you. 

The three of you hardly ever sleep together in the same bed. For one, it gets far too hot, and you’ve been told you’re a bit fussy after a full night of tossing and turning and flinging off blankets only to have the body of a grown man drape itself across your back. It’s also quite cramped, because while you can fit in a full-sized bed just fine, Rick and Daryl have to fight not to fall off the sides when they’re cuddling you – and that’s when there’s only one of them present. It’s not practical, often uncomfortable, and they’re not too keen on the idea of accidentally snuggling up to each other during the night (men and their weird hang-ups), but Rick is banding his arms around your waist and bumping his nose against your nape while Daryl hooks your ankles together anyway.

You’re not sure when you fall asleep. It’s somewhere between Daryl whispering about how well you did into the crown of your head, and Rick swirling delicate circles into the flesh of your stomach, like he’s hoping to feel something.