Cody

Tim

Tim comes home looking like the day has wrung him out and left nothing useful behind.

The door shuts heavy behind him. His boots drag across the floor. His jacket comes off one shoulder, then the other, landing over the back of a chair without much care. He smells like cold air, smoke, and exhaustion, his hair a mess, his jaw rough with stubble, his eyes dull and distant in a way that makes your heart sink before he even says a word.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping toward him.

He leans down when you reach for him, but the kiss he gives you is barely there. His mouth brushes yours, warm and tired, but he doesn’t really kiss back. Not like he usually does. His hand comes to your waist for half a second, squeezes once, then falls away.

“Long day?” you ask.

He gives a low grunt that sounds almost like a laugh. “Somethin’ like that.”

Then he walks straight to the bedroom.

You follow a moment later and find him already stretched out on the bed, face turned into the pillow, one arm hanging over the side. He hasn’t even taken his jeans off. His shoulders look massive and stiff beneath his shirt, the fabric pulling tight across his back every time he breathes.

You crawl onto the bed beside him and rest your hand on his spine.

He doesn’t move.

“Tim.”

“Mhm.”

“Roll over.”

He turns his head just enough to squint at you. “For what?”

“Just do it.”

He watches you for a second, too tired to argue properly. Then, with a deep sigh, he shifts onto his stomach fully, arms folding under the pillow.

You swing one leg over him and sit carefully across the backs of his thighs.

That gets a faint sound out of him. “Gettin’ bossy now, huh?”

“You need it.”

He doesn’t answer, which means you’re right.

You push his shirt up over his back, exposing warm skin and tense muscle. Tim is broad under your hands, solid in that rough, masculine way that always makes him feel larger than the room when he’s close to you. But right now, all that strength is wound tight. His shoulders are like stone beneath your palms.

You start firm because you know he can take it.

The second your thumbs dig into the first knot, he groans low into the pillow.

“Jesus Christ.”

You pause. “Too much?”

“No, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice rough and thick. “Keep goin’.”

The pet name slips out of him in that tired drawl, all gravel and warmth, and it makes something soft open in your chest.

You lean your weight into your hands and work him slowly, pressing into the hard lines of his shoulders, then down beside his spine. He groans again, deeper this time, his fingers tightening in the sheets.

“Your hands feel so damn good,” he says, barely lifting his face from the pillow.

You smile, rubbing the heel of your palm into the muscle near his shoulder blade. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” His voice drops lower. “Don’t know what you’re doin’, but keep doin’ it.”

You keep going.

The room settles around you. The low light. The warmth of him under your thighs. The slow give of muscle beneath your palms as you work out knot after knot. Tim is quiet except for the occasional groan, the soft curse under his breath, the way he exhales your name like it’s the only thing he has energy left to say.

After a while, one of his hands reaches blindly toward the nightstand.

You glance over and see him fumbling for his cigarette pack.

He turns his head enough for one eye to open. “Light one for me?”

You smile. “You’re being spoiled.”

A tired smirk pulls at his mouth. “Ain’t that what you’re here for?”

You roll your eyes, but you grab a cigarette and lighter anyway. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you light it, then settles it between his fingers.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You go back to rubbing his shoulders, slower now, your hands smoothing down his back. He takes a drag, exhales away from you, and sinks even heavier into the mattress.

A few minutes pass before he speaks again.

“Gotta ask,” he says, voice lazy and mildly amused, “do I get a happy endin’?”

Your hands still, and you can't help but giggle at the ridiculous question.

“Oh my God, Tim!”

His shoulders shake with a low, tired chuckle.

“What?” he mutters, smirking into the pillow. “Just checkin'’.”

You press your thumb deliberately into a knot near his neck.

He groans hard, cigarette hand dropping safely away from the bed. “Shit– alright, alright.”

You lean down, kissing the warm skin between his shoulders. “Behave.”

His smirk softens, eyes closing again.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Brian

Brian is sitting on the couch when you find him, quiet in that way that means the tiredness has gone deeper than his bones.

The TV is on, but he isn’t watching it. His elbows rest on his knees, hands loosely clasped, head slightly bowed. The glow of the screen moves over his face in pale flashes, catching the hard line of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the strain sitting heavy across his shoulders.

He looks composed, he always does. But you know him well enough to see the tension underneath it.

You come around behind the couch without saying anything at first. Your hands settle gently on his shoulders, thumbs resting near the base of his neck.

Brian’s head tilts slightly, just enough to acknowledge you.

“You’re tense,” you murmur.

He exhales softly through his nose. “Am I?”

“Very.”

His mouth twitches faintly, but he doesn’t answer.

You begin slowly, rubbing over the tops of his shoulders through his shirt. At first, he stays exactly as he is, elbows on his knees, posture controlled. His muscles are hard beneath your palms, knotted from holding himself steady for too long.

You press your thumbs in deeper.

His eyes close.

There it is.

You work carefully, moving in small, firm circles, following the tension from his neck to his shoulders and back again. Brian’s breathing changes first. It slows and deepens. His head lowers a little more. His hands unclasp, fingers spreading against his thighs.

You lean over the back of the couch to get a better angle, your chest lightly brushing his shoulder as your thumbs find a stubborn knot near the base of his neck.

He groans under his breath.

It’s soft, restrained, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

You smile and keep your pressure steady.

“Right there?” you ask.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You work that spot patiently, feeling the muscle resist you at first, then finally begin to give. Brian’s shoulders drop inch by inch under your hands. The careful stillness leaves him slowly, replaced by something heavier, warmer, safer.

“That feels heavenly,” he murmurs.

The words are quiet, but they make your cheeks warm.

You bend down and kiss the top of his head, your lips brushing his hair.

He reaches up then, taking one of your hands before you can return it fully to his shoulder. His fingers wrap around yours, calloused and warm, and he brings your hand to his mouth.

The kiss he presses to your knuckles is gentle.

You don’t say anything, just let him hold you there for a second.

Then he lowers your hand back to his shoulder, still holding it lightly, like he doesn’t want to let go too quickly.

You resume the massage with your free hand first, then both when he finally releases you. You rub down over his shoulder blades, then back up to his neck, your movements unhurried and sure.

Brian leans back a little, just enough for the back of his head to rest briefly against your stomach.

You kiss his hair again.

He lets his eyes stay closed.

And you keep going until the tension in him loosens enough that his breathing nearly matches yours.

Ben

Ben has been complaining for twenty minutes.

At first, it was background noise. A dramatic groan from his desk. A muttered curse at his screen. A long, theatrical sigh as he shifted in his chair for the tenth time. But now he’s sitting hunched in front of his computer, one hand on the mouse, the other reaching behind him to rub uselessly at his own back.

“My spine is actually betraying me,” he says.

You look over from the bed. “Maybe because you sit like a shrimp.”

He glances at you over his shoulder, offended. “I am suffering.”

“You’re folded in half.”

“I’m gaming.”

“You’re shaped like a question mark.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then winces when he turns too far.

You sit up. “C'mon, Ben. Bed. Now.”

His brows lift. “Damn, buy me dinner first.”

“Ben.”

“Okay, okay.”

He gets up with all the drama of a man heading to execution, then flops face-down onto the bed. His hoodie rides up slightly, hair spilling across the pillow, one cheek squished against the sheets.

You climb on beside him and settle close, pushing the back of his hoodie up enough to get your hands on him through his thin shirt.

He grins into the pillow. “Be gentle with me. I’m delicate.”

“You’re so annoying.”

Then your thumbs press into his shoulders.

His joking dies instantly.

For a second, there’s only silence.

Then Ben lets out a long, low groan that sounds so relieved you almost laugh.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles.

You smile. “Still delicate?”

“Shut up. Don’t stop.”

You start working his shoulders properly, pressing into the tight muscle with slow, steady pressure. He’s tense from sitting too long, from hunching over his keyboard, from acting like his body can run forever on weed, energy drinks, and bad posture.

At first, he keeps trying to make comments.

Something about your “magic hands.” Something about how he should have asked for this sooner. Something about how he’s definitely dying and this is his final wish.

But the deeper you work into his back, the quieter he gets.

His hands curl into the pillow. His legs go loose. Every time you find another knot, he groans like it’s being pulled out of him against his will.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That feels so good.”

You rub along either side of his spine, then back up to his shoulders. “You really were sore.”

“I told you I was suffering.”

“You always say you’re suffering.”

“This time it was real.”

You laugh softly, but your hands stay gentle. The room glows blue from his abandoned computer screen, the game still running, his character probably standing somewhere unsafe and unattended. Ben doesn’t seem to care. His whole attention has narrowed down to your palms on his back and the slow relief spreading through him.

After a while, he turns his head enough to look at you with one half-lidded eye.

“You’re getting a reward for this,” he mumbles.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.” His grin is lazy, crooked, and deeply pleased with itself. “Eating your ass tonight.”

You stop for half a second.

“Ben!”

“What?” His eyes widen with fake innocence, though his face is still smushed into the pillow. “I’m grateful.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself, and press your thumbs into his shoulders again.

Jeff

Jeff is sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to you, toying with his lighter.

Click.

Flame.

Click.

Dark.

He does it over and over, shoulders hunched slightly, elbows resting on his knees. You’re lying behind him, half under the blanket, watching the orange flicker of fire catch against his fingers, then disappear again. He hasn’t said much since he came in. Just kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the mattress, and started messing with the lighter like it might burn the tension out of him if he stared long enough.

His back is tight beneath his shirt. You can see it in the line of his shoulders, the stiffness in his neck, the way he keeps rolling one shoulder like something there won’t loosen.

You quietly sit up.

The mattress shifts under your weight as you scoot closer, moving until you’re right behind him. Jeff turns his head slightly, sensing you, but he doesn’t look all the way back.

Your hands settle on his shoulders.

He stiffens.

“What’re you doin'?”

You start rubbing before you answer, thumbs pressing into the muscle near his neck.

“You’re tense.”

“I don’t need a massage.”

His voice is rough and grumpy.

You just hum softly and keep going.

For a minute, he acts like he’s tolerating it. Like this is something you’re doing to amuse yourself and he’s simply allowing it because he has nothing better to do. The lighter stays in his hand, though he stops flicking it. His head remains angled forward, hair falling around his face.

Then your thumbs find the first real knot.

His fingers tighten around the lighter.

You press slow circles into the spot, firm and patient.

Jeff’s shoulders rise with an inhale.

Then drop as he exhales.

Little by little, the resistance leaves him. His back softens beneath your hands. His head dips forward. The lighter hangs loose between his fingers now, forgotten. When your palms drag down along his shoulder blades and then back up again, he lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a groan.

You move closer, your knees bracketing him from behind, your chest brushing his back as you lean in to work deeper into his shoulders. He’s warm through his shirt. Solid. Still tense, but giving way under your touch.

“Right there?” you murmur.

He’s quiet for a second.

Then, barely audible, “Yeah.”

So you stay there.

You knead the knot until it loosens under your thumbs, then smooth your palms over the area afterward, gentler now. Jeff’s head lowers more, exposing the back of his neck. For all his sharpness, all his teeth and blood and cruel little smiles, he looks almost vulnerable like this. Held still by something softer than force.

After several minutes, your hands slow.

You think maybe he’s had enough.

But the second your palms lift, his hand reaches back and catches your wrist.

“Did I ask you to stop?”

You look at the back of his head, then chuckle under your breath.

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

There’s no real bite in it.

You settle behind him again, your hands returning to his shoulders. He releases your wrist as soon as you touch him, like that was all he needed.

You lean forward and press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

Jeff goes still.

For one quiet second, he doesn’t move at all.

Then his chin dips, and he lets out a low breath.

You kiss him there again, softer, before going back to working the tension from his back.

He doesn’t need to thank you, the way he stays, relaxed and silent under your hands, says enough.

Jack

You find Jack in the infirmary long after he should have stopped working.

The room is dim except for the cold overhead light above the counter. Supplies are lined up with his usual precision, instruments cleaned and set aside, bloodied gauze already sealed away for disposal. He stands at the sink, sleeves pushed up, washing his hands even though they already look clean.

His posture gives him away.

Jack is usually still, but this is different. His shoulders sit too high. His neck is tense. Every movement is controlled, but slower than usual, worn down by hours of work and focus.

You lean against the doorway, watching him.

“You’re overdoing it.”

His head tilts slightly, acknowledging you without turning around. “I am almost finished.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

He dries his hands carefully. “There was more to do.”

“There’s always more to do.”

That makes him pause.

You cross the room and nod toward the cot against the wall. “Sit down.”

He turns his head toward you, dark sockets unreadable.

You lift your brows. “C'mon, doctor’s orders.”

For a second, he only stares.

Then your mouth twitches into a small giggle, and something in him softens. It’s subtle, barely there, but you catch it. The faintest shift of his mouth. The smallest suggestion of a smile.

“You are not a doctor,” he says.

“I’m acting physician of making-you-sit-down.”

Another pause.

Then Jack obeys.

He moves to the cot and sits, tall and quiet, hands resting loosely on his thighs. You step behind him, close enough that your knees brush the edge of the cot, and place your hands on his shoulders.

His body goes very still under your touch.

“You’re tense,” you say softly.

“I know.”

The honesty surprises you a little.

You begin gently, rubbing over the tops of his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscle near his neck. Jack doesn’t make a sound at first. He sits perfectly upright, head slightly bowed, accepting the care in silence like he’s still trying to understand what to do with it.

You take your time.

His skin is cool beneath the fabric of his scrubs, but the tension in him is unmistakable, deep and stubborn. You work slowly, pressing in with steady circles, then smoothing your palms outward along his shoulders.

After a while, his shoulders lower.

You smile and lean closer. “Does that feel good?”

Jack is quiet for a moment.

Then he says, low and simple, “Yes.”

Your hands keep moving, warmer now, more confident. You rub down toward his shoulder blades, then back up, fingers slipping carefully along the base of his neck. His head dips forward, and the tension begins to leave him in slow, reluctant layers.

Then you hear it - a low vibration in his chest.

You pause for half a second, your smile softening.

Jack doesn’t comment on it, and neither do you.

You simply keep massaging his shoulders as the purr deepens, quiet at first, then steadier. It fills the small space between you, low and soothing, like his body is answering for him in a language more honest than words.

You lean down and press a kiss to the side of his head.

“I love taking care of you,” you whisper.

The purring stutters for a second.

Then Jack tilts his head, slowly, until the side of his face rests against your hand.

The gesture is careful.

You still your palm against him, letting him lean into it.

His eyes close, and one of his hands rises to touch your wrist.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You bend closer, brushing your lips to his temple.

“Always.”

Timothy Wright - Lazy Mornings

The sun had yet to rise when Tim's alarm went off, the window next to your bed showing that it was still nearly pitch-black outside. You cracked one eye open to look at your boyfriend, finding that he was still dead asleep, snoring softly into your hair. Blinking a couple times, you squinted in the darkness and drew yourself closer to him with a groan. You patted his arm, which was currently wrapped securely over your torso with a whine.

"Your alarm is going off..."

Tim mumbled something inaudible to you, aimlessly reaching for his phone without opening his eyes. Eventually he grabbed a hold of it and turned off the noise, settling back into you with a heavy sigh.

"Don't you need to get up?" You asked drowsily.

"Five more minutes." He muttered back, tucking his face back into the crown of your head. He silenced anymore questions with a peck on your nose, prompting you to tuck your face back into his collarbone.

Now that you were awake, you found it difficult to go back to sleep, but you didn't find yourself minding much. Tilting your head back a bit, your gaze settled on your boyfriend's sleeping face. His mouth was slightly open, drooling a tad and snoring softly. You hummed fondly under your breath, scooting closer and resting a hand on the side of his face, gently rubbing his cheek with your thumb while you admired him.

Slowly the sun crept into your room. Tim had definitely overslept, but as he pressed a kiss into your forehead, he couldn't find it in himself to care. The two of you got up together, silently brushing your teeth and passing each other the other's meds when asked.

"What are we feeling for breakfast?" He asked, standing behind you while you brushed out your hair.

He slinked an arm over your waist and leaned against your back, resting his chin on your shoulder as he did.

"I'll go pick up whatever you want. We can have breakfast in bed." He continued with a grin, flashing yellowed teeth and raising his eyebrows at your reflection in the mirror.

You smiled back, turning your head to kiss his cheek and brushing your face against his sideburns.

"We've both already overslept enough, don't tempt me," You giggled, "How about we go to that diner down the street instead?"

He rolled his eyes playfully, still grinning.

"Fine fine.. I'd be a hermit if not for you." He replies.

"You were for a little bit, weren't you?" You teased, setting your hairbrush down and turning to face him.

He leaned forward more, pushing your back against the counter as you cocked your head back to look at him.

"That was uncalled for, sugar." He said, poking your ribs as he did.

You giggled again, swatting at his hand and slinking around him with ease, his eyes trailing you as you walked to the closet. With a smirk he came up behind you again and reached around you, grabbing himself a shirt and a pair of jeans out of the closet. As he did, he kissed the side of your face.

"The diner it is then. Don't worry about bringing your wallet, I gotcha."

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Brian Thomas - A Moment of Normalcy

Brian wakes you up, peppering your face with kisses until your eyes flutter open.

"Time to get up, come on," He whispers.

You bury your face in his chest, making him laugh quietly.

"No, no hiding. Come on."

He bribes you with the promise of some sort of caffeinated drink. Both of you work early mornings. You think he's weird for enjoying the structure of it, meanwhile he doesn't understand why you need to sleep as much as you do. He offers to brush your hair while you brush your teeth, and you happily let him.

He's careful, gently untangling any knots with his hands in case the brush wasn't doing the job. At one point, the brush catches on a tangle and yanks your head backwards. Brian presses a hand on the back of your head and kisses the back of your neck.

"Sorry baby, I'll be more careful."

He continues brushing out your hair, taking the time to be slow and methodical with it. You start falling asleep standing up, enjoying the sensation of having your hair played with. He brushes his knuckles over your shoulder softly, mumbling to you.

"All done, baby. Come on now,"

He takes your hand and pulls you along, letting you trail behind him while half asleep. He pulls a chair out for you at the kitchen table and guides you to sit down, before moving to start make breakfast. Your eyes drift to the kitchen window, admiring the start of the rising sun. You gaze trails to Brian, admiring him as he worked.

Your boyfriend always carried a distinct sadness in his eyes that seemed to fade in moments like this. He always seemed like his own mind tired him, his hands heavy with weapons often. But here, he is just yours, and that is all. That sadness seems far away, barely existent in the eyes of the man making you breakfast.

When walks back to the table, setting his plate across from you and your plate in front of you, you reach up and pull him down. Your lips brush against his, pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

"Thank you." You smile.

"Anything, baby," He replies.

He doesn't match your smile, already steeling himself for the day. But he holds your hand across the table as you eat, watching him gaze out the window as the day approaches.

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Tobias Rogers - The Things We Do for Breakfast

The hardest part of waking up for Toby is letting go. You're the first to wake in the mornings, squirming and blinking awake. You lean forward and brush a kiss against his lips. He follows you subconsciously when you pull back, his eyes flickering open, lips pursed expectantly for another kiss.

"It's time to get up," You whisper to him.

He groans and squeezes you tighter, curling into you like he's trying to climb into your skin. Toby looks up at you, resting his head on your chest and tilting his head forward with his lips still pursed.

"Nope. Only awake boyfriends get second kisses." You say, turning your head away from him.

He looks baffled each time, no matter how many times you do this. Eventually, your bribery works and he pulls himself out of bed, dragging you with him. He's always quiet when he first wakes up, leaving you to do most of the talking. You ramble to him about dreams, about your plans for today. He hums little noises of agreement and interest. By the time you're both in the kitchen, he's started rambling to you as well.

"You wa-wanna try and make wa-ffles this mornin-ing?" He asks, "I never see yo-u use that waffle ma-maker of yours, might a-as well give it a shot, hm?"

When you point out you don't have any materials for batter, he simply grabs his car keys. The two of you end up wandering a 24-hour convenience store at 7:00am in your pajamas, giggling as you try to find appropriate substitutes for certain ingredients. You get lucky and find waffle batter. Toby insists that you take three bags just to be safe.

This was a good decision on his part as both of you can't even seem to boil water. The first batch of waffles leaves your house smelling burnt and sickly sweet. While waiting for the second attempt to cook, Toby dares you to take a bite of the ruined waffles.

"How much money will you give me?" You ask with a skeptical look at the pile of charred waffles.

"I h-have a quar-quarter."

You take his deal. The waffles taste like ass, and despite telling Toby this, he still takes a bite out of guilt for making you try them. His whole-body shivers when he does so and he apologizes to you profusely. The second batch is actually edible and the two of you share your victory, drowning them in syrup.

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Jeffrey Woods - Say Please

Jeff is always awake before you without fault. His missing eyelids provide no clues on whether he's awake or not, so instead you've learned to recognize his breathing. At night when he's asleep, he breathes slowly, almost wheezy through his mouth. Meanwhile, when he's awake, he breathes more through his nose. Jeff's nose whistle's a bit when he breathes. He hates when you mention it, but you find it cute.

Currently, you were laid on top of him with your head on his chest, listening to the whistling sound of his breathing and watching as the sun slowly peaked through the closed blinds of the bedroom. One of his hands slowly combed through your hair, while the other rested on your lower back, rubbing up and down with his thumb. You allowed the silence to last for a little longer, shutting your eyes and enjoying the incoming sunbeams on your skin. After a while, you let out a yawn and turned your head, resting your chin on his chest and staring into his eyes.

"Finally. I've been laying here for hours, jeez." He muttered, his voice sounding extra hoarse in the mornings.

You dragged yourself closer, smushing your face into his neck with a sigh. He huffed, rolling his eyes and replacing his hand on your head.

"Just woke up and already clinging to me like a parasite," He grumbled, scratching your scalp, "You really are like a leech, ya know that? You take my food, my body heat, my clothes. Greedy little bastard..."

"Mhm..sure am." You mumble back, a sense of pride in your voice.

You lean your head further into his hand, enjoying the sensation. Eventually, he scoffs, removing his hand from your scalp and flicking your nose with his finger.

"Alright, that's enough. Your breath stinks, get up and go brush your teeth."

"Ironic coming from you," You tease, grinning at him and pushing yourself off of him.

Jeff rolls his eyes again, stretching as he pushes himself out of bed as well. His bones audibly pop as he does, shooting you a glare when you snort.

"You're annoying." He mutters, standing next to you at the bathroom mirror.

"Right back at you." You reply, giving him a petty wink as you get to brushing your teeth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Jeff try to apply his eyedrops, grumbling to himself.

"Need a-"

"No." He cuts you off with a sharp glare in your direction.

You watch him struggle for a couple more minutes, pushing yourself up to sit on the counter. You focus on your phone, until he steps between your legs, holding out the eyedrops and avoiding eye contact.

You grin, setting your phone aside and take the drops from him. Gently, you play a hand on his chin and tilt his head back and to the side, applying a couple drops to each eye. He looks up at you the entire time, allowing you to direct his head however you please until you finish.

"Now, what do we say, Jeff?"

"Fuck you."

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Eyeless Jack - A Quiet Prescence

You wake up alone, sometime past 9:30am. Despite waking up on your own, you smell your lover's cologne all over you, thanks to the oversized sweatshirt hanging off your shoulders. Climbing out of bed, you are met with traces of EJ. In the bathroom, your meds are already sorted in their correct dosages in your pill organizer. On the chair next to your wardrobe, a shirt of his sits, folded as an offering for you to wear during the day. Walking out into your kitchen yields an already cooked breakfast with instructions on how to reheat the pancakes he made so they don't get soggy. A stack of twenties sits on the counter as well, a handwritten note in cursive, reading:

"I love you; you looked beautiful this morning. Get yourself whatever you need for today. See you tonight."

You don't remember him getting out of bed at 5:00am to go do his job, or the kiss he pressed into your forehead, but you know he would never leave without doing so. Jack is quiet on his feet, allowing him to slip out of your room and make your day a little easier before it even starts.

When he gets home at the end of the day, he sits with you at the counter, listening to you ramble about your day and answering you with any questions you might have about what he did all day. You make dinner together, mostly consisting of him trying to keep you out of the kitchen for his own organizational sanity, and watch movies on the couch until you fall asleep. He nitpicks any medical show you watch and any horror movie with the slightest bit of unrealistic gore. His voice is calming. You wake up in your bed regardless of where you fell asleep, and he's gone again by morning.

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Natalie Ouellette - Clingy

Natalie stares at your face as you sleep, your entire body balanced on top of her. As uncomfortable and crushing as it may seem, she actually slept better this way. The compression helped soothe her nerves and quiet her mind for a bit. She also certainly didn't mind getting to stare at your face. Nat passed a glance at the clock on the bedside table, huffing under her breath when she saw it was almost morning. Turning on her side, she pulled you down with her so that you were sandwiched between her and the wall the bed was pushed up against.

"Mrph..Nat.." You mumbled, turning your head to look at her.

"What is it, sweet girl?" She cooed, curling up more against you.

"You're squishing me." You pointed out.

"Just trying to keep you trapped here forever and ever~" She hummed, tucking her face against your neck and beginning to pepper it with soft kisses.

With a soft sigh, you wrapped your arms around her neck, pulling yourself closer to her as well. You gently nudged her legs, slotting your thigh between hers when she parted them for you.

"You aren't hungry at all?" You whisper to her, gently nudging her face out of hiding with your shoulder.

"Not enough to move." She replied with a shrug.

You admire the way her hair falls over her shoulders and frames her face, reaching up to tuck part of her bangs behind her ear. She met your gaze with a smile.

"What a sweet girl.." She whispered teasingly, leaning forward.

You met her in the middle, pressing your lips against hers, feeling as her hands came up to cup your face and pull you closer. She nips at your bottom lip when you pull away, grinning to herself proudly.

"You're a menace, Nat." You say with a smirk to match hers.

"I know," She states, "You're going to force me to get up with you now, aren't you?"

You do your best impression of an innocent smile, and she swats at your shoulder.

"Oh yeah, and I'm the menace, huh?" She huffs, finally loosening her grip on you.

"Both can be true."

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