Jason Kinnie Alert

You glance up from the cards spread out in front of you. Ashley sits opposite you, deer-eyes round with awe from when she held off of your every word, hinting at her friendship with Chris potentially becoming something more. A small smile grows on your face as you gather the silky cards together and slot them back into place.

“You’re not just saying that because you’re scared, are you, Joshy boy?”

With another sip, the corner of his mouth ticks up with intrigue. He shoulders off the doorway and saunters over, eyes never leaving you.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” he says cooly, sliding onto the stool that Ashley scoots out of. She shoots you a knowing look, a glimmer in the ring of her green eyes, a flush to her cheeks as she scurries back into the chatter-filled living room.

“Tell me,” he begins, lounging back in the wooden chair with a low, shadowed look on his face. A long sip of beer, a generous amount of lash-lidded eye contact. “What does my future hold?”

“Your future?” You smirk, skillfully shuffling the cards in your hand, cheeks warm when you lose the competition of holding his confident stare. The tarot cards are glossy and thick, a high-quality deck gilded with gold that you’d nabbed from a crystal shop that stunk of coconut incense and white sage.

A card flies from the deck, landing face-down. You reach and flip it over, revealing The Tower—a crumbling structure, lit with a devastating fire.

“Sudden, eruptive change.”

He leans closer, interest piqued. “What kind of change?”

“Well… let’s ask the cards to clarify,” you continue, reshuffling until another card leaps out. You pick it up, revealing a heart, daggered with three, long swords. “The Three of Swords. Heartache, and pain.”

He scoffs humorously. “The only heartbreaking and painful thing about this week was Chris eating my leftover pizza.”

You hum, unconvinced. Another card.

Ten of Cups reversed. Familial despair.

“It feels like a warning,” you say, trying not to look at the blatant picture. Familial grieving, pain, loss. Clearing your throat, you glance back up at him. “Almost like everything you know is about to change.”

“Hm. Seems ominous,” he replies, entirely not convinced. “What about my near future?” He perks a suggestive brow, licks the dry of his lips. “What are the cards saying about tonight?”

You roll your eyes, feigning indifference, but your hands tremble when you pull two cards. The Moon, and The Lovers.

“Hmm… looks like the cards are saying…” you faux scan the cards, then glance over your shoulder to ensure there aren’t any eavesdroppers. When you’re satisfied they’re distracted, you return with your chin propped on two folded hands and a small, mischievous smile.

“Your room. Midnight?”

His lips stretch into a grin. “Y’know, if the cards keep saying things like this, I might just become a believer.”

You mirror his smile, tucking yourself in tight as you lean closer to the counter.

Hannah walks in, playing with her fingers nervously, and you instinctively lean back. She glances between you, Josh, the cards, and twists her feet against the tile seams.

“You want a go, Han?” You ask. She nods, but appears apprehensive.

“Come on, Josh, client confidentiality. Get outta here. Scram.”

Josh laughs, once. “Alright. I’ll leave you ladies to it.”

Your eyes flicker to him for a moment. He nods with a poker face like steel, raises his beer in acknowledgement of his sister, and leaves the room without a second look.

It’s cruel, how he walks away. Cruel like it’ll never mean more to him.

Ashley, face pink from cocktails, corners you when you return from the readings, hand pawing at your arm.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Ash. What’s up?”

She leans closer, voice lowering. “Do you have a crush on Josh?”

You’re mid-sip of wine when she asks, and you sputter a cough.

“Excuse me?”

She grins. “You know. Do you like like him?”

Ever the butt of the joke, your defensiveness flares like the prickle of young flames. Is she teasing you? Your fingers tighten around the glass stem.

“No, I know what you meant,” you reply, face warming. “Um, no, Ash. I don’t have a crush on Josh.”

“You know you can tell me anything, right? I could totally set you guys up. I mean, I told you about my crush on…” she glances around, tactically lowering her voice. “…Chris. So, you can trust me!”

“Ash, I think everybody knows about your crush on Chris.”

She blinks like a doe in headlights. “No, they don’t,” her gaze slips away. “Do they?”

You sip from your glass. “Everybody except Chris, apparently.”

She whacks your arm gently. “Shut up! He might hear you!” She scolds, embarrassed. You chuckle to yourself, eyes drawn to your cup as you mindlessly swirl the drink.

“But, seriously, it’s probably good that you don’t have a crush on Josh. Hannah and Beth would kill you!” She laughs.

Your blood turns icy as your mind is suddenly overwhelmed by a flurry of hook-up flashbacks, and you take a healthy, guilt-numbing swig of your drink before replying.

“Haha. Yeah. You’re probably right about that.”

Two glasses of wine later, you excuse yourself for the bathroom and veer off path when the coast is clear to Josh’s room. His door is ajar, feeding through a slim slice of warm lamp lighting onto the dark hallway.

A familiar routine— a scratch for the itch, a hit for the craving. Can’t keep your hands off him, not since the first time. You’d be in so much trouble if the twins knew you were hooking up with their older brother, but the scandal of it all gives you hot flashes between the thighs.

Hands tickle up your sides when you sneak in. A flat palm over your shoulder to click the door shut.

“You’re late,” he teases.

You stifle your giggles. “Yeah, well, unless you want everybody finding out about whatever we’re doing, then you’ll have to be patient for me to find my moment to sneak off.”

He closes the space between you, pressing against your chest to tilt you against the dresser, feeling small beneath his frame. Knees locked around his hips when you hop up.

“Would it be so bad?” He murmurs, immediately kissing along your neck, hands greedy on your waist. “You know… if they knew? About us?”

Us. A word like hot coals, fingers instinctively recoiling from the topic. Excited butterflies turned to anxious wasps in your belly. Casual moments bleeding into lingering stares, “we’re just friends” to eye contact and hand-holding when he makes you cum.

You think Emily knows. She’s quick-witted and perceptive whenever you leave the room, eyes sharp like a bristled cat ready to pounce.

“What’s there to know? We’re just friends,” you say, and he hums sceptically in response. You clutch his shoulders, warm beneath wine-numb fingers. “Besides, Hannah and Beth would kill me—”

“So, that’s it?” He grins, pulling away just enough that you can feel his breath fanning across your clavicle. You smell alcohol and peppermint gum and your head spins from the proximity.

“I’m just your dirty little secret?”

He’s making fun of you.

“Shut up,” you whine, breath laboured from the tingly feeling he produces against your skin with his mouth. Arousal so severe you feel like you’re sixteen again, a hormonal ball of teenage puppy fat and insecurity.

“Fine. How’d Hannah’s reading go? What’d she wanna know?”

You sigh with frustration, trying to nudge your hips closer to his. “Josh, please don’t talk about your sister when I’m trying to fuck you.”

“Oh, just like that, huh? Like I’m a piece of meat?”

“Isn’t that what you signed up for, pretty boy?”

He nips harder. “You think I’m pretty?”

A severe eye roll. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Well, I can be pretty convincing,” he mutters, pushing the hemline of your skirt up your thigh. “Your dress is cute. You wear it for me?”

You had— all butterflies and anticipation at the thought of easy access. A short, black milk-maid thing, as well as enduring an everything shower the night before, sore from vanilla-sugar exfoliation. Soft for him.

The words escape you in a stuttered breath when he thumbs up to your panty line, tipping it to the side.

“You wish.”

He noses against the column of your throat when he slips a finger against you, shuddery breaths when the slick gathers on his palm.

“Always so wet,” he strains, tipsy touches circling your clit, pressing into the honeyed entrance. “You’re insatiable, you know that? Can’t get enough of me?”

No.

“Mm… don’t flatter yourself. Consider it convenient.”

He tilts his head. “Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?”

“Stop— stop being such a dick,” you pant, muscles seizing against the sudden onslaught of building pleasure.

“Thought you liked me a little mean.”

He slides a singular finger into you, all molten and tingly as he knuckle-fucks you.

“Oh God, shut up.”

He sucks pressure onto your neck, affectionate with a hand on the small of your back. Your insides clench, aching with the urge to be filled, a desire his fingers would never be fully be able to satisfy.

You palm the growing mound behind his denim. “Need to feel you.”

He leans back, looking at you boyishly, pausing the work of his wrist.

“Right now?” His voice peaks. “But you’re hardly ready—”

“Gotta be quick.” You tug on his belt buckle and challenge his eye contact with lowered eyelids. “I can take it.”

You’ve rendered him stun-locked, shy.

He blinks. “Fuck— shit, okay,” he reaches for the zipper on his jeans, already steel-hard when he releases himself. He nudges closer, but you’ve never done it like this before. Not without a condom.

“This okay?” He asks hurriedly, the strain to his voice a sobering splash.

The wine blurs the line you promised not to cross. You glance down to where he fists himself, hastily spreading your slick across his length, and your lower belly flips.

You nod, bottom lip captured between your teeth. “Fuck. Please.”

“You sure?”

“Josh—”

“Alright, alright, needy.”

He slips a hand over the curve of your ass, propping you firmly on the dresser and nestling further between your thighs, notching his tip against your wet heat before pushing in. A sharp inhale accompanied by a hand on his chest, urging him to go slower.

It’s a tight stretch as you adjust to the weight of him pressing inside you, nails digging reflexively into the meat of his shoulders.

“Easy, I got you,” he murmurs, hand sliding up from guiding himself inside of you to the wall beside your head. His mouth captures yours as he sinks deeper, a balm to soothe the sting.

You don’t normally kiss. Not often, usually only when you’re drunk. It felt too intimate at first, too weird— because two “just friends” fucking each other’s brains out certainly wasn’t, but you sigh-melt when his tongue slips past the parting of your lips.

He rolls his hips shallowly once, twice— until the burn turns honey-silk, sheathed heavily in your velvet. He’s panting when he leans back, reaching up for purchase, something to ground himself. He instinctively goes for your waist, second-guesses himself, and leans a hand against the wall.

Dark eyes search for yours in the haze. “You alright?”

You slide your hands underneath his plaid shirt. “You trying to be romantic or something?”

He rolls his eyes. “Quit it.”

You bite down on your lower lip, suppressing a grin, and dig the ball of your foot into his ass to pull him closer.

“Get on with it, then.”

He obliges with a groan, pistoning slowly at first. A gentle back-and-forth, slickening himself up all sweet for you, precarious where he tries not to make the dresser rock too much. Helplessly his fingers cling to you, digging into the plush of your thigh, thumbing along the crease where the skin meets your hip.

He reaches to cradle your face and parts your kiss-wet lips with a thumb. You suck him into the cup of your mouth, tongue curling around his skin. You’ve never blowed him before but you’re sure he pictures you pretty on your knees with the way his eyes darken.

His thumb releases with a pop and he presses it against your clit, puffy with need.

The rhythm catches up, and soon you’re panting as you rock against one another. Arms clinging to the broad spread of his shoulders, legs squeezing around his waist. You could stay here forever, you think— drunk on the way he fucks you like he cares what you feel, what you think. Attentive, giving. Better than any exes and you’re sure he knows it— why else would you stick around?

Your best friend’s older brother.

“We should stop doing this,” you concede, words strung high across a moan. “Ashley thinks I’ve got a crush on you.”

A tilt of his head. Something flickers on his face, sparkles in his eye when his lip quirks up. Amusement.

“That right?” He breathes, teeth flashing. “Cute.”

“Jesus, right there—”

Panting breaths melt together between a symphony of curses. A roll of your eyes as your head tilts forward, nails digging into his tense biceps, bracing yourself against the pulse at your centre as his spit-silky thumb circles your clit.

He swallows thickly, throat bobbing against your temple. “Well… do you?”

You pull back from the crook of his neck you’d buried yourself into. “What?”

“Have a crush on me?”

You sock his shoulder. “Don’t make it weird.”

He grins, followed by a roll of his hips. “Oh, right, because that’ll make things weird.”

“Just— just keep doing that, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Footsteps and laughter.

Your eyes widen, nerves doused with adrenaline. “Someone’s coming—”

Josh’s hand snaps up and clamps across your mouth, his hips shifting to continue their pace but careful to mind knocking against the dresser. Eyes low and dark as he leans closer, cheeks flushed as he squeezes your face.

From outside the door, “Yo, where’s Josh?”

“He said he was going to get more beer!”

It’s Chris and Mike.

“He’s been gone for a while. Do you think he’s passed out in his room?”

Your brows scrunch, torn between the thrill of fear and pleasure. A moan squeaks behind his palm, every thrust a countdown. Josh mime-shushes you, licking his lips and glancing over at the door as footsteps pass by. Nothing but a piece of wood between you and a secret spilt.

You whimper, pussy turning to liquid heat between your thighs, fizzy with ecstasy, clamping down hard around his hips. Cobra tight around the lava sink and drag of his cock.

“Nah, man. Let’s check the wine cellar.”

The footsteps continue down the hallway, easing your adrenaline with each step as you turn gelatinous in his arms. He releases you at once and the oxygen runs to your head with a dizzying force, eyes wild as they address you.

“Did you…?”

“Mhm.” It pitches high, and his eyes widen with the realisation.

“You liked that. Do you want us to get caught?”

You tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm. “Maybe I just liked you choking me.”

His brows raise. “Wait. Really?”

You smile wickedly in response, leaving the question unanswered— you aren’t trying to give him any ideas, but you feel that bubbly-wistfulness in your belly at the thought of his hand around your throat the next time he takes you.

You’re not meant to daydream or hope for the next time; this was only supposed to be a one-time thing— just shy of your nineteenth birthdays, fucking yourselves through a dry spell, but you’ve been jumping his bones since the Washington’s invited you to stay with them last summer and he showed you how to smoke your first joint.

You’re a sweet girl, their parents said. Hannah and Beth couldn’t have been more excited that their best friend was coming to stay for six weeks. They hadn’t suspected a thing.

That was last August. Now you’re here with the others for the annual winter getaway— the lodge all to yourselves, and you’d not even lasted a night before you’d tip-toed into his room at 1 AM.

Josh grunts into your neck, cock twitching within you, sliding in and out of your slickened pussy like water.

“Where should I…”

A vulnerable split-second of eye contact. Shivery energy zips between you and something atmospherically shifts, like a moon falling into orbital alignment. The space behind your rib cage becomes soft and malleable, gravity tugging on your heartstrings.

The Fool Card.

A dangerous cliff edge that you’re too wrapped up in the moment to take mind of. You’re already in this deep— might as well fling yourself over it.

You dig your fingers into him. “Inside.”

His eyes flash wide. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah— fuck, Josh, let me feel you.”

“Oh, shit. Okay. So fuckin’ hot.”

He thrusts with more urgency now, brows knit, teeth bared. Sharp when they slide along the skin of your shoulder.

He releases a cute grunt when he comes, nose buried in your neck, cock pulsing strongly inside of you. A sharp little rut of his hips, pushing himself deep, milking dry what remains.

Panting breaths mingle together, misty with post-sex sweat. You stroke the back of his exertion-damp head, cradled gently against your shoulder, his knuckles white as they brace against the dresser.

This is usually the time when you clear your throats and tug your clothes back on, but when he lifts his head to look at you, there’s something soft and sticky-sweet in the post-clarity lax of his features, the seraphic upturn of his brows.

“Can I kiss you?”

You blink at him. “Josh…”

Something visibly deflates on his face. “Sorry, sorry, I overstepped, I forgot the 'rules'—”

You grab him by the neck, thumb affectionately along the line of his jaw, and capture his mouth against yours. When you kiss he’s still sheathed to the hilt, chests pressing together, and you suddenly don’t feel so drunk anymore.

Everything narrows down, vision tunnelling. You’re suddenly not in a lodge with all of your friends, not propped up on his dresser, not just friends with benefits. You can pretend in the safety of his bedroom, making out like lovers, because when it’s this dark it’s just him, him, him, an utter mind-reeling consumption, so warm and soft and tender you feel shame trickle down your spine.

It’s not supposed to feel this good.

Spit strings between your mouths when you pull back.

“We should… go back to the others. Probably wondering where we are.”

He pants, gazing down at your lips. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. We should do that.”

It’s cruel, the way he looks at you. Cruel like this means more to him, too.

Sam holds her towel close to her chest as she shimmies her way through the air vents, dropping down into an enclosed room and breathing a sigh of relief. She didn’t want to think about the psycho that was trying to chase her through the lodge, the one that killed her friends.

She shakes her head, trying to rid herself of those thoughts. She didn’t know if the man was still chasing her, and she needed to find a way to safely escape the lodge and warn the others.

As she takes in her surroundings she can tell she’s in a room that appears to be some sort of workshop. Equipment and tools are lazily strewn about, and she has to carefully step around to not bump into anything. This was most likely that psycho’s lair, she thought as she took in the scribbled papers that were pinned to cork boards.

What stood out to her though was a VHS tape that sat atop of an old television. The tape was plain, with no distinguishing features, only dawning a piece of masking tape that had the words “play me” scrawled onto it with a sharpie.

“What are you?” Sam murmurs to herself as she turns over the tape, investigating it. Her curiosity gets the better of her, and she pops the tape into the tv, watching as it flickers to life in just a few quick seconds.

Her breath hitches as the sight of you and Josh standing in the lodge’s Great Room fills the screen. You, who had been missing, your screams of terror that last she heard of you, and Josh, who she had just witnessed be cut into half, forced to watch that sickening video of his death by the psycho that was terrorizing her.

“You ready?” Josh’s smooth voice sounds grainy coming from the low quality television set. He stands behind you, hands moving up and down your sides as you look back at him bashfully.

“Is it on?” you respond, squinting as you look directly into the camera. Instead of answering you, Josh buries his face into your neck. You gasp as he begins to leave small bites in the crevices of your skin.

“Josh,” you whine, turning yourself around to bury your face into his chest and away from the camera. “This is kind of embarrassing.”

Sam feels a blush crawl up to her face as she begins to realize what kind of tape she’s watching. Josh’s hands move up your torso, dragging your shirt along with them. He removes your shirt, leaving you standing in just a pair of pants and a lacy, black bra.

“Just you and me here,” he murmurs, eyeing the camera before turning his attention back to you. “Don’t even have to think about it. Focus on me.”

You shudder as Josh unclips your bra, throwing it to the side as his fingers tweak your nipples. Your back arches, your chest fully exposed to the camera. Sam bites her lip to hold in her gasp as she pays close attention to all of your tiny reactions to Josh’s touches. You were really sensitive, she thought to herself as your body wriggled under Josh’s hold.

Josh leans down to kiss you, and you wrap your arms around his neck as you lean into the kiss. He guides you to the couch behind you, gently laying your body down as he crawls on top of you.

One of his hands moves slowly down your body, eventually finding its way down your pants. You arch your back, your chest colliding with his as his hand begins to move, no doubt fondling you under your clothes.

“Josh!” you cry out, finally breaking away from the kiss. “Oh, fuck!” Sam can see the way your nails dig into the skin on his shoulders, your hands grasping onto him as if he’s your lifeline.

He chuckles. “You like that?” He begins to unbutton your pants, sliding them down your legs. Even through the grainy screen Sam can tell that you're wet beyond belief, the unmistakable sounds of your juices ringing out as Josh teases at your slit. 

Your face scrunches in pleasure as you throw your head back against the couch. Josh groans, the sound traveling directly to Sam’s core, her focus hardened on the screen in front of her.

“Uh, uh!” Your moans come out in adorable little huffs, and Sam lets out some gentle gasps of her own as she begins to finger her own wetness, aroused from the sight of you and Josh together.

“Shit, baby, there you go,” Josh mutters, his fingers thrusting faster inside of you. His eyes are wide with arousal, the bulge in his pants prominent.

Your body jerks underneath him, toes curling as your hips buck wildly. “Gonna cum!” 

“Not yet,” Josh says as he pulls his fingers out of you, juices glistening on them. “Wanna see you cum on my cock.”

You whine, hips rutting as you chase his touch, but Josh steadies you with one hand on your waist as the other goes to remove his pants.

Sam’s breath hitches as Josh gets rid of his underwear, his hard cock springing to life. Her fingers move rapidly inside of her, the juices from her arousal allowing them to thrust in and out with ease.

Your hand rises to Josh’s cock, stroking it gently. He hisses, laying his hand above yours, guiding you in your movements. “Just like that, nice and steady,” he croons, melodic voice ringing out almost teasingly.

Josh positions himself against your entrance, and you release a strangled noise as the head of his cock finally breaches you, your juices coating him as he slides his way inside.

Sam focuses her attention on your face as Josh pumps himself into you. You bite your lip, head thrashing left and right as if you don't know how to position yourself. Your breasts jiggle with every pump of Josh’s hips, and he takes one of them in his hand, caressing the nipple as you gasp, body lurching from his actions.

“Fuck,” Josh groans as he pushes himself deep inside of you. “See this?” he says, turning his head towards the location of the camera. His hands grasp onto your hips, adjusting your position so that the camera gets a better view of the connection between you two.

Through the screen, Sam can see the outline of Josh’s cock indented in your stomach. He begins to thrust his hips, and the shape of him moves in and out of you in alignment with his thrusts.

“Josh!” you moan, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you claw at his back. Your legs wrap around him as he begins to rut into you more frantically, grunts escaping from him as he does so.

“So dirty,” Josh hums. “You’ve been holding out on me, honey.” You shake your head frantically to disagree with him.

“No?” He laughs at your reaction. “But look at how wet you are with the camera watching your every move.

“T-that’s not it,” you stutter, but your protests fall onto deaf ears.

“Go on and tell Sammy how much you like it,” Josh urges you. Sam gasps, hearing Josh acknowledge her as he fucks into you. A cry leaves your lips as he thrusts into you particularly deep, your pussy swallowing his cock all the way up to the hilt.

You finally relent. 

“F-feels so good, Sam!” you moan, the fucked-out sound of your voice sending shockwaves of pleasure throughout her body.

“You should join us next time, Sam.” Josh says to the camera as continues his relentless thrusts against you. “Right?” He addresses his question to you, your body limp as your remain putty in Josh’s deft hands.

“Uh-huh,” you moan out, incoherent babbling falling out of your lips, practically numb from the pleasure Josh gives you with his cock.

“Gonna cum inside you,” Josh grunts, his hips beginning to lose their rhythmic pace, “and you’re gonna go and meet up with everyone as it slowly drips out of your pussy.”

“No!” you cry out, your arms clawing at Josh’s front. “They’re gonna find out!”

“Good. Fucking let them know who you belong to.”

With a final groan, Josh throws his head back as he releases inside of you, a high-pitched squeal sounding from you as your own orgasm falls upon you.

“Shit, look at that.” He picks up the camera from its position on the coffee stand, bringing it closer to your entrance. Sam watches, entranced, as his cum gushes out of you, your puffy, swollen walls clenching around nothing.

Josh trails the camera up your body, your stomach glistening with sweat. He lets it rest on your face, and Sam can see unshed tears that bead at the corners of your eyes, your gaze far away and pupils blown up from the euphoria of your orgasm.

“Smile and wave to the camera, baby,” Josh calls out.

You wave your hand shakily at the lens. Your lidded eyes, seductive smile, and overall fucked-out expression are all Sam needs to see as her orgasm finally hits her like a wave. With a piercing cry, her juices flow onto her fingers and her thighs, legs quivering beneath her. 

The tape finally ends with a crackle of static, allowing Sam a moment to catch her breath and recover from her release. She ejects the tape from the VCR player, stares at it for a second, and decides to hide it in the back of a cabinet, where she’s sure no one will find it.

Ignoring the heat that rises to her cheeks, Sam wipes her hand onto her towel as she continues on with her search, hoping to find clothes soon and you, safe and alive somewhere on these mountains.

There was something about you, laying there, peacful and defenseless, that really drove Josh crazy.

Your soft breaths, your parted lips, the way your ass was pushed in the air just a little as you lay on your stomach with your knee hitched up; your favorite sleeping position.

It didn’t matter that you had given Josh permission when he admitted his depraved fantasy to you in a shaky voice, didn’t matter that you told him that you were into it too, his heart was still racing with the idea as his fingers gently danced over your skin. the only light in the room was the full moon streaming through the window, illuminating your soft skin as he trembled with anticipation beside you.

His girl. his sweet, lovely girlfriend. So willing to give him anything he wants no matter how depraved it is. He’s never felt so lucky. So accepted for being perverted.

He pulls the thin sheet further down to get a look at your ass. Your silk sleep shorts bunched up and revealing most of it, like a pair of skimpy panties.

“So pretty” he murmurs, mostly to himself “mine” he says even lower.

His hand trails over your ass gently, he wants to grab, wants to dig his fingers into your supple ass cheek, but he knows he shouldn’t, he doesn’t want you to wake yet.

He moves closer, his breath catching in his throat as he watches you. His fingers dip lower and gently trail over the seam of your little shorts, right over your heat. His fingers trail back and forth along the silky material, so gentle.

He gets a little too excited and pushes his middle finger over where he thinks your clit is. You stir a little and he freezes, but all you do is give a little sigh and spread your legs a little wider for him.

He can’t help but smirk, even in your sleep, you’re welcoming his touch. It only proves to him that you belong to him. That your body, even unconscious, can recognize his touch. His.

The word “mine” just repeats in his head like a mantra.

He gets impatient, his fingers hook the side of your shorts and your panties, pulling them aside together. And he moves down so he can see your cunt, glistening in the moonlight with your slick. He can’t believe it. Even in your dreams you’re needy. Ready for him.

“Fuck” he curses softly, still trying not to rouse you from your sleep. He pushes his middle finger gently through your folds, spreading your sleepy arousal around your slit and over your clit.

Your hips jerk unconsciously and your legs spread even further for him. A soft sigh leaves your lips.

“That’s it, sweetheart, good girl.” he coos softly, knowing you can’t hear him.

He pushes a single finger into you, you take him easily, clenching around his digit. Your tight, wet heat practically sucking him in.

“Oh fuck” he whines, bucking his hips against the mattress. He’s impossibly hard now, desperate for any friction.

He’s still using one of his hands to hold your shorts and panties to the side and he slowly, so slowly, fucks his middle finger in and out of you. You give a soft whine and shift your hips a little, chasing the friction even in your sleep.

“Needy,” he laughs softly to himself when your hips try to chase his fingers. “Are you dreaming of me, baby?” he whispers into the dark room.

When you’re good and soaked, your slick smeared all over your cunt, soaking his finger and knuckles, he moves up on his knees, so one is on each side of your hips, straddling your ass. he scoops your hips up, tucking his pillow under them gently so they’re angled perfectly for him.

He moves his hands to his pajama pants, pushing down at the waistband of his boxers too, freeing his hard, aching cock. Hissing softly as the cool night air hits his hot skin.

“Easy” he tells himself, adjusting his hips so he’s lined up with your tight, wet hole. Trying to slow himself down so he doesn’t push in with a sharp, possessive thrust like he wants to.

He nudges in slowly, just the head of his cock first. Your tight pussy swallows his tip and he nearly groans, but he stays quiet, gasping instead. “Shit” he whispers, his voice trembling with desperation.

He pushes in further, another few inches and you stir again, wiggling your hips and gasping. He looks to see your eyes still haven’t fluttered open yet.

He takes the opportunity to push in to the hilt. Your hot, velvety walls enveloping him so perfectly that he thinks he might black out. “So good, sweetheart, so tight,” he praises you, unsure how conscious you are.

He starts to move—just slow, wet, gentle thrusts at first. He’s watching in the dim light as he pulls his cock out of you and pushes it back in your tight heat again. Your slick glistening all over his shaft, even in the low light.

“Oh fuck—you’re so wet—even asleep” he marvels, and you push your ass back into him, softly meeting his thrust.

“Mmm—Josh?” You ask softly, your voice thick with sleep.

“Shhhh, baby, go back to sleep—it’s just me, I got you, you’re safe” he says softly, his voice is so gentle even though he feels ravenous, like he could break at any moment and pound you into the mattress, so he can watch your ass bounce against his thrusts.

“You’re…fucking me?” You ask softly, only aware of the warm, wet thrusting between your thighs and the sweet ache low in your tummy.

“Yeah, baby—I’m—I’m fucking you.” He gasps “I couldn’t help it—you looked so sweet, like an angel and I—I needed you” he groans, he knows he’s not in trouble, he knows he’s allowed.

You respond in a soft whine, angling your ass up for him, so he can hit that deeper spot inside you.

“Oh fuck!” He cries when you clench around him, you meet his eyes over your shoulder, hard to make them out in the dark, but his eyebrows are drawn together in pleasure.

“Harder,” you beg pathetically, clutching your pillow.

“What?” He breathes, leaning over you to hear you better over both of your labored breathing and the wet sound of your cunt as he thrusts into you.

“Harder, Josh, please—“ you beg him again and he nearly comes just from the sound of your request.

“I was trying to be gentle,” he groans, but despite his weak protest he snaps his hips into your ass harder, your skin slapping together as he fucks you, balls-deep.

“I don’t want gentle, baby” you cry out between thrusts, “I wanna be fucked”

“And here I was trying to be a gentleman and let you sleep,” he gasps, knowing his actions have been the furthest thing from gentlemanly.

“I’m awake now,” you whine “ ‘n I want it harder.” you pout, your bratty voice coming out.

“As you wish” he says with a sarcastic roll of his eyes at your tone, he adjusts his grip on your hips to push you down further, snapping his hips into you with more force.

“Like that?” He asks breathless. “Is that good, sweetheart?”

“Yes!” You whine sharply, your whines and your gasps filling the room “yes!! Josh!” You cry out.

“If you scream my name any louder the neighbors are going to know who to address their noise complaints to, sweetheart” he almost snickers, so smug that he has you falling apart for him so quickly.

As if you’re ignoring him, you yelp his name again as he drives into you from behind, feeling your cunt start to squeeze him tighter.

“Oh fuck!—“ he almsot doubles over onto you. “Gonna cum already, baby? You were probably dreaming about me fucking you like this, huh?” He groans, one of his hands comes up from your hips to grip a handful of your hair at the root, not too hard but enough to make you yelp out for him.

“God, you sound incredible” his head falls back against his shoulders in pleasure, “gonna cum too, sweetheart—you feel too good. Cum with me, baby—please?” Josh chokes out between moans as he keeps up his pace of slamming into you.

“Yes!! Yes Josh I’m gonna—gonna cum!” You whimper.

“Good—good fucking girl” he’s struggling to even speak, he’s taking rapid breaths as he fucks you into the mattress, his orgasm is hurtling towards him, his hearing goes fuzzy when he hears you cry his name and feels your pussy clench around him over and over as you soak his cock with your orgasm.

“Ohhh my—holy fuck,” he cries out your name as your orgasm pulls his out of him too, giving you a few more jerky, uncoordinated thrusts when he finally pulls his cock out, his hand pumping himself a few more times as he shoots his first rope of hot cum onto your ass, the second shoots further, between your shoulder blades, the rest shoot onto your lower back and your ass again. He’s groaning loudly as you whimper under him.

He gives himself a few more gentle pumps and then he’s rubbing the head of his cock over your soft skin, rubbing his spend around onto your perfect ass.

“Fuuuuuck” he practically growls as he looks you over, your body trembling with your own orgasm. His release all over you, glistening in the moonlight.

His hand rests on your waist tenderly, “you okay?” He asks through a breath.

All you have the energy to do is nod mutely, your eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion and pleasure.

“Let me clean you up, baby” Josh whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss to the back of your head before you feel the mattress dip as he moves off of it, on his way to get a wet rag to clean you up.

<3

Not in a hygienic way. No, he showers—probably too often, given how his skin always looks stretched tight over his cheekbones, shiny and a little raw, like he scrubs himself bloody each morning to peel away whatever filth clings to him from the night before.

And his hair, while thick and styled with cheap gel that flakes off onto his shoulders, still somehow reeks of expensive cologne. The type that burns your nostrils with its sharp, synthetic sweetness, clashing horribly with the stale tang of sweat that seeps through by midday.

No, gross in the way he looks at you.

His gaze is… devouring. 

Like he’s trying to imagine exactly what you’d look like stripped bare, mouth parted, eyes wet—like he’s undressing you in his mind and finding ways to ruin you all at once.

His eyes dart over your body too fast, greedy, like he doesn’t want anyone else to notice what he’s doing but he also can’t control it. 

And when your eyes accidentally meet, he always smirks. That horrible, twitchy smirk that never reaches his eyes, his tongue running across his bottom lip as if tasting something only he can see.

Your friends noticed it immediately.

The first time he stumbled over to your group at a house party, a few beers deep, pupils blown wide and glassy, that grin split his face so wide it almost looked painful.

“Ladies,” he slurred, his voice thick with booze and something else, something sticky and leering, “what’s going on over here, huh? Talking about me?”

“Fuck off.” You snapped at him immediately.

You remember your immediate eye roll, how it only seemed to spur him on. His eyes snapped to you, laser-focused, pupils twitching like he couldn’t keep them still.

He let out a short, barking laugh, leaning closer, his free hand coming up to clumsily fix his fringe before it fell right back into his eyes.

“Or are we talking about you tonight?” he drawled, swaying forward so close you could smell the stale beer and cheap cologne mixing with his sweat. “God, you look—fuck— you know you look good, right? You’re like… fuckin’ dangerous.” He hiccuped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re… Sam’s little pal, yeah? Bet she doesn’t even know what to do with you.”

You scoffed, looking away, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted. “Fuck. Off.”

But he didn’t. His gaze dropped to your chest, lingering there like he was etching every inch into memory, then dragged lower with a grossly audible sigh. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, before leaning in, his mouth brushing your ear as he whispered, voice trembling with cocky desperation, “Bet you taste even better than you look, huh? Fuck… I’d ruin you.”

Then, like nothing happened, he snapped upright with that manic, boyish grin plastered back onto his face, eyes flicking around the group, manic energy radiating off him. “Anyway—who’s getting me another drink? I’m fuckin’ parched.”

He watched your reaction with a flicker of dark amusement, eyes narrowing slightly as his grin widened. It was like he was cataloguing every tiny twitch of disgust on your face, savouring it. 

But what really caught his attention—what made his pupils darken with something greedy and almost triumphant—was how you didn’t tell him to fuck off this time.

You just stood there, glaring, lips pressed tight, shoulders tense. 

And he liked that. He liked it way too much.

Chris had to drag him away by the elbow, muttering an apology under his breath as Josh twisted to keep staring at you, his eyes unfocused but hungry, like a stray dog seeing scraps.

As soon as he left, your friends circled up, wide-eyed.

 “Oh my god, what was that?” one asked, laughing nervously. “What’d he say to you?”

“Where do men get the audacity?” another chimed in, rolling her eyes. “He’s so gross.” 

Then they turned to you, eyebrows raised. “Did you see the way he was looking at you? Like he wanted to… I don’t even know. Eat you alive or something.” 

“Literally. He gives me the creeps,” one friend shuddered, sipping her drink. “Did you hear what he said to Anna last week? Told her she ‘looked like a pornstar from the nineties, in a hot way’. Who even says that?” 

“Ugh, remember when he asked Sarah if her boobs were real? At brunch? In front of everyone? He’s disgusting. You'd think all that money, he'd have some manners.” 

You just laughed along with them, cheeks burning, ignoring the way your stomach twisted at the thought of him wanting to ‘eat you alive’. 

Another time you’d mentioned to Sam offhand that you were cramping badly, and Josh, overhearing from across the kitchen, piped up: “That’s kinda hot though. Like… primal or some shit.”

You’d gagged into your cereal bowl.

Men like him have always existed.

Too cocky for their own good, a little unhinged, but never quite dangerous enough for anyone to actually cut them off. The type who toes the line with crude jokes and lingering touches, only to grin and apologise with that manic glint in his eyes, and somehow everyone just lets it slide. 

He’s funny, or at least loud enough to pass for it.

Charismatic in that slippery, suffocating way that keeps him invited to every party you go to, keeps him perched at the edge of every group dinner, leaning back with his arms spread across the seat like he owns the world. 

But it’s the way he looks at you that makes your skin crawl.

His gaze turns dark when it lands on you—hungry, feverish, like he wants to peel you open and crawl inside, nestle there and never leave. Like he wants to keep you all to himself, hidden away beneath his fingernails and teeth. 

And he never tries to hide it.

Not at parties. Not in the warm candlelight glow of a crowded dinner table. Not when you’re laughing with friends and feel his stare burn across your throat like a brand. 

You always catch it. 

The way his eyes slid over your body like oil, lingering a bit too long on your chest, your thighs, lips parted just slightly like he was already picturing what they’d feel like wrapped around him. 

He’s touchy, too.

Always brushing past you when there’s plenty of room, his palm hot against your lower back as you walk through a crowd. When he compliments a dress or shirt you’re wearing, he just has to know what it feels like, running his fingers over the material, dragging them across your skin beneath it if he can, even when your face scrunches up in disgust and your friends’ jaws drop at the sheer audacity of Josh.

The worst part is… you never really discourage him. You just roll your eyes, mumble a half-hearted “Stop it, Josh,” and move on. You never actually push him away when his hands settle near your midriff or drift up towards your collarbone, fingers gripping at the fabric like he wants to rip it away.

He’s just one of those guys.

He laughs too loud – breathy and obnoxious, echoing through the room.

He says things that are just a bit too sexual, even to his other female friends like Jess or Ashley, little comments that make them shift uncomfortably closer to their boyfriends, which he loves doing in front of them.

He jokes too much about wanting to roleplay or choke someone out, watching your face closely after he says it, eyes dark and mouth curled up in that stupid smirk.

He messages you at 3am, “u up? ❤️,” and when you don’t respond, he sends another. And another. 

Sometimes you wonder why he’s like that. 

His sisters seem totally normal – Hannah’s a bit naïve, sure, and Beth can be firm when she needs to be, but they’re normal. They’re just too rich for their own good. Their parents stopped caring a long time ago.

And Josh… Josh fucking loves that mountain lodge they own. He’s always talking about it, about how quiet it is up there, alone in the snow, how you could scream and no one would hear. 

He once told you, straight-faced, “You’d look so fucking hot crying. Like, properly sobbing. Bet your mascara would run all down your face.”

It wasn’t even during an argument, or after a joke, or anything that might have excused it. You’d just been sitting there on the back deck, scrolling through your phone as he smoked, the fading sun casting gold across the lake.

You hadn’t even been talking to him. You’d just sighed quietly to yourself at some sad video, blinking fast to keep your eyes from watering.

Josh exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes locked on your face, studying every little twitch of your expression. Then he said it. Calm. Flat. Like an observation about the weather.

You looked up sharply, heart stuttering in your chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whispered, disgust curling thick and heavy in your throat.

He just smirked wider, tongue flicking across his bottom lip as his gaze flicked down your face, lingering at your mouth. “Nothing,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

Then he stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked back inside, leaving you there with your pulse pounding in your temples, your skin crawling so violently it felt like you might scratch it all off just to be clean again.

He’s pathetic. He’s gross. Weird. Perverted.

Which is exactly why nobody could know.

It happened at the lodge, of course. Where else would it happen? 

Just a winter getaway, late January. You’d come up with Sam, your duffel bag stuffed with sweaters and thick socks, expecting nothing more than hot cocoa, card games, and maybe a freezing dip in the lake for bragging rights. 

Josh called while you were halfway up the mountain road, the icy trees blurring past outside. The moment he heard your voice crackling through the car speakers, you swear he nearly came right then and there. 

“Fuck, yeah. Fuck. Yeah.” His breathing was ragged over the line, like he’d been running or… something else. “You’re gonna have the time of your life, babe, I swear. I’ve told you about how q—” 

“—I know, Josh. It’s quiet. Shut up now,” you snapped, cutting him off before his filthy mouth could say something else that would make Sam roll his eyes in disgust.

Too late, she was gagging at the ‘babe’ of it all.

Josh just laughed. That low, manic, bubbling laugh that always made your stomach twist, equal parts revulsion and dread. He was never put off by your impatience.

If anything, it only spurred him on. 

“God, you’re such a little bitch sometimes,” he chuckled, voice dropping low, filthy, almost fond. “Gonna be a fun weekend.”

“Watch it, Josh,” Sam remarked. “Seriously, she’s my friend, stop acting all… you.”

“She doesn’t mind, do you babe?”

“Fuck off,” Is all you say.

It started earlier that night.

You’re rummaging through your duffel bag looking for clean socks when you notice your folded underwear sitting a little off from how you packed them. Your stomach clenches cold. The lace is twisted around itself in a way you know you didn’t leave it. Wrinkled. Handled.

You frown, fingers brushing over the cotton, then glance up to see Josh standing in the doorway.

Watching.

He smiles slowly, eyes flicking down to your open bag before meeting yours again. His gaze is glassy, hungry, lips parted just slightly like he’s been panting. You notice then the way his hand flexes at his side, fingers twitching like they’re aching to touch.

“Need any help unpacking?” he asks, voice syrupy sweet, but there’s a rasp to it, raw and shaky, like he’s been breathing heavy for a while.

Your skin crawls. “No,” you snap, shoving the bag closed, feeling your cheeks burn with disgust and something shameful under his stare.

But as you walk past him, his arm brushes yours. He leans in close enough that his breath fans hot over your ear, and under his deodorant and sweat you catch a faint, bitter tang that makes your stomach flip—like he’s been working himself up alone in the dark.

“Cute panties,” he whispers, so low you’re not sure you heard it right. But then he laughs, a quiet, broken little chuckle, and you know.

You push past him, heart hammering, bile rising in your throat. But even as you leave, you can feel it. His stupid fucking staring.

The cabin was warm and golden with firelight, flickering shadows making everyone look softer, prettier, a little drunker than they really were. You’d spent most of dinner ignoring Josh’s gaze burning into your side profile as you laughed at Mike’s stupid impressions. You felt it – every time you tilted your head back, his eyes dragged down your throat, your chest, your arms. Devouring. 

He barely spoke through dinner. Just watched. Picking at his food with trembling fingers, flicking glances around the table to keep up the pretence of normalcy, then dragging them back to you like gravity.

Afterwards, he and Chris set up beer pong, coaxing everyone to join in with drunken cheers and clumsy bravado.

“You play?” Josh asks as he gets one in.

You stood beside the table, sipping on a beer yourself. “Not really. Can’t aim for shit.”

“I’ll teach you. C’mon, it’s easy,” He insists, waving you to come closer.

You sigh, feeling the glances of Emily and Jess, both of whom have mightily advised you to stay away from Josh.

“He’s a sweet guy, like, we wouldn’t be friends with him if he was a total dick, right? But like, you can do so much better, girl.”

Despite it, you agree. He smiles as you step closer, taking the ping pong ball out of his hand.

“What? I just bounce it right in?”

“Yeah. Yeah. You just- alright, maybe pick a cup you wanna get it in.”

“Fine. Um. Third row from the front, second from the left.” 

“Good girl,” he says without thinking, voice low and hoarse. Your stomach clenches at that, unbidden. 

You glance up sharply, but he’s already moving to stand behind you, big clammy hands coming to rest on your hips. You tense. His thumbs press circles into the fabric of your hoodie, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your bones beneath it.

“Okay, okay, relax,” he murmurs near your ear, breath hot and beer-sour. “Just… line it up. You wanna flick it, not throw it.” 

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you – Mike grinning drunkenly, Jess smirking, Emily rolling her eyes like she’s already written this scene off as pathetic.

But Josh doesn’t care, and maybe you don’t either. His entire body is pressed against yours now, his chest firm against your back. 

His fingers slide down from your hips to rest lightly on your thighs, the touch far too intimate for a party game. You feel him press in a little harder, the swell of his crotch flush against your ass, and you stiffen instinctively. 

“Josh,” you hiss under your breath, a light reprimand, but he just laughs quietly, his grip tightening like iron shackles. 

“Shh, babe, I’m just helping you aim,” he murmurs, voice dripping with fake innocence, though you can feel the twitch of his grin against your ear. “C’mon, focus for me.” 

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your arm, wrist flicking as you send the ball flying in a clumsy arc. It hits the rim of your chosen cup and bounces out, clattering across the table. 

“Ah, so close,” Josh breathes, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he pulls you tighter against him. You feel him through the thin fabric of your leggings, and your cheeks burn with humiliation. 

He finally steps back, hands sliding back up to your waist, giving it a squeeze that makes you wriggle under him. “Good try. Keep going.”

You wriggle under the touch, shoving him off with your hip as best you can, glaring over your shoulder. But he’s already stepped back, watching you with that heavy-lidded stare, pupils blown wide, tongue flicking across his bottom lip like he’s tasting the moment.

You can’t believe you listen to him.

You do. You try again, shaking out your wrist, and he stays back this time, arms crossed over his chest. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, veins snaking down his forearms, hands twitching like he’s resisting the urge to touch you again. 

“Aim with your wrist, not your hand,” he mentions lazily, like it’s a casual afterthought, like he didn’t just grind himself against you in front of half your friends. 

“Fuck off,” you remind him flatly, eyes locked on the cup. But you take the advice anyway.

You flick your wrist, the ball arcs neatly, and lands directly in the cup you’d chosen before. 

Beer sloshes over the rim. Chris and Mike whoop, Ashley cheers, Emily claps sarcastically. 

“Babies first beer pong,” Jess teases, raising her cup to her lips. 

You smile despite yourself, feeling a flicker of pride, looking down at the ping pong table and shaking your head. Then you glance at Josh, expecting a cocky comment, and find him staring at you with an expression so intense it makes your stomach clench. 

You give him a small, reluctant smile, just a twitch of your lips. “Thanks, coach,” you mutter, sipping your beer to hide the flush in your cheeks. Then you add under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear: “Never touch me again, though.” 

He just grins at that, wide and twitchy and obscene, raising both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says, voice thick with mock innocence. 

You roll your eyes, but there’s heat rising in your chest that you try to shove down, turning away before you can think too much about it. As you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you catch Emily watching you from across the table, eyebrows raised, an amused, questioning smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

Your smirk fades instantly. You duck your head, focusing hard on your beer, willing the flush on your cheeks to cool down before anyone else notices.

You’ve always heard nothing good happens past midnight.

You’d have to agree.

You slept too much on the drive over, and now you’re wide awake, curled up on the loveseat as the fire burns low, dying phone in hand. Chris had nearly lit himself on fire trying to get the thing started earlier, and everyone had laughed until their ribs ached.

Now it’s quiet. Everyone else has drifted off to bed, sprawled out in spare rooms and on couches, bodies heavy with beer and whiskey and shots of something sweet Josh found in the back of the liquor cabinet.

You sobered up a while ago, nursing a wine, staring into the embers as they collapsed in on themselves. 

Almost everyone had gone to bed. 

You hear the footsteps before you see him. Heavy, uneven, like he’s dragging his feet across the polished wood floors just to let you know he’s coming. You don’t bother turning. You already know. 

Josh stumbles in from the kitchen, hoodie unzipped, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair sticking up in greasy tufts like he’s been tugging at it all night. Like he’s been pacing and thinking and pacing some more. 

When he sees you, his whole face changes. That stupid grin unfurls across his lips, slow and twitchy, his eyes going soft and dark all at once. Hungry. Lazy. Like he’s just come home to something warm and waiting.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he wonders. 

You don’t look up from your phone. “Nope.” 

He chuckles under his breath, moving closer, the floor creaking under his weight. “Yeah. Me neither.” 

He exhales a shaky sigh, like the sight of you actually calms him, shoulders dropping as he steps around the couch to stand in front of you. The shadows from the fire flicker across his face, catching on the sharp plane of his cheekbones, the wet gleam of his lips. He smells like sweat and cologne and stale beer. Overpowering. Cloying. 

For a moment he just… looks at you, stood between the couch and fireplace. Like he’s drinking in the sight, pupils blown wide, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You flick your gaze up at him, and his breath catches, chest hitching like you just punched the air out of his lungs. 

“Stop staring at me like that,” you mutter, voice flat, phone now of no interest to you.

He raises his hands again, surrendering. “Like what?”

“Josh…” You sigh, tired, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palm. The fire crackles behind him, shadows dancing across his sharp cheeks, making him look almost skeletal. Gaunt. Haunted.

Because he knows. He knows exactly how he looks at you. Everybody does. He finally drops it.

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs, but there’s no real bite behind it. His words are low, slurred at the edges, eyes flickering over your face with something like pleading. “I’m— I’m nothin’ but a gentleman to you, aren’t I?” His brows twitch together, mouth twisting into something sour. “I… I keep my distance. I deal with your attitude, don’t I?” He chuckles, but it’s hollow, wet at the end like he’s swallowing back something desperate.

You stare at him, brows drawn tight. He’s rambling, voice dropping to a whisper. 

“Can’t I just— can’t I just have one thing?”

You blame the wine for how you don’t stop him as he takes a slow step closer, like you’re his prey. Except he just watches.

“Is that alright with you?” He mumbles. “If you’re not… gonna give me what I want.”

You can’t help it. “What do you want?”

He scoffs a dry laugh at that and points at you like you’ve just told a hilarious joke. “The playing dumb thing is cute. Real cute, you know?” He chuckles to himself.

God, if your friends knew you were even entertaining this.

A beat of quiet goes by till he takes a seat in the empty spot next to you. He spreads his legs wide, knee bumping against yours. You curl more into yourself, tucking your foot up onto the seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands as you inhale sharply, staring into the fire with him.

Yeah. He’s fucking weird.

And just… crude, and touchy.

But maybe you’re touch-starved. Maybe your ex was too nice. Maybe you’re bored. But he wants you. He’s never not shown that. Not like the others, who flirt when it’s convenient, whose eyes flick away the moment they’re bored of the chase.

He looks at you like he’s starving. Like he’d gnaw his own arm off if it meant getting to touch you for a second. 

And maybe that’s why you ask him— 

“Why do you like me?” you whisper, voice almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire. You stare down at your lap, fingers fidgeting with the fraying ends of your sleeves. 

Josh almost doesn’t hear it. His glazed eyes remain fixed on the fire, flickering orange reflected in his blown pupils. For a second, you think he’s not going to answer. But then he exhales, a shaky sound that rattles his chest. 

“You’re hot,” he says flatly. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but before you can cut him off he keeps going, words tumbling out clumsy and unfiltered. 

“You’re… nice. Not always to me, n’ all, but that’s usually ‘cause I’ve got it comin’,” he chuckles, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide his smile. “But I see you with Sam. With the others. You… I dunno. You care about stuff. About people. You’re funny. And you’re just so fuckin’ sexy, you know?” 

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly. It sounds almost disbelieving, like he can’t believe he’s saying this and you’re actually listening. His knee nudges yours again, firmer this time, like he can’t help himself. 

“I mean—fuck—you’re sittin’ here lookin’ like that, and you’re talkin’ to me, and… shit, dude,” he mumbles, voice going quiet at the end. His gaze finally drags over to you, eyes half-lidded and heavy with exhaustion and liquor and that same disgusting, obsessive hunger. “It’s like… I dunno. You make me fuckin’ crazy.” 

Your chest tightens, stomach twisting uncomfortably. It’s pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

But there’s a part of you—some small, rotting part buried deep in your chest—that feels something warm curl through your ribs at his words. At least he wants you. At least he’s obsessed. And that’s worth something. Even if he’s gross.

Which is exactly why you lean in without thinking, pressing your lips against his cheek. Your cheap red gloss leaves a faint smear on his sharp bone.

You watch him twitch at the contact, squirming under your gaze when you pull back, still close, your body fully angled towards him now. 

He turns his head to look at you, eyes wide, confused, silent. 

Good. He should shut up more often, you think. 

Before he can say anything, you lean in again.

This time, your lips press against his. Soft at first – he goes completely still, frozen in shock, before his mouth starts to move against yours, clumsy and desperate. You can feel how plush his lips are, how they part under yours like he’s starving for it. 

You kiss him deeper for just a second, tasting stale beer and mint gum, before pulling away abruptly, leaving him panting.

He stares at you like you’ve just handed him the meaning of life on a silver platter. Like he might genuinely explode if you touch him again. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” you murmur, voice low and firm. 

He nods so fast it’s pathetic. 

“Answer me,” you demand, eyes narrowing. 

“I-I won’t tell anyone,” he blurts out, voice breaking at the edges. 

“You promise?” Your hand slides up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble there, almost tender. 

His eyes flutter half-shut, lips parting like he’s about to say something worshipful. But he hesitates. “Well–” 

You fist your fingers into his hair and yank, hard enough to make him gasp, his head tipping back, mouth falling open in a silent moan. “Promise me,” you repeat, your voice like steel. 

He’s breathing heavy now, chest rising and falling fast, but a shaky smile curls at the edge of his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he breathes out, half joking, half ruined already.

You don’t remember how his mouth ended up on yours, chasing it like you would vanish into thin air. How his fingers found their way under your sweater, rough and trembling against the bare skin of your waist. How you climbed onto his lap, straddling him without thinking, knees digging into the ratty loveseat cushions on either side of his thighs. 

His hands clutched at your hips like he was scared you’d slip away. His touch was desperate – not tender, not considerate – just greedy, fingers digging in so tight you knew you’d bruise. You felt his cock straining against his sweats beneath you already, pathetic, hard just from a couple of kisses. 

“Fuck…” he whimpered into your mouth, his voice breaking pathetically as his tongue licked at your bottom lip, sloppy and uncoordinated. “Fuck, fuck… you’re… you’re so fucking hot, oh my god…” 

You pulled back slightly, just enough to watch his face. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the chill in the lounge.

He looked… kind of beautiful, in a filthy, trembling way. Like something that shouldn’t exist, and yet there it was, all yours.

You remember his little noises – those quiet, broken whimpers into your mouth – and the way he said your name like it was the only word he knew. 

“You’re a fucking dick,” You muttered softly, but your hips rolled down against him anyway, feeling the way he twitched beneath you, how his breath hitched in his throat. 

His hands slid up under your hoodie, rough palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He looked like he might start crying from how overwhelmed he was, lips pink and swollen, gloss smeared across his mouth and chin. 

“I’ve dreamt about this,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You can call me whatever you want. Just… please… please keep going.” 

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. 

You leaned in again, your mouth ghosting over his ear. “You’re such a fucking loser, Josh,” you whispered, your tongue darting out to lick the shell of his ear. 

He shivered violently beneath you, hips jerking up against yours involuntarily. “Yeah…” he breathed out, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, squeezing like he was trying to memorise the shape of it. “I don’t care… don’t fucking care…” 

You kissed him again, harder this time, biting down on his bottom lip until he let out a strangled groan into your mouth. His hips were grinding up into you now, desperate little thrusts that made your stomach twist with disgust and reluctant heat. 

Because at least he wanted you. At least he was obsessed. 

At least when his eyes rolled back and his hands shook against your skin, it was because of you. Only you. 

God, you’re pathetic.

His hands slip out from under your shirt, fumbling down to grab at your ass, squeezing rough and greedy as you kiss him harder.

You move his hand lower, guiding it yourself until his fingertips brush the waistband of your sleep shorts. He lets out a ragged little gasp at the contact, the sound muffled by your mouth, and you can feel him twitch beneath you, pathetic. 

You drag his hand under the thin cotton, down into your panties. He hesitates for half a second, almost like he’s overwhelmed, before his fingers slip lower and finally swipe through your folds. 

You break the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead dropping to rest against his as you feel him touch your core, wet and hot against his trembling fingers. His breath hitches, chest rising sharply under yours, and his eyes flutter between your flushed face and the sight of his hand buried under your shorts. 

“Fuck… you’re…” he starts, voice hoarse with disbelief as he feels just how wet you are. 

“Shut up,” you mutter quickly, cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

He just nods, swallowing hard, but his mouth won’t stay shut for long. “I’ve… I’ve thought about this for so fucking long, you know,” he rambles, his voice cracking at the edges with desperation. “I… fuck, I can’t believe this is real…”

You’re about to tell him to stop talking again, but then his thumb brushes your clit, light and tentative. Your hips jolt forward involuntarily, a moan slipping from your parted lips. His eyes flick back to your face, pupils blown wide, drinking in the way you scrunch your eyes shut and bite down on your bottom lip.

His thumb starts circling your clit, slow at first, as his fingers dip lower, teasing at your entrance but never pushing in. 

“I jack off to you all the time,” he breathes out, his voice low and trembling. “In the shower. In bed. Fuckin’— even in the bathroom at work sometimes… You’re like… you’re a fucking dream, you know that?” 

You let out a shaky exhale, pressing your face into his shoulder to muffle your noises when he finally sinks a finger inside you, crooking it experimentally. It’s rough and clumsy, nothing like how you touch yourself, but his fingers are thicker, reaching deeper, the stretch making your thighs quiver around his hips. 

He chuckles low in his chest, dark and filthy. “I’ve thought… fuck… thought about putting you in so many different positions,” he murmurs, curling his finger inside you just right, making your breath stutter. “Thought about your mouth around my dick. Thought about what kind of noises you’d make when I fuck you. Bet you sound so pretty, don’t you?” 

He thrusts the single finger slowly, and it’s not enough. Not even close. You reach back, grabbing his wrist, guiding his movements. “Lower,” you pant out, voice strained, “and… another.” 

His eyes roll back at your words, a guttural little whine escaping his throat as he obeys immediately, pressing a second finger in beside the first. You let out a choked moan, your back arching as he scissors them open, finding the spot that makes your thighs shake. 

“Fuck… fuck, look at you…” he whispers, voice shaking with reverence as he pumps his fingers deeper, thumb rubbing fast, messy circles over your clit. “So good for me… riding my fingers like that…” 

You move against him, grinding down desperately, chasing the feeling, your breath hitching with each thrust. His fingers fill you perfectly, curling just right, thumb flicking your clit faster. Your vision blurs at the edges.  “Right there, right there…” You mumble.

“I’ve thought about tying you up,” he mutters, ignoring your praise, his voice wrecked, eyes glued to your flushed face and parted lips. “Would you… would you let me do that? Hm? Tie you up, spread you open… fuck, I’d ruin you.” 

You let out a shaky breath, pretending like you’re ignoring his words, but the flush that spreads down your chest gives you away. You can’t even speak, can only nod weakly, your hips rolling faster, thighs trembling around him. 

“Fuck… fuck, that’s so hot,” he groans quietly, his fingers thrusting deeper, thumb relentless over your clit. “God… you’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? Gonna come all over my fingers… fuck, please… please, baby…”

“Shit, that’s so hot,” He exclaims quietly, watching as you ride on his fingers.

Your stomach coils tighter, heat building fast, his filthy words spurring you closer and closer as you ride his hand, desperate little whimpers muffled against his neck. His thumb is relentless over your clit, circles sloppy and fast, his two fingers thrusting deep inside you, curling up just right, stretching you open around him. 

“That’s it,” he breathes out shakily, his lips brushing your ear as his voice drops low, dark, possessive. “So good for me… making those pretty little noises… can’t let anyone hear, can you?” 

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as the coil in your stomach snaps tight. Your body clenches around his fingers, a broken sob tearing out of your throat despite how you bite down on his shoulder to muffle it.

The orgasm rips through you, hot and fast, your thighs trembling violently around his hips as you cum hard on his fingers, grinding down desperately as if you could drag out every last wave. 

“That’s it… good fucking girl,” he whispers raggedly, his breath shaking against your cheek as he keeps thrusting his fingers, slower now, helping you ride it out. 

You pant into his neck, your forehead pressed to the sweaty skin there, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your whole body feels loose, trembling with aftershocks, but you’re hyper-aware of the way his cock is straining hard against his sweatpants beneath you, pressed snug between your soaked core and his stomach. 

Even through the fabric you can feel how hot and hard he is, twitching with every tiny shift of your hips. He lets out a strangled little whine when your hips shift involuntarily, rutting up against you with desperate need.

His hands grip at your ass, holding you tight against him, grinding up into your clothed crotch shamelessly as he pants into your hair. 

“Please…” he whimpers, his voice wrecked, needy and pathetic. “Please… need you so bad… please let me…” 

His forehead drops to your shoulder, lips parted against your skin as he ruts up against you again, cock throbbing hard under his sweats, leaving a wet patch where precum soaks through. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s scared you’ll pull away. 

You can feel his chest heaving against yours, his whole body trembling with restraint as he keeps himself from flipping you over and taking what he wants.

Because he knows – he knows he has to wait for you to give it to him. 

And maybe that’s what makes this feel so fucking good. Knowing how desperate he is. How completely and utterly at your mercy he is right now, shaking beneath you like a dog begging for scraps.

Without warning, you spit quickly onto your palm, the wet heat slicking your skin. Your hand slides between you both, bold and unhesitating, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, then under his boxers, curling around the length of his cock. 

His mouth falls open, a ragged breath catching in his throat before it bursts into a long, desperate groan—too loud, too raw. You clamp your other hand swiftly over his mouth, fingers pressing firmly against his cheek. 

“Be quiet,” you hiss, voice low and sharp. “Or I’ll fucking leave you here.” 

You see the flicker of genuine horror cross his face at the thought, eyes wide and glassy. His body tenses, trembling under your touch. He nods quickly, swallowing hard behind your hand. 

Still, the soft, pitiful whimpers press against your palm as his lips press and bite lightly, nearly grazing your skin. You grip him tighter, thumb stroking up and down, moving slow and deliberate, letting him drown in the feeling while you hold the reins.

Your hand moves carefully, almost possessive—like you’re trying to tame something wild and broken beneath your touch. His body shudders against you, tense but craving, the heat radiating through the thin fabric of his sweats.

He’s barely holding himself together, that desperate, hungry edge never leaving his eyes, even though his lips stay pressed beneath your palm, muffling his ragged breaths and quiet whines. 

You can feel the frantic pulse beneath your fingers, the slick heat that speaks of him straining on the edge. You don’t want to drag this out any longer than it has to.

You want one thing and he’s already got you there once, which is already more than you expected. 

You just keep moving your hand, slow and steady, fingers tracing the line between pleasure and pain, between control and surrender. 

Suddenly, you pull your hands away, leaving him trembling and exposed beneath your touch. His cock presses hard against his stomach, eyes wide and glassy as he watches you, dumbfounded. 

Without hesitation, you shimmy down your shorts and panties, the fabric slipping to the floor with a soft thud. His breath hitches, a string of low, shocked curses escaping his lips like he can’t quite believe this is really happening. 

His hand rises hesitantly, replacing yours, fingers wrapping around his own aching length, moving in a slow, desperate rhythm as his gaze stays locked on you. 

“Can you, um—” He gestures awkwardly toward your hoodie, hesitation thick in his voice. 

You freeze, a flicker of doubt flashing through your mind. Stripped bare before him, while he remains warm and clothed, the imbalance of power sharp as ever. But his eyes, burning with that twisted mixture of hunger and awe, drag you forward. 

With a reluctant breath, you tug off the hoodie, the cool air prickling your skin as you settle back onto his lap, careful to keep just enough distance to remind him this isn’t softness or tenderness—it’s control. 

He watches, hand moving faster now, slick with sweat, as you unclip your bra—revealing curves that have him practically swallowing his own breath. 

Your heart hammers loud in the stillness. Anyone could walk in at any moment. You pray the whiskey haze keeps the others oblivious, safe behind closed doors and heavy lids. 

“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice thick with disbelief and need. 

One hand never leaving his cock, the other tentatively reaching for your bare tits, fingers exploring, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise every inch. You shiver under the weight of his touch—equal parts revulsion and reluctant heat. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpers into your neck, voice ragged and wet. “You’re so fucking—god, you’re so warm, please, please let me—” 

You barely hear him. Your brain is cotton-wool fuzz, heat coiling tight in your stomach as you grip his hair, forcing him to look at you. His eyes roll back slightly, lids fluttering, mouth falling open in a silent moan as his hips jerk up again, desperate for friction, moving his hands to your waist, holding your back towards him.

“You’re pathetic.” you mutter, your voice flat, empty.

“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding into your grip, his fingers digging bruises into your hips.

You watch him for a second. Watch the way his chest heaves with each ragged breath, sweat dripping down his temples, gloss smeared across his swollen lips. You could almost laugh. This is Josh Washington. Rich kid. The Black Sheep, even in his own friend group. Reduced to a whining, trembling mess beneath you. 

You reach between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock again. He sobs at the touch, forehead thunking forward against your collarbone. “Please, please,” he whispers, voice shaking so hard it cracks. “I need it, I need you, I need—” 

“Shhh,” you say softly, cutting him off. 

Your thumb brushes over the flushed head, smearing the precum down his shaft as his thighs twitch under you. You guide him to your entrance, sinking down slowly. The stretch burns and he’s not even all the way in, but the way he chokes on his moan makes the discomfort worth it. 

His hands fly to your waist, gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Fuck, oh fuck, oh my god,” he gasps, eyes wide and shining in the dim firelight. “You feel—fuck—better than I ever imagined.” 

You roll your hips experimentally, feeling him twitch inside you. He’s thick, not huge, but big enough to make your eyes flutter shut as he fills you completely. 

“God, please,” he whines, thrusting up helplessly. “Let me, let me fuck you, please, I need to—” 

You slap your hand over his mouth again, silencing his desperate noises as you start to move. The couch creaks beneath you with every bounce, the springs whining under your combined weight. “Shut up, for fucks sake,” you hiss. “You want everyone to wake up and see what a pathetic little perv you are?” You spit. “Hearing about how you touch yourself to me, how you’re a fucking weirdo, going through my underwear, tellin' me how you wanna see me crying... making all those stupid, stupid jokes?”

He moans against your palm, eyes rolling back, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s holding on for dear life. His hips jerk up into yours in sloppy, uncoordinated thrusts, chasing the tight heat of your cunt like an animal. 

Tears are brimming in his eyes now, lashes wet and clumped together as he looks up at you like you’re the fucking messiah. 

“Shit. Shit. Fuck. I’m- Gonna cum—” he tries to say against your hand, voice muffled and broken. 

“Already?” you mock, leaning in close so your lips brush his ear. “God, you’re fucking useless.” 

That does it. His whole body seizes under you, back arching off the loveseat as he cums with a choked, pathetic sob. Hot, wet pulses fill you as his hips keep twitching, his entire body trembling like he might collapse if you let go of him. 

You don’t stop moving. You keep grinding down onto him, ignoring his whimpers of overstimulation, using his cock for your own pleasure. His eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent moan as his hips jerk involuntarily. He hits just the right spot, and you quickly move to shove your lips against his, moaning into his mouth to quiet yourself.

“Fuck, fuck,” you mumble, your stomach tightening dangerously. The heat coils low in your gut as you ride him harder, his cock stretching you open, every inch filthy and overwhelming. “Do you have any idea—” 

Your words cut off with a sharp whimper when his hands come up to your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples, sending electric shocks down your spine. He looks up at you like you’re god, eyes glazed, mouth falling open before he leans in, kissing across your chest, lips hot and wet as he wraps them around your nipple, sucking hard. 

“Any idea how… humiliating this is?” you pant out, voice trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bounce in his lap, the slap of skin on skin echoing faintly over the crackle of the dying fire. 

He moans against your chest, tongue flicking over your nipple, drool and spit mixing with his feverish kisses. His eyes flick up to yours, pupils blown wide, glassy with tears from sheer sensory overload. He doesn’t stop. His hands squeeze your breasts tighter, thumbs brushing insistently as his hips buck up, desperate for more. 

“Have any idea how… if I was to tell anyone that I fucked—” you gasp, voice rising, heat building faster and faster, “fucking Josh Washington—” 

He groans at the sound of his name falling from your lips like that, filthy and ruined. 

“They’d think I’m a fucking weirdo,” you spit out, words dissolving into a breathy moan as he sucks your other nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing it just enough to make your hips stutter against him. “Oh—fuck, fuck, right there, fuck.” 

He stops for a moment, head falling back against the couch with a low, broken groan as your cunt clenches around him.

“Shit,” he breathes, staring down at where you’re joined, at the slick mess dripping down his cock, at the way you’re swallowing him whole with every desperate thrust. 

Your stomach tightens one final time before the coil snaps, pleasure exploding behind your eyes as you come with a shaking, choked moan. You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth sinking into the material of his hoodie, biting down hard enough to feel the sting in your jaw. 

He fucks up into you slowly, grinding his cock deep inside, moaning into your hair, his hands trembling against your ribs as he tries to hold himself back. When your orgasm fades, you lift your head slightly, breathing ragged, sweat dripping down your chest. Between your legs is a ruin of slick and cum, his cock twitching still inside you as your walls spasm around him weakly. 

Both of you look down at the mess, panting, the obscene sight making your stomach twist in disgust and reluctant satisfaction. “Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, a brief hit of clarity slicing through the haze, shame coiling around your throat like a chokehold. 

A few minutes pass in silence, only the sound of the dying fire flickering across the room, painting shadows across his ruined, flushed face. You gently pull yourself off of him, sitting besides him now, bare as ever. You lean over, grabbing your bra and hoodie.

Then, Josh chuckles. Quiet. Low. Almost thoughtful. His eyes stay fixed on yours as a twisted smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe you are,” he says softly, voice raw, trembling with exhausted lust. 

Your brows furrow, confusion slicing through your afterglow as you reach for your bra, hooking it back around your chest with trembling fingers. “What?”

Josh just grins wider at your confusion, tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes dark and glossy with exhaustion and something sharper. Something almost triumphant. He tucks his cock away slowly, hissing a little at the sensitivity, before leaning forward to grab your shorts from the floor, holding them out to you.

“Maybe you are a fucking weirdo,” he whispers, voice low and hoarse, “for wanting someone like me.” 

You blink, staring at him, feeling your chest tighten with something hot and shameful. He holds your shorts out closer, wiggling them teasingly between his fingers before letting out a quiet, broken laugh. 

“But… that’s kinda what makes you so fuckin’ hot, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “You could have any guy here, but… here you are.” He shakes his head, a breathy, disbelieving chuckle leaving his lips. “Here you fuckin’ are.” 

You snatch your shorts from his hand, cheeks burning. But you notice immediately—he’s handed them to you without your panties. You glance at the floor, searching, but he just raises his brows innocently, that twitchy smirk returning as he reaches down to his hoodie pocket, shoving the bunched-up cotton inside. 

“Don’t worry about those,” he mutters, voice smug, self-satisfied. “Souvenir.” 

Your mouth falls open slightly, rage and disgust flashing hot through your veins, but he just leans back against the couch, arms spreading lazily along the backrest, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you pull on your shorts, maybe accepting your fate a little too quickly. 

“This is a one-time thing,” you bite out, voice trembling with leftover adrenaline. 

Your hands feel clumsy as you tug your hoodie back over your head, trying to ignore the way his gaze devours the sight of you dressing. He tilts his head at that, studying you with a dark curiosity. 

“Yeah?” he hums, tongue flicking out again to wet his cracked lips. “You sure about that?” 

You glare at him, chest heaving, heart pounding so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it. “Don’t push it, Josh.” 

For a second, something flickers behind his eyes—something almost genuine, raw, stripped of all his usual sleazy bravado. His lips twitch upwards into a broken smile, eyes softening as he watches you adjust your hoodie. 

“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I won’t tell anyone. Ever. You know that, right?” 

Your jaw clenches. You don’t answer, refusing to give him even that sliver of reassurance he craves.

You just turn away, stepping over empty beer bottles and discarded blankets as you leave him sitting there, panting quietly in the firelit dark, your panties hidden away in his pocket like a trophy. 

And as you step into the silent hallway, your chest tightens with something sickening and warm, something that makes your skin crawl—

Because you know he’s right.