Mascara Tears
warning: mature content, minors dni, randall being mean, smut, rough, oral, dom!randall, female!reader, randall is not nice, enemies to not really lovers, for all my randall lovers, i made up a little cabin so yeah, slight dumbification of reader?, dacryphilia, he talks you through it, enjoy
The rain hammered against the roof of the abandoned cabin like it was trying to break in.
You stood by the cracked window, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching the tree line for any sign of movement.
Behind you, boots scuffed against the warped floorboards. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.
“Great. Stuck with the princess again,” Randall Kirkland muttered, voice low and edged with that familiar sneer.
He dropped a battered backpack onto the dusty table, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
“Donna really knows how to punish people, huh?”
You finally glanced over your shoulder.
He looked as wrecked as everyone else in this godforsaken town—mud-streaked jacket and that fresh scar on his cheek pulling tight when he scowled.
His eyes, sharp and distrustful, flicked over you like he was sizing up whether you’d be more trouble than you were worth.
“Trust me,” you shot back, keeping your voice flat, “I’d rather be out there with the creatures than locked in here with you. At least they’re honest about wanting to kill me.”
Randall let out a harsh laugh that held zero humor.
He yanked open a cabinet, rifling through whatever canned goods were left from the last group that were here.
“Keep talking like that and I might just leave the door unlocked tonight. See how long that mouth of yours lasts.”
Tension crackled between you, thick as the humidity outside.
You’d hated him since the bus first rolled into town.
He was loud, aggressive, convinced everything was some sick experiment and treating everyone like enemies. You’d called him out more than once—told him his paranoia was going to get people killed.
He’d responded by calling you a naive bitch who’d be dead in a week.
Yet here you were.
Paired up again for supply duty because the others were stretched thin.
Just one night.
One night of this.
You turned back to the window, jaw tight. “Just stay on your side of the house, Kirkland. I don’t need you breathing down my neck.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.” The word dripped with mockery. You heard him crack open a can, the metallic scrape loud.
Then silence… except for the rain and the occasional distant howl that made your stomach twist.
Minutes dragged.
The air felt heavier with every passing second.
You could feel his eyes on your back, that intense stare that always made your skin prickle—part irritation, part something you refused to name.
When you finally risked a glance, he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like you were a puzzle he wanted to smash just to see what fell out.
“Problem?” you snapped.
His lips curled. “Yeah. You. Always acting like you’ve got it all figured out. Like you’re better than this place. Sweetheart—you’re not. None of us are.”
You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, anger flaring hot in your chest.
“And you think being a raging asshole makes you special? We’re all scared, Randall. Some of us just don’t take it out on everyone else like a scared little boy.”
For a second, something flickered in his eyes—anger, maybe a flash of hurt—but it vanished behind the wall he always kept up.
He pushed off the wall, closing the distance until he was right in front of you, towering and radiating heat.
“Careful,” he said, voice dropping dangerously low. “Keep pushing me and you might find out exactly how scared I can make you.”
Your heart hammered.
The space between you felt electric, charged with months of biting remarks and glaring across Colony House dinners. You could smell rain and sweat on him, see the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
Neither of you moved.
Outside, something screamed in the woods.
You both tensed, the moment shattering.
Randall stepped back first, muttering a curse under his breath as he grabbed his pack again.
“Get some rest,” he growled. “I’ll take first watch. Try not to die before morning.”
He didn’t look at you again as he moved toward the front room.
You exhaled shakily, pressing your back to the wall. This was going to be a long night.
The hours crawled by like the rain dripping through the cracks in the ceiling.
You tried to rest on the sagging couch in the front room, but sleep refused to come.
Every creak of the old house made your muscles lock up.
Every distant, inhuman cry from the forest clawed at your nerves.
The single lantern on the table cast long, flickering shadows that danced across the peeling wallpaper like they were alive.
Randall had taken the armchair across from you, legs stretched out, boots planted firmly on the floor as if daring the ground itself to move.
He hadn’t said a word in nearly an hour, but you could feel him watching.
Not the window.
Not the door.
You.
Finally, the silence got too heavy.
“You planning on staring all night?” you muttered, not bothering to open your eyes. “Or are you just hoping I’ll do something stupid so you can say ‘I told you so’ when the creatures drag me out?”
A low, rough chuckle rumbled out of him.
“Wouldn’t mind the show. You talk a big game during the day, but I bet you’d scream real pretty if one of those things got its hands on you.”
You sat up slowly, glaring across the dim space.
The lantern light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the ugly, half-healed gash along his cheek.
He looked carved from something meaner than the rest of you—broader shoulders, restless energy that made the room feel smaller.
“At least I’m not the one who almost got people killed whenever you tried to prove one of your theories,” you fired back. “Some of us are trying to survive. You’re just looking for a reason to burn everything down.”
Randall’s eyes narrowed, that dangerous glint sharpening.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the movement slow and deliberate.
“Careful how you talk to me, princess. I’m not Boyd. I don’t do the whole ‘let’s all hold hands and sing kumbaya’ bullshit. When I see something that needs handling…” His voice dropped, low and edged with warning. “I handle it. My way. No discussion. No second chances.”
The words hung there, heavier than they should have.
You hated how they sent a flicker of heat through your anger—something about the absolute confidence in his tone, the way he didn’t ask, he just stated how things would be.
You shoved it down hard.
“Must be nice,” you said sarcastically, “thinking the whole world revolves around what Randall Kirkland wants. Newsflash: we’re all trapped here. You don’t get to bark orders and expect everyone to fall in line just because you’re bigger and louder.”
He stood up suddenly, the chair scraping loud against the floor.
In two strides he was across the room, towering over where you sat. Not touching you—but close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
The air between you crackled.
“You think this is about what I want?” His voice was quiet now, almost a growl. “This town doesn’t give a shit what any of us want. It takes. It breaks people. And when it comes for you—”
He leaned in just a fraction, eyes locked on yours like he could pin you in place without hands.
“—someone’s gotta make the hard calls. Someone’s gotta be in control.”
Your pulse hammered in your throat.
The scent of rain-soaked fabric and something darker—gun oil, sweat, that metallic edge that never quite left anyone in the Township—filled your lungs.
You refused to shrink back, even though every instinct screamed that Randall Kirkland was not a man you wanted this close when he was like this.
You rose to your feet instead, refusing to let him loom over you unchallenged.
Your chest nearly brushed his jacket.
“And who put you in charge, exactly? Last I checked, you’re just another asshole who got off the same bus as me.”
For a long second, neither of you moved.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then back up, dark and unreadable.
A muscle ticked in his scarred cheek.
“Keep testing me,” he said softly, dangerously. “See what happens when I stop playing nice.”
The threat lingered, thick and unspoken.
Part of you wanted to shove him.
Part of you wanted to see what “not nice” looked like.
Instead, you stepped sideways, breaking the standoff.
“I’ll take the next watch. Try not to snore too loud, Kirkland.”
You grabbed the rifle from the table and moved toward the window, heart still racing.
Behind you, Randall exhaled through his teeth—a frustrated, almost amused sound.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he muttered, dropping back into the armchair.
But you caught him watching again as you settled in, his stare heavy on the back of your neck like a physical weight.
The rain kept falling.
The night stretched on, endless and suffocating.
Every minute in that house felt like another thread pulled tighter between hatred and something far more dangerous.
You didn’t speak again for hours, but the silence was louder than any argument.
The rain had eased into a miserable drizzle, but the woods outside had grown louder.
Those unnatural howls were closer now—too close.
You stood rigid at the window, rifle heavy in your hands, eyes straining into the darkness.
Your shoulders burned from the tension.
Every muscle felt wound too tight.
Behind you, Randall had given up pretending to sleep.
You could hear him pacing slowly, boots dragging across the creaky floor like a caged animal.
The lantern was turned down low, barely more than a weak glow, leaving most of the room swallowed in shadow.
“Anything?” he asked, voice rough from disuse.
“Nothing yet,” you replied tightly. “But they sound hungry tonight.”
He made a sound low in his throat—half scoff, half agreement.
Then he was moving again, closer this time.
You felt him stop just behind your left shoulder, close enough that the heat from his body cut through the damp chill seeping in from the cracked glass.
“You’re holding that rifle like a damn crutch,” he muttered.
One big hand reached around you, not quite touching, but close enough that his fingers hovered near yours on the stock.
“Grip it higher. Brace it proper. If something comes through that window, you’ll be too slow the way you’re doing it.”
You jerked your head toward him, irritation flaring hot.
“I know how to hold a gun, Kirkland. I don’t need you correcting me every five minutes like I’m some helpless—”
“Helpless?” He cut you off with a sharp laugh, stepping fully into your space now.
His chest brushed your back as he loomed, forcing you to either lean into the windowsill or press against him.
You chose the sill, but it left almost no room between your bodies.
“You’re the one who nearly got yourself killed last week because you froze. I’m not letting you get us both torn apart because you’re too stubborn to listen.”
His breath was warm against the side of your neck, stirring the damp strands of hair that had escaped your ponytail.
You could smell him—rain, salt, that faint metallic tang that clung to everyone who’d survived a bad night.
It should have been repulsive.
Instead, it made your stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear of the creatures.
“Back off,” you hissed, even as your pulse jumped wildly. “I don’t need you breathing down my neck.”
Randall didn’t move.
If anything, he leaned in closer, one arm bracing on the window frame beside you, effectively caging you without quite touching.
His voice dropped, low and rough, right by your ear.
“Yeah? Seems like you do. You’ve been wound so fucking tight since we got stuck in this shithole together. Acting like you hate me… but you’re always watching. Always pushing.”
His free hand ghosted near your hip—not grabbing, not yet, but the threat of it hung in the air.
“Maybe you need someone to put you in your place. Shut that smart mouth of yours and make you focus.”
The words sent an unwelcome spark straight through you.
Heat pooled low in your belly despite the anger still burning in your chest.
You hated how his voice wrapped around the idea—calm, commanding, like he already knew exactly how he’d do it.
Like he’d enjoy it.
You spun around fast, putting your back to the window.
The move brought you chest-to-chest with him.
He didn’t step back.
Randall just looked down at you, eyes dark and intense in the low light, that scarred cheek twitching with the ghost of a smirk.
“Fuck you,” you whispered fiercely, but your voice came out breathier than you wanted.
His gaze dropped slowly to your mouth, lingering there for a long, heavy second before sliding back up.
“Careful what you wish for, princess.”
Outside, a branch snapped loudly.
Both of you froze.
Randall’s hand finally made contact—firm on your upper arm, yanking you away from the window and behind him in one smooth motion.
His body was solid, radiating heat and coiled strength as he raised his own weapon, shielding you instinctively.
The silence that followed was agonizing.
Seconds stretched into a minute.
Then two.
Whatever had been out there moved on, the sounds fading back into the trees.
Randall didn’t let go of your arm right away.
His grip was strong, fingers digging in just enough to remind you he could hold you there if he wanted.
When he finally turned back to face you, his expression was unreadable—but his breathing was heavier, chest rising and falling closer to yours.
“You good?” he asked gruffly. The question sounded almost like an order.
You nodded, throat tight.
The space between you felt electric now, charged with everything unsaid.
Hatred.
Fear.
This new, dangerous awareness of how broad he was, how easily he could crowd you against the wall, how his voice sounded when he told you what to do.
He released your arm slowly, but didn’t step back.
Instead, he reached up and brushed a stray piece of hair from your face with surprising gentleness—then immediately looked like he regretted showing even that much.
“Go sit down before you fall over,” he said, voice rough again, back to that dominant edge. “I’ve got the window. And don’t argue with me right now.”
You wanted to snap back.
You wanted to shove him.
But your legs felt shaky, and the memory of his body so close, his low voice in your ear, was still burning under your skin.
For the first time that night, you did what he said—moving to the couch without another word.
Randall watched you the entire way, jaw clenched tight, like he was fighting the same war you were.
The lantern had burned even lower, throwing the room into a hazy orange glow that barely pushed back the shadows.
You couldn’t sit still anymore.
The adrenaline from the close call earlier refused to fade, leaving you restless and on edge.
Randall had been silent for what felt like forever, posted at the window like a statue, but you could feel the storm building in him.
You got up, moving quietly toward the small stash of supplies on the table.
Your boots scraped louder than you meant against the floorboards.
“Sit the fuck down,” Randall growled without turning around. “You’re making enough noise to bring every creature in the forest right to us.”
It was a small thing.
Stupid, really.
But after hours of his orders, his stares, and the unbearable tension, something in you cracked.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm as you deliberately grabbed a can of peaches anyway, the metal clinking loudly.
“Did I disturb your royal watch, Your Highness? God forbid I try to eat something so I don’t pass out from exhaustion.”
He turned slowly, and the look on his face made your stomach flip.
Jaw locked, eyes blazing with barely-contained fury.
“You never fucking listen, do you?” He stalked toward you, each step heavy. “I told you to stay put. I told you to keep quiet. But no—little miss independent has to do whatever the hell she wants, even if it gets us killed.”
You lifted your chin, refusing to back down even as he closed the distance.
“And I’m supposed to just obey every command that comes out of your mouth? You’re not in charge of me. You’re not in charge of shit except your own shitty attitude.”
That did it.
Randall snapped.
In one fast movement, he was on you.
His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist hard enough to make you drop the can.
It clattered loudly on the floor as he yanked you forward, slamming your back against the nearest wall with controlled force.
The impact rattled through you, knocking the breath from your lungs.
“You think this is a fucking game?” he snarled, voice low and dangerous, right in your face.
His body pinned yours completely—broad chest crushing you against the old wallpaper, one thick thigh shoved between your legs to keep you in place.
His free hand came up, gripping your jaw roughly, forcing your head back so you had no choice but to look at him.
“You’ve been pushing me all night,” he continued, breath hot against your lips.
His fingers dug into your jaw, not enough to bruise but firm enough to remind you exactly how strong he was.
“Running that smart mouth, testing every goddamn limit I have. You want me to lose control? Is that it?”
Your heart hammered wildly.
Fear and something much hotter twisted together low in your belly.
You should have been terrified. Instead, the roughness—the raw aggression in his grip, the way he held you like he owned the situation completely—sent a rush of heat straight through you.
Your thighs clenched involuntarily around the leg he had wedged between them.
“Maybe I do,” you whispered breathlessly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
Your voice shook, but not from fear.
“Maybe I’m sick of pretending I don’t see how bad you want to shut me up.”
Randall’s eyes darkened, pupils blown wide.
A harsh, satisfied sound escaped him—half growl, half laugh.
He pressed in harder, hips pinning yours to the wall, letting you feel exactly how worked up he was.
His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading roughly into your hair and tugging your head to the side.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he said, voice rough and low, lips brushing your ear. “I don’t do gentle. I don’t ask nicely. When I snap, I take what I want. And right now?”
He tugged your hair harder, exposing more of your neck.
“I want to fuck that goddamn attitude out of you.”
You let out a shaky exhale, arousal flooding through you at his words and the brutal way he held you.
Your hands came up to fist in his jacket, not pushing him away—pulling him closer.
The hatred was still there, burning bright, but it had twisted into something filthy and desperate.
“Then do it,” you challenged, voice husky. “Or are you all talk, Kirkland?”
His grip tightened possessively.
For a second, the room was nothing but heavy breathing, the distant sounds of the forest, and the violent tension ready to explode.
Randall didn’t waste another second.
His mouth crashed down on yours in a bruising kiss—rough, angry, and completely dominating.
There was nothing gentle about it.
His lips claimed yours like he was punishing you for every sharp word you’d thrown at him all night.
Teeth scraped against your lower lip before he bit down hard enough to make you gasp.
The second your mouth opened, his tongue pushed inside, demanding and invasive, tasting like anger and rain and pure need.
You moaned into the kiss—pathetic and involuntary—and that sound seemed to flip a switch in him.
“Fuck,” he growled against your mouth, the vibration running straight through you.
One hand stayed tangled brutally in your hair, yanking your head exactly where he wanted it so he could deepen the kiss even further.
The other hand dropped to your hip, fingers digging in hard as he ground his body against yours, pinning you tighter to the wall.
You tried to kiss him back with the same fire, but he didn’t let you.
Every time you pushed forward, he shoved you back with his hips and his mouth, controlling the pace completely.
He was bigger, stronger, and right now he was using every inch of that advantage.
You were starting to fall apart already.
Another desperate little whimper slipped out of you as he sucked on your tongue.
Your hands fisted tighter in his jacket, but instead of fighting, you were pulling him closer, arching against him like you couldn’t get enough.
Your thighs squeezed around the one he still had wedged between your legs, hips rolling helplessly against the firm pressure.
Randall pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing hard.
His eyes were dark, satisfied, and a little cruel as he took in your flushed face and swollen lips.
“Look at you,” he rasped, voice low and mocking. “All that fight and now you’re already falling apart for me. Pathetic.”
The words should have pissed you off. Instead, they made you even wetter. A needy sound escaped your throat as you tried to chase his mouth again.
He chuckled darkly and tightened his grip in your hair, holding you just out of reach. “Beg for it.”
Your face burned with humiliation and arousal.
You hated how easily he was breaking you down, but you couldn’t stop yourself. “Please…” The word came out small and shaky. “Kiss me again. Please, Randall—”
He cut you off with another savage kiss, rewarding your obedience by pressing his thigh harder between your legs, giving you something to grind against.
His tongue fucked into your mouth in rough strokes while his hand slid under the hem of your shirt, palm hot and possessive against your bare skin.
You were moaning shamelessly now, hips rocking desperately against his thigh like you had no pride left.
Every rough bite to your lip, every tug on your hair, every time he pinned you harder against the wall made you weaker.
The hatred was still there—burning underneath everything—but right now it only made you wetter.
Randall pulled back again, lips hovering just over yours, teasing.
A string of spit connected you for a second before he wiped it away with his thumb, smearing it across your bottom lip.
“That’s better,” he murmured, voice thick with lust and control. “Keep sounding like that and I might just give you what you need.”
He leaned in again, slower this time but no less aggressive—biting at your jaw, sucking a mark onto your neck while his hand kept you pinned exactly where he wanted you.
You were trembling against him, pathetic and soaking and completely at his mercy.
Randall’s hand was still fisted tight in your hair when he finally pulled back from the kiss.
His breathing was ragged, eyes dark with lust as he looked down at you—flushed, lips swollen, trembling against him.
“Get on your knees.”
The command was low, rough, and left no room for argument.
His fingers tightened in your hair, guiding you down with firm pressure.
You sank to the floor in front of him, knees hitting the dusty wood, heart pounding so hard you felt dizzy.
The sight of him towering over you like this—jacket open, chest heaving, that intense stare locked on your face—made something deep inside you melt.
He looked down at you with a dark, satisfied smirk.
“That’s it… look at you. Already so fucking pretty on your knees for me.”
His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, pressing inside just enough to feel the wet heat of your mouth.
“You hate me, but here you are. Pathetic and eager. Open.”
You obeyed, lips parting. The praise mixed with the degradation made your face burn and your thighs press together.
Randall unzipped his jeans with his free hand, pulling himself out. He was hard, thick, and already leaking at the tip.
He gave your hair a gentle tug, guiding your mouth closer.
“Go on, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice low and steady, talking you through it like he knew you needed it. “Take me in. Slow at first. Use that smart mouth for something useful.”
You leaned forward, wrapping your lips around the head.
The salty taste of him hit your tongue and you moaned softly around him.
Randall groaned, hips twitching forward.
“Fuck, that’s good. Just like that.” His hand stayed in your hair, controlling the pace but not forcing you yet.
“Suck a little harder… yeah. Good girl. You look so fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth.”
The praise made you whimper.
You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, trying to please him.
Your hands came up to rest on his thighs, gripping the fabric of his jeans as you worked him with your mouth.
Randall’s head tipped back for a second, a rough sound escaping him, before he looked back down at you.
“Eyes up here,” he ordered. “I want to see you while you choke on me.”
You forced your gaze up, eyes watering as you took him deeper.
He hit the back of your throat and you gagged softly, but didn’t pull away.
The sound only seemed to turn him on more.
“Easy, pretty girl… breathe through your nose. Relax your throat for me.”
His voice was rough but almost coaxing now, thumb stroking your cheek as you struggled.
“That’s it. Good fucking girl. You’re doing so well for someone who was running her mouth at me all night.”
He started rocking his hips slowly, fucking shallowly into your mouth while keeping full control.
Saliva dripped down your chin.
Your eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed, completely lost in the moment—pathetic, needy, and dripping between your thighs.
“Fuck… look at you,” he groaned, voice dropping lower. “Taking me so deep. You love this, don’t you? Love being used like this after pretending you hate me.”
He gave your hair another tug, pulling you off him for a second so you could gasp for air.
Strings of spit connected your swollen lips to his cock.
“Tell me,” he demanded, tapping the wet head against your tongue. “Tell me you’re my good girl right now.”
You looked up at him with glassy, desperate eyes, lips shiny and swollen, breathing hard.
“I’m your good girl…” The words came out shaky and pathetic, barely above a whisper. “I’m your good girl.”
Randall’s eyes darkened with raw hunger.
He let out a low, pleased groan and stroked your cheek almost tenderly for a second.
“Yeah, you are,” he murmured, voice thick. “Such a good fucking girl when you stop fighting me.”
He tucked himself back into his jeans, still hard and aching, clearly not done with you.
Before you could catch your breath, he hauled you up by your arms and walked you backward until your ass hit the old wooden table.
In one rough motion, he lifted you onto it, shoving supplies out of the way.
The lantern wobbled but stayed upright, casting flickering light across your bodies.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered, already pushing your thighs apart with his hands.
He dropped to his knees in front of you, yanking your pants and underwear down in one impatient tug and tossing them aside.
The cool air hit your soaked core and you shivered.
Randall paused for a second, staring at how wet you were, a dark smirk pulling at his lips.
“Fuck… look at this pretty pussy. Dripping for me after sucking my cock like a desperate little thing.” He leaned in, breath hot against your inner thigh. “You really are pathetic tonight, aren’t you?”
Before you could respond, his mouth was on you.
He didn’t start gentle.
He licked a long, firm stripe up your center, then latched onto your clit with his lips and sucked hard.
You cried out, back arching sharply.
One of his big hands pressed flat against your stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t squirm away from the intense pleasure.
“Stay still,” he growled against you, the vibration making you whimper. “I’m not done tasting what’s mine.”
His tongue worked you relentlessly—alternating between broad, messy strokes and tight circles on your clit.
Every time you moaned too loudly, he’d pull back just enough to nip at your thigh in warning.
“That’s it… make those pretty sounds for me,” he said, voice rough as he pushed two thick fingers inside you without warning.
He curled them instantly, finding that spot that made your vision blur.
“Good girl. So fucking wet. You love my mouth on you, don’t you?”
You cried out sharply as his mouth worked you, hips jerking against his face.
The pleasure was overwhelming—his tongue relentless on your clit, two thick fingers curling deep inside you, hitting that perfect spot over and over.
Randall pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your soaked folds.
His voice was low, rough, and dripping with dominance.
“Who's pussy is this?”
You whimpered, head spinning, but the words caught in your throat.
The filthy question made your face burn with humiliation and fresh arousal, but you were too lost in the sensation to answer right away.
He didn’t wait.
His hand came down in a sharp, wet smack directly on your pussy.
The sting mixed with pleasure made you jolt hard, a broken moan tearing from your throat.
“I asked you a question,” he growled, eyes locked on your face as he delivered another firm spank to your clit. “Who's pussy is this? Answer me.”
“Yours—” you gasped desperately, voice cracking. “It’s yours, Randall—fuck—”
“That’s right.” He rewarded you immediately, diving back in with renewed hunger.
His mouth sealed around your clit, sucking hard while his fingers pumped faster, curling mercilessly against that spot inside you.
“Good girl. This pussy belongs to me."
You were falling apart fast—moaning pathetically, thighs shaking around his head, one hand gripping his hair like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.
Every lick, every thrust of his fingers, every filthy word pushed you closer to the edge.
He spanked your pussy once more, lighter this time but still sharp enough to make you clench around his fingers, then soothed it with a slow, broad lick.
“Tell me who owns this pretty, dripping cunt,” he murmured against you, voice vibrating through your core. “I want to hear it while you come on my tongue.”
"It's all yours," your voice whimpered, unable to say more.
Randall’s eyes flashed with dark satisfaction at your broken admission.
“Damn right it’s mine,” he growled against your slick folds.
He attacked your pussy with single-minded intensity—no mercy, no slow build.
His tongue flicked rapidly over your swollen clit while his fingers drove deep and curled relentlessly.
The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth echoed in the quiet house.
It didn’t take long.
Your first orgasm hit you like a freight train.
Your thighs clamped around his head, back arching violently off the table as you came hard with a loud, pathetic cry of his name.
Randall didn’t stop.
He kept licking and sucking through every pulse, fingers pumping steadily, drawing it out until you were shaking and whimpering.
“Fuck—Randall, please—too much—”
He pulled back just enough to deliver another sharp smack to your oversensitive pussy, making you jolt.
“You’re not done yet,” he said roughly. “I want another one. Be a good girl and give it to me.”
Before you could catch your breath, his mouth was back on you.
This time he was even more aggressive—sucking your clit hard, tongue working in tight, relentless circles while he added a third finger, stretching you open.
The overstimulation was intense.
Pleasure bordered on pain, but your body betrayed you, hips grinding desperately against his face.
You came again faster than you expected—harder this time.
A wrecked sob tore from your throat as your second orgasm crashed over you.
Your legs trembled uncontrollably, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming sensation.
Randall groaned loudly against you, lapping up every drop like he was starving.
He kept going even as you tried to squirm away, one strong arm thrown across your hips to pin you down.
“Stay still,” he commanded, voice muffled and rough. “I’m not finished with you.”
The third wave built almost immediately.
You were a complete mess now—whimpering, moaning brokenly, tears slipping down your cheeks as the overstimulation pushed you into that hazy, pathetic headspace.
Your hands tugged weakly at his hair, unsure if you wanted him closer or away.
“Please—Randall—I can’t—fuck, it’s too much—”
“You can,” he growled, sucking hard on your clit again. “Come on, baby. One more. Cum for me.”
He curled his fingers just right and sucked firmly on your swollen clit at the same time, and you shattered again.
This orgasm was the strongest yet—your whole body seizing up as you cried out, soaking his chin and the table beneath you.
Your mind went completely blank for a few seconds, nothing but white-hot pleasure and his name on your lips.
Only then did Randall finally pull back, lips and chin glistening with your release.
He rose to his feet, towering over your wrecked, trembling body on the table.
His eyes were dark with lust as he took in the sight of you: flushed, teary-eyed, legs still twitching from overstimulation.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking down at you.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rough with arousal. “Such a pathetic little mess for me.”
Randall stood between your spread legs, staring down at your wrecked body.
You were still twitching from the last orgasm, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks, chest heaving with desperate little sobs.
The overstimulation had you completely broken—pathetic, soaked, and crying.
He loved it.
“Aww, look at you crying already,” he mocked softly, voice dripping with fake sympathy as he leaned over you.
One hand came up to cup your tear-streaked face, thumb brushing a tear away only to smear it across your lips.
“Poor little thing. Can’t handle getting that pretty pussy eaten, huh?”
You whimpered, fresh tears spilling as you nodded weakly.
The mocking tone only made you clench around nothing, aching for more.
Randall straightened up, finally freeing himself from his jeans again.
His cock was rock hard, flushed dark, and leaking.
He rubbed the head slowly up and down your oversensitive folds, teasing your clit until you jolted and cried out.
“Please…” you sobbed, voice small and broken.
“Please what?” He pressed just the tip inside you, stretching you open, then stopped. “Use your words, baby. Tell me what you need.”
The word slipped out of you so easily in your fucked-out state.
“Randall… please fuck me.”
Randall’s control snapped.
He thrust into you in one hard stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
You cried out sharply at the sudden fullness, fresh tears pouring down your face from the overwhelming stretch on top of everything else.
He groaned loudly, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled, starting to move immediately—deep, punishing thrusts that rocked the old table. “Crying on my cock already? That’s fucking pathetic…God such a pretty girl for me.”
He set a brutal pace, hips slamming into yours.
Every thrust hit deep, making your overstimulated body spasm around him.
You were a mess—sobbing, moaning, nails digging into his shoulders as he fucked you.
Randall leaned down closer, one hand bracing beside your head while the other wiped at your tears again with mock gentleness.
“Aww, don’t cry, pretty girl,” he cooed cruelly, even as he pounded into you harder. “I got you, baby. Just take it like a good girl. You can handle it, can’t you?”
You nodded frantically, sobbing louder as another wave of overwhelming pleasure-pain crashed through you. “Yes, fuck, I can’t—too much—”
“Yeah you can.” He grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at him while he fucked you. “Look at me while you cry. I love seeing you like this. All broken and dripping for me.”
His pace somehow got even rougher.
The sound of skin slapping skin mixed with your sobs and his low grunts filled the room.
He reached between you and rubbed your swollen clit, pushing you toward another orgasm whether you could handle it or not.
“Come on, baby. Cum on my cock one more time. Let me feel you.”
You shattered again with a broken wail, clenching hard around him as tears streamed down your face.
Randall groaned at the feeling, fucking you through it without slowing down.
“That’s my good girl… fuck, keep crying for me just like that.”
Randall’s pace grew even more relentless, chasing his own release as your body continued to flutter and spasm around him.
He kept one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady for his deep, punishing thrusts.
Randall’s hips jerked forward one final time as he buried himself deep, groaning loudly while he came hard inside you.
You felt every thick pulse as he filled you up, his cock twitching against your overstimulated walls.
He stayed pressed against you for a long moment, breathing heavy, before slowly pulling out.
He turned you onto your back with surprising gentleness and hovered over you, one hand coming up to cup your tear-streaked face.
His thumb brushed away the tears still rolling down your flushed cheeks.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low and warm now. “You did so good for me. So fucking perfect.”
The words warmed your tear-stained cheeks.
“Hey… you okay, baby?” he asked softly, voice low but steady.
His other hand smoothed over your hip, rubbing slow circles there.
“Talk to me. Still with me?”
You sniffled, chest still heaving as you tried to find your voice.
“…Fuck you,” you mumbled weakly, though there was no real heat behind it.
Your hand came up to push half-heartedly at his chest.
“I hate you… so much.”
Randall let out a soft laugh, not moving away.
Instead, he brushed another tear from your cheek with his thumb, his smirk returning but softer around the edges.
“Where’s all that talk now, huh?” he teased, still stroking your face.
“All that screaming and fighting earlier, and now you’re just a pretty little mess under me. Real tough, baby.”
You glared up at him through watery eyes, but your fingers curled weakly into his shirt instead of pushing him away.
“Shut up… You’re the worst,” you muttered, voice hoarse and shaky.
“Acting all smug after… after that.”
He chuckled again, low and warm, leaning down to press a surprisingly gentle kiss to your forehead while his hand kept smoothing over your cheek.
“Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that,” he murmured, the mockery softened by the way he was still holding you close, thumb gently wiping at the corner of your eye.
“You can hate me all you want later. Right now you’re stuck here looking way too pretty crying on me.”
You huffed, a weak attempt at annoyance, but your body relaxed a little against him.
“Asshole…”
“Damn right,” he shot back lightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he brushed one last tear away.
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so this one was a bit crazy to write lolll but i love me some mean randall!!! hope you guys enjoy :) this was a bit rushed so i hope u guys like it!
comment below some other characters you want to see content for :)
-nora
xoxo
taglist: @sweetvengeancee
