⌖

It’s about two weeks into your new life in town when your things start going missing. You don’t realize it at first, usually assuming you misplaced whatever item disappeared this time–a pack of smokes, a lace ribbon, a beaded bracelet, a half-full bottle you snagged from Evan’s store. It isn’t until you’re picking laundry off of the line that you realize the last two of the clothespins are empty.

You squint against the afternoon sun, shading your eyes as you look around for what could be missing. You go through your laundry list in your head and compare it to the clothing pile in your hands: Overalls? Check. Jean shorts? Check. 2 blouses? Check. The bra that you always hide underneath a cheese cloth? Check. Bloomers? Check. 3 pairs of panties? Check. Check…

Shit.

Spinning around, you flick your gaze over the ground and pray you’ll find the lace somewhere between the patches of grassy weeds. No luck. Your face flushes red with embarrassment, scurrying back into the church with wide eyes and furrowed eyebrows.

You offer nervous smiles to the townspeople in the pews, shuffling towards the attic stairs and practically catapulting yourself into the safety of your room. You slam the door behind you and collapse onto your mattress, the headboard and springs squeaking as you shift your weight. Groaning into the floral-patterned pillow, you run through scenarios in your head.

1. They fell to the ground. Maybe the clothespins were broken (they weren’t) or maybe the wind took them down (the heaviest wind in this town is a light breeze).

2. Animal interference? Maybe some bird picked them up to weave into their nest (there’s barely any animals in this town. The only bird you ever saw here was a dead one that Kate hung up next to her window).

3. Someone took them off the line.

You flip onto your back, staring up at the wood rafters. What if some creep is out there doing who knows what with your panties?! Some random townsperson you barely know, probably some gross old guy… The idea makes you feel sick. 

You spend the rest of your day in your room; folding clothes, flicking through the book that Brian lent you, and occasionally peeking through the far window to check the empty clothesline.

Every time you check, the green space around the posts is empty, but it doesn’t seem to quell the feeling of being watched. You can swear you see a flash of something behind a nearby willow tree, between the window slats of the house across the road. It puts you on edge, pacing your room and chewing on your fingernails.

–

By 6 o’clock you’ve decided to check the area outside one more time, just to make sure. Your bare feet shift over the dry grass, eyes scanning for the flash of white fabric.

You hear a rustling sound far too close behind you, the sound of a twig snapping beneath heavy boots. You twist around sharply, gaze darting around for the source of the sound, but you’re only faced with boot prints in the mud and something shiny in the weeds.

After checking around you a couple more times, you turn your attention back to the flash of metal. Apprehensively, you lean down and brush your fingers through the grass, stopping when they land on something solid. You bite your lip as you lift the item, turning it over in your hands.

It’s a camera. One of the handheld ones that can record videos. Carefully flicking the screen open, you’re met with a photo of yourself standing below the clothesline just outside the church. Your heart skips when you realize that it was taken seconds before you turned around.

You flip to the next photo with a shaky breath, to be met with another photo of yourself. This time, it’s as if you're leaving the church just a minute ago. You quickly flick through the roll, met with photo after photo of you.

Then–a video.

It’s taken from where you’re standing right now, frame capturing the window of the church attic. The recorded version of you lazily pulls off her shirt, tossing it to the side and facing the window, torso on full display. You watch in horror as her fingers start working the clasp of her bra. 

You slam the camera back closed, face burning. Stumbling back into the church, you grip the device closed like it’ll pop open at any moment and reveal what your breasts look like to any and all passerby. When you get back into your room, you discard the device onto your nightstand like it hurts to hold it in your palm. 

You stand still in the center of the room, breaths heavy as you try to figure out what to do. Should you tell someone? There’s no sheriff's office in this town, no authority. Even then, would you want to show this to anyone? Shouldn’t you check what else is on the camera first?

Shame burns your cheeks as you reopen the display. The video is back–and you watch yourself like a voyeur as the figure on camera pops open the clasp of her bra, tits spilling out in full view of the lens.

You feel disgusting, watching yourself like this. But there’s something else there too; something that pushes into your stomach and lodges itself there, a heat that won't go away and grows as you scroll through photos of your naked figure. Almost all of them are taken from outside on the grass or from the window of a house across the street. 

There’s one that catches your eye, though, a photo of you in your room. You’re bent over to pick something up from the floor, ass peeking out from the denim of your overalls. Your eyes trace the room, the positioning of the camera, before you realize it was taken from inside your closet.

You start to internally panic, the heat in your stomach replaced with fear. Reaching into your pillowcase, you close your fingers around the pocketknife you keep hidden away in case of emergency. You slowly rise back up, cautiously stepping closer and closer to the wooden doors.

You take a deep breath, hand shakily reaching out to grip the knob. Steeling yourself, you practically rip the doors open, eyes wide and brandishing the knife to find–

Nothing. Just the sparse hangers and stacked denim. You feel like you could sob with relief.

You give the room one more look-over before you decide to collapse into bed for an early night. Kicking off your shorts, you climb under the bedspread and grab Brian’s book again. The soft light of your bedside lamp and the smell of old paper lulls you back into a sense of calm.

–

You’re woken violently when you hear the slam of the church doors reverberating through the building. Reaching out for your knife again, you clutch it close to your chest in the hopes that whatever’s going on downstairs will stop.

The more you think about it, the more it worries you. The town has an unspoken curfew–no one’s ever out past 8 at the latest, but it has to be close to midnight now. And who knows… This could be that creep from earlier coming back to get his camera back.

You quietly slide out of bed, tiptoeing across the creaky wooden boards and wincing after every sound. You make it to the door, carefully unlocking it and slowly cracking it open to try to hear who’s inside.

At first, it’s just something breathy and quiet. A male voice, but one that you could barely make out. There’s the soft sound of the front doors groaning on their hinges, and someone shifting uncomfortably on the pews. You push your way onto the stairs, cautiously testing your weight on each one, when you hear it.

“I can’t s-st-stop touching my-myself.”

You freeze up, fingers gripping the bannister. You know you should turn around right now, let whatever sinner confess what they need to, but the voice has you rooted to your spot on the stairs. It’s Toby.

“I can’t f-f-fuckin’ focus… ‘m s-so hard I c-can’t do a-anything but touch my d-dick,” he’s whining, and you can hear his boots tapping nervously on the floor.

His words make you gasp, barely covering the sound with your hand before he can hear you. You have half a mind to let him be, you’re hearing things you really aren’t supposed to–

That’s when you hear your name.

Your feet stay where they are, and a nasty shade of red spreads over your face. Fuckfuckfuckfuck–

“Sh-she’s so p-pretty–ah–I can’t–” He cuts himself off with the sound of a zipper being undone. Is he touching himself in a church? The soft moans that slip out of his mouth as he palms himself through his boxers send a spike of down through your stomach, and you feel slick pooling in the center of your panties.

“Sh-shit. She kn-knows I’m a fuckin’ cr-creep… F-found the camera. Probably fuckin’ h-hates me…” The sounds get louder as he slides his fingers under the fabric.

Your feet move without you wanting them to, slowly sliding down the stairs until he comes into your view.

He’s a mess, hair ruffled and sweaty, face pink. His jacket is discarded a few pews away, and his jeans sit hastily pushed halfway down his hips. You can see the imprint of his hand working his cock under the fabric of his boxers.

“P-please, father. H-h-help me so I can con-continue being your disciple. C-can’t do anything when I’m l-like this–’m h-hard all the time. Evan w-w-won’t stop makin’ f-fun of me be-because I’m thinkin’ about her while g-g-gutting some st-t-tupid fuck…” He’s lucky you’re so distracted that you don’t notice that last sentence, eyes glued to the bulge in his underwear.

You realize just how far you are down the stairs too late. His eyes open, hooded and lazy, but snap wide when they land on you. His palm flies away from his dick like he’s been burned, hastily trying to hide it behind his back like it’ll undo you seeing him with his hand down his pants.

He blinks back at you with wide eyes, chest heaving as tics rattle through his neck down to his feet, boots thudding heavy against the floor again. Your eyes nervously flick down to the exposed skin of his stomach where his tank has ridden up.

You stare at each other, both weighing your options in this situation. Toby flinches like he’s in pain, hips unconsciously lifting off the wood before dropping back down. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. He watches you for a while longer, still stuck in your spot on the stairs. 

“W-will you h-help me?” He sputters, wincing again as his dick nudges against the undone zipper of his jeans. He looks pathetic, fingers spasming as he wills them back from reaching into his boxers.

You take a step back. “Um, I don’t-”

“W-wait! P-please, it hurts so b-bad, just n-n-need your hands, I p-promise,” he whines, hips stuttering up again.

On one hand, yeah, he’s a creep. You should be running to Evan or Tim or anyone else in this town to beg them to do something. On the other… The poor boy just wants forgiveness. You can understand that better than anyone. 

Who are you to deny him salvation?

“O-okay… sure,” you mumble, hands fidgeting at your sides. You cautiously step closer to him, pausing and checking his reactions like he’s a stray dog that might bolt at any moment. His eyes follow your figure, but he seems fixed in his spot on the pews. By the time you reach the end of the bench he’s sitting on, he looks terrified.

“Thank yo-you-fuck,” he whispers as you reach to take his face in your palm. He isn’t wearing the bandage he always does, and there’s a rough chunk of skin taken out of his cheek. You can see his spit-covered tongue darting out from between his teeth.

He whines into your touch, gently nuzzling against your skin. You can see his resolve crumbling with every passing moment, fingers twitching by his sides. His wide brown eyes flick up to meet yours, pleading, as he shifts to kiss your palm.

He doesn’t break eye contact as his lips slowly make their way up the inside of your wrist, shaky breaths ghosting along your arm. He makes a quiet whimpering sound whenever his tongue brushes against skin, and you press your thighs together to try to get any relief from the fire burning in your stomach.

His hand reaches up to fist into your top, pulling you down to press his lips to yours. They’re chapped, rough against your own. You can’t think too hard about it as he pushes his tongue into your mouth, fingers travelling up to tangle in your hair.

You break the kiss, slowly sinking down onto your knees. Your hands land on his thighs, cautiously pushing them open to settle between his legs.

When your eyes dart back up to his face, he looks like he’s in pain. Nose scrunched up and heaves wracking through his chest. “P-please, touch me, god,” he mumbles, almost incoherent.

You reach up to the bare skin above the top of his boxers, fingertips brushing against his lower stomach as they hook into the waistband. He gasps as cold air washes over his now exposed cock, and you can see his fingers flexing and unflexing as he fights the urge to touch himself. Toby almost cums right on the spot when you tentatively lean forward and take the tip into your mouth.

“Holy f-fucking shit–ah, g-god, you d-don’t have to–fuck,” one of his hands pushes into your hair, gently leading your head as you take him further. You’re just starting to accommodate his size when his hips unintentionally slam forward. You can feel the tip nudging at the back of your throat, and hot tears start to form on your waterline.

“Oh, god, I’m s-so s-s-sorry,” he whines, eyes wide as he lets go of your hair, hissing as you pull off of him. His puppy eyes follow you as you stand and wipe your mouth, and he’s suddenly very aware that you’re no longer touching him.

Oh god. You’re leaving him, you hate him, you’ll probably go tell everyone what a freak he is–

“Toby, it’s okay,” you whisper, taking his face in your hands again. He looks like he’s going to sob in relief when your knees land on either side of him, straddling his lap. You reach down to pull your panties to the side, letting out a small whimper as you feel him nudge against your clit.

“I-” his fingers trail up your thighs, gently brushing against the wet cloth of your underwear. “Do you need m-me to, um,” he stammers as his face flushes red, eyes squeezing shut. Turns out he’s not great at articulating his words when he’s about to cum. “D-do you need my f-f-fingers first?”

You shake your head, against your better judgement. “I can take it,” you insist, embarrassingly desperate to feel him. Toby looks like he’s going to choke when you slowly sink down onto his lap, letting out a whimper as the flushed head of his dick slides into your pussy. 

You wince as you rock your hips down onto his, one hand braced on his shoulder. He lets out a string of expletives when his hips jerk up, causing your free hand to grab for purchase in his hair. He almost cries out when he feels you tugging his head back, and you can hear his boot kicking against the pew in front of him.

His hands come to steady your waist, guiding your movements against his cock. You’re both panting as he finally manages to get himself fully inside of you, hips flush against yours. He connects his lips onto your collarbone as you ride him, soft licks and bites trailing from your clavicle down to the collar of your shirt. 

His fingers make quick work of the buttons, pulling back to stare at your chest as you shrug off the fabric. You’re pretty sure you can see him salivating, drool welling up and spilling from the opening in his cheek.

Toby’s mouth is on your tits the second your bra is undone, licking over your nipples and sucking light marks into the valley between your breasts. You continue to fuck yourself on him, holding the back of his head and every so often yanking on his hair.

You feel him whimper as his movements falter, and he leans back against the pew, eyes searching yours.

“D-did you know it w-w-was me?” he grimaces, whining as you drop yourself down onto him.

“What?” you mumble, voice fucked-out and breathy.

“The p-pictures. D-did you know I was w-watching you? Stealing y-your un-underwear like a fuckin’ f-f-freak?” He flushes red at the memory, his words breaking as your hips continue to grind against his.

His pupils are blown out, lips parted as he stares up at you. “N-no. I didn’t. Really–fuck–really scared me too…” you trail off as you see something flicker in his face for a second. But you blink and his expression is back to pleading. You feel him fuck up into you and he winces again.

“Yeah? Sc-scared?” His head is back against the wood, his fingers digging into the plush of your hips and bouncing you on his lap. He pants like a dog, and you can feel his dick twitching inside you.

You let out a breathy laugh, closing your eyes. “Yeah, was really nervous. Thought some old guy was creeping on me, you know?”

You don’t notice his grip leave your hips, instead mindlessly grinding down on him like nothing changed.

“Was gonna go to Evan to ask for help, I was getting kinda freaked out…” your words die on your lips as you look down at him, hips slowing to a stop. “...Toby?”

His eyebrows are furrowed, a dead look in his eyes as he glares up at you. There’s a pout on his kiss-bitten lips and he blinks up at you. He’s fully still except for a slight tic in his shoulder. You nervously watch him, retracting your hands. “Um, sorry… did I… uh, did I do something wrong?” you mumble, voice soft and palms up in the air like you’re talking to a startled animal.

Silence.

The cold bite of something solid beneath your back is the first thing you register, then his hands wrestling you down onto the pew, then the drag of his cock pulling out of your pussy before slamming back in. The thrust makes your head bang into the wooden bench end, your brain going fuzzy for a minute before another rough drive of his hips brings you back to reality.

His teeth bite hard into your neck, before coming up to your ear. “No one else c-can have you, y-yeah? You’re all m-mine. My p-p-pretty fuckin’ girl–shit!” Toby slams himself into you relentlessly, all traces of the shy, obedient boy from earlier gone.

“I-Toby, wait–”

You’re cut off by your own moans, the tip of his dick pressing against your sweet spot. You hear him whimper again as you clench down around him.

“This pussy’s t-too goddamn good, f-f-fuck.” He suppresses a whine in the crook of your neck before pulling one of your ankles up to rest on his shoulder.

“Fuck! Wait, s’too much, I–”

Your hands scramble across the glossy wood, trying desperately to find something to hold onto as he drills into you. Your brain feels like it’s going fuzzy again, and you realize there's too much pressure on your neck.

You try to claw his hand away from your throat, but you can feel yourself coming in and out of consciousness. Just as black starts to creep into the corners of your vision, the hand on your neck lets up and snakes down to play with your pussy instead.

You take in huge, shuddering breaths, gasping as he circles your swollen clit with his thumb. You can feel yourself getting close, the relief of oxygen travelling back to your brain combining with the pleasure spreading through your lower stomach. Toby’s getting close too, judging by the ruined words falling from his lips.

“ I fuckin’ h-hate the way Evan looks at y-you, if h-h-he had a single ph-photo of you–Oh, shit!– I’d g-gut the bastard on the s-s-spot, you… fuck… you know that, don’t you, a-angel?” His hips stutter into you, thrusts getting smaller and more desperate, his eyes staring into yours.

“I’m g-g-gonna fill you up, o-okay? I c-can’t stop h-h-here, right?” His face screws up and you hear him gasp as you nod, fingers lazily threading in his hair and tugging on the strands.

Your orgasm washes over you, your body shaking as you cry out. Everything’s too much, and the pressure on your clit makes you sob as you finish. But he’s still fucking into you, and your hands close around the nearest solid surface to try to keep from losing it from overstimulation. 

The triumphant look on his face falls as your fingers dig into his neck, and you watch as he transforms back into the begging puppy he was just 30 minutes ago. He looks shocked for a moment, before he lets out a long whine and you feel hot spurts of his cum fill your pussy. His hips slow to a stop and you’re finally able to let out a full breath, eyes closing in your post-orgasmic haze.

They snap back open, however, when you hear a sob, and watch as Toby quickly pulls out of you. He sits back on his haunches, watching you with wide eyes and tears spilling down his cheeks.

“Oh, g-god. I’m so s-sorry angel, I didn’t mean t-to h-hurt you…” he cries, his fists coming up to bang at his temples. “I’m so b-bad, I know, you c-can hurt me, I-I deserve it. F-fuck!” You watch in stunned silence as he flops down on top of you, his face digging into your bare stomach and his hands back on your hips.

“Please, d-don’t h-hate me. Do y-you hate m-m-me?” His words are muffled against you, spit smearing against your skin. You cautiously raise a hand and place it in his hair, which is replied to with a soft whine. “I… I don’t hate you?”

Toby’s head snaps up, his chin resting on your abdomen, pupils wide, begging, and searching yours. “Y-you don’t?”

You shake your head, still a bit nervous about him having another outburst. He lays back down, his cheek smushed against your stomach. “‘M so s-s-sorry, angel. I’d never h-hurt you, you know th-that?”

He’s back up again in seconds, pulling you up to your feet. Your legs are wobbly, but he manages to steer you over to the stairs and pull you up to your room. He lays you down on the soft sheets of your bed, settling between your thighs with a promise about another ‘apology’.

He kisses over the bruised finger marks on your hips, down to your pussy where you can hear him mutter another “m’sorry, angel,” this time into your clit. You let out a contented sigh as he gently licks over you, eyes never leaving yours.

The last thing you remember is a soft voice asking, “I-is this okay? Do y-you feel g-g-good?” and your hand reaching out to lazily scratch behind his ears, earning another string of whimpers. 

–

You wake up naked the next morning with an ache between your legs, light filtering through your open window and casting shadows across the room. There’s no trace of the previous night, besides the now empty spot on your bedside table where the camera was sitting. Instead, there’s a small scrap of paper with messy writing. It reads: sorry i took your panties again. if someone else tries to touch you i’ll cut their hands off and make them eat em :)

because now, theres his relentless and intense stares that make work all the more difficult, adrian waiting with bated breath for whole minutes at a time for you to make eye contact with him from across the room on a daily basis.

it just that the strength of his gaze alone creates a charged atmosphere that you can't ignore even if you tried. you always end up meeting his eyes, no matter how far away or how close he is.

and every time without fail, when adrian realizes he's captured your attention, you can practically see the way his body straightens up, he perks up at the eye contact, as if there was a shock of electricity running through his body.

he always smiles in response. dopey, sweet and giddy. triumphant too.

adrian never once flinches or blushes at being caught in the act. he wears that shit like a badge of honor.

and no matter how much your coworkers snicker about him, call him names, run their mouths about how creepy he is. you can't ever stop the upwards twitch of your mouth at the sight of his.

now it's him lingering by his car almost every day, standing in the darkness of the parking lot just outside of the restaurant. waiting patiently for you to come out at the end of your shift.

adrian is eager to know about your day, your plans, what songs you're listening to at the moment. anything and everything just to keep you around for a while longer. he tells you about cool new animal facts he’s learned, he tells you about a new movie that he watched or a new video game he’s playing, he gives you hints of what his life is like outside of work but he always keeps it vague enough that it accidentally starts making you intrigued about him.

like some kind of black hole, adrian's gravitational pull is fucking merciless one you get close enough.

"honey, you need to stop encouraging him. he's been looking at you like that for 5 minutes now." one of your coworkers had worried out loud to you once.

and sure, not encouraging him sounds easy enough-

but adrian just so happens to be- well, adrian. pretty big eyes behind dorky glasses, soft curls and bright toothy smile.

he's also just disarmingly endearing, and silly. funnier when he’s not even trying to be. he makes you laugh so easily, the noise always startles you with how quick and how loud it escapes your body around him.

you can't help it, the way you cave in to his relentless pursuits at trying to get to know you better, entertaining his silly and sometimes pointless conversations, inadvertently getting distracted by the cuteness of his canines, the little curls that bounce on his forehead and the softness of his hands while he rambles on about how much you would love his collection of beanie babies in his secret room.

that really should have been a red flag all on its own truly. but your brain was all too worried with thinking: god, he's cute.

so no, you cant really blame anyone but yourself when adrian starts pulling stunts like this. far worse than what anyone ever warned you about.

now, he's started following you outside of work too.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

"the creepy busboy from your job is here again" you hear the worried whisper of your friend against your ear, when you turn they're already nodding towards him

adrian, who stands all the other way across the bar with a bottle of beer in hand, nodding his head to the music

he's out of his busboy attire of course, wearing a simple, long sleeved green polo shirt and jeans.

you cant help the way your eyes trail over his frame. it's not that his clothes are incredibly stylish, they're just distinctly adrian. comfortable, practical and dorky. but you think they fit him, and so so fucking well.

"you want me to get rid of him for you?" your friend suggests when she doesn't get an immediate response from you. theres a hint of disgust in her features once she realizes how your face hasn't turned with disgust at all. in fact, she thinks she might have seen a small little pleased turn at your mouth.

it's embarrassing, how sharp and how final your "no!" is in response. its so impulsive you quickly feel the need to elaborate "i mean- it's ok- i- i can handle him."

funny, you're not exactly sure how you're planning on handling him at all.

when you approach adrian you find that his eyes are entirely too focused on nothing in particular for it to be considered natural, as if he were actively and ridiculously trying to avoid looking in your general direction.

he clearly hadn't expected for you to walk up to him first.

its just that, usually, adrian was the one 'bumping' into you.

"oh hey- funny seeing you here!" he always chirped. flashing his canines at you with a big smile.

it's happened a couple times now though, so it might as well be fucking hilarious at this point.

"what the hell are you doing here adrian?" you ask, forcing yourself into his field of vision, his mouth fall agape, he stares at you in shock of your confrontational tone of voice.

you've never been this severe to him before. a mistake on your part, thats for fucking sure.

"im listening to some sick ass live music! what do you thin-" adrian responds defensively, his scowl heavily pronounced as he gestures with his beer around the venue.

“oh really? do you even listen to this band at all?” you snap, folding your arms over your chest in challenge

“uh yeah”

“since when?”

“since forever”

“you don't seem like the type to be into them”

“and why the hell not?” he scowls, hilariously raising his voice at you.

“well- you’ve always been more pop inclined”

“i'm inclined to whatever fucking rocks actually” adrian answers with a sassy little twist of his head “i'm a dude of very diverse and complex taste in case you forgot”

and damn it, you laugh at that. its natural, it's escaping your lips before you realize its even there, like all the other times he's managed to wring it out of you

the edge of his mouth tugs upwards at the sound, looking far too proud of himself, his eyes start gleaming at you in a way that makes your breath hitch.

"are you following me again?" you ask, desperately trying to wipe the smug look off his face, absolutely not buying his answer at all.

theres a quick flash of worry that shows on his features, a subtle gulp in his throat, a drop of his mouth, eyes widening in a way that makes his eyes look like two giant orbs.

it fades away just as quickly as it appears.

"what? fuck no!" he lies.

and he could have left it at that too, but of course adrian will never not elaborate and make things worse for himself. "besides- how do I know you’re not the one following me huh? creep? did you ever think of that maybe? i should probably call the pigs on you"

you hate it, how you can't hold back the snort at his outrageous response.

the absurdity of it all is incredible, you can't fucking believe him.

but of course all adrian can see is your smile now, the victory in having amused you. he gets that satisfied look on his face again, the one that for the first time in forever is actually making your entire body feel like its burning from the inside out.

maybe its the music thats having this effect on you, maybe its the drinks, maybe its the fact that you're evidently growing weak against adrian's infuriating charisma, all you know is that you have to snap the fuck out of it, quick.

"my friends are starting to recognize you y'know?" you say, at a loss for anything else that could scare him off.

of course it doesn't get the desired effect.

"you told your friends about me?" adrian's face lights up, his stupid smile reaches his eyes in a way that makes them crinkle. "that's like- so sweet"

and maybe it is because you’re down a couple drinks, but you swear you see adrian leaning in close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"adrian, dont change the subject-" you warn, placing a hand on top of his chest to stop him from inching any closer, you're not even convinced he was leaning in at all but the panic surfaced either way

you dont expect to feel how his heart is literally thrumming inside his chest, the loud thumps hitting against the skin of your palm, almost in sync with yours. the knowledge of him being just as affected by you as you are of him keeps you frozen in place, unable to walk away and stop fucking touching him.

when your gaze lifts up from where your palm rests over his shirt and towards his eyes again its when you realize that yes, he has in fact, moved in a lot closer.

so close you see how his cheeks are turning rosy pink at your anchored hand on him, you notice how his glasses are almost imperceptibly crooked on the bridge of his nose, you also dont think you ever realized how toned and how big he actually is until now.

it dawns on you like a pile of bricks over your head, that not only is adrian stupidly and boyishly handsome. he's also just hot, in the most objective and straight forward sense of the word.

he's hot. so hot it continues to silence the little voice inside your head that's trying to remind you the hot guy in question has basically been stalking you this whole time.

it's maddening, how he makes your stomach twist and flutter even when he makes your skin crawl.

"i’ve told my friends about us too" he adds, with a casual shrug of his shoulders. "chris thinks you're awesome by the way-"

wait. what? who the fuck is chris?

"us?" you ask, because it's all you can do to try and process the implications of what he's saying.

"yeah, y'know this thing-" he quickly gestures between you and him with a nod of his head, he smirks at your hand still weighing on him "- we have going on. you know what I'm talking about"

'adrian, we don't-" you start, but you cant explain why the words die in your throat instantly when his face starts falling sullenly in response. instead, your brain chooses another avenue. because you're a fucking coward apparently. "how long have you been telling people about this?"

"i dunno” he giggles, lifting his index finger to adjust the glasses on the bridge of his nose far too casually for your liking “couple weeks maybe."

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

theres a burning shame that settles in your stomach, it's strong, but not strong enough to stop you from digging your hands in adrian's hair and pulling until he gasps out a surprised laugh.

you know somewhere around the bar your friends most likely have already gotten a glimpse of the little scene you've been putting on, how you grabbed at adrian by the sleeve of his shirt and dragged him away to a secluded corner of the bar.

your friends now know what it looks like when you're making out heavily and nastily with adrian chase

because for the life of you, you just cant fucking stop.

you're kinda grateful for the booming loud music, otherwise the people around would be getting an earful of something waaay to obscene to be happening in public.

the way he moans eagerly straight into your mouth is not helping at all either.

adrian kisses like the world is ending tomorrow, like maybe he hasn't kissed anyone in his whole life and he probably never will again. but even though its sticky, messy and its clumsy you're responding with your own needy noises with every nasty swipe and flex of his pink muscle over yours.

it's embarrassing, the many times you daydreamed about doing exactly this, every time you stared for a little longer than necessary while he waited tables at the job, always moments before adrian could notice you were just as enthralled by him as he was of you.

wait- wasn't there a reason you had approached him in the first place? before you started bitting off his mouth?

"you can't keep showing up wherever i am, its creepy" you say, breathless, trying to raise your voice so it beats the loudness of adrian's whine in annoyance of you even daring to part from his kisses

"okay sure, if you say so-" he says with a little evil smirk, trying to lean in quickly to press his lips on yours again.

oh, so he admits it.

"adrian-" you squeak out like you want him to stop, but your arms are still wrapped around him, keeping him captive and close to you by the neck "adrian!"

"what?!" he groans in irritation, separating just enough so you can talk but only just, eyes still zeroed in on your glistening mouth, his spit is smeared all over it and he loooooves how that looks.

"promise me you'll stop it?"

"i dont think you want me to" he states, not teasing, only matter of factly.

"what?"

"i mean, yeah- i followed you here, now you're sticking your tongue down my throat. i think its a pretty obvious conclusion here-"

your stomach drops, the words die at your throat, the shameful feeling you were trying to push down only burns all the more brighter on your skin, it morphs before your very eyes into something that makes you wild with need. almost like adrian grabbed this hidden part of you forcefully by the hand and pushed them out into the light before you could stop it.

its the terrifying notion you tried so hard to shove away, that you thrived in his nearly deranged unwavering attention, that you craved to have adrian trailing after you like a lost little puppy in need of love, you loved it, you fucking want it so bad it has you seeing bursting hearts over his head

theres a beat of silence before a helpless curse slips from your lips, before you pull him down to bite at his mouth once more, defeated and relinquished.

god, how the hell are you supposed to see adrian at work every day after this?

now that you know exactly how it feels when his hands circle around your waist and he clumsily pulls you flush against his body. now that you know what it feels like when adrian follows your lead with every swipe of your tongue agains his.

it's like you're turning a dial to the max inside his head, adrian responds in turn to your every bite and every kiss, progressively matching and then outmatching your already frantic rhythm until it makes you dizzy.

his hands wander aimlessly inside your shirt, his spit is making a home inside your mouth with how messily he slides his tongue over and past your lips.

adrian’s burying himself to the hilt inside you in some filthy bathroom, smiling into your mouth happily every time you cry his name, he's staring at you with the same intensity he always has only this time the shock of electricity that strikes up his back is coursing through him nonstop, and it's coming not only from the eye contact but from where the both of you meet, from where he keeps thrusting in with uncoordinated and unmeasured snaps of his hips until he hears your yelps getting louder.

"fuck! fuck! fuck!, adrian-" you whine, the urgency and the frenzied edge to his movements inside you have you brainless and already fucked out, at a loss for any coherent words that aren't his name and needy desperate moans.

"holy shit you're so noisy-" adrian mocks with a snicker, staking his final claim by bringing his digits up to your mouth, sliding two of them in until you're feeling them all the way down your throat and pressing over your tongue.

He grants your wish, sinking into you in one long, powerful thrust. The groan that tears from his throat is animalistic. You are so fucking tight, so burning hot, gripping him like a vise. The camera shakes for a split second as he loses himself in the sheer sensation, before his training kicks in and he steadies his grip.

The view on the screen is purely pornographic. His thick length disappears into you inch by inch, your slick lips stretched wide around him. Directly above it is the masterpiece, which is his taut, heavily tattooed stomach. The dark ink seems to shift and twist with the roll of his muscles as he begins to move. The skeletal face and the roaring skull dance in the low light as his abs contract with each deep, punishing thrust.

He establishes a relentless rhythm, snapping his hips forward until the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes obscenely in the bedroom. Each thrust drives you forward, a choked moan forced from your lungs with every impact. He fucks you deep, deliberately bottoming out against the exact spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he pants, his eyes glued entirely to the screen of his phone, watching his own cock piston into you. He cannot get enough of the visual contrast between your soft, giving body pinned beneath his hard, demanding frame, and the way your ass ripples with every heavy slam of his hips. "Takin' my cock so well, sweetheart. Such a good girl."

Leaning forward to change the angle, the new position presses the hard ridge of his lower abs flush against the swell of your backside. The camera catches it perfectly, recording the friction of his skin against yours, the slide of his cock, and the way his muscles flex and shift beneath the ink. It is a work of art, and he is the twisted artist who gets to create it over and over again.

Looking at him out in the field, no one would ever guess it. He is the stoic, silent lieutenant with eyes like chips of ice and a presence cold enough to silence a room. Simon Riley is a man of few words, a fortress of absolute control and iron discipline. But in the dark, behind locked doors, that fortress crumbles entirely, and the man who emerges is a filthy, vocal, desperate animal.

The phone is eventually forgotten, discarded onto the mattress beside you, though the red light continues to blink, recording the raw audio of your shared undoing. Simon’s hand is no longer holding the device. Instead, it is wrapped securely around your throat, a firm, possessive weight that makes your head swim. His thumb presses gently under your jawline, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"Fuck, yes," he groans, the deep, gravelly rumble vibrating through his chest and directly into your spine. He bends over you, his sweat-slicked chest pressing hard against your back, the fabric of his shirt bunched up under his arms to expose the full expanse of his inked torso. You feel every single word as a physical vibration. "Gonna fuckin' fill you up."

His hips remain a relentless piston, the steady slap of his skin against yours drowning out every other sound. He isn't quiet, not even close. Every breath is a ragged grunt, and every thrust is punctuated by a low, guttural moan that speaks of a pleasure so intense it borders on agony. It is the sexiest thing you have ever heard, especially that deep, dark voice, usually so fiercely controlled, now spilling a continuous stream of dirty praise and desperate demands.

"Want it all?" he pants, his grip on your neck tightening just a fraction. "Want my cum deep inside you, huh?"

"Yes! Fuck, Simon, yes… " you beg, your voice breaking into a wail. You are right on the edge, the pressure coiling so tightly in your gut that it threatens to snap. The feeling of his thick cock dragging against your inner walls, the possessive hold on your neck, and the raw, filthy words pouring from his mouth are entirely too much.

His rhythm suddenly falters, becoming erratic and frantic. He drives into you with short, sharp, bruising jabs, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. "Fuck, I'm close. Gonna cum. Gonna fuckin' breed this sweet little cunt."

The word, delivered so raw and primal, sends you hurtling over the precipice. Your vision whites out completely as your orgasm crashes through you, your walls clamping down on his length in a series of powerful, violent, rhythmic pulses. You scream his name, a raw, soundless cry as your body convulses underneath his weight.

With a roar, Simon buries himself inside you. You feel the hot flood of his release as he pumps his cum deep into your core, pulse after burning pulse. His entire frame shudders against you, his hand on your neck the only thing keeping you both grounded as he rides out the most intense climax of his life.

He stays buried deep, his cock still twitching inside you, as if completely reluctant to leave the warmth of your body. His hand finally releases your neck, moving to brace his weight on the mattress beside you, but he does not pull out.

You can feel his cum, a warm, heavy slickness, beginning to leak from your heat, trickling slowly down the inside of your thigh. The filthy sensation causes you to instinctively clench around him again.

Simon lets out a low, breathless chuckle, the sound dark and thoroughly satisfied. "My greedy little girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Made a fuckin' mess of you."

He finally shifts, slowly withdrawing his softening length. The sudden loss makes you whimper, but then he is using two fingers to push the thick, white fluid back inside you, his touch shockingly gentle compared to the rough driving from moments before.

"Don't waste it, baby" he commands softly, his tone brooking no argument. "I want you feeling me for days."

You can only moan in response, thoroughly claimed. You look back at him, at the man with the ice-cold eyes who has just given you the most earth-shattering, vocal, and dirty experience of your life. He reads the question in your gaze, the sheer disbelief and awe.

He simply smirks, the slow, wicked curve of his lips visible just beneath the edge of his mask.

"What?" he rasps, his voice still thick and heavy with sex. "You look at me like I'm some kind of fuckin' saint out there. This is what saints pray for."