to be or not to be NOT

🔮 YAMI SUKEHIRO

Yami knew two things for certain.

First–he was terrible at this.

Second–no one else was doing it.

You were supposed to be resting. That was an order. He’d said it clearly, in the same tone he used when assigning missions. And yet every time someone from the squad so much as hovered near the door with an offer to help, Yami shut it down without hesitation.

“I’ve got it.” 

No explanation. No room for argument.

Truth was, he didn’t know what he was doing. He stood there longer than necessary, arms crossed, watching your chest rise and fall like he was waiting for instructions that never came. Caretaking wasn’t like fighting–there was no clear enemy, no instinct to lean on. Just stillness. Fragility.

It irritated him.

You looked smaller like this. Quieter. Not pushing yourself, not snapping back with that stubborn spark he was used to. The sight of it sat wrong in his chest.

He adjusted the blanket anyway, tugging it up with less force than he meant to use. The room was too quiet. He cracked the window just enough for fresh air, then closed it again when he decided it was too much. He set a glass of water within reach. Moved it closer. Then closer still.

You stirred.

“Oi.” he said immediately. “Don’t get up.”

“I wasn’t…” you muttered.

“Tch. Looked like it.”

He checked your temperature within the back of his hand, scowling when it was still too warm, like that was something you’d done on purpose.

“This is stupid.” he grumbled. “You’re not supposed to be this hot.”

You gave a weak huff. “Wow. Incredible medical insight, Captain.”

“Shut up and rest.”

A knock at the door. Someone offered to help.

Yami didn’t turn. “Get lost.”

When the footsteps left, the room went quiet again. He took the chair by your bed and sat heavily, arms crossed, pretending this was nothing. Just waiting it out. Definitely not watching every breath you took.

He sighed, already knowing how this would end. He leaned forward just enough for you to reach him.

“Don’t get used to this.”

You didn’t answer. You were already drifting off.

Yami stayed anyway–irritated, out of his depth, and not letting anyone else take over.

🔮 NOZEL SILVA

Nozel knew exactly what to do in situations like this.

Assess the condition.

Ensure proper treatment.

Minimize further risk.

What he did not know how to do was… whatever this was supposed to be.

You were resting, as instructed. He had personally ensured it–dismissed healers only after they confirmed you were stable, arranged the room to be quiet, dim, and undisturbed. Everything was in order.

And yet, standing beside your bed, Nozel felt uncharacteristically unsure of where to place his hands.

You shifted slightly, brows knitting, breath uneven. Instinctively, he reached out–then stopped himself halfway. Too abrupt would startle you. Too light might be improper. He hesitated long enough to be annoyed with himself before finally adjusting the blanket with careful, measured movements.

There. Adequate.

You stirred again. “Nozel…?”

His spine straightened at once. “You’re awake.”

“Unfortunately.” you murmured. “My head feels… very loud.”

He frowned, immediately scanning for signs of worsening symptoms. “Does the pain persist?”

“Yes. But don’t look at me like that–it’s not dire.” “I am not looking at you in any particular way.”

You glanced at him. “You kind of are…”

Nozel cleared his throat and looked away.

He reached for the glass of water he’d already prepared, holding it out–then realizing belatedly that you’d have to sit up to take it. He paused.

“May I?” he asked stiffly.

You blinked once, then nodded. “Sure.”

He supported you with far more care than he’d ever use in battle, movements slow and deliberate, as though afraid any miscalculation would cause harm. When you leaned back again, he released you immediately, hands retreating like he’d crossed an invisible line.

You took a sip of water. “You’re being very… careful.”

“That is the point,” he replied.

You smiled faintly. “You look like you’re handling a fragile artifact.”

“You are unwell.” he said, which was apparently his best defense.

Silence settled between you to–comfortable, if unfamiliar. Nozel remained standing, uncertain whether sitting was appropriate. Leaving was out of the question.

After a moment, you spoke again. “You can sit, you know.”

He hesitated, then took the chair beside the bed, posture still rigid. His presence was steady, attentive, but restrained–like he was afraid of doing too much, or too little.

“If there is something you acquire,” he said quietly. “You will inform me.”

You looked at him for a long second. “You’re doing fine.”

He didn’t respond. Compliments were difficult to process at the best of times.

Still, when your eyes finally closed again and your breathing evened out, he stayed right where he was–watchful, composed, and learning, slowly, how to be gentle without a rulebook.

🔮 FUEGOLEON VERMILLION

The palace was quiet here, far enough from the commotion that only the distant sounds of voices and hurried footsteps reached you. Fuegoleon had led you away himself, insisting you rest, and now it was just the two of you. He settled beside you carefully, making sure the blanket around your shoulders was snug without feeling heavy.

“You’ve pushed yourself too hard.” he said quietly, not accusatory, only firm. You tried to protest, but he shook his head slightly. “Not now. Just rest.”

His hands hovered for a moment, then he placed it lightly on your arm–not gripping, not pressing, just steady. Warm. Calm. You could feel the faint heat of his magic, controlled and gentle, brushing away the chill that had crept over you. It wasn’t strong, not overwhelming–just enough to make your muscles relax, to calm your pulse.

“Better?” he naked softly.

You nodded, and he allowed a small, satisfied breath to escape him. Fuegoleon stayed close, sitting just far enough not to crowd you, but close enough that you could feel his presence. His shoulder brushed yours lightly now and then as he shifted, always careful, always deliberate.

“You don’t need to worry about anything.” he said, voice low. “I’ll take care of everything here. You only need to focus on getting better.”

Your lips curved into a small, tired smile. “You always seem so calm. It’s… nice.”

Fuegoleon glanced at you, expression softening  just a little. “It’s because someone needs to be,” he murmured. “If I lose my calm, then you’ll feel worse. So I stay calm. For you.”

You leaned back against the blankets, letting your head rest lightly on the pillow. He adjusted it slightly for comfort, then brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead with the tip of his fingers. Even the smallest movements were careful, deliberate, as if he feared any sudden motion might disturb you.

“You’re very warm.” you said, the words quiet, almost hesitant.

"I know." he replied, tone steady, but the faintest hint of a smile played on his lips. “It’s better than cold.”

He stayed with you as the minutes passed, neither speaking unnecessarily nor leaving your side. His magic pulsed softly now, a gentle, warming rhythm that seemed to settle around you like a protective cloak. You could feel the steady heat in his hand, the warmth in the air, and the quiet reassurance in his posture.

When your eyes fluttered shut, he leaned back slightly, still close enough that you could feel him, still radiating that quiet, unshakable calm. No words. No fuss. Just him and the warmth, and the feeling that for this moment, nothing could reach you as long as he was there.

And in that silence, you realized–you could rest. Truly rest–for the first time in days–and he would stay. Always steady. Always careful. Always Fuegoleon.

🔮 WILLIAM VANGEANCE

The moment he realized you were unwell, William moved with quiet, purposeful care. 

He didn’t rush, didn’t hover. There was no panic, no loud fussing–only deliberate, gentle movements, each one designed to make you more comfortable. He adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, straightened the pillows, and ensured the room was calm, quiet, and warm. Every action was precise, considered, deliberate, and somehow soothing in its rhythm.

In the kitchen, he prepared a simple meal. Tea first, carefully steeped so the flavor was gentle but comforting. Then food, soft, easy to eat, nourishing without being overwhelming. He arranged it neatly on a tray, checking that the cup wouldn’t spill and that the bowls were balanced just right. Even the napkin was folded with care.

Returning to your room, he moved slowly, carrying the tray like it was the most important thing in the world–because, to him, it was. He placed it within your reach and sat beside you, close enough to offer support without crowding.

“I prepared this for you.” he said softly, voice calm and warm. “It should be gentle… easy to manage.”

You blinked up at him, comforted by the serene attentiveness in his expression. “Thank you.” you whispered.

He gave a small, soft smile, careful not to draw attention to himself. “You need only focus on resting.” he murmured.

He guided your hands to the cup, steadying them lightly. “Careful.” he reminded, his voice just above a whisper. “It is still warm.”

When you sipped, he watched closely, eyes full of quiet concern, yet calm enough that his presence felt like a protective cloak rather than pressure. Every little adjustment–the tray, the blanket, the angle of the pillow–was executed with precision, as if he feared a single mistake might inconvenience you. 

Between sips and bites, he stayed near, sometimes reaching out to brush a stray hair from your forehead, other times simply resting his hand nearby, letting you feel the warmth and steadiness of his presence. He did not speak unnecessarily, yet every small action conveyed care and attentiveness.

At one point, you leaned back, letting out a quiet sigh, and he adjusted his blanket again, tucking it around you with gentle insistence. “There.” he said softly. “Much better.”

You looked at him and offered a tired, grateful smile. “You’re very attentive.” 

William’s expression softened, though still calm and composed.  “I simply wish to ensure you are comfortable. Nothing more is required than that you rest and recover.”

And so he stayed. Quiet, steady, warm. The world outside could wait. The chaos of the battlefield , the demands of the day, the worries of others–all of it melted away in the safety of his presence.

When your eyes fluttered closed, he remained, adjusting the blanket one last time, making sure your head rested just right. His hand lingered nearby, a subtle reassurance.

In that moment, the soft glow of the room and the calm of William Vangeance’s care wrapped around you completely, making it impossible not to feel safe, protected, and–without needing to speak–deeply cared for.

You didn’t rush to check it. Just let your thumb slide down, glancing half-bored until you saw the name.

BEN.

And underneath it: you tryna blaze?

Your mouth twitched into a smirk immediately. Typical.

Of course he was already baked, sprawled out in his stupid little gamer cave, probably surrounded by empty Monster cans and snack wrappers he’d been “meaning to throw out” for three days straight. And of course, he wanted company. Or maybe just an excuse to stare at your thighs again, which he always did like it was a glitch he couldn’t fix. Either way, you were already climbing out of bed before your brain caught up.

You messaged back a half-assed “omw”, then tossed your phone to the bed and headed for your dresser.

Time to tease.

You picked out a crop top that clung in all the right places, one of those soft, ribbed ones with a deep scoop neck and not much else. No bra, obviously. Then the shorts - the teeny tiny ones, soft, low on the hips. You gave yourself a once-over in the mirror. Good. Cute enough to fluster, relaxed enough to pass off as “what, this old thing?” Lastly, you spritzed just a bit of body mist behind your ears, something sweet and subtle, the kind he always pretended not to notice, even as he leaned closer than necessary.

Then you were padding barefoot down the hallway, the floor cool beneath your feet, the air still heavy with that rare, uninterrupted stillness. You could feel your own movement, the easy sway of your hips, the way the fabric of your shorts crept with every step. Anticipation licked at your skin like static.

Ben was the kind of friend you could get high with for hours without saying much - just music, smoke, and the occasional dumb conversation that spiraled into hysterics. You’d crashed in his room more times than you could count, legs in his lap, sprawled on his bed, laughing about nothing. But he was also a complete perv, and he didn’t hide it. His eyes were always on you - your legs, your tits, the way your shorts rode up when you shifted. He didn’t even try to be subtle about it. And you didn’t mind. If anything, you leaned into it. The way he looked at you made everything buzz - lazy, vulgar attention that didn’t really mean anything. You flirted back just to watch him squirm, pretending it was harmless even as it built into something hot and humming under the surface.

Ben’s door was closed, but the light underneath was green, some old LED strips he never turned off casting that mossy glow over everything. The faint thump of bass leaked out into the hallway, one of the old-school rap beats he loved so much.

You opened the door without knocking.

The room hit you like a wave - warm and low-lit, completely disconnected from time. Green LEDs traced the corners, casting everything in a neon jungle glow. An open energy drink sat sweating on his desk, surrounded by a clutter of cords, snack wrappers, and some crusty ashtray that looked like it hadn’t been emptied in weeks. The air was stale but familiar, carrying the faint scent of something sharp, maybe the leftover stench of countless smoked joints. Posters layered the walls - glitch art, horror icons, half-naked anime girls with obscene proportions. It was a gamer cave, no doubt. But it was his, and it suited him perfectly.

Ben was sprawled across his bed, head propped on one arm, his blonde hair messy like he hadn’t bothered to fix it all day. He wore grey sweatpants slung low on his hips and a plain white tee that clung to the soft lines of his chest. Laid out beside him on a tray were a few pre-rolled joints, a half-empty grinder, and his rolling tools. In his hands, he was carefully licking the edge of a raw paper, sealing another.

You walked in slow, letting your hips sway just a bit extra. “Wow,” you said dryly. “Already cozy, huh?”

He didn’t look up right away. He sealed the joint, gave it a delicate roll between his fingers, then looked at you through the haze of his lashes. That crooked smile, so mischievous.

“Yup,” he said. “Just needed a pretty lady by my side to complete the ritual.”

You snorted, sliding onto the bed beside him, your bare leg brushing against his. His sheets were warm and smelled just like him - a mix of cheap cologne, weed resin, and boy-sweat baked into cotton.

You glanced at the lighter on the tray - black, scratched and cheap, with a crude naked cartoon woman on the side like a trashy 90s porn ad.

You picked it up, turning it over in your hand. “This your taste in women?” you asked, gesturing at the cartoon tits.

Ben glanced at you, eyes low-lidded, mouth tugging into a grin. “That’s Jeff’s lighter. It’s his favorite. Don’t insult his wife.”

“This?” You turned the lighter over, inspecting the worn plastic and exaggerated anatomy. “This is his wife? She looks like she’d offer three holes and a loyalty punch card.”

“Hey,” Ben said, mock-offended. “She’s a classic.”

“Well,” you said, slipping the lighter into the waistband of your shorts like you were stashing stolen treasure, “she’s mine now. I’m liberating her.”

He made a noise, half groan, half laugh. “Shit. Jeff’s gonna cry when he finds out you jacked his wife.”

You raised a brow, already grinning. “You gonna snitch?”

Ben rolled onto his side, resting on one elbow, his grin widening. “Hell no. I’m encouraging it. You stealing other guys’ girls? That’s hot.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He held out the freshly rolled joint, still warm from his fingers. “And yet, here you are.”

You took it with a lazy smirk, leaned in, and let your lashes do half the talking. “Maybe I just come for the weed.”

His gaze dipped slowly, mouth to collarbone, collarbone to chest, then lower. His eyes landed on your thighs like he couldn’t help himself. “Mhm. Sure.”

You lit up, Jeff’s Wife sparking to life in your fingers, the flame catching with a flick-snap-fwoosh. You took a long pull, lungs tightening around the heat, the lemon-diesel tang clawing in deep before melting sweet and sticky behind your eyes. You held it until the burn went soft, then exhaled, slow and elegant, like you were exorcising tension.

The smoke drifted out of your nose and lips, warm and smooth, curling over your chest and spine like silk ribbons. It made your skin buzz. The kind of high that flooded you. Colors deepened. Shadows breathed. The bass under the looping track hit you just beneath the ribs, syncing with your pulse.

Ben was still watching you.

He hadn’t blinked.

Lips slightly parted, that same grin ghosting at the edges of his mouth, eyes darkened under the green LEDs like the room was built just to spotlight your existence.

You passed the joint back, fingers brushing his, skin grazing skin. His touch was warm. Always was.

“You’re staring,” you said, voice soft but smug, like you already knew the answer.

He didn’t bother denying it. Just smiled again and laughed, like the truth had never been worth hiding.

You kept passing the joint back and forth until the cherry was a tight, angry ember and the paper wore a tar-dark resin ring near the tip. You ghost-lit it twice with Jeff’s Wife when it threatened to canoe, laughing every time Ben pretended to scold you for “over-torching the dome.” 

The haze settled around you like a thick velvet curtain, folding time in on itself. First it landed behind your eyes, numbing thought, then bloomed across your scalp like a heat rash made of glitter. Finally, it sank, low and molten, into your limbs. Your muscles unspooled. Your skin buzzed.

The bass under the looping track had melted into your bones. You could feel it under your ribs now, pulsing in sync with your blood like the room had found your frequency.

You shifted slowly, turning to face him, one knee folded beneath you, the other bent toward his hip. The movement dragged your shorts higher, fabric creeping like it had a mind of its own. The soft inside of your thigh brushed against the comforter. You didn’t fix it. Let the fabric stay bunched high. Let gravity have you.

Ben noticed.

Of course he did.

His gaze flicked down, mouth, collarbone, chest, hips, thighs, and stuck there. Then it jerked back up, like he’d caught himself and failed to recover in time. Then drifted down again, pulled off-course like a magnet to metal.

You smirked, catching him in real time. “Eyes up, champ.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even try to defend himself. Just took the joint from your hand and pulled, cheeks hollowing as he inhaled slow. The cherry glowed like a little warning light.

He exhaled, thick and lazy, right between you. Smoke curled in the air, softening the space like static fog.

“Can’t,” he said, voice raspy, grin wide. “It’s too fuckin’ much, baby.”

You raised a brow, but your smile was already tugging at the corners of your mouth. “What is?”

He laughed, the sound low and unguarded. “Everything. All of you.” He squinted, like the green LEDs had suddenly gone too bright, or like looking at you directly was dangerous. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

You gave him your best innocent blink. “What, existing?”

Ben passed the joint back, shaking his head in mock defeat. “Looking like that. Wearing that. Sitting like that.” His voice dropped half an octave. “You’re fucking hot.”

You laughed, but this time there was a crack in it, just a little. The kind that came when you felt seen, and not just as a joke. A heartbeat of honesty pulsed under the high.

“You’re so stoned,” you said, hiding behind the smoke as you took another hit. It clawed at your throat, sweet and sharp, and settled low and warm in your chest.

You exhaled in a soft stream past his shoulder, not looking directly at him now either. Your head floated somewhere above your body, but your limbs felt weighted in the best way.

Ben leaned back against the headboard, one foot flat on the mattress, the other stretched out lazily. His shirt rode up just enough to flash a strip of pale skin above his waistband. A soft line of muscle, shadowed in green. He looked completely relaxed, unguarded in a way that felt rare.

Open. Sprawled wide like he trusted you in his space, or forgot he wasn’t supposed to.

And for one long, weightless moment, you didn’t say anything at all.

You just looked at him. And he looked right back.

And with him leaned back like that, legs spread, shirt hitched, eyes soft, the green LED glow hit him square across the lap.

That’s when you saw it.

The fabric of his sweatpants was tented high, unmistakable, the outline of his cock pressing forward through the thin cotton like it wanted to be caught. Straining, zero deniability.

You stared. Then blinked.

Then stared harder, because subtlety was dead and weed made honesty feel like gravity.

“Ben,” you said, voice tilting into mock-scandal, “are you seriously hard right now?”

He followed your gaze. Then looked back up at you with a grin that was equal parts boyish and filthy.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” You snorted. “That’s not a maybe, that’s a–” You waved a hand at his lap. “–whole situation.”

He spread his hands in mock surrender. “I told you you were hot. You didn’t stop being hot. These are just… natural consequences.”

You reached out with your foot, gave the side of his thigh a playful nudge.

The motion pressed the fabric tighter across his lap, and your laugh cracked out again, half amused, half oh God that’s real.

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re curious,” he countered, eyes narrowing like he could see right through your laugh.

Your mouth opened to say no I’m not, but nothing came out. Because you were. High stripped out the buffer between thought and want, and the want was humming now, low and warm, insistent.

The joint had burned down to a roach. You pinched it between your nails, took the last hit, and leaned forward to drop it in the ashtray. He caught your wrist as you were pulling back, lazy-light, just holding. Testing.

“You good?” he asked. No teasing this time. It was a real, genuine question.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“Very.” His thumb brushed your wrist bone. “C’mere.”

You could’ve pulled away. Should’ve, maybe. But the room was hazy and slow, and the softness in his eyes disarmed you. So you shifted closer, knees bumping his thigh, one hand braced near his shoulder. You smelled warm skin, burnt paper and his usual cologne.

He picked up a fresh joint, stuck it between his lips, and sparked it with a lazy flick. The tip flared orange, then settled into a steady glow. He took a long, slow drag, deep enough that his chest rose with it, then leaned back against the pillows, exhaling the first cloud toward the ceiling like a reset. Clearing the air. Or maybe setting the stage.

He looked at you then, eyes low, mouth already curling.

“Shotgun?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. Just leaned in.

He hit it again, slower this time, holding the smoke tight in his lungs. Then he turned to you, mouth parted. One hand reached up to cradle the back of your neck, guiding you close.

When your lips met, he exhaled - a slow, steady stream of smoke blown straight into your mouth. It hit first: warm and bitter, sweet around the edges, thick with heat. And then came the kiss, soft but hungry. Like a line you'd both been dancing around for months had just vanished.

You kissed him back.

Slow, exploratory, like you were mapping something sacred. His lips were warm and a little chapped, tasting like weed and lemon and sour candy. Your mouths opened together, just enough for your tongue to flick against his. You caught his bottom lip, pulled slightly, and he made a sound, low, helpless, that landed between your thighs like a dropped match.

His free hand skimmed the curve of your waist, fingers slipping just under the hem of your crop top. Just holding, touching.

You shifted closer. Your chest brushed his, just enough contact to feel the heat of him through his shirt, just enough to make the fabric of your shorts hike even higher where they bunched at your hips.

You finally pulled back, barely, just enough to breathe.

Both of you were flushed, high, and vibrating. His eyes were dark and wide, pupils swallowing the color. Yours probably looked the same.

“Friends, right?” you asked, voice soft, breathless.

“The bestest of friends, baby,” he agreed, grin crooked. “With… all the right benefits and everything.”

You laughed, nodding.

Your forehead rested against his, breath mingling, skin sticky-warm from the haze and heat. Your thighs burned where they touched him, every point of contact sparking like static. His hand was at your waist, thumb drawing idle circles just under your shirt. You were both buzzing now, high and heady and tipping further into it with every second.

“God, we’re so fucking gone,” you murmured.

Ben chuckled at that. “Yeah. Just how I like it.”

Then he kissed you again.

This one was different, still slow, still playful, but needier. Hungrier. Like now that the seal had been broken, neither of you could pretend not to want more. 

You climbed into his lap without thinking, just a smooth shift of hips and hands and suddenly you were straddling him, thighs bracketing his hips, weight settled over the obvious swell in his sweats. You felt the hard length of him, thick and twitching under the soft cotton.

You both paused at the contact. His eyes found yours and the look on his face made your stomach flip over itself.

Like you’d just undone him.

“Comfy?” he asked, voice thick, low, amused.

You smiled slowly, then rocked forward just enough to grind, a lazy little shift of pressure that dragged the curve of your body right across the solid length of him.

“Getting there,” you murmured.

His hands moved automatically, like he couldn’t not touch you, palms sliding over your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft inner curve like he was trying to memorize it. His gaze kept flicking between your mouth and your chest and your hips, like he didn’t know where to look first.

You leaned in and kissed him again.

Your tongue flicked lightly against his and his breath hitched, hands tightening at your waist like he was holding back from doing more, barely. Then his hands moved, slowly, sliding up under your shirt, warm palms dragging over your ribs, until they reached your tits.

He cupped them gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped softly into his mouth, the contact lighting you up from the inside out.

He groaned, low and needy, and did it again, a little firmer this time, kneading like he needed to memorize the weight of you in his hands. You rocked forward, your body answering instinctively, pressing into his palms.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips still tingling, then hooked your fingers under your shirt and peeled it off in one smooth motion. Tossed it to the floor without a second thought.

Ben’s breath caught like it punched through his lungs. He stared, lips parted, completely wrecked.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re unreal.”

You smiled, slow and lazy, grabbing his jaw with one hand. “Then do something about it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His mouth landed hot and open against the curve of your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the soft skin before he closed his lips around your nipple and sucked, firm and slow.

Your back arched, a sharp gasp escaping your throat as the wet pull of his mouth sent a jolt straight to your core. Your fingers tangled in his hair without thinking, holding him there.

He moaned low and guttural, like this was his high, his hit. The vibration of it made you twitch.

Your hand reached blindly for the joint still smoldering in the ashtray. You brought it to your lips and lit it again, the flame kissing the tip just long enough to catch. You took a long, slow drag, deep enough to burn, hot enough to sting.

Smoke spilled from your mouth in a silky stream as his tongue flicked and swirled around your nipple, his hands gripping your waist like he was grounding himself. Your body was already humming, nerves lit up, every inch of skin aching for more.

“Holy fuck, Ben…” you breathed, voice cracked.

He grinned against your skin, teeth grazing you, then leaned back just enough to look up, cheeks flushed, lips slick, eyes wild.

“This is all your fault,” he rasped, voice ruined and teasing. “Coming in here in those shorts…”

You smirked and reached down, dragging your fingers lightly over the hard ridge in his sweats. He gasped, hips twitching up into your hand.

“You’re the one pitching a tent,” you whispered, “not me.”

He chuckled, short and breathless. “Fair.”

Then he sat up, one hand bracing behind him, and tugged his shirt off with the other, tossing it onto the edge of the bed. His torso was lean and pale in the green LED glow, muscles defined just enough to be noticeable when he moved. He was sprawled back, open and exposed, letting you look.

And you did.

Your hand dragged down his chest, over the faint cut of his stomach, pausing right above the waistband of his sweats.

Then you reached lower.

Your fingers curled lightly around the outline of his cock through the soft cotton, teasing just enough to feel the shape of it. Thick, hard.

His breath left in a harsh exhale. “Fuck…”

You looked up at him through your lashes. “Still comfy?”

His laugh came out strangled. “I might die right here.”

You smiled, sweet and slow and sharp, and kept your hand right where it was, just a gentle squeeze to remind him: you weren’t done yet.

His hands returned to your thighs, sliding down the tops, fingers hooking lightly into the waistband of your shorts.

“Stand up,” he said.

You raised a brow, but obeyed, sliding off the bed with a lazy stretch and planting your feet at the edge while he stayed reclined, half-propped on his elbows, looking up at you like he’d just paid cover for a private show.

His gaze dragged down your body in one slow, greedy sweep.

“Alright,” he said, voice hoarse. “Let’s see the full damage.”

You laughed at that, your high wrapping around you like a spotlight. You hooked your thumbs in the waistband of your shorts and peeled them down inch by inch, deliberate, teasing, until they slid over your thighs, past your knees, pooling at your ankles in a lazy heap.

Ben made a sound behind you - half choke, half moan.

You stood there, breathing slow and thick, skin glowing faintly in the green LED wash. The lace of your panties caught the light just enough to glint. They were delicate, semi-sheer, dipped low in the front and high at the hips, hugging your body like they’d been drawn on with intention. Every curve. Every inch. The fabric disappeared between your legs, framing more than it covered.

Ben’s breath caught. His eyes were glassy and wide, pupils blown into darkness.

“Holy fucking shit,” he muttered.

You smirked. Stepped out of the shorts, kicked them aside. “What?”

He gestured vaguely with one hand, the other clutching the bedsheet like he needed something to ground him. “Those panties, fuck… Turn around.”

You blinked, faux-innocent. “Huh?”

He cleared his throat, coughed out a breath. “Do a 360. I need the full damage report.”

You snorted, but spun slowly on the balls of your feet, hips swaying just a little extra as you turned, high enough to forget shame, bold enough to enjoy the effect. When your back faced him, you paused. Let your weight shift to one hip. Let the lace bite in, frame the curve of your ass, draw a map for his hands.

Ben groaned, out loud. A broken, involuntary sound from deep in his chest.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “Put that ass in my face.”

You looked at him over your shoulder, lip caught between your teeth. “You serious?”

He was sprawled now, head tipped back against his pillows, one arm slung behind him, the other curled around the lighter. His cock strained up in his sweats, tenting high and twitching slightly with every lazy pass of his eyes across your body.

“Deadass,” he said, expression completely serious. “Sit on my face. Right now.”

You giggled, high, flushed, and drunk on the absolute wreckage you were causing. “God, you’re such a slut.”

He grinned, unapologetically. “I’m your slut tonight. C’mon, baby. Don’t be shy. Bless me.”

So you did.

You crawled over him with that stoned, feline confidence, every shift of your hips intentional, every glance over your shoulder calculated. You swung one leg over his torso, then the other, straddling his chest with your back to him, knees planted wide on either side of his ribs.

Your ass was facing him - full view, center stage - lace stretched tight and glinting under the LED wash. You felt his breath hitch beneath you, his hands already rising to grip your thighs like he couldn’t believe this was real.

Then you shifted higher, inching back toward his face until you were kneeling over him, thighs bracketing his head now, your weight hovering just above his mouth.

Ben let out a breath like he was bracing for impact.

Your back arched naturally from the position, spine curved, ass fully presented, pussy barely veiled in lace and practically dripping just inches from his face. Not yet touching, just hovering. You paused there. Letting him look. Letting him want.

His hands slid up your thighs, slow, almost reverent, fingertips digging into soft flesh as if to prove this was real. His thumbs pressed into the crease where your thighs met your hips, anchoring you above him. You could practically feel your heartbeat pounding between your thighs.

And then you sank.

The moment your ass pressed down onto his face, just the lace meeting his mouth, Ben let out a deep, guttural groan, muffled, greedy, almost relieved. You felt his breath bloom against you, hot and humid, as he exhaled right into you, like he was inhaling your scent and exhaling something holy.

Then he gently pulled back.

“Hold up,” he rasped, voice cracking under you. “Gimme a second.”

You stayed hovering, thighs trembling slightly from the angle, breath shallow from the anticipation. He shifted beneath you, one hand fumbling at the nightstand until he grabbed another joint. He lit it with a flick, spark-snap, inhale, the flame flaring briefly beneath your thighs as he lit up.

The audacity of it made your stomach twist.

He took a slow pull, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted around the joint as he breathed in deep like he was savoring both the smoke and the fact that you were straddling his face.

Then he exhaled right against the lace covering your ass and pussy.

The smoke rolled out of him in a thick, curling stream, winding through the sheer fabric of your panties. The warmth of it hit you in waves: soft, then sharp, then gone, but the heat it left behind buzzed under your skin.

Your thighs flexed. Your hips twitched forward without meaning to.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, voice high and thin, fingers digging into the sheets. “Ben–”

You giggled, half breathless, half overwhelmed, because the whole thing was insane. You were stoned, half-naked, dripping, while this man was lighting up under your ass like it was a fucking altar.

And then he put the joint down.

No more teasing.

He buried his face in you, no hesitation now, mouth pressing firm through the lace. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your weight down until you were fully seated on his face.

His breath came rough and greedy, every exhale hot against your core, every inhale dragging in your scent like oxygen.

You looked over your shoulder and the sight hit you like a punch - his face flushed, eyes glassy and half-lidded, completely lost in you. He looked wild. Like he was grateful to be buried there.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you gasped, still laughing through the high, hips twitching.

In answer, he smacked your ass. Hard.

The sound cracked through the haze, sharp and filthy. You gasped, whole body jolting, skin stinging where his hand landed.

“C’mon,” he growled into the fabric, voice hoarse, “shake that ass a little for me.”

You blinked, heat rushing up your spine. “What?”

“Right here, baby,” he rasped, thumbs digging in deeper. “Just move. Just a little. Right on my fucking face.”

You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, but you did it.

You rocked your hips, slow at first. Just a little grind. Just enough to let the lace drag across his lips and cheekbones.

He groaned beneath you, low and broken, completely gone.

You did it again.

And again.

Your thighs trembled as the pressure built, as his nose pushed hard against the wet patch soaking the lace. You started to move without thinking - slow, swaying circles that fed both of you. You were high, throbbing, heart racing, riding his face like you were chasing something.

Ben reached for the joint again, fumbling one hand off your hip just long enough to bring it to his lips. He hit it hard. Then he exhaled - a thick, warm breath straight against your ass.

“Good fucking girl,” he growled between exhales. “That’s it. Fuck, you’re so hot like this.”

You kept swaying, kept moving your hips just enough to tease, just enough to keep him groaning under you like he could lose it just from the feel of you.

You were shaking. High out of your mind. Pussy soaked. And this man was smoking and moaning and burying his face in your ass like it was his last meal.

“Okay, okay,” you gasped, hands scrambling for his knees as your thighs started to go numb. “You’re gonna make me blackout.”

He pulled back, just enough to breathe, his cheeks red, face wrecked, hair sticking to his forehead. He looked dazed. Like he’d taken a hit of something stronger than weed.

You slid off him, dropping to your knees beside his chest, panting, legs shaking.

Ben blinked up at you like you were something holy, lips parted.

You leaned over and snatched the joint from his fingers, took a long hit, then blew the smoke slow across his chest. “You good?” you asked, smirking.

He nodded, jaw tight, then licked his lips and leaned up on his elbows. “Fuck. Yeah.”

You raised an eyebrow, catching the way his eyes dropped immediately to your tits, bare, nipples peaked, flushed with heat. He adjusted slightly against the pillows, and the motion drew your gaze right back to the problem he was very clearly dealing with: a thick, twitching bulge fighting hard against the fabric of his sweats.

“You look uncomfortable,” you said sweetly.

He gave you that look, cocky, half-lidded, and said, “You could help with that.”

You tilted your head. “Oh yeah?”

“C’mon,” he groaned, hand dragging up his own stomach, breath hitching. “Put that pretty mouth to use, baby.”

You grinned. “So needy.”

He let his head drop back onto the pillows, both arms folding behind it like he was posing for you. “So fucking ready,” he shot back. “C’mon. Be good.”

You moved slow on purpose, fingers to the waistband of his sweats, teasing first, dragging your nails along the edge just enough to make him twitch. Then finally, finally, you hooked both sweats and boxers and pulled them down in one slow motion.

His cock sprang free, flushed and leaking at the tip. Thick, heavy, curved just slightly - resting against his lower stomach with a twitch of tension like it couldn’t wait.

You blinked. “Jesus, Ben.”

He just smirked. “Don’t act surprised.”

You giggled again and leaned down, trailing one teasing kiss along his hip, letting your breath ghost along his length without touching. His thighs tensed under you, all muscle and impatience, and his cock twitched again, begging.

“Fuck, baby…” he moaned, voice raspy, “don’t play with me.”

He raised the joint to his lips, hit it slow and deep, then let the smoke roll lazily from his mouth as he met your eyes. “Suck it, I know you want to, come on.”

You laughed, a quiet, wicked thing, and then finally wrapped one hand around the base of his cock and took the tip into your mouth.

Ben groaned, a low broken sound that filled the whole room.

Your tongue circled his head slowly, lapping up the precum before easing further down. Your lips stretched, mouth warm and wet around him. He tasted like skin and salt and faint weed resin from your own breath. Your free hand slid up his thigh, nails dragging lightly, and he shuddered.

Above you, he watched, arm still behind his head, joint dangling from two fingers now, eyes glued to the way you moved.

“Holy fuck,” he groaned. “That mouth is too good.”

You hummed around him, sinking down farther, slow, smooth, letting him feel every inch of tongue and spit and suction. He bucked just slightly, thighs twitching, breath catching in his throat.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “Yes. Just like that, fuck.”

He took another hit, shakier this time, and exhaled with his mouth hanging open as you swallowed him deeper. His cock throbbed against your tongue, thick and hot, and you could feel the tension in his abs start to lock tight.

You pulled off just enough to flick your tongue under his head, your hand stroking him slick while you looked up and said, voice hoarse: “You’re not gonna finish already, are you? You haven’t even seen my pussy yet.”

He groaned hard, dropping his arms and gripping the sheets now like he was falling apart. “I want–fuck–I want everything.”

You smirked, then dropped your mouth back down and gave him exactly that.

You sucked him just a little longer - slow, deep, wet strokes that had his thighs trembling and breath stuttering. Your tongue dragged under his cock, lips pulling tight around the shaft, spit dripping as you bobbed, moaning low just to feel the way it made him twitch.

Your ass was up, arched, back curved in the perfect angle, and fuck, you knew exactly what you were doing. You could feel his eyes on you, glued to the way your hips rolled slightly with every movement, the way the lace of your panties stretched over your ass, sheer and teasing.

Ben let out a breathless moan, one of those completely undone sounds, and rasped, “Jesus… fuck, I love that view.”

You popped off his cock slowly with a wet slurp, licking your lips as you looked up at him. His chest was rising and falling fast, one hand twisted in the sheets, the other still loosely holding what was left of the joint.

“Break time,” you said sweetly, crawling up his body like a cat. You landed in his lap and plucked the joint from his fingers and took a hit. 

He grinned, eyes glassy, mouth still open a little. “There you go, baby. Hit it.”

You exhaled over his mouth before kissing him again.

The kiss was smoky and indulgent. Your tongue flicked his, slow and open, letting him taste himself on your mouth. Ben groaned into it, hands sliding up your waist like he needed to anchor you to him. His grip tightened like he couldn’t stand the thought of you slipping away.

But you pulled back, just slightly, hips rolling in slow, sinful circles over the thick line of his cock, pushing up tight against the soaked fabric of your panties.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You tryna kill me?”

You rolled your hips again, just enough to make him twitch under you. “Mmh. Not yet.”

Then his voice went lower, rough and ruined: “Ride me, baby.”

You blinked down at him, feigning surprise.

“From behind,” he added quickly, licking his lips. “Turn around. Let me see that pretty ass bounce. C’mon. I need it.”

You grinned down at him, slow and wicked. “Need it, huh?”

“Yes.” The word hit like a confession, ragged and raw. “Need to feel you take it like that. Need to see you own my dick. I wanna watch every fuckin’ second.”

Your smirk deepened. You leaned in until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear.

“Good boy,” you purred.

Ben’s eyes blew wide. Pupils dilated. His breath caught like you'd just yanked the soul from his body with just those two words.

You leaned down, dragging your tits across his chest until your nipples brushed his lips, and he latched on instantly. Mouth hot and hungry, sucking at your tits like he needed it to survive. The sensation made your thighs tremble.

You cooed softly, threading your fingers through his hair with one hand. “You always this obedient?”

He moaned into your chest, mouth full, eyes fluttering. “Only for you.”

You smirked again, dragging the moment out like honey. Then, with slow purpose, you reached down, thumbs hooking beneath the waistband of your panties.

You peeled them down - hips swaying, lace dragging over your thighs, past your knees, until they dropped soft and delicate beside the bed. 

You held still, letting him look. Letting him see you fully bare, flushed, slick with want.

“Better?” you whispered.

Ben’s voice cracked. “So much better.”

You rewarded him with a slow grind against his cock, slick heat sliding over the length of him, coating him with every wet pass of your hips.

Then you leaned forward, kissed his forehead, sweet and mock-innocent, and turned around with slow, theatrical grace.

You pivoted in his lap, facing away now, knees planting on either side of his hips. The movement made your back arch naturally, ass settling over him in full view, your hands braced on his thighs for balance.

You reached between your legs, fingers curling around his hard and swollen cock, and guided him toward your entrance. You didn’t take him in yet. Just let the swollen head kiss your folds, sliding slowly through your slick, teasing both of you with the pressure and heat.

Ben choked. “Holy fuck.”

You looked over your shoulder, grinning. “Enjoying the view?”

He nodded like it physically hurt to wait. “Please, baby. Bounce on me. I need it.”

You sank down slowly, inch by inch, letting him feel every stretch, every shiver, every tight, hot drag of your body as you took him in.

He filled you, thick and deep, your walls gripping him as your hands braced on his knees and your head dropped forward with a breathless, guttural moan.

Behind you, Ben was losing it.

Groaning like a man possessed, hands grabbing at your ass, hips twitching up just to meet you, already ruined and begging for more.

You rocked your hips, slow at first. Letting him feel it. Letting yourself feel it - the stretch, the slide, the slick rhythm building in your core.

Then you started to ride.

And the sound of it? Skin on skin. Wet. Rhythmic. The slap of your ass against his thighs with every bounce. You could hear his breath falter - every inhale jagged, every exhale laced with curses and praise.

“Goddamn,” he panted. “That’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

You looked over your shoulder, voice breathless, lips parted in a smirk. “Enjoying it baby?”

Then you picked up the pace.

Ben’s hands went wild - gripping and smacking and guiding. He watched every movement, helpless beneath you, eyes glued to the curve of your spine, the bounce of your ass, the way your pussy swallowed him over and over again.

“Fuck,” he moaned, head tossing back. “Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

You rode him like you were made for it, hips rolling, thighs burning, your breath hitching with every wet slam of your body onto his. His cock hit deep, thick and pulsing, dragging you closer and closer to the edge with every thrust.

The high turned everything glowing. Slow and sharp at the same time, your nerves screaming in color, the pleasure a wave cresting higher with every grind.

Ben was wrecked beneath you.

Hair plastered to his forehead. Mouth open. Hands glued to your ass.

His voice kept running, hoarse and reverent. “Fuck, baby… you're fucking perfect. This ass, Jesus, it’s like you knew what you were doing coming in here wearing those skanky ass shorts.”

You laughed, breath catching. “I did know.”

He smacked your ass, hard, and you gasped, clenching around him, the sudden sting sending sparks straight to your core.

“Fuck–Ben!”

“That’s right,” he growled, driving up into you now, matching your pace with desperate thrusts. “Say my name while you bounce.”

You whined, voice high and broken, rhythm faltering, not from weakness, but from the sheer pressure building deep in your belly. That hot ache. That pull. The knot winding tighter with every slap of skin and every rough, perfect stretch of him inside you.

And that’s when he shifted, suddenly grabbing your waist, voice low and rough.

“My turn.”

You blinked, breath catching. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He sat up, pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades, then bit your shoulder lightly. “Get on all fours, baby. Time for some backshots.”

You obeyed instantly, too high and desperate to argue, crawling forward with shaky hands and arching your back for him - ass in the air, thighs trembling, soaked and ready. You felt him shift behind you, hands roaming, gripping, one spreading you open while the other wrapped around his cock and stroked it slowly, letting the head glide through your slick folds.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice shaking. “Fuck, I could stare at this all night.”

You giggled in response, wiggling your hips in invitation.

He lined himself up, notching the head at your entrance, and then pushing into you in one smooth, hard thrust.

You moaned, face pressed into the sheets, hands fisting the blankets as he bottomed out.

“Fuuuck,” he growled behind you, voice wrecked. “So tight. So fucking wet. Shit.”

He pulled back, then slammed in again, harder this time, his thighs slapping against the backs of yours. He found a rhythm quick, pounding into you with the force of every high, every tease, every bit of tension you’d been building all night.

You were a mess beneath him, moaning openly, back arching deeper with every slap of skin on skin. The way he filled you was obscene - thick, deep, hitting that spot that made your whole body twitch.

And the sounds, wet and messy. His hips slapping into you. His groans. Your cries. The slap of his palm against your ass, again and again, leaving stinging heat behind.

“Take it, baby,” he growled, hands fisting your hair now, yanking your head up slightly. “Fucking take it. This what you came here for, huh? Wanted to tease me and then ride me like a slut?”

You gasped, eyes rolling back. “Yes–fuck, yes, Ben–don’t stop–!”

He groaned, deep and shaky. “That’s it. Let me fuck this perfect little pussy like you fucking deserve. Loud and messy, baby. Just like us.”

He didn’t stop. Just kept pounding you from behind, one hand gripping your hip so hard it’d bruise.

Ben was deep in it - hips snapping, fucking you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The rhythm was relentless now, his cock hitting all the right spots, his voice rough with heat and weed and need.

He smacked your ass hard and moaned, “Fucking look at you–bouncing like that, pussy so tight–I can’t–fuck–”

You didn’t even have time to respond.

His thrusts stuttered, body locking behind you, and with a strangled groan, he pulled out at the last second - just enough to let himself spill all over your ass in hot, heavy ropes. His moans were deep and broken, every drop of cum landing sticky against your skin as he trembled through it.

You blinked, still catching your breath, still high, still aching.

He collapsed back onto the mattress, panting. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

You looked over at him slowly, grinning. “Wow.”

Ben covered his face with both hands. “Don’t. I swear to God.”

“Oh no, I’m absolutely going to.” You sat up on your knees, turning to look down at him with mock-disbelief. “You didn’t even make me cum, dude.”

He peeked at you from between his fingers, looking sheepish and cocky all at once. “Okay, but that ass? That wasn’t fair. You can’t just look like that and expect me to hold it together.”

You gave him a look. “So what, I get left high and dry?”

Ben blinked once, then twice - then sat up, expression shifting into something darker, focused. “Hell no. I saved the best for last.”

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

“C’mere.” He was already laying back down, arms open, mouth parted, voice low and hungry. “Ride my face. Let me give it back to you.”

You laughed, high and breathless and already climbing over him. “Knew I could count on you.”

But before you could move into position, you paused, suddenly very aware of the cum running down your lower back and ass. “Hold up,” you muttered, twisting just enough to grab the first thing within reach: his crumpled T-shirt, half hanging off the bed. You wiped yourself off with slow, absent swipes, dragging the fabric across your skin, catching traces of heat and stickiness. Ben watched from below, dazed and fascinated, like even the clean-up was hot. When you were satisfied, and his shirt thoroughly ruined, you tossed it aside and climbed fully over him.

He grabbed your waist the second you were close, guiding you up over his mouth, eyes dark and starving. You hovered for half a second, teasing, just to watch him squirm.

“Don’t you fucking dare play now,” he growled, hands tightening. “Sit down, baby. Let me make you cum like you deserve.”

You sank down slowly, facing him, thighs bracketing his head, and the second your pussy made contact with his mouth, he groaned into you. His tongue licked a broad stripe through your folds, and your hips bucked instinctively.

“Fuck–Ben–”

He moaned like you were feeding him something sacred, wrapping his arms around your thighs and locking you down as his tongue worked deep, long licks, then short flicks against your clit, then sucking, then licking again like he couldn’t get enough. He was loud about it, sloppy, like he didn’t care how wrecked he sounded or looked.

You grabbed his head for balance, hips rolling gently against his mouth, moaning high and shaky with every flick of his tongue.

“God, yes–right there–don’t stop–don’t fucking stop–”

He didn’t. If anything, he got more intense, hands sliding up to grip your hips and hold you still as he sucked your clit into his mouth and hummed like he was high off your moans alone.

You looked down at him, face half-shadowed, mouth open under you, eyes barely open, consumed. He was devouring you. Making up for cumming early with every stroke of his tongue like he was trying to erase the mistake.

You started shaking.

Your thighs clenched around his head.

The pressure in your stomach snapped.

You whimpered, hips grinding hard against his mouth as your orgasm hit, white-hot and shattering, making you collapse against the headboard, whole body trembling as his mouth stayed on you, licking through every twitch and aftershock.

You finally pulled back, breathless, hips trembling, thighs soaked.

Ben looked up at you, face shining, lips swollen, still panting.

“I win,” he whispered.

You slid down next to him and punched his chest lightly. “Only ‘cause I let you.”

He grinned, all teeth, completely fucked out. “Nah, babe. I earned that one.”

The room was quiet now, except for the low loop of the playlist and the sound of your breathing, uneven but slowly settling. The air was still thick with smoke, sex, and sweat, but softer now, warmer. Your limbs were jelly. Your skin tingled. Your brain was floating somewhere between holy fuck and I regret nothing.

You were laying beside him on the bed, one arm over your eyes, chest still rising and falling in slow, shaky waves. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Ben laughed next to you, his voice hoarse, almost wrecked. “You’re welcome.”

You peeked at him from under your arm. He was grinning, stretched out, completely bare, hair a mess, his face still flushed from all the effort he’d poured into eating you like a man on death row. He looked proud.

You smacked his chest lightly. “You came in like two minutes.”

“Okay,” he said, raising a finger, “but it was an elite two minutes. And I made up for it.”

You grinned, letting your head fall onto his shoulder. “You did. I’ll allow it.”

You both laid there for a beat, catching your breath, the silence not awkward but earned. You let your hand drift across his stomach lazily, tracing little shapes in the sweat-slick skin.

Ben reached for the nightstand and grabbed a fresh joint from the tray. He popped it between his lips and patted around until he found Jeff’s Wife.

He sparked it up, the familiar flick-snap-fwoosh breaking the quiet, and took a long, smooth hit. He exhaled toward the ceiling, then passed it to you without looking, like muscle memory.

You took it, inhaled deep, let it buzz through your lungs, then blew a stream of smoke out across his chest. “This is gonna hit so much harder now.”

He groaned. “I know. My body’s already vibrating.”

You giggled and rolled halfway onto him, leg thrown over his thigh, chest against his side. His arm wrapped around you like it always did, natural, like this wasn’t new. Like this wasn’t the first time you’d both turned a friendly little blaze session into a full-blown face-sitting, dick-sucking mess.

The joint passed back and forth in silence for a while, your breath syncing to his. The music kept humming. The lights kept glowing. The haze thickened, but everything felt still.

Then Ben spoke, voice quiet, amused. “We should add this to the weekly agenda. Blaze, bounce, bond.”

You rolled your eyes and pressed your face into his neck. “Shut up and pass the joint.”

He handed it over, and you both faded back into the stillness, warm skin against warm skin, smoke curling around your bodies like a blanket.

And for the first time all night, neither of you had anything more to say.

Just two… friends. High. Wrecked. And satisfied.

Epilogue

The next day, Ben was posted up in front of his setup, headset slung around his neck, chair leaned so far back it looked like he might slide out of it. His screen glowed with some half-paused game, but his hands weren’t moving. He was just sitting there, totally still, totally zoned, with a crooked little smile tugging at his lips.

He looked like a guy who’d just won the lottery.

The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the LEDs. Jeff barged in, shirt twisted like he lost a fight with it, breathing like he ran halfway across the house. “Yo. Where the fuck is my lighter? Don’t make me start flipping shit.”

Ben didn’t answer. Just blinked real slow, smile not fading.

Jeff narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do that shit. Don’t do the quiet little idiot smile. You seen it or not? The black one. With the big-tittied cartoon bitch on the side. My wife.”

Ben finally turned his head. Lazy. Like it took effort. “Iunno. Maybe she ran off with someone better.”

Jeff squinted. “...Why the fuck are you smiling like that?”

Silence. 

Jeff paused. “Wait. Wait.” Then he groaned like he already knew.

“No fucking way,” he said, pointing. “That’s a post-nut smile. Bro. Who the fuck’d you bag?”

Ben just smirked wider and leaned back even more, stretching like a cat. “Hey man, I don’t kiss and tell. But damn…”

“Don’t fuckin’ play with me, dude. Who was it?” Jeff was circling the room now like the answer was hidden in the furniture. “Did someone actually ride your gross little dick?”

Ben gave him a slow, deliberate nod - the kind that said, oh yeah.

Jeff stared. “Was it…?”

Then his jaw dropped. “No. No fucking way.”

Ben just licked his lips and stayed quiet.

Jeff grabbed the back of the gaming chair, staring down at him. “You fucked Y/n?!”

Ben didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. His smirk said it all.

Jeff took a step back like he was physically offended. “What the fuck. How the hell did you pull that?”

Ben shrugged one shoulder, smug and unbothered. “She came over to blaze.”

Jeff blinked. “You’re telling me you got to hit that off a fuckin’ joint and a playlist?”

Ben grinned. “Didn’t even play a full album, bro.”

Jeff made a noise like he’d just been shot. “Unreal. That ass is crazy. You could bounce a quarter off that thing and it'd hit orbit.”

Ben’s voice dropped into that cocky murmur. “I didn’t bounce shit.” He paused. “It bounced on me.”

Jeff grabbed his head like he was in pain. “You felt it?”

Ben leaned forward, arms on his knees, eyes glinting. “Both hands. Full grip. Sat on my face. Twice.”

Jeff just stared, mouth open. “Twice? You ate it?”

Ben blinked, deadpan. “Would again.”

Jeff exhaled like a man defeated. “Jesus fuck, man. I’ve been trying to get a look at her tits through a hoodie for six months and you’ve got her reverse cowgirl on your head like a fuckin’ carnival ride.”

Ben laughed, full chest, satisfied, lit up from the inside out.

Jeff shook his head, muttering. “She let you hit? Shit. I gotta start brushing my hair or something. Fuckin’ embarrassing…”

Ben leaned back in his chair again, stretching, arms behind his head. “Too late. You’re not her type.”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Yeah? What is her type?”

Wears layers - hoodies, jackets, flannels, tactical gear when needed - mostly neutral tones. His mask is scratched and worn, but not falling apart. He keeps his style maintained and functional. He never dresses for aesthetics, it's always for work

General Behavior

Not a talker. Doesn’t waste words, doesn’t overexplain. But compared to Brian, he’s practically a social butterfly. He’ll hold a conversation if it matters, if it gets something done, or if he actually likes you. He’s blunt, but not cruel unless he wants to be

Definitely the type to bark orders - his brain’s wired to move fast and take control. If there’s chaos, he’s already in the middle of it shouting “Move!” or “Stay here.” His voice cuts through the noise, sharp and gravelly, like he’s been yelling since he was born. Doesn’t ask twice. Doesn’t wait around for confirmation

Has this underlying “man’s man” kind of vibe. Opens doors, carries the heavy shit without asking, lights cigarettes with one hand. It’s not at all performative, it’s just how he is. He’s naturally protective, naturally steps forward when shit gets tense

He’s got that rough-around-the-edges provider instinct. Doesn’t matter if he’s broke or pissed, if you’re hungry, he’ll buy you food. If you’re cold, he’ll give you his jacket. If you ask for a smoke, he’s already holding the lighter out. Doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t brag about it. That’s just how he shows care - by giving, by doing. Even shares his cigarettes with Jeff, which says a lot, because Tim hates that "filthy, smug son of a bitch" as he likes to call him

Moody as hell. Some days he’s decent company - dry humor, quiet jokes, sarcastic smiles. Other days he’s a storm cloud in human form, and you learn to read his mood by how hard his jaw is clenched

Anger issues he tries to manage. Pills when he remembers. Deep breathing that usually turns into pacing. When he does explode, it’s loud and you’ll feel it in your bones. Slams his hand on the table hard enough to rattle glass, throws whatever’s nearby, storms out and comes back hours later without a word

Eats like someone who didn’t grow up with much - like every meal might be his last. Big, heavy bites. Chews like it’s serious business. Doesn’t talk while he eats, just hunches over his plate and goes in. It’s primal. He’ll finish his burger in like three bites and still swipe a few fries off your plate without asking

Keeps to himself most of the time. Observant. Notices everything - where you place your drink, how many hours someone’s been quiet, the way someone’s hands shake. Doesn’t always speak on it, but he knows

When he laughs (which isn’t often), it’s this deep, chesty thing. Catches you off guard. Doesn’t last long, but when it hits, it hits. Usually something dark or stupid that sets him off

In a relationship, Tim is jealous as fuck, and it runs deep, the boiling under the surface kind. The kind that comes with icy silence, clenched jaw, and eyes that follow you a little too sharply. You’ll feel it before he says a word. The air gets tight when he sees you laughing with someone else, especially if it’s a guy. He doesn’t trust easy, and he trusts even less when it comes to you

He doesn’t like you going out without him. He won’t forbid it outright at first but you’ll hear it in the way he says “Where are you going?” and “With who?” over and over, like he’s testing the story for cracks. And when it becomes a pattern? Yeah, then it’s “No. You’re not going.” Just like that. Final. No debate

Tells you not to wear certain things. Says it’s for your safety, or because “you don’t need other eyes on you.” But really, it’s because it drives him crazy knowing someone else might get to see what’s his. Short skirts, tight tops - if you wear them, expect him to either make you cover up or stick to your side all night like a fucking shadow

Random Details

Always carries a Zippo lighter. Even when he’s not smoking (which is rare), it’s in his pocket. A sleek, silver one. Clicks it open and shut when he’s thinking, annoyed, or just needs something to do with his hands

Music taste is darker, heavier. Think Nine Inch Nails, Tool, maybe some grungy 90s rock. Doesn’t talk about music much, but if you hear it leaking out of his room, it’s always angry and low

Has a soft spot for old horror movies - the grainy, practical effect kind. Says the new stuff is "too flashy." Will never admit it, but he gets weirdly into the atmosphere and aesthetic

Keeps a notebook. No, seriously. Doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t write in it daily, but it’s filled with messy handwriting, checklists, thoughts he can’t say out loud, and half-sketched maps or memories. There’s probably a page with your name on it, written over and over in the margins from a night when he couldn’t sleep and didn’t know what else to do

Good with his hands - in a mechanical, practical way. Can fix a busted pipe, rewire shit, stitch up a wound. Doesn't complain, just does it. There's something steady and sure about him when he works

Drinks black coffee, doesn’t do sweet stuff

Toby’s the only one who can make Tim laugh on command. Usually something stupid, like making weird faces at Brian when he's not looking or imitating Jeff’s voice in a high-pitched whine. Tim will try to hold it in, but you’ll catch the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. Sometimes even a real laugh - rare, but sharp and short like it caught him by surprise

You'd expect him to like whiskey, but he's a beer guy through and through. Cold, cheap, no-nonsense. The kind of guy who pops the cap off with a lighter and drinks straight from the bottle, no glass in sight

He’s into girls who don’t break easy, girls with teeth. Someone who’ll bite his lip back, roll her eyes at him, match his sarcasm. He doesn’t want soft and docile, he wants real, wants someone who’ll sit on the porch with him at 3AM, share a smoke in silence, hold space for the shit he doesn’t know how to talk about

A girl who can cook? Game over. He won't say anything about it, won’t compliment it outright, but if you feed him something good - hearty, made with intention - you’ve earned a kind of quiet respect from him. Might kiss your neck from behind next time you’re at the stove, arms wrapped around your waist like he needs you. Might even mutter “Don’t fuckin’ leave,” into your hair without thinking about it

NSFW (18+)

The kind of man that runs hot and intense, but quiet. Doesn't talk much in bed - a few gritted-out words, low and raspy, but most of what he gives is in the way he moves, how he grabs, how he breathes. Every inhale like he’s trying not to lose control

Strong. He knows it. You feel it in the way he holds your hips, in the press of his chest, in the way he leans in and you don’t move unless he lets you. Never reckless, but there’s weight behind everything - he wants you to feel it

Can be rough, definitely, but not without care. You’re not breakable to him - you’re durable, something to be used, but not disrespected. He’s not cruel unless you ask him to be. And even then, there are limits he won’t cross

Quiet dominance. Not flashy or cocky - just this natural control. A hand on your throat, a quiet “stay still,” the way he waits to see if you’ll obey without raising his voice. It’s never a question who’s in charge when he’s in that mood

If this man really likes you - like, deeper than he knows how to say - he’ll go down on you. Not often, not out of obligation, but when he does, it’s intense, like he’s trying to prove a point without words. Still, Tim is more of a pounding, take-what-he-wants kind of guy. He wants to fuck, he likes the grind, the weight, the rhythm of it. He gets off on the raw physicality. Fast, deep, hard - that’s his language

Definitely prefers receiving over giving. He's not selfish, just wired that way. There’s something about your mouth on him that turns his brain off in the best way. He doesn’t even have to be in control during it - he’ll lean back, smoke in hand, and let you go to work while his eyes burn holes into you. Might say something rough, low, like “Don’t stop,” and you can feel the restraint in his voice

Tim likes curves - hips he can grip, an ass he can smack, thighs that leave marks when he holds you too tight. He likes that hourglass edge, that balance between softness and structure. Something strong, feminine, and made to take a hit - and give one back

Definitely carries that “he hit me and it felt like a kiss” energy. If you’re into pain, he’s not shy. He’ll slap you across the face without thinking twice. And then his fingers are brushing your cheek right after, voice low as he mutters something like “You're so beautiful.” That’s his apology. That’s affection, in his language

Tim lives for being called daddy, even if he pretends it doesn’t do anything for him at first. That first time you say it - maybe soft and breathless, maybe with a little smirk just to test him - you’ll see it hit him like a brick. His jaw tightens, his eyes flash, and whatever restraint he had? Gone

He doesn’t ask for it directly, but he rewards it when you say it - harder thrusts, rougher grip, maybe even a quiet “Say that again.” The word flips a switch in him. Makes him go darker, deeper, meaner. You’ll be wrecked by the time he’s done

After hearing rumors of you having sex with Hoodie for extra "perks" around the mansion, Masky pulls you inside his personal liquor room with a gun to your head. Out of pure pettiness and annoyance, you unbutton your polo shirt and guide his revolver down inside your pants before you start grinding your clothed clit against the muzzle.

"You fucking bitch," he slams the opening of the gun against your temple. He has your collar pulling towards him, his pointer finger threatening to curl against the trigger.

The cold, hard edge of his makeshift bar table presses against the back of your thighs as you tried to pull away-- the yellow overhead lights flashing your sight in the process.

It was all a harmless rumor.

Not to Masky, it wasn't.

It all started with Hoodie trying to get you into bed with him. Of course you wouldn't be so gullible as to actually get through a night with a cocky asshole who repeatedly tries to install secret cameras inside your bathroom to watch you shower.

So after you rejected him, he retaliated. By the forms of rumors.

You, apparently, made out with him in a closet just to get the good pods of coffee hidden in the drawers. You also gave him a blowjob so he can provide you with extra protection during missions. And finally, the most ridiculous one of all-- you fucked him last night so you could get by breaking a few rules in the mansion without being reprimanded.

At first, you laughed at the stories. You didn't even bother correcting them, because you really can't change what people think of you. This was a lesson you learned long before you arrived in The Operator's domain.

But when Masky started bumping into you while in the halls, staring you down during meetings, scoffing whenever you try to speak about something, and giving shallow "compliments" about your clothes, you start getting frustrated with him.

You tried to tell him you never really made out with Hoodie, or even came close to giving him a blowjob, but he never really budged. You started wondering if him and Hoodie were an item, and yet you never got a clear answer.

That is, until the latest rumor.

You were peacefully walking towards the mansion library to return a few books you used as a step-stool to fix a light in your bedroom before Masky started storming towards you. You stopped in your steps, before dropping the books due to him dragging you by the collar inside the room beside you.

Everything happened in such little time. You wince in pain after feeling the back of your hips hit against the wooden bar table, and before you knew it he was shoving a gun in front of your face.

Your feet were hanging off the floor as you sat on the hard wood you unwillingly were shoved on. You could feel Masky's breath take in heaps of air as if he was trying to breathe in any fear you had to offer, but all you can give is pure hatred-- and maybe a little bit of adrenaline. And a tiny smidge of arousal.

"Do you even know of anything that I have done for you?" he hissed. The sound of his voice being muffled by the mask was nothing but an open barrier that couldn't hold back the venom that his voice was soaked in.

The opening of the gun was so firm against your skull you were sure it was bruised beyond hell.

"Do you know how many vicious little shits I've almost died from the effort of saving your ass?"

"You didn't even-- hck!-- have to do that, you fucking-- unck!-- asshole!" You choked out. You can remember all the times he "saved" you without even needing to, hurling at targets that weren't even close to harming you, restraining frail victims even when he knows they can't even land a scratch on you.

You thought it was funny. You didn't know if he was trying to show off in front of you or just being concerningly twitchy.

The thought of this brings a slight smile to your face. "What were you even trying to do anyway? Showing off or-- ack!-- what?"

Masky growled. You can hear his gloves almost break against the grip of his gun. "I was protecting you. Saving you. And for once, you couldn't even say thank you, let alone fuck my co-worker!"

His screams flood your ears. Then he laughs.

"So it's just like that, huh? Use me as a human shield, then run along and sit on some unworthy dick that doesn't even come close to making you cum." his voice was low and deadly.

You spit on his mask, earning a hard jolt from him. "That isn't even fucking true! He made that shit up just to spite me!" he stayed silent.

"You just keep jumping on conclusions don't you!?" you attempt to kick him but he doesn't budge. "Thinking I'm in danger then proceed to steal my kills, you really are fucking delusional!" you chided.

He doesn't peep a word. Just his breathing. His cold, ragged breathing. His eyes look like they're trying to hold something back.

Something that escapes its bars, and turn into a famished, hungry animal.

Then, a voice.

"You don't know how much effort I've put in for you." he muttered. A confused expression washes over your face.

"How much effort-- how much shit I had to do so I can get your fucking attention." his grip on the gun tightened at each syllable.

"How many kills, how many missions, how much blood do I have to spill just to get a simple 'Good morning Masky', or maybe even just a smile from you?" you felt your spine shiver at his sick impression of you saying good morning to him.

Suddenly, something clicked. It all made sense now. The way he gets extra filthy in blood after missions, insisting to team up with you, your stolen kills...

Fucking hell.

You don't know whether to feel terrified or flattered, though you find yourself leaning onto the latter.

A smile creeps onto your face once again, your canines shining at him.

"You want attention?" you chided. "I'll give you attention, you fucking bastard," with a swift motion, your hands shoot upon the first button of your polo shirt, looping the white circle out of the small hole before moving down and unbuttoning another one.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Masky rasped, his grip on the gun slowly lightening up as a full view of your pink, lacy bra greets him.

"Paying you some attention," by this time your shirt was fully open, your torso doing a little dance for him. "Am I doing a good job, sir?" you purred, giving him you sickly-sweet doe-eyes as your fingers grazed over his leather belt.

With a steady hand, you gently reach up to were he was holding the gun. And for a second, you feel him seize his grip, before letting up just slightly-- once again.

Ever so slowly, you pull the gun down, deeper, further, until it's inside your waistband.

Masky breathed. You can feel his adrenaline radiating off of you as his gaze traveled down to the gun-- his gun-- in your pants.

You let him take the sight in before starting to rut your hips, making him jolt. He moves closer, before rubbing his boner against the little space of the table in between your thighs. You snicker.

"You better shut the fuck up before I pull the trigger, brat," he hissed, instinctively pushing the gun further in, and when you feel the deepened, contact, you moan.

"Fuck, you like that, don't you?" he mocked. "You like my fucking revolver inside your cunt?"

You nod, keeping eye contact with him. "Yes sir, yes sir," you babbled.

You keep grinding your clit against the cold metal. You can feel yourself dripping, you were sure you created a puddle by now.

A minute goes by with you just desperately tribbing your needy hole against a weapon that killed many. You don't know when Masky's other hand pulled down the waistband by your belt loops to get a better view-- revealing your very soaked laced panties, with some of the slick seeping out and onto the gun.

The sight turned you on even more, you can feel your nipples hardening under the padded fabric you still had on.

Soon enough, you feel your head throw back as you welcomed your orgasm. Your mouth dropped open and your eyes closed shut, screaming his name and babbling about how you were so close to cumming.

You hear a chuckle, before feeling the gun ramming inside your still-clothed hole, making you shriek in ecstasy.

Your legs shake like a deadly earthquake. And he didn't stop there-- no. Masky kept on furthering the gun in, earning short bursts of gasps from you.

"Fuck-- fuck, ah!--" you writhed against him. "Masky! Fuck--"

"That isn't my name." he threatened like a curse. "That isn't what you should call me." you could practically sense his grin. "I'm better than that playboy motherfucker, aren't I?"

You can't think straight. "Amma--mgonna--ungh!---"

"Say it right, sweetheart, or else I might just pull the trigger." the sound of his finger squeezing the metal sent delicious goosebumps up your spine.

Your lips trembled. "Y-yes-- yes, sir. Yes, sir."

Drunken bickering gone wrong has you slapping Masky out of anger after a bloody fist fight between you two, inside an abandoned shed, but when he slaps your face back, you moan.

It's hot. Everything is hot.

Your ribs ache. Your arms ache. Your legs ache.

You're pretty sure you're covered in bruises by now, but it definitely isn't only you.

You could only remember what led up to this point, a small, snarky comment from him was countered by one of yours after an almost jeopardized mission. Then, one after another, insults were hurled between you and him until you slap his face after having a gnarly punching match, knocking his mask off onto the floor.

He froze, his figure hunched over while his fists tightened while his eyes remain fixed on the fallen mask. You stepped back, mustering up an apology and a back up move.

You choose the first option.

"Shit. Look I didn't mean to--" you were interrupted by his meaty hands on your neck, plummeting you to the cement wall behind you, a pained grunt escaping your busted lips.

You look up against the bright, mellow ceiling light, a shadow of Masky's raised arm blocking the off-white glow. Your eyes pressed firmly shut, the pain striking your cheek sharply.

When the strike hit, your cunt flutters so suddenly, a small pool of wet staining your panties. Your breath hitches, then you inhale, and you moan.

"Oh, fuck," you breathed. You can feel your thighs rub together while your eyes clamp shut-- unaware that another pair was looking right down at you. Your hips unconsciously rut up and down, desperately grinding on nothing.

"What the actual fuck is wrong with you?" Masky spat. His grip on your neck curls tighter, making you cough against the restriction of air.

You open your eyes to find him staring you down in angry shock. Before you could respond, he speaks again. "Are you that much of a dirty whore in heat to be turned on by me slapping the shit outta your face?"

Your eyes furrowed in returned frustration. "Says the one who jacks off to snuff films in the bathroom," you pique.

That statement earns you another slap from him, making you moan once more-- except this time, it's more drawn out.

"Fucking masochist," he chuckles darkly. "That's sexy as fuck." he leans in closer to your face, studying your turned on expression.

With a rough pull, he drags your neck and tosses you on the floor as he watched you gasp and cough, before caging your body with his.

He reaches to his side, grabbing his discarded mask and putting it on once again, earning a scoff from you.

"You always looked so fucking dumb with that shit on," you hissed, giggling a bit while your mind hazed out by the second.

"Shut the fuck up, brat," the nickname was barbed with spikes before both of his hands reached down to rip your shirt open while he forces his knee to your crotch. He's breathing heavily, like a coyote finally catching its meal.

"Y'know, I might actually think we're meant for each other, baby," his voice stings like alcohol. "I like pain, you like pain..." his hand strikes at you again, making you howl in pure bliss.

"We're fucking perfect together."

After managing to slaughter a cult against The Operator, you make out with Masky in the middle of the corpses both of you just murdered, all the while both of you are unapologetically soaked in red blood. After you two are naked, he brands his name onto your body in the red that you both had spilled.

You knew he couldn't hold back much longer when he started sucking your tongue like it was candy in the midst of an after-mission ritual.

After a few one-night stands with him here and there, you learned that it was his way of relaxing after committing manslaughter, a much preferred method of his over masturbating.

The sounds both of your lips made was nothing short of unholy.

And you were soaked in blood. Your clothes, parts of your face, hell, even your hair is soaked.

He was no different, chunks of his brown hair were also damp with red, his jacket, his mask...

It did nothing but turn you on even more.

He pulled away from your lips to get some air, his mask only slightly tilted to the side to reveal his lips but so he can still see. And before you say anything, you were interrupted by him pushing you onto the floor before he kneels down.

You grin at him while you felt your jacket being torn off of you, uncovering your white sports bra-- now also stained with splotches of blood, and your bare torso.

The floor was a sickening red because of how much blood your victims let out, and by the time you laid down, your hair is completely soaked.

You're laying on a floor, inch deep with blood.

The back of your sports bra and your shorts were already wet, crimson leaking up to the side of the fabrics. Masky's pants were no different.

You reach up and undress Masky too, leaving him shirtless in the cold air. Then, you dip your hand in the deep red puddle beside you and smeared him in red. You moan at the sight, giggling shortly after seeing a silhouette of your hand imprinted on his chest.

Masky raises his hand off the floor and swipes across your abdomen, leaving behind a trail of red. He reaches down and starts kissing you once again, the sounds of your tongues squelching together was enough to make your cunt flutter.

You moan against him, feeling his blood-soaked hand cup your tit through your bra.

He raises his other hand and reaches down your shorts, fingers slithering inside your panties until they enter your sopping hole.

Masky took his fingers out after breaking the messy kiss, before bringing his slick-covered fingers to your mouth.

"Suck." he commands.

You reach your tongue out and lick his two fingers, a tang of metal from the blood that was already on his fingers laying onto your tongue before you take his digits into your mouth, before bobbing your head up slowly, making a loud pop that reverberated inside the room.

"Good girl," he coos. You and him were covered in a disgusting amount of blood that wasn't either of yours. Suddenly, he lifts up your thigh, slightly turning it to the side to get a better view. One hand was holding the bend between your knee and calf while the other reaches down.

Then, he dips his pointer finger into the crimson puddle, raising the dripping red to your thigh, firmly pressing on what felt like... letters?

He draws an M, then an A. He dips his fingers again, then an S, a K, an a final dip, before a Y makes an imprint on your thigh.

You breathed, both in amusement and attraction.

"You want everybody to see that?" you purred. Masky clicks his tongue before responding.

"Mine," he rasps.