Summary: You were looking after your aunt's apartment until she recovered from her injury. Your downstairs neighbor came up with the idea of warming you up on a cold December evening.
Tags: Brian/Hoodie x F!Reader. Content containing an erotic moment. Mention of trauma.
Minors; no entry. This content is not suitable for persons under the age of eighteen.
â*: .･. o .･.:*âááá˘â*: .･. o .･.:*â
You waited with bated breath for new messages.
The old television caught ten channels, though with the current weather, six of them were out of reach. There was something oddly soothing in listening to the static crackle â the snowy, black dance of flickering dots accompanied by the kind of hiss used in ghost movies.
The last of them youâd watched was the old Paranormal Activity, alone this time. The film didnât knock you off your feet like it had in childhood, yet it still held a certain charm. You werenât sure whether it was nostalgia speaking, or the irresistible urge for a jumpscare and the cabinet-slamming chaos of the sequel â since the first one, unfortunately, you had no source for.
Your friend came to the rescue by pirating the first part onto a flash drive.
He was wonderful â and bold enough â to do it all for a can of cola and a box of instant noodles. He even took the time to find a program that would sync subtitles automatically. All you had to do was place the film file inside and load the subs.
He insisted you watch it from start to finish, just to make sure everything worked as it should.
In reality, it wasnât nearly as gloomy or colorful as you remembered. Halfway through, the movie revealed itself to be a pure porno knockoff â a parody straight out of Scary Movie, complete with invisible lovers and moaning in the dark. You shut it off before your eyeballs could melt inside their sockets.
Naturally, your friend refunded the cost of the noodle box and even replaced the can of cola out of his own savings â sugar-free this time. You sold that can straight out of your own fridge.
Tasty and unhealthy â your favorite combination.
Thick, white flakes of snow stood out sharply against the dark sky, glimmering beneath the pale glow of the streetlights and the faint, scattered windows across the building opposite. Winter was a beautiful seasonâexcept for frostbite and the tedious ritual of changing summer tires to winter ones. A real stone in the shoe.
Theoretically, you could have ignored that entirely; you rarely used transportation beyond slipping your feet into shoes. Your workplace was only two streets away, your closest family a twenty-minute walk, and your friends were within armâs reach.
It so happened that your fatherâs sisterâs adopted friendâwho, by a family twist, was also your real aunt this timeâhad just finished renovating her apartment. It was ready for someone to move in. And as luck would have it, sheâd broken her leg in two places, torn a tendon, and undergone a complicated surgery that hadnât healed quite right. The flat was on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator, and she, both irritated and despondent, had asked if you could look after the place during her absence.
Why you? Because you had a sensible head on your shoulders. She knew a well-grounded girl like you could handle the arduous task of âsitting on your ass and watching TVâ without wrecking the apartment.
Her son, by the wayâa geology student, despite the unfortunate label of âthe geologistââwas quite a piece of work. Youâd met him once, exchanged a few words twice. You didnât judge people by appearances, but that idiot looked like an aspiring rapper with fake tattoos and a plastic earring. Once, he fell asleep on his arm, and the ink left a print across his face. For weeks, your aunt had called her son Mike Tyson.
And so, you had an apartment. For a while, at leastâuntil Linda Dobey recovered.
It buzzed twice, cutting through the desperate dialogue of teenagers yelling over each other on TV. You couldnât remember what the report was aboutâone of those shows about dysfunctional families, probably.
Whoever called sensed the loss of your attention. The plot had vanished before you could even think about the bag of frozen vegetables in the freezer. Reaching blindly for your phone in its pale case, you noticed the caller ID â a mocking nickname based on a French cheese, misheard once and kept ever since.
With a crooked smirk, you answered, pressing the phone between your ear and shoulder.
âYeeeees?â you dragged out the vowel for effect, crossing your legs beneath you. On-screen, a blonde teenager pointed to a mold-covered room. The voice on the other end chuckled deeply, the rustle scratching at your ear still sore from a piercing done the week before. The mark was still red.
âSnowstorm,â was all you heard.
Your downstairs neighbor worked night shifts. You never knew exactly what he did, but it wasnât some cheerful nine-to-five. Sometimes he came back so exhausted that youâd hear a loud thud and nothing more. He never picked up his phone, even though you could hear Careless Whisper playing through the walls, and he rarely replied to messagesâthough youâd hear the notification ping confirming delivery.
He was one of those men teenage girls whispered about, giggling and kicking their heels, teasing one another about having a crush on the âhot neighbor.â The word hot made your stomach twist. A cookie is for eating, not for describing a person, you used to thinkâat least until you were fifteen.
âSnowstorm,â you repeated. The teenage girls on-screen squealed for some reason. You turned the volume down; you had no desire to listen to whining and shrieks.
A low âmmhmmâ came through, followed by the lazy shuffle of footsteps, more rustling. You wondered what he was doing. You couldnât hear the crunch of snow under boots or the sniffing of someone out in the cold. His voice sounded light.
âGot food?â he asked.
You raised an eyebrowâperfectly timed with the TV hostâs expression.
âLet me think,â you said. In truth, you had a few packets of pasta in the cupboard, an opened box of rice, and something labeled millet groats. Standing over the stove and cooking was never your thing. It wasnât terribleâjust that you tended to check the temperature obsessively. The forgotten bag of stir-fried vegetables with bits of chicken called to you every lonely night while you scrolled mindlessly through food delivery apps.
âYeP,â you pressed hard on the p. âIn the mood for a shared dinner?â
The chuckle that followed made the corners of your lips rise instinctively.
Youâd known this man for about a year, even before youâd moved into the buildingâas your informal bodyguard of sorts. Five years older, charming in speech and accent, which you sometimes teased him about in your better moods.
And it must be notedâhe laughed a lot. Not in bursts of laughter, but in these quiet, amused chuckles. Heâd snort once or twice, maybe exhale sharply, but true laughter from him required something extraordinary.
Once, you even set a âchallenge of the monthâ: to make Brian laugh.
You lost, of courseâlike one of those poor souls in the âTry Not to Laughâ videos. Chuckles and snorts didnât count.
But youâd get there someday.
His voice pulled you out of your thoughts.
On the TV, a reporter with a delicate nose and perfectly painted lips adjusted her red beret.
âLetâs just say I had a meal in mind,â he said. Footsteps â one, two, three. âStep out onto your balcony.â
Without taking the phone from your ear, you stretched your bare legs from under you, straightening your knees to full length. You glanced for a moment at your toenails painted a clean powder pink.
âIn this cold? You really think I want to freeze my ass off?â you said, getting up from the seat, more excited than your tone let on.
You marched toward the dresser, tugging a drawer open with your free hand. You pulled out a pair of socks and balanced on one leg like a flamingo, sliding the fabric over your foot.
âWerenât you at work?â you asked, filling the short pause between you. Youâd never been nosy about Brianâs job â in fact, heâd never said much about it. One evening, exhausted and smelling faintly of something strange, heâd asked you never to question what he did for a living.
You only asked small things â How was your day? Was it tough? Easy? â those he would answer willingly. Especially when the stories involved his coworkers. Youâd heard little about them, met only one in person â a truly hilarious guy, a bit of an idiot, and far too honest with strangers, but somehow endearing.
Brian hummed a drawn-out âmmmmâ before denying it. Not surprising. He often had days off in winter.
You managed to pull on your second sock, hopping a few times in place. You didnât lose balance, though the world tilted dangerously close to greeting your forehead. Youâd rather not kiss the fake wood flooring tonight.
âToo cold,â he confirmed â though not very convincingly.
The man was a small-time heat addict. Heâd cling to the radiator like a schoolchild thawing their hands after a long day, breathing out with relief toward the ceiling.
Not a fanatic, exactly. Sometimes heâd wander around in subzero weather wearing slippers â no socks â thick pants and a hoodie. Youâd never really understood that man.
You tugged your shorts higher.
âFair enough,â you said, briefly moving the phone away to pull a sweatshirt over your head. You didnât bother changing your pajama top; no need to get dressed up for a simple balcony visit.
âBy the way,â you began, âI finally watched that lawyer show Anna-May told us about.â You devoured series like an idiot â always with a bowl of chips and fries dipped in mayo. âItâs pretty good. Iâm only on season two, but honestly, itâs addictive. I think there are eight in total?â You couldnât remember. Every time you opened the platform, it would kick you back to season one, and youâd have to scroll to the last watched episode in annoyance.
âLouis Litt is such a diva.â
Brian didnât understand what you were talking about, but he listened anyway. You never quite figured out whether he preferred movies or TV shows; he seemed like the kind of man who consumed anything intriguing, regardless of genre.
You turned off the light, grabbed a cheese bun wrapped in a plastic bag from the table, and stepped onto the balcony.
A cool breeze hit your cheeks. Snow fell softly over the exposed half of the balcony â the cheap canopy youâd hung barely did its job, despite the manufacturerâs promises. It was annoying, sure, but you werenât about to pack it up and start a scene in the store.
You brushed a layer of snow off the railing with your hand, grimacing at the cold. Some of it clung stubbornly to your sweatshirt, soaking in with the offended look of invisible eyes.
You bit into the cheese bun, holding it between your teeth, and leaned against the railing. A few strands of hair fell forward, your ponytail brushing the bare skin of your neck.
Wearing the same hoodie he always did â except on laundry days â and a pair of pink pajama pants stained from a red dishcloth. A beanie pulled loosely over his head. He leaned back, gazing upward, the phone still pressed to his ear.
When he spotted you, he grinned wide and gave the can of iced coffee in his hand a playful shake, signaling his âdinner.â
In retaliation, you took a big bite of the bun, smiling around the doughy mouthful.
âGfood mornfing,â you mumbled through crumbs.
âGood morning,â he echoed, holding the can between thumb and middle finger, tapping the lid with his index. âGot a nice view up there?â
For fun, you pretended to look around. Across the street, in a similar building, a man stood in his window wearing only underwear, flipping through TV channels.
You took the bun out of your mouth, frowning at the bite mark glistening with a trace of saliva. The dough had flattened under your teeth, warmed and damp, now slowly rising back into shape as if resentful.
âLetâs say so,â you nodded. âAnd howâs life down there?â you asked, trying to raise an eyebrow. The effect was less seductive and more like an awkward twitch.
For Brian, though, it was pure entertainment.
He nodded with exaggerated solemnity, lips pushed out against the chill. âCanât complain. Smells a bit, but itâs nice.â
He tilted his head back and took a long sip from the can.
It was funny hearing his voice twice â once through the phone and once echoing faintly from below.
You tapped your finger against the back of your phone.
âThatâs not exactly a thrilling review.â
He snorted â a little too loudly.
âIâm speaking,â he said.
âClearly,â you replied. âYes, youâre speaking.â
Small talk was never your shared virtue.
Once, you used to think that âWhatâs up?â was just a simple question â something you could answer with anything. Either meaningless or precise down to the letter. But talking with Brian had made you realize how stupid it was.
Whenever you asked, âWhatâs up?â, heâd reply, âNothing. You?â And then youâd both circle around that idiocy for ages.
Youâd come up with a theory that someone in his past must have annoyed the hell out of him with that question. You wanted to understand the origin of his irritation â how such a harmless phrase could spark such a reaction.
Not that it stopped you from poking the bear every now and then. What was the worst he could do, really?
âSo,â you said, watching the snow comically settle on his forehead, imagining a little beetle crawling there. âTell me whatâs new.â You bit into your bun again.
And thatâs how it started â from a small comment about a canceled shift to a story about sleeping until five in the afternoon.
In truth, Brian never slept well. Sometimes youâd catch him leaving the apartment at two in the morning. Not that you were asleep yourself â far from it.
The can of coffee eventually met its end, crushed in his hand mid-sentence, as he started telling you stories you hadnât heard before.
They were strange and funny, filled with references to someone named Tobias.
ââyeah, it was a bagel,â he said, but you barely caught the words, too busy hopping from foot to foot. The cold bit at your toes â the socks were cute and fluffy as hell, but completely useless for keeping warmth outside. Perfect for lounging indoors, terrible for standing in the snow.
Brian sighed softly into the receiver, stretching his mouth into a mischievous grin.
âCold?â
A rhetorical question, obviously â you were freezing your ass off.
You nodded, unable to speak because your mouth was full of the last bite of your cheese bun.
His grin shifted into mock innocence, eyes narrowing playfully in that teasing, you-know-exactly-what-I-mean way.
âIn that case,â he said, voice low and velvety, âI guess Iâll have to come over and warm you up.â
You choked on your bite, coughing into the phone, eyes wide in disbelief. Sure, youâd called him daddy before â as a joke â and heâd fired back with princess just to annoy you. Nothing sexual, nothing weird. Just harmless teasing.
Still, hearing those words â like that â hit different.
You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks.
And yes, damn it â for real this time.
You forced your lips into a mischievous grin, one that said, fine, letâs play this game.
âSo eager?â you shot back. âMaybe Iâll take you up on that.â
Brianâs answer was a quiet, drawn-out chuckle. He slowly pulled the phone from his ear, his half-lidded eyes fixed teasingly on you.
He pushed off lazily from his balcony railing and disappeared from view below.
What exactly had you just agreed to?
Really, what had you agreed to?
Lying sprawled across the couch, your head resting on your friendâs thighs, you hadnât expected to clench your legs so tightly. It was fine, yes, true, but the simmering heat refused to let you rest. You liked this guy â maybe more than just liked â but that didnât mean you were eager to shed your clothes at the first touch he initiated. A bottle of wine stood pointedly next to the coffee table legs, silently mouthing French words of love and doubt. Empty takeout boxes were stacked neatly in a plastic bag, one inside the other to save space.
Calloused fingers combed through hair freed from a tight elastic, abandoned on your wrist alongside the rest of your hair ties. His finger traced a short line from your forehead to your ear, gliding fluidly back and forth. He twirled a strand around his finger, bent it lightly, then let it go, watching it slowly unfurl.
You could feel his smile.
âInteresting,â the television murmured, its voice as soft as Brianâs.
His finger strayed from its path, teasing down the side of your face, pressing gently on the chubby cheek heâd dubbed your âhamster.â Goosebumps sprang across your skin, the simmering heat inside you intensifying. What had this wine done to you both?
âLittle nose,â he tapped twice on your nose, preventing any attempt to turn your head. His hand wandered lower, never lifting from your skin, never breaking the connection. Down the philtrum, it lingered briefly on your upper lip â seconds too long.
Full, agonizing seconds too long.
âTell me, Y/NâŚâ he licked your upper lip, deliberately curling his finger between your lips. You gave a soft moan.
âHave you been waiting long for this?â Honestly, you had no answer. You could have waited all evening. You could have waited since your walk before the first snowfall. You could have waited your entire life for this.
Yes. You had been waiting.
Waiting for Brian Thomas to finally invade.
You didnât turn your head, eyes fixed on the flickering characters on the TV screen. Brian needed no words to confirm his theory. A subtle squeeze of your thighs, the eager flick of your tongue on his inserted finger â that was enough to confirm you were just as willing as he was.
Maybe it was the wine talking for both of you. Maybe it was unspoken emotions, hidden desires cloaked in the guise of âjust friends.â Maybe both.
Being an adult was complicated. Frayed emotions played discordant melodies, like methodically plucked guitar strings, touching every corner, testing the ground, searching for rhythm. Finding that rhythm took time.
His finger slipped from your mouth, tracing along your lower lip, moving down, lower, lower. His hand cupped your cheek, subtly lifting it, guiding you from side to back.
You saw his smile from below.
âWho are we to each other, Y/N L/N?â
Brian leaned down. Closer, closer, closer â until he closed his eyes, just like you did.
A small, light, delicate brush of lips against yours, tinged with the shadow of red wine. You parted your lips in harmony, granting each other another longed-for kiss. And again, and again, and again. Massaging lips slowly, building speed, faster, until the first moan broke free.
Brian pressed your cheek with his fingers, resuming the movement of lips at a quicker pace, the passionate intertwining of two lovers in a private moment reserved for your shared instant. Thoughts swirled in your head, summoning all the memories of subtle glances and gestures, tilts of your head when you described your day. The raising of brows, the licking of your lower lip when you complained about the idiot at work wearing worn trousers stained with some mysterious mess.
Listening to his calm, almost monotonous tone when you couldnât sleep at night, and he kept you company over the phone. The broom tapping the ceiling, blasting the radio to full volume, dancing along to Jennifer Lopez tracks.
His buttery gaze fixed on your face as you animatedly recounted your favorite story, hands gesturing wildly.
All the small things coalesced into a tangle of intense feeling.
It was the rabbit, not the dust.
He shifted position, lifting your head without breaking the kiss, his tongue dancing against your palate, grappling with your flesh, asserting â no, demonstrating â his place. He allowed no contest; the gauntlet thrown was merely mockery, laughter in the face, establishing dominance on the battlefield.
He laid you down on the couch, the other hand brushing hair from your face, moving lower, lower, reaching the place of heat, dripping with raw desire. How could a single kiss make panties wet? Yours did. He smiled into the kiss, exhaling laughter.
âBastard,â you murmured between kisses, winning a second over his tongue.
He laughed through his nose, lips trailing down your neck, kissing the exposed skin with parted lips. Yours, entirely for him, ready to be adorned with the autograph of a single name.
âDonât complain,â he bit gently, drawing another shuddered breath from you. His mouth descended to your covered chest, kissing through fabric, then lower to your stomach, before his hands slid under your shorts, pulling them down along with your strawberry-print panties without warning. He smiled at the sight. âMy little strawberry,â he chuckled, shaking his whole body. âDo you taste as sweet as they look?â
You wanted to say yes. Later, you realized how badly that would have sounded.
Relaxed by wine and reconciled with your arousal, you said in a free, easy tone, âTry it.â
His mouth met your heat, gliding with slick, teasing strokes over the bundle of nerves, savoring each lick, each snatched flavor on your taste buds. You arched your back in pleasure, pressing your head firmly into the cushions. You were soaked; your pussy slid under Brianâs tongue, no matter that he helped by adding his own saliva. With his thumb, he spread your labia, the walls entirely his, for no one else. He buried his face between your thighs like a master, claiming with his mouth the space needed to satisfy both your and his desire.
He smacked and mimicked the sounds spilling from your lips â muah, bleh, sluuurp, blap! â savoring every noise. Your hand wound into his shorter hair, twisting curls into fists, pressing his head deeper, forcing him to pick up the pace. Forcing him to devour the bud begging for attention. Control was necessary to release the heat coiling in your lower belly.
He giggled into your cunt, sliding his hands under your ass, squeezing your cheeks.
He lifted your lower body higher, teeth nipping at the swelling flesh with satisfaction. You screamed, your body pressing against him.
âFuckâGod! God, Brian!â Your free hand shot above your head, grasping the armrest for grounding. You dug your nails into the couch, redirecting focus from your ravaged pussy. You opened your mouth, sighing in delight. âMmmâfuck, donât stop!â Your eyes rolled back as the approaching orgasm slowly built. Tension coiled in the knot between your thighs, trembling violently, bumping against the sides of Brianâs head.
âBrian, fuck, Brian, Iâmââ
Devouring your cunt like a main course, he thrust a finger sharply, immediately bending it halfway â
And that was enough for the climax.
You smeared his face with your juices, leaving traces of everything you had trapped between your thighs.
Brian spread your legs with satisfaction, freeing them from their prison. And yes, you had decorated him with yourself. You wanted to take a picture and put it on the fridge. His chin gleamed with your orgasm, a cute droplet perched on his nose. He looked dirty and content with his work.
You smiled, exhausted; he did too.
You lay there for a long time, Brian refusing to reach into his pants to do what you had wanted. He confessed he didnât like ice. A personal matter you preferred not to probe. The gravity with which he said it shook your soul, rattling your bones.
You promised that another day you would jump on him and take care of him just as well as he had today. He accepted your words with a crooked grin, showing a diastema.
Caressing his head, you laid yours to the side with a contented sigh. Empty takeout boxes blocked part of the TV.
Your mind wandered briefly to a debt to Tobias. A few days ago he had lent you five dollars for a can of Sprite, and you hadnât returned it. You hadnât met him alone; Brian always accompanied you â unsurprising, as he was his friend. Still, you felt free enough to occasionally exchange messages with your friendâs friend, sharing news or listening to his voice notes when he clearly didnât feel like typing. Sometimes he sent ten at once, weaving an endless story.
You formed your lips into a small âo.â âOh, right! Can you give Tobias the money from me?â you asked, reaching into your wallet for the folded five dollars. Brian took the bundle, brow furrowed slightly. He grabbed them a little crookedly. âSure. Just⌠not anytime soon.â Your head rested on his bare thigh, hand resting on your dried pussy, thumb drawing slow circles. âThese daysâŚâ
Lately he had been a bit down. He liked to talk, laugh, listen to nonsense. It filled the space between lost childhood and the responsibilities gained as a teenager. He was two years younger than Brian, from what you understood. You had never seen someone so socially unpracticed, unaware of the pop culture of his cohort, or of things released later. He floated in the past, clinging tightly to lessons learned and names passed on by strangers. Respect and longing flowed thickly, a contagious thing affecting the moods of those around him. You remembered how he spoke of his family â a dysfunctional one, operating in bizarre ways. Tobias told of seeing his father scraping his wifeâs face with her ankles, tormenting the quivering body of his wife and mother, begging for calm. Catching the childrenâs gaze, he smiled, explaining it was just to see if he would make a good footballer. A good footballer can kick hard.
Toby spoke of it as if discussing the weather â perfectly normal.
You understood. Those were the days best not to push a man. Otherwise, Toby generally didnât leave the room. You understood he lived with someone.
âSure,â you said, no unnecessary questions.
Did you have to feel a little down thinking about your friend after sex? Yes. Was it necessary? No.
 Did Brian think you had paid him five dollars to lick your pussy? Probably.
âTasted like strawberries,â you breathed into the exposed heat. You snorted with laughter.
â*: .･. o .･.:*âááá˘â*: .･. o .･.:*â
Hi? This is my first fanfiction in this fandom, I haven't written anything about it in several years. I'm not great at writing smut, sorry it's crap! If you'd like to share your opinion, feel free to write! It will cheer me up a lot. Plus, if you're up for a chat or advice on writing 18+ scenes, here's my Twitter - zabaniekumata. I like meeting new people :3 đââď¸đ
Thanks for reading, have a nice day/evening đŠľđ
