You stood at the kitchen counter of the Meeks house, the late afternoon light slanting through the half-drawn blinds as you measured kernels into the old pot. The smell of butter already lingered from the first batch you had melted, and you kept your movements slow and deliberate so the soft sizzle would fill the quiet instead of the news still echoing in both your heads.

Mindy sat on the edge of the couch behind you, legs pulled up, phone face-down on the cushion beside her. She had not touched it in twenty minutes. Tara’s name still glowed in the notifications she refused to open again. You could feel the tension radiating off her like static shoulders locked, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing.

You shook the pot gently, listening to the first kernels begin to pop. “Hey,” you said, keeping your voice light. “Movie night rules still apply even with a killer . No checking the phone until the credits roll. Doctor’s orders.”

She huffed a soft, almost reluctant sound that might have been the beginning of a laugh. “You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m the person making the popcorn. That gives me temporary authority. And besides you do know I want to be a doctor” You glanced back at her. “Come here. Help me salt these before they get cold.”

Mindy unfolded herself from the couch and crossed the short distance to stand beside you. Her shoulder brushed yours as she reached for the salt shaker. For a second she just stayed there, close enough that you could feel the residual tremor she was trying to hide.

“She’s okay,” you said quietly, not looking at her. “Tara’s okay. Sam’s with her. We’re here. We’re safe. Just… popcorn and a dumb movie for a little while.”

Mindy nodded once, sharp and small, then tipped salt over the growing mound of white. Her fingers brushed yours when she handed the shaker back. You let the contact linger a second longer than necessary.

The last kernels finished popping. You dumped everything into the big blue bowl the two of you always used, added another thin drizzle of butter the way she liked it, and carried it to the couch. Mindy followed, curling into the corner with her knees drawn up. You settled in beside her, close enough that your thighs touched, and set the bowl between you.

She reached for a handful, chewed slowly, then leaned her head against your shoulder without saying anything. You felt the rigid line of her body begin to ease, just a fraction, as the opening logos of the movie started to play on the screen.

The soft crackle of the movie filled the living room when the phone started ringing on the cushion beside Mindy’s hip.

You reached across her without thinking and pressed your palm over the glowing screen.“Nuh-uh, babygirl. I told you no phones until the credits roll.”

Mindy’s eyes flicked to yours, already restless.“What if it’s Wes or Chad or Sam? What if he’s calling with news about Tara? I have to—”

She twisted the phone free before you could stop her and answered on the second ring, voice already tight with worry.“Wes? Did something happen? Is Tara—”

The voice that answered was not Wes. It was low, distorted, and wrong in a way that made the air in the room go still.

Mindy froze mid-sentence. Her free hand found your wrist and locked around it hard enough to bruise.

You leaned in, close enough to hear the mechanical rasp through the speaker.

“Hello, Mindy.”

The number on the screen was unknown.

She had not even looked.

The distorted voice kept talking, slow and almost playful, like it was enjoying every second of the silence that had swallowed the living room.“So… how’s the little romantic homicidal evening going with your girlfriend, Mindy? You two look cozy. Popcorn, movie, soft lighting… very domestic. Tell me, is there going to be sex later? would it bother you if I joined? I promise I’ll be quiet. Well… mostly.”

A low, static-laced chuckle scraped through the speaker.“Or are you still sticking to your precious little rule? The one about people who have sex not surviving? Funny how that works. Although… you two are the wokes of the group, right? The progressive ones. For the lesbians I guess that rule doesn’t apply. How convenient.”

You watched Mindy’s face the entire time. The color drained from her cheeks. Her free hand tightened around your wrist until your bones ached. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

You leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.“Mindy… what’s happening? Who is that?”

She turned her head just enough for her eyes to meet yours.

Her mouth formed the word without sound, slow and terrified. “Ghostface.”

You kept your eyes locked on Mindy’s pale face and forced the words out as steadily as you could.“Put it on speaker. Let me hear him. Maybe he’ll slip.”

Mindy’s thumb hovered over the screen for half a second, then she tapped the button. The distorted voice flooded the living room, louder now, filling every corner.“Well, well… look at that. Y/N speaking up. Wow. You’re actually smart when you’re not three fingers deep in your own pussy… or Mindy’s. Anyway. Really? Bottoms again? I mean, I get it, the chaos, the rage, the whole ‘fuck the patriarchy while making out in a bathroom stall’ vibe, but come on. You two are predictable.”

Your stomach dropped. You stared at the television, where the opening of Bottoms was still frozen on pause from when the phone first rang.“How the fuck do you know we’re watching Bottoms?”

The laugh that answered was low, wet, and delighted.“First reason? Because I know you. I know what you like. Uncomfortable queer cinema. The kind that makes straight people squirm and makes the two of you feel seen. You put it on every time the world gets too loud. Every single time. Second reason…” A soft, deliberate pause stretched out, long enough for the silence to start screaming.“…because I’m standing in your yard right now.”

You both went completely still. The only sound left was the faint static of the open line and the distant, almost polite crunch of footsteps on dry grass outside.

Then the living-room window exploded inward in a shower of glass and black fabric. Ghostface stepped through the shattered window like he had all the time in the world. Glass crunched under his boots. The black robe settled around him with a soft, almost casual swish. He lifted one gloved hand and gave the two of you a little side-to-side wave, fingers wiggling, as if he had just walked into a party instead of a murder scene.

Then he lunged.

You grabbed Mindy’s wrist and yanked her toward the hallway. The living room was suddenly too small, the couch and the coffee table becoming obstacles instead of furniture. Ghostface’s boots thundered behind you, the knife flashing once in the low light before disappearing again into the folds of the robe. You slammed into the narrow corridor that led to the kitchen. Mindy’s breath was ragged in your ear. You could feel how close he was—close enough that the fabric of his robe brushed the back of your arm when you risked a glance over your shoulder.

He reached for Mindy’s hair. She twisted hard, ripped free of your hand grip for half a second, and snatched the heavy ceramic vase from the side table without slowing down. In one fluid, furious motion she spun and brought it down across the side of Ghostface’s masked head with everything she had.

The vase exploded on impact. White shards and water and the last of the dying flowers sprayed across the hallway. Ghostface staggered sideways into the wall with a low, startled grunt, the knife dipping for a crucial moment.

Mindy didn’t wait to see if he stayed down. She grabbed your hand again and pulled. You didn’t stop running until the top of the stairs.

Mindy shoved you ahead of her into the narrow upstairs hallway, then spun toward the heavy wooden wardrobe that stood against the wall. Together you dragged it with everything you had, the legs screaming against the floorboards as you angled it and tipped it sideways. It crashed down across the top of the staircase with a solid, final thud, blocking the entire width. For a moment the only sounds were your shared breathing and the distant, furious scramble of Ghostface recovering below.

Mindy pressed her back to the wardrobe, chest heaving, eyes already scanning the dark hallway like she was drawing a map in her head.“Okay. Listen to me,” she said, voice low and fast. “He’s not going to stay down long. That vase only bought us minutes. Maybe less. Windows are too high on this floor to jump without breaking something, and the front door is right in his line if we try to go back down. Attic access is in the ceiling of the spare room—too slow, too loud. Fire escape is on the far side of the house, outside Chad's old window. That’s our best shot.”

She grabbed your face with both hands for half a second, forcing you to meet her eyes.“We stay quiet. We move together. If he gets past this wardrobe before we reach that window, we split—you go for the bathroom and lock yourself in, I try to draw him. But we don’t split unless we have to. Understood?”

You nodded once. Your heart was slamming so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs.

Mindy’s hands left your face and found your wrist instead, grounding, firm.“Then we move. Now.”

You were already moving when you saw it.

Ghostface had somehow forced the wardrobe just enough to squeeze through the gap at the top of the stairs. He came up silent, almost careful, the black robe blending with the shadows until the silver of the knife caught the light behind Mindy’s shoulder.

She was still turned toward the far end of the hall, whispering the next part of the plan, completely unaware.

The scream that tore out of you was raw and broken, the kind that scraped your throat bloody on the way out.“MINDY—!”

You threw yourself forward without thinking. Your body collided with hers just as the blade flashed. The impact sent both of you staggering sideways into the wall. You felt the sharp, wet heat of the knife slide across your side instead of hers—deep, immediate, wrong. Pain bloomed white-hot and then went strangely cold.

Mindy’s eyes went wide as she registered what you had done. Her hands flew to you, but you were already shoving her behind you, one arm locked across her body like a shield, the other pressed hard against the spreading warmth soaking through your shirt.

Ghostface tilted his head, studying the two of you for a beat as if the interruption amused him.

You barely had time to draw another breath before the knife came down again.

Ghostface drove the blade into your shoulder, the force of it slamming you back against the wall. The steel punched through muscle and scraped bone with a wet, grinding sound. He didn’t pull it straight out. He twisted—slow, deliberate, the serrated edge tearing a wider path as he turned the handle. White-hot pain exploded through your entire upper body. You screamed, the sound breaking into a choked, animal noise.

Mindy was still behind you, shouting your name, trying to pull you away, but you kept your body locked in front of hers.

The second thrust landed lower, just beneath your ribs on the right side. The knife sank in deep. You felt the tip drag against something soft and vital. Ghostface leaned in, putting his weight behind it, and twisted again. The blade rotated inside you with a sickening, meaty resistance. Blood poured hot and fast down your side, soaking your shirt, your jeans, the floor. Your knees buckled. You slid a few inches down the wall, still trying to stay upright, still trying to keep him away from her.

He yanked the knife free with a wet rip and immediately drove it into your thigh. The third stab was savage. The blade buried itself to the hilt, then he wrenched it sideways, carving a longer, uglier wound. Your leg gave out completely. You collapsed onto the hallway floor, the impact sending a fresh wave of agony through every injury at once.

Ghostface followed you down.

He straddled your hips, pinning you. The fourth stab went into your stomach. He pushed slowly this time, watching your face as the steel sank inch by inch. When it was fully seated he twisted the handle in a full circle, the knife grinding against tissue and muscle. You arched off the floor, a broken, wordless scream tearing out of you. Blood bubbled up between your lips.

The fifth and sixth came in rapid succession—once into your upper chest, once into the soft flesh just above your hip. Each time he twisted. Each time the pain climbed higher, sharper, until it stopped feeling like separate wounds and became one continuous, screaming fire that filled every part of you.Your vision tunneled. The edges of the hallway went gray. You could still hear Mindy’s voice somewhere far away, raw and desperate, but it sounded like it was coming from underwater.

Ghostface paused only long enough to tilt his head, studying the damage. Then he raised the knife one more time.

He drove it down between your collarbones with brutal precision. The blade sank deep, the tip scraping bone before punching through the soft tissue beneath. He twisted it once—hard—then ripped it free in a single, savage motion. A fresh spray of blood painted the wall behind you. Your body jerked once and then went slack against the floorboards, the last of your strength spilling out with the warmth pooling beneath you.

For a moment the only sound was the wet, uneven drag of your breathing. Ghostface straightened. He looked down at you, head tilted, as if deciding whether the work was finished. Then he turned without another word, strode to the shattered upstairs window, and climbed through it in one smooth motion. The black robe disappeared into the night. Glass still clung to the frame where he had passed.

The hallway fell silent except for the faint drip of blood.

Mindy had been frozen against the far wall, eyes wide, hands pressed over her mouth. The shock had locked every muscle in place while the knife rose and fell. The second the window frame stopped rattling she broke free.

She scrambled across the floor on her knees, sliding through the dark smear of blood, and gathered you against her chest with shaking arms.

“No—no, no, no, stay with me—look at me—” Her voice cracked on every word. She pressed both hands hard over the worst of the wounds, trying to stop what would not stop. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Just keep looking at me. Please.”

Your head rested against her shoulder. The hallway lights seemed to dim at the edges. Her tears fell warm onto your face as she rocked you, still whispering the same broken promises over and over. You tried to speak. Your lips parted, but the only sound that came out was a wet, broken gurgle. Blood rose in your throat and spilled over the corner of your mouth, warm and metallic, sliding down your chin. The words you wanted—something simple, something to tell her it was okay—never made it past the damage.

Mindy’s arms tightened around you instantly. She pulled you closer, cradling your head against her chest, one hand still pressed desperately over the wound between your collarbones as if sheer will could hold everything inside.“Don’t—don’t try to talk,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Just breathe. Please just breathe. Stay with me. You have to stay with me.”

Her tears fell freely now, dripping onto your face and mixing with the blood. She rocked you gently, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking against your skin.“You can’t leave me alone. Do you hear me? You can’t. I need you. Please… please resist. Just a little longer. Help is coming. Wes is coming. Someone is coming. Just hold on. Please hold on for me.”

Her voice broke completely on the last words. She kept repeating them, softer and softer, like a prayer she was terrified the universe would ignore. Mindy’s hands were still slick with your blood when she fumbled for her phone. She nearly dropped it twice before she managed to unlock the screen and hit Chad’s contact. The second the call connected she didn’t wait for a greeting.

“Chad—Chad, listen to me—get back here right now. Get the fuck back from the bar. Ghostface attacked us. He was in the house. He—” Her voice cracked into a raw, panicked shout. “He stabbed her. He stabbed Y/N over and over. There’s so much blood. She’s not—she’s not responding right. Tell Wes. Tell him to get Judy on the line and get an ambulance here immediately. Judy’s the sheriff, she can make it priority, she can make them come faster. Please, Chad, please, there’s no time. There’s no fucking time—” She was crying so hard the words kept breaking apart. In the background you could hear Chad’s voice rising in alarm, already shouting for Wes, but Mindy just kept talking over him, desperate and fast.“We’re upstairs. The hallway. I blocked the stairs but he got through. He left through the window but I don’t know if he’s still out there. Just—please hurry. Tell them to hurry. She’s dying, Chad. She’s dying and I can’t stop the bleeding.”

Her free hand never left the wound between your collarbones, pressing harder even as her whole body shook.

Mindy’s voice had gone quiet and steady, the panic stripped down to something raw and desperate.“I’ve got you,” she whispered against your hair, rocking you slowly. “I’ve got you. Just stay with me. Keep breathing. That’s all you have to do. In and out. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Her hands never stopped moving—pressing, adjusting, trying to hold the worst of the wounds closed even as the blood kept seeping between her fingers. She kept murmuring the same soft promises, over and over, like the sound of her voice alone could keep you tethered.“You’re not alone. You’re not. Help is coming. Just a little longer. Please… just a little longer.”

Somewhere outside, far down the street at first and then closer, the rising wail of sirens cut through the night. The sound grew louder, layered, urgent. Red and blue light began to flash faintly against the broken window glass.

Mindy lifted her head at the noise, a broken sound of relief escaping her, then she immediately lowered her face back to yours.“Hear that?” she whispered, tears still falling. “They’re here. You’re going to be okay. Just hold on for me. Please hold on.”

You finished the last bite of scrambled eggs and set your fork down on the plate. The morning light filtered through the kitchen window in soft stripes, and Judy was already clearing the toast crumbs from the counter with the kind of quiet efficiency that never felt rushed.

You watched her for a second, then spoke.“I still don’t know what to do for Wes’s birthday.”

Judy glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow lifting in mild curiosity rather than surprise. She rinsed the pan under the tap and turned the water off before answering.“You’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

“Yeah.” You traced the rim of your juice glass with one finger. “Everything I come up with feels either too much or completely wrong. I don’t want to plan something loud or crowded. And I really don’t want to spring anything big on him that he didn’t know was coming.”

Judy dried her hands on the dish towel and leaned against the counter, facing you fully. Her voice stayed even and warm.“That’s already a good place to start, honey. Ruling out the big parties and the big unexpected surprises is half the work. A lot of people never even get that far. They just assume louder equals better.”

You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.“I just… want it to feel right for him. Something quiet. Something that actually makes sense.”

Judy gave a small nod, the corner of her mouth lifting.“Then keep thinking in that direction. You’ll land on it. You usually do when it matters.”

She reached over and gave your shoulder a brief, steady squeeze before turning back to the sink. The kitchen stayed quiet after that—just the soft clink of dishes and the low hum of the refrigerator—while the idea of Wes’s birthday sat gently in the back of your mind, still unsolved but no longer quite so heavy.

You were still standing near the kitchen doorway when the bathroom door opened and Wes stepped out, hair damp and a little messy, wearing an old soft t-shirt and sweatpants. The moment he saw you his whole face lit up.

He crossed the short distance in a few quick strides and immediately started pressing soft, rapid kisses all over your face—cheeks, forehead, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth—murmuring quiet little “hi”s between them like he couldn’t quite stop.

“Hi,” he said again, finally pulling back just enough to look at you properly, still smiling. “Missed you.”

You were about to answer when a familiar bright, bouncy melody drifted down the hallway from his room. The television had been left on, and the unmistakable opening notes of the Teletubbies theme filled the quiet house.“EH-OH”

Wes froze. His eyes went wide. “OH MY FUCKING GOD—TELETUBBIES!!!!!”

He spun on his heel so fast his still-damp hair flung tiny droplets across his shoulder, and then he was running—actually running—down the hallway toward his room, bare feet thudding softly against the floorboards. As he went he let out a rapid, happy stream of sound under his breath, the same little vocal stim he always did when something good and familiar hit him all at once:“Miumiumiumiu—miumiumiumiu—”

You could still hear it fading as he disappeared into his room, the theme song growing louder for a second before the door swung mostly shut behind him.

You stood there for a moment, smiling to yourself in the sudden quiet of the hallway, the ghost of his kisses still warm on your skin. You stayed in the hallway a little longer than you needed to, listening to the bright, cheerful theme song still playing faintly behind Wes’s mostly-closed door and the soft, happy “miumiumiumiu” that kept slipping out of him every few seconds. Something warm and steady spread through your chest until it felt almost too full—like your heart had simply decided it couldn’t hold any more affection for him in that exact moment and was trying anyway.

Judy appeared at the end of the hall with a clean dish towel still in her hands. She followed your gaze toward Wes’s room, then looked back at you with a quiet, knowing expression.“You’re the first girlfriend he’s ever had where he doesn’t mask,” she said softly. “I mean it. I’ve never seen him this… open. This happy. Not even close.”

The words landed gently but firmly. You felt your throat tighten for half a second before a sudden, crystal-clear idea slammed into place so hard you almost laughed out loud.

“Oh fuck,” you whispered. “Oh fuck—Judy, I already know what I’m doing for his birthday.”

Judy smiled, slow and satisfied, like she’d been waiting for exactly this.“See?” she said, tipping her head toward Wes’s door. “I told you the idea would show up.”

You pushed off from the driveway on your bike, the afternoon air cool against your face as the neighborhood slipped past in quiet stretches of sidewalk and low fences. The pedals turned steadily under your feet, and with every rotation your mind circled back to the same place it had been circling all morning: Wes.

You loved him in the steady, unshowy way that had become your favorite kind of feeling—the kind that lived in the small details. The way he let the happy sounds spill out of him without checking first. The way he had kissed your face like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way he never seemed to measure or edit himself around you anymore.

Gratitude sat warm and quiet in your chest. You knew how rare that kind of openness was for him, and how carefully he had once kept the softer, brighter parts of himself folded away. That he let them out with you—freely, without apology—felt like something precious you never wanted to take for granted.

And you knew, better than almost anything else, how much the Teletubbies meant to him. Not as a joke or a passing joke-reference, but as something steady and comforting that had been his for years. The bright colors, the simple songs, the gentle world that asked nothing complicated of anyone.

Making Tubby Toast and Tubby Custard together wouldn’t be loud or surprising or overwhelming. It would just be the two of you in the kitchen, doing something small and familiar and completely his. It would be a quiet way of saying the thing you felt most clearly in that moment: I see you. I hear you. I know you—maybe even better than I know myself sometimes—and I love every single piece of it.

You locked your bike outside the little grocery store and pulled out your phone before you even went inside. Standing in the shade of the awning, you opened TikTok and typed the words you’d been turning over since the bike ride: Tubby Toast recipe. Tubby Custard recipe.

The first few videos confirmed what you’d already guessed. Tubby Toast was straightforward simple pancakes cooked into soft rounds, then more mix to do mouth n eyes Happy-face pancakes. Easy. Comforting. Exactly the kind of low-pressure thing Wes would light up over without any of the sensory landmines that bigger birthday plans always seemed to carry.

Then you switched to the custard videos.

Most of them started the same way: eggs, milk, sugar, a careful tempering process. You watched one all the way through, then another, and felt the familiar quiet click of understanding settle in your chest. The texture. The way the eggs thickened and turned slightly glossy. Wes had never been able to handle that particular mouthfeel—he’d told you once, matter-of-fact and without embarrassment, that it made his whole body want to pull away. You weren’t about to put him through that on his birthday.

You closed the egg-based recipes and searched again.

Strawberry pudding. Instant, smooth, no eggs, bright pink if you wanted it to look close enough to the original Tubby Custard. You could even pour it into little bowls and pretend they were the official ones. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be kind. It would be something he could actually enjoy without having to mask discomfort for your sake.

You slipped your phone back into your pocket, already rewriting the mental shopping list: pancake mix, chocolate chips, strawberry pudding mix, milk, maybe a small bottle of pink food coloring just in case. Then you pushed open the store door, the soft electronic chime greeting you like a quiet yes.

You wandered past the baking aisle and into the craft section almost without thinking, still smiling to yourself. The shelves were quiet and a little dusty, but exactly what you needed sat right at eye level: a small pack of plain plastic headbands and a sleeve of colorful pipe cleaners.

You picked up the darkest purple ones first. Tinky Winky. Of course. You already knew he was Wes’s favorite—had known it for months, from the way his voice went soft and fond whenever the purple Teletubby appeared on screen, from the tiny worn plush that still lived on the corner of his desk. You twisted a couple of the pipe cleaners together in your mind, picturing the simple triangle antenna that would sit on top of the headband. Nothing fancy. Just enough to make it real.

Then you reached for the red ones.

Po.

You weren’t even trying to be subtle about it. Matching headbands felt right in the same quiet way everything about this birthday plan had started to feel right. You dropped both colors into your little hand basket along with the pancake mix and the strawberry pudding, already imagining the two of you standing in the kitchen later with ridiculous antennae bouncing every time either of you moved.

A soft giggle slipped out before you could stop it. You could already see Wes’s face—the way his eyes would go wide and bright, the way the happy little “miumiumiumiu” would probably tumble out of him the second he realized what you’d made. The thought alone made your chest feel warm and full all over again.

You paid for everything at the register, tucked the bag carefully into your bike basket, and started the ride home with the headbands and pipe cleaners nestled safely between the pancake mix and the pudding, still quietly laughing to yourself every time the picture of Wes in a Tinky Winky antenna popped back into your head.

You stayed up long past midnight at the little desk in your room, the only light coming from the small lamp and the soft glow of your phone. The purple pipe cleaners twisted easily between your fingers as you shaped Tinky Winky’s antenna, careful to make the loop sturdy enough that it wouldn’t flop over the second Wes moved. Then you made Po’s in bright red, a little shorter, a little rounder, exactly the way you remembered her.

When both headbands were finished you lined a plain cardboard box with tissue paper and nested the ingredients inside: the pancake mix, the chocolate chips, the strawberry pudding packets, a small bottle of milk, and the two finished antennas resting on top like they belonged there. A few extra little gifts went in around them—a soft new pair of socks in Tinky Winky purple, a tiny notebook with a smiling sun on the cover, and a short handwritten note that simply said I see you. You closed the box, tied it with a piece of ribbon, and finally let yourself sleep for a few short hours.

Morning came pale and quiet. You rode your bike the short distance to Wes’s house with the box balanced carefully in the front basket. The porch steps creaked under your feet as you climbed them. You took one steadying breath, lifted your free hand, and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately.

Wes stood there in the same soft t-shirt from the day before, hair still a little messy from sleep, eyes widening the second he saw you.

You grinned, lifted the box a little higher, and called out in the brightest, warmest voice you had:

“Eh-oh! Happy birthday, my love.”

Wes’s whole face lit up the second the words left your mouth. His eyes went wide and bright, and for a moment he just stood there in the doorway, smiling so hard it looked like it might actually hurt.

“Is that—?” He didn’t finish the question. He just reached for the box with both hands, careful but eager, and carried it straight to the little table by the door. You followed him inside and watched as he lifted the lid.

The second he saw the purple antenna sitting on top of the pancake mix, a soft, delighted sound escaped him. Then he spotted the red one, the pudding packets, the chocolate chips, the little purple socks, the notebook, the note. His hands hovered over everything like he didn’t know what to touch first.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, voice already climbing with pure, unfiltered joy. “Oh my god—Tubby Toast? And—and the custard? And the antennas? You made—?” He looked up at you, eyes shining, and before you could answer he stepped forward and wrapped you in a tight, warm hug, burying his face against your shoulder for a second. You felt him laugh into your shirt, the happy little vocal stim tumbling out of him in a rapid, rhythmic stream. “Miumiumiumiu—miumiumiumiu—”

When he pulled back he was still grinning, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Yes,” he said, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Yes. We’re doing this. Right now. Best birthday breakfast of my entire life. Come on.”

okay first of all. tbh u getting hickeys was gonna happen anyways. mans is possessive. he wants to flaunt you and still get attention from it. if he genuinely likes u? game over. he killed casey’s punkass for dumping him. if he wants you? yeah, your his. for better or worse. and he wants everyone to know it. and also, he’s used to ppl just leaving. he likes reminding you that you’re his. not to mention- who is gonna fuck with this guy? he’s over six foot and batshit crazy. is that rly someone u wanna go toe to toe with in a fight? also, he’s strong. we see him toss tatum over his shoulder like she’s a sack of flour. she’s my height and i’m around 120-130 lbs. that’s not easy to just toss around. additionally, he’s rough. both on purpose and accidentally. he’s gonna be kissing your neck, and will nip just a little bit hard just to get a reaction out of you. but ohhhh boy. you liking it? you wanting it? yeah good luck! fortunately his parents leave him to fend for himself a lot so while he will be keeping you in his bed for a good long while, at least you won’t have to worry about anybody walking in! if he’s kissing along your neck, sucking hickeys and he goes back to just kissing and you grab his head, maybe tug his hair or push him into your neck, he’s likely to get the hint. “wait- baby, don’t tell me you like that?” he grins, eyes gleaming. “yeah?” you breathlessly agree, nodding. he laughs and lolls that obscene tongue out at you. “shit. why didn’t you tell me that earlier? would’ve had you covered, my god” but don’t worry! he will be making up for lost time. he’s almost immediately gonna test your boundaries. he is stu, after all. he lives for reactions. any and all, whether it’s you moaning as he sucks a hickey onto the delicate skin of your neck or him sinking his teeth into the supple flesh of your tits, or you yelping and smacking him for being too harsh. the second you smack him for biting you too hard he’s going “awe, baby come onnn, you said you liked it! i was doing what you said you liked!” all whiny and pouty before he kisses you until you forget- then does it again. and if your skin is too dark for hickeys? luckily you still have skin! which can hold indentations of bite marks <3 he looooooves that you love it. like you will genuinely be covered in them. like. to the point it’s almost embarrassing. he’ll easily let you return the favor- he thinks it’s hot too! he would definitely do them in like a shape or pattern and be soooo proud of himself and would be sooo whiny if you tried to cover it up. also gives him an excuse to see you naked more. (“babeeee we aren’t even fuckingggg i just wanna see how pretty you look all marked up from me :’( ”) he will then take advantage of this to give you more hickeys

the mornings were frigid, nights were long, and class workloads seemed to double only from late january to mid may.

there were things to look forward to in fall semester. homecoming, holiday events, and the rejuvenating feeling of a fresh start. there wasn't much to say for the spring, though.

that's where ethan found himself. nose deep into a seemingly never ending pile of assignments. his coffee had long gone cold, and had he not been wearing his glasses he's convinced the bright light of his computer would've made him a blind man.

you never minded keeping ethan company during his study sessions. he was productive, and he always rewarded for your patience in his own, special way. but one look at him and you knew he was in need of an intervention.

you force yourself off his bed—it was comfortable, despite typical college sleeping conditions—and approach his hunched form. your hands grip the base of his neck and squeeze gently. his head rolls back at the feeling, his eyes fluttering shut.

"ethan, baby, let's take a break, yeah?" you suggest.

"can't. need to finish this assignment." he denies.

"your assignment can wait, hun. you're gonna strain your eyes."

he looks up at you, "just ten more minutes? please?"

you kiss his forehead, relenting, "fine. just ten minutes."

you roll your knuckles along the base of his neck down to his collarbone. ethan lets out a deep sigh, one that you figure must've been trapped in the depths of his chest. your hands move towards his back, your firm touch unwavering. you press deep lines onto each side of his back, just shy of his shoulder blades.

"can you go a little farther down?" he requests, back arching to alleviate the ache near his tailbone. you comply, trailing your knuckles down to each side of his lower back. his head lulls from side to side, the pain slowly drifting away.

at first your touch is innocent, only meant to relieve the strain weighing him down. but you can't help but feel a little sinister. your sweet touches turn lustful, your fingers trailing down his stomach towards his crotch. you're leaned over him, breasts flush against his back.

your fingers ghost over his clothed cock, causing him to let out a quiet hiss. you cup his groin, lightly squeezing. your touch doesn't last, though, your hands quickly retreating back up to his chest.

"w-what're you doing?" ethan asks.

"don't worry about it, sweetie. just keep working." you dismiss.

you know damn well he won't be able to focus anymore. you pull your hands away entirely, finding your way back to his bed as if you haven't done anything at all.

he squirms in his chair, trying to ignore the growing erection in his pants. he doesn't want to give in to the affect you have over him, but his body is not so easily convinced.

he relents, rising from his desk and climbing into bed. his body hovers over yours.

"babe..." he begins.

"i thought you needed ten more minutes." you mention.

"chem can wait. i need you. need you to rub my back again." he pleads.

you both know he wants more than a simple back massage, but you don't mind playing coy. you open your arms for him to fall into. he plumps down onto you, releasing a grunt from your chest. some days you're convinced he forgets how heavy he is.

your hands slip under his shirt, scratching little lines into the skin of his back. he ruts his clothed erection against the fabric of your pants.

"m'sorry," he begins, but he's not sorry at all, "m'just so stressed out... need you to get my mind off it."

his lips make contact with your neck, kissing your skin with eager desperation. your hand travels up the back of his neck, fingers buried in his curls.

"lay back f'me, baby. let me take care of you." you command.

he whines into your skin, his kisses unrelenting. you slowly sit up and pull his head away from you, flipping him over onto his back.

"i hope you're not so desperate that you can't listen," you chide, "that wouldn't be good for either of us, would it?"

he shakes his head, "n-no, mama, i can listen."

"there's my good boy," you praise, cupping his cheeks. you pull him into a kiss, soft yet deep. he doesn't fight it, submitting to you as if it's the most natural thing in the world. your hand wraps around the base of his neck, like a mother cat holding her kitten's scruff. you rub his neck with a firm hold, guiding a whine from the recesses of his chest. as quickly as your lips had his, you took them away, trailing kisses down his jaw towards his neck. his body relaxes, slowly falling towards the mattress but kept somewhat upright by plush pillows and gifted stuffed animals. you pull away for a moment, only long enough to rid ethan of his shirt.

you suck on the skin of his neck roughly, as if staking claim over him mind, body, and soul. his head lulls back, exposing the extent of his neck to you. the musk of his cologne infiltrates your nose, a mixture of light and sweet notes taking over your senses. you never knew a man who smelled quite as nice as ethan; he was sweet enough to taste. you could spend the rest of your life kissing him, you think.

he hasn't uttered a word, breathy sighs and quiet whimpers the only noises escaping him.

your lips move to his chest, your harsh sucks unrelenting. your hands rub down his sides, holding a firm pressure to his ribs. your thumbs circle his skin as you take his nipple between your teeth.

"nnggh-" he whines, back arching upward at the pain. you release his hardened nipple from your teeth, planting a featherlight kiss against it as if in apology.

you shift your attention to his tummy. he's lean, yet somehow incredibly toned. it never fails to take you by surprise; he just doesn't look the type at first glance. you ghost your fingers down his waist, the ticklish feeling making him squirm. part of you wants to sit back and relish in the sight beholding you. your ethan, sprawled out at your mercy, little beads of sweat glistening over his abdomen. he belongs in a museum, one filled wall to wall with marble statues. but you just can't keep your hands—or mouth—off of him. you want to taste him, take him, claim every inch of him as your own.

but alas, you can't forget what your poor, sweet ethan really needs. you pull away from him, sitting up. you click your tongue, he already looks dazed and you've barely gotten started with him.

"where does it hurt, sweet boy?" you ask, softly stroking his covered thighs.

"everywhere, mama..." he whines.

"gotta be more specific than that, silly." you undo the fly of his jeans.

"my back hurts... 'nd my legs." he confesses.

you pull his jeans down his legs and discard them on the floor, leaving him in his dampening boxers.

"flip over on your tummy, my love." you instruct, guiding his body into the position you need. for as badly as you want to just fuck him senseless into the mattress, you made a promise. and you'll be damned if your ethan doesn't get what he needs. but, that didn't mean you couldn't tease him a little.

you begin massaging his back, dragging your knuckles down his sides. his skin slowly turns pink at the firm contact. you can't help but wish you had some oil, but your hands alone would do just fine.

"this feel okay, baby?" you ask, your voice honey-sweet. he nods against his pillows. his arms are wrapped around a stuffed dog you gifted him a few months ago. he's at odds with himself. his body wants to relax, but the throbbing sensation between his legs says otherwise.

the skin of his back was smooth, and impossibly soft. in fact, his entire body was as soft as silk. your thumbs circle his lower back, dipping just under the waistband of his boxers. he squirms, the friction of his hard cock rubbing against the mattress making him whine.

"oh, my poor baby. you work yourself too hard, you know that?" you coo.

"mmm..." he hums contentedly.

your hands move to the backs of his thighs, rubbing up and down firmly. bit by bit, your ministrations spread his legs apart, exposing just part of his clothed erection.

"i know..." he whines, squirming once again.

your fingers ghost over his balls, making him jolt in surprise.

"on your back for me, sweet thing." you command, giving him the space to maneuver himself.

he complies, flipping over onto his back. if he didn't look desperate before, he absolutely does now. his head lulls to the side. you place your palms on his tummy, stroking in semicircular motions. he squirms, for as much as he hates to admit it, he's ticklish.

"please..." he whimpers.

"please what, baby?" you tease.

"please just... please just fuck me already." he blurts out.

you smirk at his sudden boldness, it's usually so unlike him.

you hook your fingers under the elastic of his underwear, slowly pulling it down. his cock slaps against his tummy, precum leaking just below his navel.

"always so pretty for me." you praise, cupping your palms over his leaking tip.

"ngh-! mommy..." he whines.

"shhh, i know, pretty baby." you coo.

you begin pumping your fist up and down his shaft, twisting every so slightly with each movement. his hips rut into your hand as if on your own, his body completely at your mercy.

his arms reach out, hands slipping under the fabric of your dress and hiking it up your hips.

"take this off, mama... wanna see you." ethan pleads.

"so demanding," you tease, but you comply to his demand. you take your hand away from his cock just long enough to lift your dress up and over your body.

"so pretty, mommy." he compliments, his eyes sparkling at the sight of your half naked form.

you hover atop him and bring his lips to yours, grinding your clothed sex against his erection. your hips roll slowly, teasingly. his hands trail up your waist, groping your breasts. he can feel how soaked you are through your panties, the cold sensation making his cock throb in arousal.

"fuck, mama," ethan moans into your kiss, "can't wait anymore."

suddely, he grips your hips and flips you over. you let out a surprised yelp, your arms now pinned above your head by only one of his hands. his other pulls your soaked panties aside, lining himself up at your entrance. he inserts himself slowly, letting you feel every inch of him as he penetrates you.

"ah- god!" you cry out as your walls stretch out to make room for him.

"fu-u-u-uck- so tight, mommy." he whines.

he stills for a long moment, regaining his breath and allowing you to get used to his size.

"y-you can move, baby." you permit, rolling your hips.

he obeys, thrusting in and out of you. his pace starts slow, measured, as if scared to break you.

"you ngh- can d-do better than that, eth. b-be a little rougher with me, yeah? i can take it." you tease.

your teasing words ignite a fire within him. his hands grip your legs, forcing them up and apart. he slams his cock into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room. you wrap your legs around him, caging him in.

"sh-shit, mama..." he groans.

at the rate he's going, you know your cervix will most definitely be bruised. but you couldn't be bothered to care. he thrusts into you fast and passionate, any sense of rhythm or pace nonexistent. he buries his face into your neck, hiding his glassy eyes from your view.

"fuckfuckfuckfuck mommy! gonna cum!" ethan cries.

"cum f'me, baby. f-fill me up, i can take it." you moan, feeling your own orgasm inching closer and closer.

"t-t-take all of it fffuck- g'na put a baby in you."

you feel his thick, warm release coat your insides, shooting up towards your cervix. yet, his pace is unrelenting, as if refusing to stop until he feels you come undone under him.

"c-cum on my cock, mama fuck- please... need t'feel you!" he cries out, the last of his orgasm seeping out of your core.

"fuck baby, oh god-" you moan, tossing your head back as you coat his cock with your juices.

his thrusts stop, cock stilling inside your walls. his body goes limp, all of his weight relaxing atop you. you hear the faintest of sniffles escape him as your neck catches his last beads of tears. you bring a hand up to his hair and comb your fingers through his curls, your other resting on top of his back.

"feeling better, baby?"

"much."

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