Entry #666

Most of the other residents are out or asleep, and the only light is coming from the flickering TV playing some episode of Gilmore Girls Jeff put on for background noise. 

He’s sprawled across the couch like he owns it (mainly because he’s convinced he does), one arm slung over the backrest, the other lazily holding his busted phone and playing some snake game. He’s got his hood up, legs kicked out onto the coffee table, and he’s blissfully trying to ignore how his insomnia is keeping him up.

You come padding down the stairs in one of his oversized Black Sabbath t-shirts and some sleep shorts, hair still messy from sleeping upstairs. The only reason you came down is because you woke up to his side of the bed being empty, deciding that he was probably down here. You spot him immediately, and he doesn’t even look away from the TV at first, but the corner of his carved smile twitches upwards when he hears your footsteps.

Jeff glances at you, then back to the TV. 

“Hey. What’re you doing up?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you walk straight over, nudge his feet off the table with your knee, and drop sideways into his lap like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Your side presses into his chest, legs slung over his thighs, and lay your cheek onto his shoulder.

He tenses up real fast, staring down at you, then loosens when he feels your breath against his neck.

“Well, damn. Hello to you too.”

His arm that was on the back of the couch eventually curls around your waist, pulling you in tighter against him. His phone gets tossed onto the coffee table with a clatter so both hands are free, curling his other hand around your thighs and snugging your hips closer into his lap.

“Did you have a nightmare or somethin’? Need me to check under your bed, you big baby?”

You just grumble and burrow closer, fingers slipping under the hem of his hoodie to rest against the warm skin of his stomach. He sucks in a sharp breath at the cold of your hands.

“…Fuckin’ freezer fingers. Every time.”

His hands slide until they’re both wrapping around your torso, holding you close as he rests his cheek on your head. You adjust closer to him, angling your face so you can see the screen.

On the TV, Lorelai’s rattling off some rapid-fire monologue. Jeff snorts. 

“Still can’t believe you got me watching this chick-flick shit. If Ben finds out I know who the hell Rory is, he’ll never shut up.”

You feel his lips brush the top of your head when he talks, barely there, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. But then he gets quiet again, before lifting his face off your head. “You stole my shirt again.”

“It smells like you,” you mumble into his neck.

He goes still for a second. You can practically hear the smirk die and restart as something softer.

“Yeah? You’re weird as hell.” His thumb starts tracing lazy circles against your spine through the fabric, laying his head back onto yours. “…Keep it. Looks better on you anyway.”

The credits are rolling on some episode you’ve both seen a dozen times when you feel his breathing finally even out to something slower. His head’s tipped back against the couch, hood fallen half off, mouth slack in a way that almost looks peaceful. One arm is still locked around your waist like a seatbelt, and the other’s gone limp across your thighs.

You’re dozing too, lulled by the warmth of him and the low hum of the TV, until the quiet gets too heavy. And then you’re deciding you don’t want to spend the rest of the night on the couch.

And if there’s anything that motivates Jeff, it’s a bit of persuasion.

You shift just enough to look up at his face, then roll your hips down slow, pressing into his lap with a lazy grind.

Jeff jolts awake with a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes snapping open, pupils blown wide in the dark.

“Jesus—fuck—” His voice is gravel-rough from sleep, hands instantly clamping down on your hips hard enough to bruise. “What the hell—”

He blinks a couple times, registering it’s you, then lets his head fall back again with a groaned laugh that sounds more wrecked than annoyed.

“Rude-ass wake-up call.”

His grip loosens, but only so his thumbs can slip under the hem of the stolen shirt, tracing the skin just above your shorts.

“You’re evil,” he mutters, but he’s already shifting under you, pulling you down harder against him like he can’t decide if he’s pissed or turned on. Probably both. “Pure fuckin’ evil.”

You do it again, slower, just to watch his jaw clench and that sleepy haze burn right off.

Jeff growls low, sitting up straighter so fast the room spins a little, and suddenly you’re being pushed up so your ass grinds right onto his lap, your back now facing him. Jeff’s hands find your hips on either side, tugging your hips back and forth faster than your tired body really wants to go, yanking you so your ass drags over the growing ridge in his sweatpants. 

“Fuck, there it is,” he mutters against the shell of your ear. “Knew you weren’t just tryna cuddle.”

You feel him harden under you with every roll of your hips, and your own tired grind turns greedy despite yourself, chasing the pressure, the heat, until a soft, helpless sound slips out of you.

One hand snaps up, his palm sealing over your mouth, fingers pressing into your cheek. The other arm bands across your chest like a steel bar, hauling you flush against him so your back arches and your head falls against his shoulder.

“Shh,” he growls, lips brushing your temple. “You want the whole house waking up to hear you getting off on my dick? That what you want, huh?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just uses the grip on your hips to set his rhythm again, dragging you back and forth over his clothed cock like he’s already inside you. The couch creaks under the force of it, every thrust forward nudging right between your legs, the thin fabric of your shorts and his sweats doing jack shit to hide how hard he is now.

You whimper into his palm, the sound muffled but still far too loud over the quiet lull of the TV. 

“Yeah, that’s it. Keep that pretty mouth shut while I use this ass.”

His hips roll up to meet you, grinding shamelessly, the hand over your mouth sliding just enough so his thumb can trace your bottom lip, dragging it to the side.

Jeff twists you just enough to crush his mouth to yours, swallowing the little moan you can’t hold back. The kiss is messy, teeth snagging, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to taste every sound you make. His hand shoves higher under your (his) shirt, palm rough against your ribs as he searches for your chest.

You’re both panting into each other’s mouths, hips still rolling slow and filthy, when the front door rattles. The sound of keys and the lock sliding come right after that.

Every muscle in Jeff’s body locks up, and yours does too. His thumb is still halfway between your lips, the hand on your chest frozen, fingers digging in like he’s anchoring you in place. You can feel his cock throbbing against your ass, painfully hard, and you’re no better, breathless and aching and terrified to even breathe.

The door swings open, and Toby stumbles in, hoodie soaked, face streaked with mud, hatchet clattering against the loop he’s got it hooked in on his belt. He kicks the door shut behind him and trudges straight behind the couch, boots leaving wet prints on the floor.

You and Jeff don’t move, you don’t even blink. 

Toby stops right behind the couch, close enough you can smell the rain and dirt on him. You feel Jeff’s heart hammering against your spine. You’re both waiting for the yell, the “what the fuck,” the inevitable groan of disgust.

But instead, Toby tilts his head at the TV, voice muffled through his mouthguard. “Ah, m-man… Gilmore Girls. I fucking luh-love this show.”

He doesn’t even glance down at the two of you tangled together, doesn’t notice Jeff’s hand still shoved up your shirt or the way your thighs are clamped around his. Just scratches at the back of his neck, yawns, and shuffles toward the stairs like he didn’t almost walk in on the single most compromising moment of both your lives.

The second his footsteps hit the creaking stairs, Jeff’s forehead drops to your shoulder with a shaky, incredulous laugh.

“…I’m gonna kill him,” he whispers. “I’m actually going to fucking murder him.”

His hand finally slips out from under your shirt, both arms falling to his sides, and he’s letting out one long, exasperated sigh.

But then you’re sitting up, pushing off of the couch and dragging your hips forward on your way to standing up. Jeff grunts, looking up at you before him. You turn and look down at him sprawled there.

“If you come to bed right now,” you say, voice low and sweet, “I’ll let you fuck me until the sun comes up.”

You don’t wait for an answer, just pivot and pad toward the stairs, hips swaying because you know he’s watching every step.

Jeff’s on his feet so fast the couch scoots back an inch. He’s behind you in two strides, hands already reaching, but you giggle and step up the stairs faster. He skips two steps at a time, catching up to you. You’re halfway up the stairs when his arm hooks around your waist, yanking you back against his chest mid-step. 

“Run all you want, babe,” he growls, mouth brushing the shell of your ear as he hauls you the rest of the way up, your feet barely touching the floor. “You’re not gettin’ away now.”

You’re still laughing when he kicks the bedroom door shut behind you both.

Then the giggles turn into gasps, because Jeff doesn’t waste a single second.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ TICCI TOBY

The porch light is busted again, so the only glow comes from the moon and the occasional flicker of fireflies out past the tree line. Dinner’s long over, the kitchen finally quiet after Masky and Hoodie argued over the last slice of pizza. 

Toby’s out on the porch like he usually is when the house gets too loud for his head, rocking chair creaking as he tilts back and forth, one boot propped on the railing, a half-warm beer dangling from his fingers.

He’s got his goggles pushed up into his messy brown hair, mouthguard hanging loose around his neck because nobody’s around to care, and he can chew into his lip and worsen his scarred gash all he wants. Every few seconds his shoulder jerks with a tic, but the beer helps slow them down tonight.

The screen door squeaks, and you step out in socked feet, hoodie zipped up to your chin, and pause when you spot him. “Oh. Didn’t know you were out here.”

Toby glances over lazily. “Door’s lo-loud as shit. Hard t-to miss.” He lifts the bottle in a half-salute. “You’re good, though. Pl-Plenty of porch.”

You wander closer anyway, leaning your hip against the railing beside his chair. The night’s cool, crickets loud. You watch him take another slow sip.

“Didn’t know you drank beer,” you say.

“Don’t usually, but J-J-Jeff snagged s-some. Tastes like piss b-but it quiets the static.” He shrugs, then pats the armrest of the chair with his free hand. “You look cold. Wood’s warmer th-than the railing.”

You huff a little laugh and step in, resting your hip on the arm of his rocking chair instead. The motion makes the chair sway gently, and Toby doesn’t flinch when your weight shifts it.

For a while you just talk about easy stuff. About how Hoodie stole his favorite belt again, about the deer you saw in the yard yesterday, about how he actually kinda liked the mission earlier today—something about putting up more pages for Slender near the lake. His voice is soft without the mouthguard muffling it, that little rasp from his tics that never quite goes away.

You’re not even really thinking when you move, you just push off the armrest and slide sideways into his lap like it’s the most natural thing when your feet begin to get tired. Your legs hang off the edge of one of the armrests, sitting sideways in his lap, back against the other armrest so you’re half-facing him. The rocking chair protests with a louder creak but keeps moving when Toby lets his lifted leg fall to the ground.

Toby goes completely still for a heartbeat, beer bottle frozen halfway to his mouth, eyes wide behind the messy fringe. A sharp tic snaps his head to the side, then back.

“Uh.” He blinks. “Hi?”

You just settle in, tucking your cold hands between your thigh and his hip. He’s furnace-hot like always.

“Chair looked comfy,” you mumble, resting your temple against his shoulder. “The wood’s warmer than the railing, y'know."

Toby’s brain seems to catch up. Slowly, he lowers the beer to rest on the porch floor without spilling it. Then both arms come up, one curling behind your back, the other settling across your thighs like he’s making sure you don’t slide off when the chair rocks.

“…You’re w-weird,” he says, but it’s soft, almost fond. His fingers start tracing idle circles on your hip through the fabric. “Coulda just a-asked if you wanted me to ho-hold you.”

“You’re not complaining,” you point out.

He snorts, a little puff of air against your hair. “Nah. Not complaining.”

The rocking chair keeps its lazy rhythm while you talk, voices low so the people inside don't hear. Toby finishes a story about the time he accidentally set a target’s barn on fire and tried to blame it on Kate, and you’re laughing into his collar when he leans sideways, groping blindly for the forgotten beer bottle. His fingers close around it, and he brings it up, takes a long swallow, then offers it to you.

“Want some? It’s w-warm now. K-Kinda gross.”

You sip. It’s warm and bitter and perfect. When you hand it back, your fingers brush his and stay there a second longer than necessary.

The flirting is soft at first, just teasing glances and the way his thumb keeps sweeping across your hip like he can’t stop. Then a cold breeze snakes through the trees, sharp enough to make your teeth almost chatter.

Toby makes a low, sympathetic noise. “C’mere.”

One arm slides fully around your waist, the other slips between your thighs, his warm palm pressing against the inside of your leg to steal the chill away. He tugs you closer, pulling your whole body closer.

“B-Better?” he murmurs.

You hum, nodding, and loop your arm around the back of his neck instead of letting it awkwardly press between your side and his. Your hand slides up the back of his neck, fingers threading into the messy brown hair at his nape. You scratch lightly, just the way he likes when he pretends he doesn’t.

“You’re go-gonna kill me doin’ t-that,” he whispers, but he leans into your touch like a cat.

Your nails scrape gently along his scalp again. “You’re the one with your hand between my legs, Rogers.”

“Just preserving b-body h-h-heat,” he says, smirking sideways. “T-Totally innocent.”

The hand on your waist slips under the hem of your hoodie, palm splaying flat against bare skin. His fingers are hot, calloused, and they trace slow, absent patterns like he’s memorizing you.

Another breeze and you shiver again, and this time you press closer on instinct, tucking your face into the warm crook of his neck. Toby’s arms lock tight, rocking you both a little faster, like the motion itself can chase the cold away.

“I gotcha’,” he mutters against your hair. “Not lettin’ the w-wind have y-you.”

You smile against his pulse and keep playing with his hair, feeling the way his whole body slowly melts under the touch. The beer bottle sits abandoned again, condensation pooling on the porch floor.

Neither of you is in any hurry to go back inside.

The kiss starts soft, almost shy. Toby’s lips are warm from the beer, a little hesitant until you tilt your head and let him in. Then the tipsiness kicks in, his cheeks are flushed pink with alcohol you can see even in the moonlight, and he makes this quiet, hungry sound that vibrates against your mouth. His tongue slides past your lips, tasting like cheap lager on his tastebuds.

You’re both lost in it when voices drift through the cracked screen door, Masky grumbling to Hoodie about something as they pass. Inside, the basement door creaks open, then shuts with a heavy thud. Then silence swallows the house again.

You pull back just enough to listen, the two of you tense, but they’re gone.

Toby’s breathing hard, eyes dark and glassy, his lips wet. You don’t say anything, just grab his wrist and guide his hand higher up your thigh, pressing his palm firmly between your legs, right where heat is already pooling.

His reaction is instant. His fingers flex, then push against you, cupping you through the thin fabric of your shorts. A sharp tic jerks his shoulder, but he doesn’t pull away; if anything he leans in closer, forehead against yours.

“Fuck… you s-sure?” he whispers, voice cracking on the last word. 

You answer by rolling your hips into his hand and kissing him again, harder this time. Toby groans into your mouth, free arm locking around your waist to keep you pinned. The rocking chair creaks beneath you both as he presses his palm tighter, rubbing in small, firm circles that make your breath catch in your throat.

“Make it quick,” you breathe against his lips.

That’s all it takes. Toby’s hand slips under the waistband of your shorts without another word, fingers sliding over bare skin, finding you already soaked. His whole body shudders.

“J-Jesus, you’re—” He cuts himself off with another messy kiss, swallowing whatever filthy thing he was about to say as he starts rubbing his fingers against you.

The porch light might be busted, but the moon’s bright enough to see every flush on his face, every twitch of his mouth when your nails dig into the back of his neck and pull his hair.

But this rocking chair is old, half-rotted from years of rain, and it never stood a chance.

You’re grinding down hard, chasing the pressure of his fingers against you and the thick ridge of his bulge under your hips, when Toby whines against your mouth.

“Fuck i-it, I don’t care w-who hears, I-I need you right now.”

He shifts you up, hands moving frantically, yanking you higher so you’re properly straddling his thighs. One arm locks around your waist while the other fumbles with his belt buckle, the metal clinking too loud compared to the quiet night. You feel him tug at your shorts, trying to push his boxers down at the same time—

The back leg snaps with a sharp crack.

You tip backward with a startled gasp, the world flipping, but Toby’s reflexes are stupid-fast as always. His free hand shoots out, slamming against the porch railing hard enough to rattle the whole thing. Wood groans under his grip, but he catches both of you, muscles straining, stopping you inches from eating the floorboards.

For a second you’re just hanging there—you clinging to his shoulders, legs still wrapped around his waist, his dick half-out and pressed between you, both of you panting like you just ran a marathon. Toby’s eyes are huge, pupils blown, cheeks scarlet. A breathless laugh punches out of him.

“…Well, sh-shit.” His forehead drops to yours, voice ragged. “New p-plan,” he rasps, already hauling you upright, dick still out and dragging against your stomach as he stands. “Bed’s more cu-com-comfortable anyway.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just scoops you up, your legs locking around his hips, and kicks the broken chair aside as he carries you toward the door, lips already on your neck, both of you laughing and cursing under your breath the whole way inside.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ EYELESS JACK

The basement smells like antiseptic, old paper, and the copper tang that never quite leaves Jack’s clothes. 

A single desk lamp throws a cone of yellow light over scattered medical notes, a half-disassembled kidney in a steel tray, and Jack hunched in his rolling chair, pen scratching across a battered notebook.

He’s writing notes over his last operation, scattered details about pulling a bullet from Tim’s shoulder, and how he needs to send Toby out for more morphine later.

“Idiot can’t even dodge a .38 anymore…” he grumbles.

He’s so focused he doesn’t hear the stairs creak until you’re already in the doorway.

You pad in wearing one of his oversized black hoodies, the sleeves dangling past your fingertips, messy hair, and an expression that says you’re clearly bored out of your skull.

Jack doesn’t look up. “I’m working.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” you answer, strolling straight to his desk anyway. You lean your hip against the edge, folding your arms. “You’ve been down here for six hours. Your spine is gonna fuse.”

He grunts, still writing. “I need more morphine by tomorrow night, and Toby’s the only one small enough to fit through the pharmacy window.”

You lean further back, planting your palms on the desk so you can peer at his handwriting. “Tell Toby if he brings back energy drinks I’ll do his laundry.”

Jack finally glances up. No eyes, but you can feel the flat stare anyway. “I’m busy.”

“You’re always busy.” You push off the desk, round the corner of it, and before he can roll his chair away you slide right into his lap, hooking one leg over his broad thighs, and climbing the rest of the way into the chair to straddle him.

The pen stops moving. Jack goes very, very still.

You settle in, perfectly casual, arms looping loosely around his neck. He’s warm, he always is, like his body runs a few degrees hotter than everyone else’s.

“Hi,” you say, smiling up at him.

His pointed ears twitch, and a low rumbling sounds in his chest. “…You’re in my way.”

“Am I?” You shift your hips just enough to take the notebook out from under his hand and set it aside. “Looks like you were done anyway.”

Jack exhales through his teeth. One claw comes up, fingers curling around your waist like he’s going to lift you off, except he doesn’t. He just holds you there, claws pricking your skin through the fabric.

“You’re bored,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Deathly. Entertain me, doctor.”

He stares for another beat, then huffs a laugh that’s more air than humor. The hand on your waist slides to the small of your back, tugging you closer so you’re chest-to-chest. His other arm curls under your left knee, scooting you closer and locking you in place.

“Five minutes,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “Then I’m working and you’re going back upstairs.”

You hum, satisfied, and tuck your face into his shoulder.

“Ten,” you bargain against his hoodie.

Jack’s claws flex against your spine. “…Seven.”

Jack picks his pen back up with one hand, the other still curled around your waist, keeping you pinned on his lap. He flips to a fresh page, starts jotting supply quantities in his neat, slanted handwriting while you nose along the collar of his hoodie and toy with the frayed drawstrings.

“Quit it,” he mutters, but there’s zero heat in it. His claws trace slow, absent circles between your shoulder blades every time he pauses to think.

“Nah,” you smile, pulling his hood over his head and tugging the strings until the hood cinches around his face. “See? Now you’re a turtle.”

He snorts, pushes the hood back down, and lets his hand slide a little lower, nails dragging lightly down your spine in retaliation. You arch into it like a cat.

“Stop distracting me. I still have to figure out how much propofol Toby needs to carry.”

You hum, unbothered, lips peppering the sharp line of his jaw. Soft little presses that make his ears twitch and flick.

“Jack.”

“I’m working.”

Another kiss, this one lingering, open-mouthed just under the hinge of his jaw where a little scar sits. His claw flexes against your back.

“You’re warm,” you murmur against his skin. “I wanna crawl in your skin.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“You like it.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, sets the pen down, and turns his head just enough that his next words ghost across your cheek.

“Cut it out.”

You smile, slow and wicked, and drag your lips along the shell of his ear. “Make me.”

For a second he’s perfectly still. Then the hand on your back slides up, fingers threading into your hair, tugging your head back firmly so you’re forced to meet the black voids where his eyes should be.

“I said,” he repeats, voice dropped low, dangerously low, “cut it out. Or you are not going to like what happens.”

The threat rumbles through his chest into yours. Your breath catches, and his claws tighten in your hair for half a heartbeat, just enough to remind you he means it. Then he lets go, picks the pen back up, and goes right back to writing like he didn’t just set your entire nervous system on fire.

“Seven minutes are up,” he says, scratching another number. “Behave or leave.”

You tilt your head, testing the weight of his warning.

For a second he thinks you’re actually leaving—your weight shifts, thighs sliding off his lap, and something tight flickers across his face, like he worries that he’d sounded harsher than he meant.

“Hey,” the apology is already forming. “I didn’t mean—”

The words die the instant he realizes you’re not standing up.

You’re sinking down.

Dropping to your knees under the desk, hands braced on his thighs, pushing them apart so you can kneel between them. The lamp light catches the sharp curve of your smile as you settle between his legs.

Jack’s breath stalls.

You don’t say anything. You just reach for his belt, metal rattling as you tug it open with one smooth pull. The zipper comes next, every tooth loud in the sudden silence.

His claws dig into the armrests, and the seat creaks under the pressure.

“…Fuck,” he mutters. 

You look up at him and mouth two silent words:

Make me.

Jack’s head thumps back against the chair. One clawed hand drops to your hair, tugging your head forward.

“You’re a fucking brat,” he rasps.

Then his fingers tighten, hips shifting forward, and he lets you take exactly what you came for.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ MASKY

Tim stumbles in through the side door just after sunset, smelling like an entire pack of cigarettes. 

His jacket is already balled up and abandoned on the floor by the door. He drops into the battered recliner like his spine gave out three miles ago, boots on the footrest, head tipped back, mask thrown onto the floor.

You hear the groan from the kitchen and pad out with the coffee you started the second you heard the gravel crunch outside, brewed in the “World’s #1 Mom” mug that he absolutely hates.

He cracks one exhausted eye when you step in front of him.

“Your medicine,” you smile, offering the mug.

Tim grunts something that might be thanks, takes it with one scraped-up hand, and downs half in one scalding gulp. You reach out without thinking, brushing the sweaty strands of dark hair off his forehead. There’s a fresh cut along his hairline, still oozing a little.

“Rough one?” you ask softly.

“As ever,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough. “Toby set the wrong building on fire, Brian wouldn’t stop humming, and I took a crowbar to the ribs. So… y’know.”

You start to pull your hand back. “I’ll let you decom—”

His free hand reaches out, catching your wrist before you can take a step. One firm tug and you’re off balance, stumbling sideways into his lap with a startled laugh. He settles you across his thighs like you weigh nothing, coffee sloshing in the ceramic.

“Stay,” he grumbles, arm looping behind your waist to lock you there. His head drops to the back of the chair again, but now your shoulder is his pillow. “Just… five minutes.”

You relax against him, careful of the ribs he’s probably bruised under his shirt. The coffee mug rests on your knee, and he keeps one hand wrapped around it, the other splayed over your hip.

“As long as you need,” you echo, amused, fingers threading gently through the hair at his nape.

He makes a rumbling sound, eyes already half-closed. “You smell good.”

The room is quiet except for the tick of the old wall clock and his breathing slowly evening out. After a minute he turns his face into your neck, lips brushing skin in a barely-there kiss that’s more comfort than anything.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he mumbles against your throat.

“Anytime.”

You feel his lips curve, then press a kiss just under your ear. It’s soft, exhausted, but the hand on your hip slides lower, fingers curling over the curve of your ass.

“Careful,” you warn, voice low. “You’re running on fumes.”

“Fumes are enough,” he says, nipping the same spot he just kissed. His stubble scrapes your skin and sends heat straight down your spine. “Been thinkin’ about you in my lap since mile five of that goddamn hike.”

Another kiss, hotter this time, open-mouthed and lazy. His hand squeezes again, pushing you closer.

“Tim…”

“What?” He pulls back just far enough that you can see the crooked, tired smirk. “You want me to stop?”

He emphasizes the question by dragging his palm up your thigh, slow enough to make you squirm. You answer by shifting your weight, grinding down just once. The low groan he lets out is pure satisfaction.

Tim stretches just far enough to set the mug on the coffee table beside the recliner, then both hands are back on you before the ceramic even stops wobbling.

One palm slides under your thigh, hooking beneath your knee and dragging your leg up and over his lap so you’re fully straddling him, knees sinking into the worn cushions on either side of his hips. The other arm bands across your lower back, hauling you forward until there’s no space left between you.

He drops his head back against the recliner, eyes half-lidded and dark, and rolls his hips once. The hard line of him presses right up against your ass through thin layers of fabric, and the groan that leaves him is low it might as well be a growl.

“Fuck… there it is,” he mutters, voice rough with exhaustion. His hand on your thigh squeezes, guiding you down harder as he grinds up again, lazy but insistent. “Been hard since you walked in with that damn coffee.”

You feel every inch of him dragging against you, the friction perfect and maddening. His stubble scrapes your throat when he leans in, mouthing along your pulse.

“Keep movin’ just like that, sweetheart,” he rasps, breathing hot against your skin. “I’m too fucking tired to flip you over right now, but I’ll still get you off right here.”

Another slow roll of his hips, harder this time, and his fingers dig into the meat of your thigh like he’s anchoring himself to the feeling.

“Quiet, though,” he adds, lips brushing your ear, a tired smirk in his voice. “Don’t need nobody walkin’ in, do we?”

He punctuates it with a sharp thrust upward that makes your breath hitch and your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Good,” he praises, voice fading into a little groan as exhaustion creeps back in, but the grind of his hips never falters. “Just like that… little more and I’ll take us both to bed. Promise.”

You roll your hips slow at first, just enough to feel him throb under you, and Tim’s hands drop to your hips like they belong there, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow.

“Fuck, yeah,” he growls against your mouth, dragging you down harder. “Take what you want, baby.”

You whimper, grinding down in tight circles that make his breath stutter. “Tim—”

“Say it,” he demands, biting your bottom lip. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp against his mouth. “Want you to fuck me so bad.”

He groans like he’s dying, hips snapping up, hands bruising your hips. “Jesus Christ. Keep talking like that and I’m gonna come in my jeans like a fucking idiot.”

You laugh breathlessly into the next kiss, rolling harder, faster, chasing the friction. “Then do it. Make a mess of yourself for me. I’ll still let you fuck me after, promise.”

Tim’s eyes roll back, a broken curse tearing out of him as he slams you down against him one last time and holds you there, grinding deep and dirty while he devours your mouth.

“Gonna—”

Tim’s hips are rolling up hard, breath ragged against your neck, one hand fisted in your hair, when the buzzing starts.

You both freeze.

He snarls something vicious under his breath, fishes the old flip-phone out of his back pocket, and flips it open with one thumb.

“What,” he snaps.

Toby’s voice explodes through the speaker so loud Tim has to yank the phone back from his ear.

“MASKY! MA-MASKY, MAN, WE GOT A PROBLEM, HOODIE’S S-STUCK IN A-A FUCKIN’ BEAR TRAP AN-AND THERE’S COPS AND I T-THINK I DROPPED MY HATCHET IN T-THE CREEK AND—”

Tim doesn’t even let him finish. He snaps the phone shut with a sharp clack, tosses it onto the coffee table, and slams the recliner footrest down with his boot.

“Later,” he growls, voice dangerously low.

Then he’s standing. One arm hooks under your thighs, the other under your ass, and he lifts you clean off the chair like you weigh nothing. You yelp, legs automatically wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck.

“Tim!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, already halfway across the room in three long strides. “They can bleed out for ten more minutes.”

He takes the stairs two at a time, kicks his bedroom door open so hard it bounces off the wall, and throws you onto the bed. You bounce once, then he’s on you before you settle, shirt ripped over his head and flung somewhere across the room.

Downstairs, the phone keeps buzzing itself off the table and onto the floor.

Neither of you gives a single damn.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ HOODIE

The mansion is quiet for once.

Sun slanting through the dusty windows, motes drifting like snow. Brian’s parked at the long oak dining table, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a half-finished block of wood in one hand and a carving knife in the other. Wood shavings litter the table like confetti.

You pad in behind him, wearing one of his flannels, and slip up behind him. Your arms slide over his shoulders, chin resting on the top of his head.

“Whatcha doing?”

He tilts his head back into you. “Tryin’ to make a blue jay. Uh… trying. It’s starting to look like a potato I think.”

You snort, round the chair, and pluck the bird from his fingers. “Lemme see the damage.”

In the same motion you drop sideways into his lap, legs sliding between his under the table. Brian doesn’t even flinch, just opens his thighs a little wider to make room and loops both arms around your waist, hands settling low on your stomach. His chin hooks over your shoulder, warm breath against your neck as he watches.

“Go ahead, expert,” he teases, voice soft. “Fix my disaster.”

You turn the carving in your fingers—it really does look more like a tuber—then pick up the knife. Brian’s arms tighten reflexively when the blade moves, but he relaxes again the second he realizes you know what you’re doing.

“See, you took off too much here,” you say, shaving a thin curl away from the breast. “Gotta leave room for feathers.”

He hums, thumbs stroking idle circles just under the hem of the flannel. “Show-off.”

You keep working, making precise cuts, and he keeps watching over your shoulder like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Every few seconds his lips brush the side of your neck, just enough to make you squirm.

“Gettin’ good,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “Almost looks like a real bird now.”

“Miracles do happen.”

He chuckles, arms tightening to pull you back flush against his chest. “Pretty sure the miracle’s the one in my lap who knows how to handle a blade better than I do, apparently.”

You tilt your head, offering your mouth. He takes it without hesitation, kissing you sweetly and tasting like the spearmint gum he’s always chewing. 

When you break apart he rests his forehead against your temple, watching your hands start moving again.

“Don’t stop,” he says quietly. “I like the view.”

You roll your hips back, pressing your ass right into his lap. Brian grunts, fingers flexing against your stomach.

“The view, huh?” you tease, voice lilting.

He pinches the inside of your thigh, and you squeak, jerking in his lap.

“Brat,” he laughs, warm against your ear.

You swat blindly at his arm, but he dodges and pinches you again, higher this time against your hip. “Bet you regret crawlin’ in my lap now, don’t you?”

You hiss dramatically and start to push up, “Alright, assho—”

His hands are faster, though. One second you’re rising, the next he’s hooked both arms under your knees, yanking you back down hard. Your legs splay wide, hooked over his thighs, feet dangling off the floor. The chair creaks as he spreads you open like it’s nothing.

Before you can even gasp, his hand slides between your legs, palm cupping you through soft fabric, fingers pressing right where you’re already warm.

You jolt, the carving knife clattering onto the table.

“Changed my mind,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear while his fingers start a slow, merciless grind, “real quick.”

Your head falls back against his shoulder, a shaky breath escaping. His other arm locks across your chest, pinning you tight so you can’t squirm away.

“Thought you were leaving?” he taunts, voice velvet and so mean. “Go ahead. Try.”

He presses harder, rubbing in tight circles that make your thighs tremble against his. You grab his forearm, nails digging in, but he just chuckles and keeps that perfect, torturous rhythm.

“Brian—”

“Shh. Enjoying the view.”

Your hands slap the table edge, a white-knuckled grip as you rock shamelessly into his palm. Brian’s hips roll up slowly, dragging the hard line of him against your ass in a perfect counter-rhythm. Every grind of his fingers is matched by a thrust from behind, like he’s already fucking you through layers of clothes.

“Goddamn, listen to you,” he breathes against your cheek, lips brushing hot and teasing. “Gettin’ pissy with me like this isn’t exactly what you wanted. Dirty little liar.”

“Fuck you, Brian—” you gasp, and he laughs, the sound vibrating straight to your core.

“Yeah? That what you want?” He presses two fingers hard against your and circles once, so mean. “Keep talkin’ shit. Makes me so fucking hard I could split you open right here.”

You try to snap back, but he suddenly shifts. One hand plants on your lower back and he pushes, your chest meeting the table, wood shavings sticking to your shirt. The half-carved bird skitters to the edge and topples off.

Brian doesn’t even glance at it. He drags your hips to the very edge of the table, stands up behind your bent waist, and yanks you back onto his lap in one smooth pull. Your feet plant onto the ground, forearms braced on the wood as he grips your hips.

He starts bouncing you, forward and back thrusts that slam your core against the ridge in his jeans over and over.

“Feel that?” he growls, lips against your flushed cheek as he bends over your body, kissing the heat there. “Imagine that’s me sliding in raw, baby. Mmm… right here where anyone could walk in.”

You whimper, forehead pressed on the table, nails scraping wood.

“That’s it,” he praises. “Bet you’d love if poor Toby walked in to grab a snack right about now, huh? Grinding against my cock. You’re dripping for it already, aren’t you?”

Another hard bounce and you cry out, the curses you spit at him dissolving into a broken moan that only makes him grind harder, faster, chasing both your edges right there on the dining-room oak.

“Keep crying,” he pants, grinning against your jaw. “I’m gonna make you come just like this, then bend you over and give you the real thing until you forget every goddamn word except my name.”

You’re right on the edge, hips rolling back frantically, voice cracking as you beg, “Brian, please, I’m so close—”

Then the wood shavings you’re lying in betray you. A curl of shavings goes straight up your nose.

The first sneeze is small. The second is violent. The third turns into a full-blown, unstoppable fit, high-pitched and ridiculous, your whole body jerking with each one.

Brian freezes mid-thrust, wide-eyed for half a second, and then he loses it. A huge, helpless laugh tears out of him, shoulders shaking as he hauls you upright, brushing shavings off your hair and shirt.

“Oh my god,” he wheezes, trying to stay serious and failing. “I’m so sorry.”

You sneeze again, right into his arm, and that only makes him laugh harder, arms wrapping around you while you both catch your breath.

“Fuck you,” you manage between giggles and another tiny sneeze, swiping at your nose.

“Yeah, yeah, hold that thought.” He bends, scoops the fallen bird off the floor, and sets it back on the table. “Little dude’s seen things.”

You wipe your eyes, still laughing, then turn and head down the hallway toward his room, tossing a lazy, wicked grin over your shoulder.

He’s after you in a heartbeat, footsteps thundering. You squeal and bolt, but he catches you halfway down the hall, arms banding around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground.

“Awh, don’t run now,” he growls into your neck, already steering you toward his bedroom. “I have another good view that I’d like to see tonight.”

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