Lilly

Barry Burton

*Sigh* "Get my purse. There's some tampons and gum at the bottom. There should also be some appy slices, sandwiches and a juicebox. Now shut the fuck up and let mommy focus."

Karl Hiesenberg

*Sniffs* "MMMMMM I SURE DO LOVE THE SMELL OF METAL IN THE MORNING. LEMME GET IN THERE."

Pierced Nipples

"You're in your period of what????? Meditation????"

Jake Muller

"No wonder you're being such a bitch."

Jack Krauser

"Pathetic. A real man would just hold it in."

The Merchant

"Oh, stranger, there there. I've got some new items that might interest you." *Opens his coat to reveal a bunch of maxi pads*

The Duke

"Oh, dear. I'm not sure how I can be of any help. Hmm, I've heard that freebleeding is rather popular with the ladies these days?"

Leon S Kennedy

"Me too twin.🤞"

Albert Wesker

"Ew. Can you stop?"

Ethan Winters

"The mol d. ."

Carlos Oliveira

"...Can I see?"

The Big Cheese

"REPENT!!!!!!!"

Steve Burnside

"I DONT FUCKING CARE!!!!!!" *Dies*

★ WARNINGS; animal death, blood and gore, cheating but not really? it's complicated! monster fucking, lots of morally ambiguous decisions driven by grief, reader is just really depressed okay sorry!

★ SMUT TAGS; dream sex, rough sex, breast play, tentacle/tendril sex..?? (those phantom hands from his Actual appearance from the archon quest make their debut here too), dubious consent, squirting, creampie

The thing pretending to be your husband is herding the goats today.

You watch from the foyer of your homestead as the morning chill brushes your skin. The creature moves as it always has. With his tall, familiar frame weaving between the animals, hair dark and tousled just so, yellow eyes scanning the pasture with that same patient attentiveness. He talks to them in the soft, clipped tones Kyryll used to use, calling names, clicking his tongue, shooing them gently—but there is a precision in the movement that feels… too clean, like the rhythm has been learned rather than lived.

The goats respond, though not as they once did. They fall into line with a tense, unnatural obedience, skittish bodies pressed close together, eyes rolling white whenever his shadow cuts across the snow. They follow not from trust but from the brittle edge of fear, as if some instinct in them recognizes what you’ve only begun to accept:

This is not the man you married.

Had you loved him any less, you never would have known. It is the depth of that love that allows you to see the gap between Kyryll and this thing that walks in his skin. Yet, you have chosen to live with it, and that choice knots inside your chest, a strange tether made not of grief but of reluctant endurance.

You step out into the snow, letting the cold bite at your cheeks as you call out to him once. He glances up to meet your eyes, and in that fleeting moment, you allow yourself to believe in the elaborate lie.

The goats bleat low and uneasy as they crowd his hands, shrinking from his nearness even as they yield to it. He hums softly before guiding them back toward the barn, and you fall into step behind them with your heart caught somewhere between mourning and the uncanny, stubborn comfort of his presence.

You go about your life as though nothing has changed since the day he wound up on your doorstep. You collect eggs, skim the milk, tidy the house, all while keeping a careful eye on him. Even when you lie beside him at night and your body insists on recognizing him as Kyryll, your heart screams otherwise. But you have come to terms with it—that this fractured imitation, this hollowed echo of the man you love, is all you can hold onto now.

Because if someone like this can still be with you, can still offer the shape of warmth and illusion of companionship, then…

Was Kyryll ever really gone?

You’ve always loved that boy with the burnished yellow eyes.

Kyryll has always been quiet, the one who kept to the edges of games and gatherings, content with watching while the other children laughed and shouted. He was odd, but not unkind, as though the world moved at a slightly different rhythm for him. People used to whisper, what does she even see in him? But for you, loving Kyryll was as easy as breathing.

Now, years later, with a ring on your finger and a home carved into the mountainside, that love threads through every corner of your life.

Your mornings begin in the hush of the barn, the air sharp with the scent of hay and the warmth of the animals. You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you milk the goats, listening to the steady patter of froth into the pail. By the time the sun peeks over the ridge, you are already gathering eggs from the chickens and brushing straw from your skirts. The goats bleat impatiently until Kyryll appears—his tall frame outlined in the doorway of the barn, his hair falling untidily into his eyes.

The animals used to shy away from him. They always do at first. But Kyryll never once let a morning go without unlatching the gate and letting them nose out into the meadow, even when he was running late for work. And animals, like people, remember kindness. Now they greet him without a fuss, nudging his hands with soft noses until he clicks his tongue and shoos them on.

Everyday, you fall into rhythm together. He shoulders the woodpile, you whip up breakfast from the day’s harvest. The hearth crackles as he sets the kettle on, and steam soon fogs the windowpanes. Kyryll doesn’t talk much in the mornings—he rarely talks at all—but his quiet is never empty. When he passes you your cup of tea, your fingers brush, and that alone is worth ten pages from favorite novel.

Your husband laces his boots after breakfast, checks his pouch of gemstones bound for town, and shrugs into his worn winter coat. He never rushes, even when snow threatens in the pass. But before Kyryll steps out of the door, he bends down just enough that you can meet him halfway. His lips are cool from the morning air, his small goodbye kiss brief but certain. He has never once forgotten it, not in all the years since you first moved into this home together.

It is a small life, some might say. A lonely life, tucked high in the mountains where snow lingers long into spring. But it is yours, and when you look at him—your childhood sweetheart, your odd, aloof Kyryll—you cannot imagine wanting any other.

So when whiteout season arrives, you can't help but worry.

These mountains are no strangers to snow, but this time of year the storms grow violent, their howling gusts capable of burying even the most seasoned traveler. Not even the hunters or shepherds from neighboring ridges could survive a night stranded in the unforgiving blizzards of Snezhnaya. You shiver at the thought as you glance toward the snow-blanketed pass.

“Kyryll…” you begin, hesitating as he lifts a pail of milk into the sunlit air. He glances back at you, those calm yellow eyes meeting yours as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ve weathered it every year.”

But you’ve never forgotten the elders’ tales. Whispers passed down over decades in your family of what walks after the white storms. They spoke of shapes in the snow, eyes glowing like lanterns in the blizzard, and travelers who vanished without trace. The stories crawl under your skin, prickling along your spine, and you tighten on your skirts at the mere memory.

“Promise me you won’t go out too much until it calms?” you ask, biting back the tension in your voice. “I… I just—”

Kyryll sets the pail down and steps closer as he places his gloved hands over yours. His touch is warm and grounding, and it stills the racing thoughts in your head. He leans down close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.

“I promise,” he murmurs, captivated not just by the concern in your eyes but by the way you care for him, always so completely.

You nod, relief washing over you, but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he tilts his head with a playful glimmer in his otherwise aloof expression. “Though if I can trade and sell better gemstones this season, maybe we can hibernate in peace, all snug in the house, while the snow rages outside.”

“You always think about work first,” you sigh.

“I always think about surviving it together,” Kyryll laughs softly. “Besides, the goats won’t let me rest anyway.”

You shake your head with a smile, but the unease in your chest doesn’t completely fade. Whiteout season always carries that edge of dread, no matter how many times you’ve endured it. Still, with Kyryll by your side, you can almost believe everything will be as it always has.

Almost.

Your husband has kept his word all season, making every trip to town count so he doesn’t have to venture out into the brewing blizzards more than necessary. But one afternoon, the wind whips with a sudden, vicious force. Snow lashes the mountainside, and even from the safety of the yard, you can hear the low howl that promises a storm like no other.

All the warnings have already been issued, but you and Kyryll are caught in the final flurry of activity, corralling the animals back into the barn before the sky darkens. Everything is in controlled chaos until a sudden, panicked bleat slices through the hubbub—a lamb, young and spooked, darts past you, slipping out the half-shut door. It bolts up the narrow mountain path, a small white shape against withering snow.

“Wait—!” you cry, instinct pushing you forward. Your boots crunch against the icy ground as you try to follow, but Kyryll catches your wrist with a strong, firm grip.

“No,” he tells you, calmly but sharply. “It’s too dangerous.”

Your heart thunders. “But that poor lamb won’t survive out there alone…”

Kyryll doesn’t argue; he only lets out a soft breath and lifts his gaze to yours before he smiles. That painfully adoring smile, the one that has always made your chest ache, softening even the wildest of fears. He bends and presses his lips to the ring on your finger, brushing it with his mouth like a promise.

“Then I’ll bring it back,” your husband murmurs. “Wait for me, okay?”

Before you can protest, he steps out of the barn. Snow flurries around him immediately, catching in his hair, frosting his shoulders. He doesn’t look back as he slides the barn door shut behind him with a solid thud, leaving you in the warm glow of the oil lamps and the bitter howl of the storm beyond.

You were taught to count time in threes.

Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps, the elders would say. “Nature always balances itself in threes,” they whispered, as if the rhythm of the world could be measured by patience alone.

Three minutes pass before it hits you fully: Kyryll is out there.

The thought is simple, almost too mundane to register at first, but a sharp pang of panic blooms in your chest. He promised he would be back. He always keeps his word, and yet, the wind howls so loud that you can’t hear the faintest echo of him, can’t see any trace of the lamb racing back with him.

Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps.

You repeat it to yourself like a mantra as you pace the floor of the barn, watching the snow blot out the mountainside through the window. The animals press close as if sensing the tension in your bones, nudging you, bleating softly—but it does nothing to quiet the dread tightening your chest.

Three hours pass before the edges of reason begin to fray. The sky has gone from pale gray to a solid white wall. You should be calling for help in the town. Every instinct honed from a lifetime in these mountains screams at you: a storm this strong would have killed him by now. The path is invisible. The snow is merciless.

Yet… you cannot act. You cling to the promise he pressed into your hands, to the brush of his lips against your wedding band.

Wait for me.

Three days pass before Kyryll returns.

The blizzard had seemed endless, each hour stretching into another frozen eternity. The nights without him in the bed you share were unbearable; you had spent them clutching your pillow, weeping into the cold, silent darkness, and imagining the worst with every gust of wind rattling the shutters.

Finally, he is there.

Your sobs spill into the open as soon as you see him, and you barely notice the snow still clinging to his indigo hair and the streaks across his yellow eyes. Without thinking, you launch yourself at your husband, arms wrapping around his tall frame as if you could never let go again. His hands find yours, pressing you against him with the faintest, grounding pressure.

“Kyryll,” you choke, your voice breaking, “you came back.”

He doesn’t say anything as he lets you cling to him, and when you finally step back a little, brushing the wet snow from his coat, you insist he come inside.

“Take off your jacket. I’ll prepare a hot bath for you in a bit,” you say, almost bouncing on the balls of your feet, eager to undo the cold that has surely numbed his bones.

Your husband hums in acquiescence, letting you fuss over him. You hang his coat by the hearth and light the fire higher, the warmth spilling into the room as you run your hands over his arms, shoulders, and chest—making sure he hasn’t suffered too badly. When your palms finally cup his pale cheeks, something inside you buckles. Your heart seems to melt straight through your ribs, and before you can stop yourself, you lean in, pressing your mouth to his as tears blur your vision.

He does not kiss you back.

Later, steam curls around Kyryll as he sinks into the tub, the heat drawing color into his otherwise pallid skin. You linger close to fuss with towels and lay out clothes thick enough to guard against the cold. Relief hums faintly through you at having him here, whole and within reach. But your thoughts remain tangled, a restless knot that no warmth seems able to unravel.

“What happened to the lamb?” you ask carefully, trying not to betray the panic still clinging to your chest. Because what else could you ask your husband when he just came home from a storm that should have killed him?

You brace yourself for sorrow, for the weight of bad news, and the sight of his shoulders sagging with defeat. But Kyryll simply looks at you, his yellow eyes calm, unnervingly so, and asks:

“What lamb?”

“…The lamb! The one that ran up the mountain!” you exclaim. “That’s why you went out—why you—”

But he only smiles faintly, tilting his head as if your exasperation is a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand. You stop yourself from pressing further. Kyryll is here. Alive. He has survived three days in a storm that could have buried a person in minutes, with nothing but that same fur-trimmed jacket he always wears to town.

Whatever else happened—whatever he endured—you do not ask. Even when you see bloodstains on his jacket sleeves despite his unmarred skin, you do not ask. Even as he lies in your bed for the first time in days, and it feels like a stranger’s weight against you, you do not ask. And when you glimpse something behind his eyes that should not be there…

You do not ask.

You wake to the quiet hum of the house, the familiar rhythm of morning stretching before you, and for a moment you allow yourself to hope that everything will be as it always has.

The old villagers never quite understood Kyryll. They whispered about his odd ways and the sharp intelligence behind eyes that seemed to flicker with some unnatural light. They called him “the devil’s spawn,” a curse that somehow found its way to your small life. But they had never seen him as you had—never saw his kindness, or the way his heart opened to the world if only they’d given him time.

That’s exactly what you spare to him now: time to recalibrate to the rhythm of your home, after the reckless mistake of letting him charge into the storm.

Breakfast is done. The table is cleared. Steam from the kettle still curls lazily into the air. You watch your husband lace his boots, the ritual so familiar you could do it in your sleep. Your heart tightens in anticipation of the small, certain habit that has marked every morning for years: the brief kiss, cool against your lips as he whispers goodbye.

But today, there is nothing.

Kyryll pauses at the doorway as he stares down the path to town. His yellow eyes are serene but the warmth you’ve always found there is absent, or perhaps buried beneath something you cannot name. He doesn’t turn back, only adjusts the strap of his pack and steps outside, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow finality.

Your fingers linger on the spot where his lips should have been.

For a moment, you believe that he is simply shaken, still readjusting to the world after the storm. Yes. That must be it. He’ll come back like he always does, and the habit will resume as though nothing ever happened. But even as you tell yourself this, a low, unnameable unease twists in your stomach, settling there like frost.

Something is off. Something has changed, and you are not yet ready to admit how deep the change might run.

You feign ignorance until the lambs go missing.

At first, you don’t notice. They vanish for hours, sometimes a day, and each time they reappear safe and warm, bleating softly as if nothing had happened. You breathe a sigh of relief, attributing it to wandering and some miracle of the mountains.

But then, you begin to catch the subtle differences. A curl of wool slightly off, the shade of a fleece a little darker, the shape of a hoof unfamiliar. It perplexes you until your mind tightens on the truth you’ve tried not to name: these are not the same lambs.

They are replacements.

The disappearances always coincide with nights when Kyryll rises after you have already fallen asleep. You never hear the creak of floorboards, never see the flicker of candlelight as he moves through the house, but you sense it like a pause in the familiar heartbeat of your life. When he returns, the air around him smells faintly of soap—an attempt at cleansing so precise it almost fools you. But there is always the undercurrent something sharp and metallic just beneath the clean scent.

You try to ignore it, bury it beneath the comfort of his arms as you curl against him. Even the smallest doubts are suffocated by the familiar rhythm of his breathing, the steady press of his body, and the illusion that nothing is wrong.

But one night, the tension becomes unbearable. You lie in bed, counting the seconds as he slips from the warmth of your sheets, and after five minutes, the gnawing at your chest becomes too loud to ignore. Heart hammering, you slip from the bed and pull on your shawl, keeping quiet as the house sleeps.

The hallway is a shadowed corridor. Every step toward the barn feels like crossing a threshold into another world. The snow outside glints coldly beneath the lanterns you’ve hung along the path, but one faint glow draws your eyes—the soft, swinging light of a single oil lamp just beyond the barn.

You creep closer, heart in your throat, and stop at the edge of the snow-dusted doorway.

The barn is swallowed in shadow, yet your eyes pick out the figure of your husband, kneeling on the straw-strewn floor. Darkness spares you from the full horror of what he is doing: the crimson stains seeping into the hay, the silent terror in the other animals, and the wet, sickening sound of flesh being torn between the maws of a monster.

He feasts quietly, leaving no trace that would immediately betray him to you. He does not do it every night—he cannot afford to arouse suspicion—but when he does, it is methodical, and chillingly precise. Only one animal at a time, and always with the meticulous care of one who cleans after the carnage he leaves behind.

You step back, the cold air catching in your lungs, and the weight of what you are witnessing presses down like stone. The shadowed figure shifts at the sound of your foot catching on a dried leaf, the subtle crunch shattering the fragile hush of the barn.

In an instant, the creature snaps his head toward you. The motion is too violent, his neck bending at an angle that no human should manage. A low, guttural hiss rolls from his throat, reverberating through the straw, and the Kyryll you knew evaporates like smoke in the wind when you see his eyes.Not the calm yellow you’ve associated with safety, with love. But glowing magenta irises, vivid and burning with something ancient, something hungry.

Your knees go weak. Your hands tremble. The barn, once a sanctuary of routine and care, has transformed into a chamber of nightmares. The animals press against the far walls, silent and trembling, as if sensing the change before your own mind can even process it.

It is him—your husband in shape, in shadow, in form—but it is not Kyryll. Not the man you promised your life to. This is something else. Something that wore his face to cross the threshold of your home.

That night, you were fully convinced you were going to die.

Every instinct screams at you to flee, to bolt into the snow and leave the barn behind. You are certain he will lunge, certain the same jaws and hands that tore the lambs apart will turn on you next. Yet, beneath that fear, a bitter comfort coils in your chest: if you die, you will finally be reunited with him. Your Kyryll—the boy with yellow eyes and a heart that loved too deeply, not this monstrous imitation who has defiled everything you thought you knew about him.

Your heart thunders in your chest. The creature rises, the movement fluid and unnervingly deliberate. But he does not lunge. He does not attack.

Instead, he walks toward you.

Your knees buckle beneath the weight of disbelief. You realize you have been crying, the tears streaking your face in the cold barn light, the trace of your fear laid bare. Then the bloodied hands reach for your cheeks.

For a moment, you cannot breathe.

He wipes your tears away with the same gentleness, the same patience Kyryll always carried in his hands—but now, his touch smears the dark, iron-stained blood of the lamb across your skin. It mats into your hair, seeps along the line of your jaw in a sickeningly warm testament to what you have witnessed. The reality of it nearly overwhelms you, but you do not pull away.

The creature inclines his head slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, yet intimate as though he is speaking to the part of you that still clings to your Kyryll. He bends and lifts you into his arms with ease, your body trembling against his, every nerve alight with terror, revulsion, and a twisted familiarity you cannot escape.

He carries you back through the cold night, your shawl catching the blood on his forearms as he moves. The barn fades behind you, the animals’ terrified eyes still imprinted on your mind, yet all that matters is the steady, unyielding presence, and the impossible reality: the man who returned to you after the whiteout is no longer Kyryll.

And yet… he is holding you, as if he’s always known how.

That is how you came to an unspoken understanding with him.

From what you have gathered, the creature desires only sustenance. He shows no interest in harming you, no hint that you might become his next prey. In fact, he seems almost… attentive to Kyryll’s habits, as if trying to inhabit the life you once shared.

The first thing you mention is the kisses goodbye. When you speak of them casually he does not flinch at the fact that you are now fully aware of who he isn’t. My husband always does it before he heads to town for the day. Since that moment, he makes a point of leaning down each morning to press his lips against yours—a brief, careful peck just as Kyryll always did.

It is not the same. It will never be. Yet somehow, it is enough.

There isn’t much you can do about the way the animals behave around him. They know what he does each night. They remember the terror, the cruelty, and the gore that lingers in the air long after the blood has been cleaned. You wish you could spare them that fear. Gods know how much these poor creatures mean to you.

But ever since you allowed this monster to masquerade as a fixture of your life, you have learned the uneasy rhythm of turning a blind eye. You have learned to tune out the shrieks that echo in the corners of the barn, to ignore the way the sheep and goats shrink and totter away when he passes.

Because if a few lambs are the cost of feeling the illusion of your husband still by your side, then it is a price you are willing to pay. If it means the brush of his lips against yours in the morning, the familiar warmth of his arms as you nestle close at night—even if the hands that hold you carry the memory of slaughter—then you endure it.

But it is a different story when the creature starts to want something else.

At first, it comes only in dreams. You wake each morning with the echo of Kyryll’s hands on your skin, the warmth of his mouth pressing against yours, and the weight of him over you as he claims you as he once did. It is familiar and foreign all at once, which you suspect is all the work of the monster sleeping next to you.

You have not felt desire like this in months. It has lain dormant beneath the grief you still carry on your shoulders, the quiet routines of the mountains, the soft companionship of your animals. But in these dreams, it surges, reckless and insistent. Your body still remembers what your mind struggles to reconcile. This is not Kyryll. This is the creature that stole him from you, and even then… the part of you that has always loved him, cannot resist.

In the dreams, you start to let him in. You let your hands wander over the strong curve of his shoulders, down his back, feel the press of his hips as he aligns with yours. He moves with the tenderness you once knew, and the juxtaposition makes your chest ache—the body of the thing that has fed on lambs now giving you pleasure. You moan his name in the darkness of slumber, and it is both comforting and unbearable.

The creature does not say anything of it in your waking hours.

Life goes on as if nothing at all has changed. He moves through your small routines with the same uncanny mimicry: carrying wood to the hearth, brushing snow from his boots at the door, kissing you softly before leaving for town.

And yet, when night falls, you brace yourself as the dreams return again and again like a tide that will not recede. They seize you with the same hunger, the same unbearable tenderness—your body spread beneath him, the bed groaning with the weight of his need.

It gets worse. You start to crave it even in daylight, even if you know how wrong it is. When you stand in the kitchen, kneading bread with your sleeves rolled up, a flicker of heat stirs in you at the memory of his hands on your waist. When you stoop in the barn, the sheep shifting nervously as he passes by, your skin prickles at the thought of him pressing into you from behind.

Desire burrows deep into your gut, tangling itself with your grief until you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.

One night, the dream takes a turn.

You are on your back, legs parted, the familiar shadow of Kyryll’s body over yours. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, his hips driving into you with a rhythm you know by heart, and you give yourself over with a pathetic sob. But in the flicker of lamplight that isn’t there, his form wavers.

For a heartbeat, he is not your indigo-haired, golden-eyed husband. He is something else—pale hair spilling across your chest, magenta eyes glowing like embers, half his face swallowed in blackened bandages. His body is cracked, pulsing with sinister light that leaks like an infection from beneath his skin.

The sight is gone as quickly as it came, but it sears itself into you. He doesn’t stop driving himself into you with a brutal tenderness that has you gasping his name through tears. The horror of it should have torn you from the dream, and yet you cling to him, to his heat, to the slick drag of his cock filling you again and again.

You wake trembling, your body soaked in sweat, the sheets damp beneath you. The creature sleeps quietly at your side, his breathing even, almost human. You turn toward him in the dark, studying the face that wears Kyryll’s features so faithfully, and your heart twists with something you can no longer name.

You know this is wrong. You know this is dangerous. And yet… you let him stay.

Because sometimes, grief does not just ache. Sometimes, it devours.

Winter eventually gives way to spring.

The animals relax in the warmer air, their skittishness easing as though the frost itself had carried the weight of dread. When you finish harvesting eggs from the chickens, you glimpse him in the pasture that morning, carrying a lamb in his arms with an unsettling gentleness. A suitable replacement for last night’s sacrifice.

You say nothing. You are past the point of caring. You would give him every lamb you owned, every goat and sheep, if it meant Kyryll—whatever remains of him—would stay by your side.

At lunch you dine in silence. It is nothing strange. Kyryll was never a chatty man, and the thing that wears his face well enough does not bother pretending otherwise. You chew, swallow, wash the taste down with water. Across the table, his eyes flick toward yours once or twice, but no words pass between you. It is as though silence itself has become the language you share.

Afterward, as you tidy up the plates, he hips brush behind you while reaching for something in the cupboards overhead. You freeze, breath caught in your throat. You don’t know if he does it on purpose, or if he even understands the meaning of this sort of closeness. He has never once initiated any sort of affection in waking hours. Not once. Almost like he is still unsure of his place in the rhythm of your grief.

And that is when you turn.

Your hands lift almost without thought, fingers threading against the nape of his neck, pulling him down into you. His lips meet yours clumsily at first, stiff and uncertain, as if sifting through Kyryll’s memories on how a man ought to respond. But when he finds it—when the recollection locks into place—he answers with startling force.

The kiss deepens, rough and desperate, his mouth parting against yours to claim and consume. A soft whimper escapes you, swallowed instantly between his teeth. His hands find your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and then you’re hoisted effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. Plates rattle, a fork clatters to the floor, but you don’t care—your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and closer still.

He kisses like hunger itself, tongue hot and insistent, as though he has finally been permitted to take what he’s been denied. You gasp into him, and he swallows every sound greedily. His body presses flush to yours as the hard length of him grinds against you through your skirts, making a shiver race deliciously down your spine.

It’s wrong. Even if every frantic kiss, every nip of teeth, and every desperate clutch of fingers digging into your skin feels exactly like Kyryll, you know it is not him. But the wrongness only makes your desire burn hotter, makes you want him more.

For the first time, it is not a dream.

And gods help you, it feels too good to stop.

By the time he hauls you off the counter, your dress is already half-undone, bodice tugged down so your breasts spill free into the air between you. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding over your skin as if he means to memorize every inch, thumbs dragging over your nipples until you’re gasping into his mouth. The poor dress hangs uselessly around your waist, wrinkled and bunched, but neither of you care.

You stumble through the hallway tangled together, his mouth never leaving yours for long. He devours every sound, every needy whimper, while you clutch at him desperately, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt as though you might anchor yourself to something real.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you. He pushes you back onto the mattress with a force that rattles the frame, climbing over you in the same motion. His weight settles heavy, solid, frighteningly real as his lips trail down your jaw to the hollow of your throat, sucking bruises into skin that will ache tomorrow.

You arch beneath him, a ragged cry escaping when he mouths at your breasts, tongue flicking over hardened peaks. His hand fists in your skirts, yanking them higher, baring your thighs to the cold air, and the hunger in him sharpens into something that feels less like mimicry and more like possession.

The heat between you only builds as the last buttons and ties surrender, clothes falling in careless heaps across the floor. His shirt slips from his shoulders, baring the breadth of him above you, and you’re too lost in the fever of it to notice the first flicker. But when your gaze catches, just for a heartbeat, on the wrong shape of his hand—the grotesque, bandaged thing from your dreams—you shudder.

Not in fear. In want.

The sight lances through you like fire, and instead of pulling away, you arch up into him, clinging tighter as though you could drag both Kyryll and the monster into yourself at once. Your breath stutters when the illusion fractures again, the man you knew shifting into the beast that stalked your sleep. And gods help you, your body only grows wetter for it.

His mouth is merciless against your throat, dragging teeth over tender skin, sucking bruises deep and dark where Kyryll never dared. He marks you as his own, every bite a brand that leaves you whimpering for more. And when you tilt your head back, baring yourself willingly, the shadows in the corners stir.

They creep closer in a whisper of movement, until phantom hands—long-fingered, writhing things—slither across the sheets. One brushes your ankle. Another strokes your calf. By the time the third slides up the inside of your thigh, you’re gasping, hips canting instinctively toward the unseen touch.

The hands multiply. They crawl over you in teasing strokes, cupping the weight of your breasts, thumbing your nipples while his mouth claims the other. They squeeze and knead, worship and torment in equal measure, until you’re arching helplessly beneath the combined assault. Another pair parts your thighs wider, their slick, phantom touch skating too close to where you burn for him.

A sob escapes you when one finally dips between your folds, fingers ghosting over the wet heat of you with maddening delicacy. The creature above you growls low in his chest yet he doesn’t stop it. His weight presses heavier, his hand locking your hip down as he grinds against you with ruthless force, as if staking claim over what the shadows dare to touch.

And all the while, his face wavers—Kyryll’s beloved features flickering into that bandaged monstrosity, eyes like embers staring down at you from behind the mask of flesh. It should terrify you, but instead your thighs fall open wider, your nails dig deeper, your body begs harder.

The tendrils do not relent. They writhe over your skin in concert, stroking and teasing until your cunt trembles with need, slick dripping freely onto the sheets. Every phantom caress loosens you further, leaving you open and aching and all too ready.

Then, like a cruel mercy, the monster’s blurred edges start to settle. Bandages and shadows peel away, and for one dizzying heartbeat, it is Kyryll above you again. His face, his weight, his warmth pressing you down into the mattress. The illusion is so seamless you almost weep, because it feels as though the storm had never stolen him at all.

His hand fists around his cock, pumping the thick length through gritted teeth. The same cock that filled you countless times before, the same one your body remembers down to the last inch. Veins throb beneath his rough grip, the head slick with need. Your thighs fall open wider, invitation and surrender in one, even as your mind reels at the fact that you are about to let the monster who took your husband become him. You are about to let him fuck you. Claim you.

And you want it. You want it so badly you could break.

When he pushes in, the stretch steals your breath. His length slides into your dripping heat with agonizing slowness, every inch dragging through your folds until he’s buried to the hilt. The tendrils tighten their grip, circling your clit in relentless circles, stroking in time with the heavy throb of him inside you.

The sound he makes when he bottoms out is near animalistic—a guttural growl, raw and trembling, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as his hips grind down, grinding that thick length against every swollen, desperate inch of you.

Gods help you—you wrap your legs around his waist, nails clawing at his back, and pull him closer still. Because it feels like Kyryll. It feels like home.

Even if you know it’s not.

His hips snap forward harder now, fucking you into the mattress with a force that rattles the bedframe. Each thrust drags his cock deep, striking places inside you that make your back bow and your throat spill broken cries into the dark. The tendrils keep perfect pace, every stroke of his length amplified by the phantom touches teasing your clit, twisting your nipples, prying your thighs open wider still until you are nothing but raw nerves strung tight for him.

You sob beneath him, body shuddering as pleasure coils hot and unbearable in your belly. It’s too much—his cock stretching you, the tendrils flooding every inch with sensation, your mind splintering between grief and want. Tears spill hot down your temples, streaking your flushed skin.

And he notices.

The monster groans low in his throat, his pace never faltering as he leans down to lap the tears from your face. His tongue is rougher than Kyryll’s ever was, his lips sealing over the salt of your grief as if he drinks it. When he pulls back, his eyes glow with an otherworldly magenta, the last proof of what he really is.

You see it. You know.

But gods, his cock feels too good. Each thrust slams you higher, deeper into delirium, his thickness battering your poor, soaking cunt until you’re choking on your own sobs. The tendrils slither higher, slick tips prying your lips apart and pressing down on your tongue, forcing you to pant helplessly around them like a bitch in heat. Every gasp is stolen, every whimper muffled by the invasive strokes inside your mouth.

It’s vile. It’s wrong. It’s everything you should recoil from.

Still, your body betrays you.

A scream tears from your throat as your climax rips through you, violent and unrelenting. Your cunt spasms wildly around his cock, milking him as gushes of slick spray out, soaking the sheets beneath. He growls, hips driving harder, chasing your squirt as though he means to wring every last drop from you.

You’re shaking, sobbing, choking on tendrils and tears, but you can’t stop—don’t want to stop. Because in this moment, no matter how monstrous his eyes burn or how filthy the shadows writhe, his cock still feels like it belongs inside you.

His thrusts grow savage, every snap of his hips driving you down into the soaked sheets with bruising force. You can feel him swelling within your gummy walls, cock thickening as his rhythm grows erratic and desperate. The tendrils match his frenzy—slapping against your clit in relentless circles, tugging your nipples cruelly, writhing deeper into your mouth until you gag around them, your tears streaking hot and heavy down your face.

You’re lost, shattered. Pleasure has stripped you raw, left you nothing but a body to be used, filled, and claimed. Your cunt clamps down like a vice, spasming around him as aftershocks ripple through you, each thrust forcing out another gush of slick.

Then he lowers his head to your neck, and the sound he makes is not Kyryll’s.

“Mine.”

The word rumbles against your throat, deep and guttural, alien in timbre. The magenta glow in his eyes burns hotter, brighter, searing through the mask of familiarity as his hips slam forward one last time.

He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing violently as his release tears out of him. Hot spurts flood your pussy, thick and endless, spilling into your womb until it leaks down your thighs. He stays locked inside you through it, grinding deep as if to brand you from within, tendrils tightening their hold so you cannot flinch away, cannot deny what’s happening.

Your body convulses, another helpless squirt gushing around his cock as he stuffs you full, your sobs breaking against the slick pressure filling your mouth. You’re choking on tears, choking on pleasure, choking on him—and you can’t stop clinging to him even as the last shards of Kyryll’s illusion fall away.

It is not your husband’s face above you now. Not his eyes, not his voice.

Only the monster.

Weeks later, the snow has melted into the earth, leaving behind dark soil rich with promise.

Crocuses bloom along the edges of the field, their soft petals swaying in the wind, and the first shoots of green push stubbornly through last season’s frost. You stand at the fence line, apron dusted with flour, watching as your new neighbors hammer beams into place, their laughter carrying bright and clear across the valley.

When they visit a week later, baskets in hand and children darting shyly behind their skirts, you and Kyryll greet them at the door. Bread is broken, wine poured. You lead them through the rows of sprouting seedlings, Kyryll smiling faintly as he explains the soil, the seasons, the way the mountains cradle the crops just so. The family listens eagerly, their faces open and kind, and for a while it almost feels as though this life has always been yours.

When the evening wanes and the neighbors depart, the house falls back into its familiar quiet. Kyryll clears the table while you rinse the plates. Outside, the wind stirs the fields. Inside, his shadow lingers at your back, warm and heavy, his hand brushing yours as he takes the last dish to dry, wedding bands glinting in the waning light.

You glance at him—at the face you love, the face you chose to keep—and for a fleeting heartbeat, something else flickers beneath it. Something you no longer flinch from.

You were taught to count time in threes. Three heartbeats. Three breaths. Three steps. After all, nature always balances itself in threes.

Now, it is you, and Kyryll.

And the thing that wears his face.

⟢ end notes: i have been gnawing at this prompt like a chew toy since i met rerir last week, and i finally got to channel the innate need to fuck that guy into this disastrous piece... i have no defense. you can take me away now, officer. but on another note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed! thank you kindly to didi and meirinnie for going over my initial drafts with me and reassuring that i'm not spouting out nonsense HAH horror-adjacent fics are really so far out of my usual genre, and i'm clutching my pearls as i post this... hopefully i won't get cancelled LMAO

Bf!Adrian Chase who lacks boundaries…. revealing way too much about your sexlife.

“No I’m serious,” he would whine to Chris, “She’s real and this really happened.”

“You expect me to believe you not only have a girlfriend 10x out of your league, your words, but now she’s also a sex freak who can’t even wait to get you out of your suit in an alleyway.” Chris’ laugh only egging him on to speak further.

“Yes that is exactly what I expect you to believe because that is exactly what happened. I beat that fucker up and she saw and she was so wet it was like a-“

“ADRIAN!! What the fuck.” Both of their heads snapping to you, one in pure shock at your existence, one in pure joy at the sight of you.

“Perfect timing baby, tell him how you couldn’t wait to-“ You’d clamp a hand over his mouth, eyeing him dangerously and only furthering his excitement at your presence.

Bf!Adrian Chase who lacks boundaries…. having a not so secret album of candid photos of you.

Adrian would not be able to go more than an hour without checking up on you. While patrolling as Vigilante, while you were working, while HE was working. And every time he sees you he thinks the same thing, “Holy fuck you look beautiful.” And he would just have to save it forever in his phone.

Even if it’s a cold, dead night he would find himself slipping his hand out of his glove, tugging his phone from it’s dedicated pocket in the Vigilante suit, and snapping as many pictures of you as he can.

He would show you as soon as he could too, he’d run up to you as you’re leaving your job literally yelling, “Baby baby look,” shoving his phone in your face to show a picture of you in your hideous work uniform, hair a mess, frowning at the customer in front of you, “You look so fucking amazing, putting this in my favorites”

He would even have to explain it to the team, Ads and Harcourt would be so worried for you too. Genuinely believing you weren’t his girlfriend, just an object of his obsession, until he brings you to their rooftop party hanging off his arm like you were just as obsessed with him as he was with you.

Bf!Adrian Chase who lacks boundaries…. climbing into your window no matter the time.

Your heart pounded as your eyes searched for any weapon, quickly finding a gun Adrian had left behind for you as the clanks of your fire escape get louder.

The red shine of the Vigilante visor finally came into view reflecting off the glass of your window as he waves dramatically in to you.

“WHAT THE FUCK!!!!” You would scream as he expertly works past the lock and slips inside before tugging his mask from his head.

“You’re holding that wrong,” He’d say, flashing towards you and adjusting your hand placement on his gun completely unaware of the shell shocked look on your face, “We’re gonna teach you how to shoot tomorrow okay? What if I was a burglar, you would have gotten me in the shoulder, you gotta go headshot baby.” He would laugh maniacally.

“Not everyone immediately goes for the kill Adrian.” You would sigh, handing the gun to his experienced hands before turning to keep getting ready for bed like this was somehow normal.

Bf!Adrian Chase who lacks boundaries…. showing up at random places you are.

“Adrian I can fucking see you,” You sigh, watching the red reflection of his visor catch the headlights passing by the bush he was unsuccessfully hiding behind, “Your visor is catching the light.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t know any Adrians…..plus talking to a bush is a sign of mental illness so I don’t know if you even know what you’re talking abo-“

“Just get out of there and walk me home,” you would sigh, fighting a smile when he pops up out of the bush to follow you.

“Y’know,” he would start immediately, “it is very dangerous to walk home alone, I am sure you have a very caring, very dangerous boyfriend who has told you that before.” Only to continue a spiel of all the criminals he had to stop that night.

Bf!Adrian Chase who lacks boundaries…. trying to find even the smallest of criminal records for anyone who looks at you too long.

“Got him!” Adrian punches the air in excitement, the glow of his phone lighting up his face as you slowly wake up beside him.

“Got who?” You ask groggily, “Didn’t you say you were done with Vigilante research in bed?” You would ask through a yawn, eyes still closed.

“That drunk fucknut at the bar earlier,” he said, calm and collected as your eyes snap open fully awake now, “He bragged about beating some guy up in a bar fight 3 years ago!!!!”

“Oh my god, he flirted with me for like four fucking seconds Adrian.”

“Four seconds too long,” He would say before continuing like you hadn’t said a word, “Plus this guy he hurt was an activist, no priors besides an arrest at a protest and he had him eating through a straw for a MONTH.” He would shout, face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. Hopping out of bed to rush to his Vigilante suit, jumping back to you after suiting up to leave a soft kiss on your forehead while you slipped back into a peaceful sleep.

It started at first out of pity. She noticed early on that Adrian didn’t even request the half-off food that all employees got. He never walked up to the line and asked for free fries. He never tried to get plates of food that got sent back for being wrong. He just did his job, took too-long breaks, and made most of the staff and customers really uncomfortable. 

But he didn’t bother her. He was nice in a weird way. 

Plus, she did enjoy seeing Dave angry. Asshole didn’t even deserve his promotion. 

On the rare occasion he ran food (something that all the veteran servers had banned him from doing and only got away with when there was a new server) she would get to talk to him briefly. 

“Hey! This fettuccine looks bomb! You did so good!” he said to her with his usual bright smile. 

“I didn’t make that, but I appreciate it, Adrian,” she would say with a chuckle, for a moment he would deflate but when he realized she didn’t make fun of him and his smile would return and he would run the food. 

It’s a particularly slow night, and she’s watched Adrian from the kitchen wipe down the same table for at least 20 minutes now. Finally giving in, she gives a sharp whistle and he looks up at her immediately. A boyish grin paints his features as she gestures for him to come over. 

She watches him check that no one is watching and he quickly dashes to the kitchen, which she is sure is calling more attention than if he just walked over. 

“What’s up?” he whispered once he got to the line, eyes flashing to her and the other line cooks who didn’t give a fuck that he was up there. She looked at him through the hot bar with a smile, before putting a basket of fries in front of him. She had even gone so far as adding parmesan and parsley on them for him. 

She smiled as he looked at her and then at the fries. 

“What table are these for?” he asked, turning around to look at the nearly empty dining room, she rolled his eyes with his back turned, fixing her chef’s apron. 

“They’re not for a table, Adrian. We don’t even sell parmesan fries.” He turned back to look at her, head tilting, clearly ready to ask more questions. “They’re for you,” she said as if it was the most obvious thing.   

“For me?” He confirmed. 

“Yeah, unless you’d rather have something else, I can make you whatever,” she said with a shrug, a little upset he didn’t seem to notice just how fancy she made the fries for him.

Okay, fancy was strong but she was working with a very limited kitchen. 

“Oh, but I didn’t order anything or at least I didn’t mean to order anything. Do you know how much I would owe so I can pay Dave?” he asked. 

“You didn’t order them, no one did. You can just have them. I made them,” she said, pushing the plate a little closer. “Do you want a dipping sauce?”

“But that’s against company policy! Employees have to pay for 50% of their food.” He hissed pushing the plate closer to her, looking around clearly nervous about breaking the rules. 

“Adrian, listen to me, I do this all the fucking time and if Dave gets upset with you or tries to charge you, let me know I will take care of it, okay?” she said forcefully, pushing the plate towards him, his eyes were bright as they went back and forth between her and the fries before finally accepting them. 

“Do you have any nacho cheese?” he asked softly, and she laughed before turning around to get him a ramekin of cheese sauce that they normally used for the breadsticks. 

“For you, Adrian? Of course,” she said, missing the way his cheeks blushed and his smile growing into something more knowing. 

“Thank you, that’s really nice of you!” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. 

“Anytime, Adrian. Seriously, just let me know if you’re ever hungry and I can make you something, even if it’s not on the menu.” 

She watched as he nodded his head and took the fries and the cheese sauce towards one of the backrooms that employees tended to eat in when there was a kitchen fuck up. She laughed to herself as she watched him walk away. 

Adrian never took her up on her offer to order his own food, but at least once a week she would get him to at least try something new. She would play it cool and say she’s working on a new menu item (as if this shitty chain was going to change anything) to get Adrian to try a bit. 

He was strange but sweet. He never took the food or her for granted and at one point she saw him pay one of the servers to let him run food. Which when the server told her made her laugh while the rest of the cooks just looked over at her like she was crazy. 

Maybe she was, but he was sweet and harmless and he made her week go by faster. That was until Friday. 

She hated closing the kitchen on Fridays. Drunk assholes always stay too late and all her cooks didn’t know how to leave her kitchen clean, leaving her to pull it all together so the Saturday brunch cooks wouldn’t get pissed with her. 

Why they even served brunch was beyond her. 

To make matters worse, her car was in the shop which meant she was either walking two miles home or calling an uber which will most definitely end up costing her too much to be worth it. 

She was also pissed off because Adrian was supposed to work tonight, but had traded his shift for the following Friday, so all the prep she did for something for him to try went to waste. She did still eat it, but it was supposed to be for him. 

All she wanted was to wrap up cleaning and closing the restaurant so she could drink and go to sleep and forget this terrible place until she was back on again for Sunday lunch. Without Adrian. 

It wasn’t until she went to take out the trash that she noticed something strange.

The trash was already taken out. Which was weird because, besides her, she didn’t think anyone else was left at the restaurant and she would’ve heard one of her cooks bitching and complaining about taking the trash out. 

“You were so nice about the fries and all the food.” A voice says from the front of the kitchen. 

“JESUS FUCK!” She screams as she whips around towards the voice, scrambling to grab a chef’s knife off the table. She holds it out as her eyes reach the source of the voice. 

Adrian fucking Chase. 

“Adrian!” she shouted, dropping the knife and clutching her chest, the long clang it made on the floor made her flinch. “What the fuck!” His reaction barely changed as he just looked at her with a huge smile on his face. 

“Hey!” he said, as if he didn’t just scare her near to death. 

“What the fuck!” she repeats, less scared and more angry and his eyes go wide. “What are you doing here, you’re not even scheduled today!” 

“You know my schedule?” he asked, tilting his head, smile staying put.

“ADRIAN!” She screamed again, bending over to pick the knife back up. Even though they both knew she wouldn’t actually stab him, she pointed the knife over at him. His goofy smile stayed in place but at least he put his hands up in the air. It made her feel a little better.  

“I wanted to repay the favor! You gave me fries so one of the other cooks let me in as they were leaving and I helped clean! The front is all done and I just took all the trash out, what do you have left before you can leave? I can do some more tasks!” he asked, as if this was a totally normal way to repay someone for giving them free fries. 

“The trash was it, I’ve already done all the prep for tomorrow and I checked the walk-in already. Everything is in place,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him, he looked almost disappointed that there wasn’t any more work to do. She wondered briefly if he clocked in, knowing if he did that Dave would have her head later. He really seemed to just be doing this because of her kindness. 

“Oh! That’s good it’s done so quickly! I’m sure you’re relieved. Can I walk you to your car?” he asked, bouncing on his heels. She laughed at how goofy he seemed. 

“Sorry, I walked today, I was just gonna get an uber home,” she said, pulling out her phone. 

“Wait, no!” Adrian shouted, clearly his throat when he realized he had yelled, “I mean…I can drive you home,” he finished more coolly, attempting to lean against the wall but missing it and tripping slightly. She shakes her head at his antics. 

“Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out, you already came in on your day off.” 

“So you do know my schedule!” Adrian said, as if he’s caught her in a lie. 

“Adrian!” She laughed, still trying to get him to focus. 

“Okay, okay! Please let me drive you home, creepy people drive Ubers and it’s way too late to walk back. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” he practically begged. 

“Anything bad to happen to your free food at work,” she teased and for a moment he looked…almost offended. As if that didn’t cross his mind at all. She immediately backpedaled, not wanting to upset him. “Alright, Adrian, show me to your car.” 

She gestured toward the door, pulling the restaurant key out of her pocket. When he thought she wasn’t looking he started fist pumping the air. She fought the urge to giggle at his weird behavior. 

She could hear him yapping as they walked to the car, something about owls, when a thought hit her. 

This is the moment she's been waiting for and she really doesn’t think she’s reading too much into Adrian’s motives. As they got closer to the car she took her hands out of her pockets, wanting her hands to be free. 

“Wow, you drive uhhh….” Gesturing wildly to the car as Adrian stopped in front of her.

“It’s a sebring! Do you like it?” he asked, clearly not thrown off by her attempt. 

“Yeah, it’s great. I love that it has a back seat.” She walked closer to the car, leaning against the back seat door. He walked over, clearly just happy to keep talking to her. 

“Yeah! It’s great I can fit like five people in my car, but my friends don’t normally want to ride in my car. I mean occasionally me and my BFF, Chris, you know Chris right? He always orders zoodles, well we will take my car since he doesn’t have one but-”

“Wow, so three people in the backseat?” she asked, looking up at him. 

“Yeah!” he said, happy that it seemed like she was listening to him. 

“And there’s only two of us, so there should be enough space,” she repeated, he cocked his head to the side, like he was confused. 

“Wha-” 

“Adrian, look at me.” He looked at her and she smiled, wide and bright and looked up at him through her lashes, batting them slowly and playing with the hem of her shirt just to really sell the point. 

She watched in slow motion as his brain finally caught up. 

“Wait, you want…me?” he asked, pointing at himself, and it took all she had in her to not jump him right then and there. 

“Jesus Christ, Adrian, I was making you food out of the kindness of my heart. Have you seen me do that for anyone else in the restaurant? I’m sure you’ve seen me cuss out a few servers for even asking,” she said. “I like you, like a lot.” 

“Me? Adrian Chase?” he asked, still not believing her. Finally she decided if he’s not going to listen to her, she’s just going to have to show him. 

“Adrian, do you like me back?” she asked, annoyance rising in her voice. She already knows the answer is yes, but she’s struggling to get him to the point where he knows what’s going on. 

“Yes, of course! You’re so hot and I like the way you talk to everyone, including Dave and the food you make is so good. I like that you have a different chef’s apron than the others and you tie it really tight and it looks uncomfortable, but super hot. You’re also just really nice to me, which no one at work really is, so that’s nice. I also really like-” He begins to ramble as her smile grows. 

Ah, so the busboy had thought about the line cook for a while now. Just like she thought. 

“Adrian, unlock the car.” The car lights up and she opens the back seat. “Get in.” He slid in, craning his neck so he could still see her outside the car, but she quickly followed him. She pushed him onto his back and quickly slotted herself between his legs, pulling the door closed behind her and crawling over to him. She had heard him start to talk, but she quickly slotted her lips against his. 

He was a sloppy kisser, not at all what she was expecting, when his tongue ran across her lips begging for her permission. Messy but it was hot. He tasted strangely of mint, she wondered silently if he had psyched himself up for this possibility. 

It took less than five minutes for the Sebring to be fogged up. 

She had started pulling his clothes off, followed by her own. She threw their shirts somewhere in the car, needing to feel closer to him. His hands immediately went to her bra clasp and she smirked as she grinded down on his jeans, suddenly glad she wore leggings and not jeans today so she could really feel him even through the multiple layers of fabric. Had to be hell for him though, she thought. 

“Wait, Adrian,” she said, breaking up the kiss, putting one of her fingers over his lips to stop him from following her up, “You’re not a virgin, right?” His hands are still on her back, working on her clasp, clearly struggling, but his eyes are wide behind his fogged up glasses as he looks at her. 

“Oh! No, I mean I was during high school but I’m not a virgin right now, I promise. Wait, are you?” he asked, tilting his head, fingers finally opening her bra clasp, he quickly sent the bra flying to the front of the car, clearly happy with his reward. She smiles as he continues to look at her chest, clearly mesmerized by her tits. 

She took him in, hair mussed, lips puffy and shiny. He looked like a painting. His chest was more muscular than she was expecting to see underneath his clothes, especially for a busboy who was older than 30, she made a note to ask him about that later. 

“No, Adrian, I’m not. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t taking your v-card in a parking lot on a random Friday. I would want that to be special for you,” she said softly and his eyes softened, even in the dark of the car she couldn’t get enough of his expressions. He was just so…honest. He was so easy to read and every look was so revealing and she just found that so hot. 

“Wait, are we going to fuck in my car?” he asked, excitedly. She let out a sharp laugh, knocking her forehead against his, kissing his nose as his hands trailed their way up her body to cup her boobs. 

“Would you like to fuck in your car tonight, Adrian?” she asked teasingly, his fingers brushing over her nipples making her shiver. 

“If it’s you, I’d fuck you anywhere,” he said honestly. 

“Good to know, but before then, is the car okay in the meantime?” She moved her body slightly down, her clothed heat rubbing against him as she attached her lips to his neck. 

“Car’s okay,” he said breathlessly, clearly excited that this had a prospect of another time. She sucked hard on his neck and he released a choked back moan. 

“Adrian, no one is gonna hear us, you can make noise,” she whispered against his skin, the car was a tight fit, but she did her best to move her body downward. At least enough where her mouth was lined up with his straining cock. It took her no time to get his belt off and he helped her shimmy off his pants and boxers. 

She was generally hard to impress, Adrian on the other hand…

Adrian impressed her. 

“Holy shit,” she said, more to herself than Adrian. She could practically feel his panic instantly as he tried to sit up to look at her, moving his hands to cover himself. “No, no, Adrian you’re…perfect.” She breathed out, wasting no more time before she slowly licked up his shaft. He immediately threw his head back and hit the car door. She heard him wince, but before she could even ask if he was okay one of his hands was in her hair. 

“Please keep going, oh my god,” he cried, hand in her hair slightly pushing her down, other in his own hair. She giggled at the sight. The poor boy looked like he was about to combust.  

“I don’t know, if I keep going are you going to be able to hold off on cumming, because I do need to fuck you too.” 

“I can hold it in, I promise.” He whined. “I’ll hold off, I’ll tell you when I’m close, is that okay?” Instead of answering, she decides to take advantage of him being distracted as she runs her thumb over his tip smearing pre-cum, causing him to cry out and for her to giggle even more. 

She’s glad she asked if he’s a virgin because she would’ve guessed he was. 

She takes her time, slowly but surely putting his cock in her mouth as he released a groan followed by a string of curses she would’ve never expected from his mouth. She rests one hand on his thigh the other on his stomach as she begins to bob up and down, his hand is pulling her hair tightly, but he’s not pushing her up and down at all. Her legs begin to ache but the noises Adrian is making makes any pain worth it in her mind. 

She works hard to not gag on his cock, but eventually she does go down too far too quickly and she thinks she plays it off well until she feels her hair being pulled up. 

Adrian looks down at her, face in pure concern, a few tears slip down her cheeks.

“Are you okay?” he asked, breathlessly. 

“Yeah, Adrian, I’m okay,” she said, head tilted ever so slightly. This man was genuine, most men would push her further and they would like it if she cried, but Adrian didn’t seem like that. She was almost mesmerized as his hand left her hair and wiped away her tear, she leaned into his palm that was now cupping her cheek. 

They stayed like that for just a moment before he motioned for her to scoot up. She realized he was motioning for her to ride him and she broke into a grin. 

“What? Can’t take anymore?” she teased as she quickly removed her leggings and panties. Adrian has a slight frown and his fingers twitch, she can tell he’d prefer to be the one to take off all her clothes, but the space just doesn’t allow for it. Once she’s completely naked in his car, she begins to line herself up on his cock. 

“Something like that.” Adrian grunts as she slides down on him, hands immediately grabbing his chest for balance, he has to throw one hand on her waist the other on the back of the passenger seat to keep them balanced enough they won’t go tumbling. 

She gasps as she bounces up and down on Adrian. His hand is tight on her side, squeezing her in a way she didn't expect. She finds herself hoping it’ll leave a mark for tomorrow. 

She looks down at him and she finds him staring at her face, looking at her like she hung the stars in the sky with his glasses crooked and his mouth agape. She smirks slightly at the idea crossing her mind. 

“Can I spit in your mouth?” she gasps out. 

“Oh fuck, please,” he whines. She feels him attempt to arch up into her further but there’s no room in the car. 

Smiling, she pulls one hand off of Adrian’s chest and slams it against the window, making her able to angle her head directly above his. He looks up at her, eyes wide flicking between her mouth and eyes. 

Slowly, she opens her mouth, drool pooling before looking down at Adrian. Her bouncing up and down caused his whole head to follow her, desperate for her. She fought a smile as she watched the trail slowly fall down towards Adrian, mouth open and excited, his tongue slightly sticking out. 

He moans loudly the moment her spit touches his tongue. He looks absolutely blissed out and she can’t help but moan at his reaction, drool still trailing down her own chin onto Adrian’s. 

It’s a miracle she hasn’t cum yet just from how hot this freak is. 

“Can…can you hold yourself up?” He grunts out, she nods bouncing faster, but moves her hands to make sure she is balanced on top of him. Once he’s sure she has them, he moves his hand from the passenger seat back to between their two bodies, fingers quickly finding her clit and getting to work. 

“Fuck! Adrian!” she cries as he rubs back and forth, clearly trying to get them to finish at the same time. 

“Gonna…where?” he cried, his other hand squeezing her side even tighter as she clenched around him.

“Inside!” Her rhythm becomes more and more erratic as her orgasm creeps up on her. It doesn’t take much more from her till Adrian gives a shout, painting her insides white, she follows quickly behind, gasping for air as she collapses onto Adrian. He lets out a grunt but adjusts himself to be holding her the best he could in the small car.

She’s breathing heavily, the car is hot and sticky and her skin feels like it’s on fire from his touch. She is thanking everything in her that Dave doesn’t have her scheduled tomorrow because she’s not sure she could walk if she wanted to. 

The two lay like that for what feels like hours, but she knows it cannot be that long. Her legs are screaming, but her brain is so blissed out she can’t bring herself to care. It wasn’t long till she felt Adrian grow antsy underneath her. 

“Fuck, this is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me, I am never cleaning this car again. You smell so good baby,” he murmured into her hair as he took a deep breath. 

“I smell like sweat and a dirty kitchen,” she responded to his chest. The back seat of his car felt suffocatingly small as she rested on top of him, his dick softening inside of her. 

“Yeah, as I said, you smell good and now my car smells good,” he said with a little more force, causing her to laugh. 

“Okay, Adrian, thank you,” she whispered, placing a soft kiss on his chest.

“Next time, I can eat you out if you want! You could totally sit on my face.” She laughed weakly, rolling her head so she could look up at him. His neck was straining to look at her, but his smile was the same it always was when looking at her. 

Normally, a man looking at her like that was gross, but Adrian…Adrian was worth it. 

“Adrian, you’re so fucking weird,” she said with a lovesick sigh. His brows furrowed. 

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he asked honestly. 

“For us? A really good thing because I only mess with freaks,” she said before biting his pec, she felt his dick twitch in her as he groaned. 

“If you keep doing that, we’re going to have to go again and I don’t know if my back can do another round in the car,” he murmured, hand smoothing out her hair. 

“Well, you were supposed to drive me home, Adrian, and here I am, still at work,” she teased seductively. “I guess the least I can do once we get to my house is invite you inside and sit on your face for the ride home.” 

“That’s definitely the least you can do! Poor me, right?” He agreed, smiling wide as he sat up. She slid off of him with a groan, looking down at her sore legs. “Here! I don’t any towels we could use to clean you up, but I promise I can clean you up when we get to your place, or if you wanted I could use my shirt to clean you up but I would need to clean it before going home,” Adrian said brightly, she looked up and he was holding her t-shirt up for her, he was still naked. She couldn’t help but stare at him until he finally looked at her. 

“What did I say something wrong? Just so you know I really do want to eat you out, I was being sarcastic when I said poor me!”