˖°📸 ༘ NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY!
Brian Thomas X Reader Oneshot
Pairing: Brian Thomas x Reader
Word Count: 11.1k
CW: fingering, Brian is a pervert, rough sex, sneaky sex, quickie, improper use of underwear, not proofread
Summary: While helping your boyfriend clean his disgusting room, you find a camera filled with secrets you never could’ve imagined.
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By the time you reached the third box, you were beginning to regret volunteering to help your boyfriend. Not that you had exactly volunteered to begin with.
Brian had mentioned that he needed to clear his room out, you’d complained about how long it was going to take him by himself, and somehow that had turned into you spending your Saturday afternoon surrounded by half-empty cardboard boxes and enough of Brian’s belongings to fill a small apartment.
The room looked worse than when you’d started. Clothes were piled across the bed. Books were stacked against the wall. A growing collection of miscellaneous objects sat in the corner, each one having been subjected to the same debate of keep, throw away, or Brian insists he’ll use it eventually.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, attempting to fold a shirt that absolutely did not want to cooperate, when Brian dropped another box beside you. Junk clattered inside, miscellaneous items clinking together and making an abundance of sketchy noises.
You looked up at him, brows furrowing into a deadpan expression. He looked at you, unamused. “I know.” He started, moving to sit down beside you. He turned his attention to the box of clutter. He crouched, lowering himself onto his knees before carefully checking the box.
“I didn’t say anything.” You defended yourself, crossing your arms over your chest and frowning. He exhaled through his nose before speaking.
“You were going to.” Brian started to take stuff out, examining them carefully before deciding whether to toss them into the good or junk pile.
“I was going to ask why you own seventeen black shirts that look exactly the same.” You said incredulously, gesturing to the stack of clothing that now throned his bed. He rolls his eyes, tossing an old bottle of pills into the designated junk pile.
“They’re not the same.” He says it like it’s obvious. Your eye twitches in frustration and you glance back at the shirts. All of them were stupidly blank; none of them were worn, except maybe one or two. The shirts were devoid of any sort of color—not even words. Just straight, blank, black shirts. Tags still on and everything.
“They’re literally identical.” You point out, pushing yourself upward. You spread the shirts out, checking every one of them to confirm your suspicions. They were all stark and vacant. There was nothing unique about any of them. It just looked like he got them from packs at a check-out aisle.
“Different brands.” He murmured, picking up an old ceramic plate. He grimaced and placed it into the junk pile immediately. You paused, looking back over your shoulder at him. Was he.. serious?
You stared at him. Brian stared back. Oh. He was being serious. This wasn’t a joke at all to him. He unironically cluttered junk like some hoarder. You squinted in confusion, grabbing the shirt by the hanger. You slowly held up the shirt, the fabric loosening now that it was held upright. “Brian.” Utterly bewildered, you glanced back at the shirt before looking back to him.
“What?” He asked, glancing over to the shirt. He paused his sorting to give his attention to you.
“It’s black,” You were utterly baffled. He was serious about this. Downright serious. You furrowed your brows in disbelief. He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a T-shirt.” You stretched out the fabric between your fingers. The brand isn’t even on the inside of the shirt. Nor was there a tag. Where the hell did he even get these?
“I fear that’s obvious, sweetheart.” At this point, he just went back to sorting through the items in the box. He pulled out a large plastic cup, mold forming around the rim. He tossed it into the junk pile.
“It has no design,” You say a bit louder, watching him separate his items quietly. He had no reason to be holding all of these shirts, especially when he didn’t wear half of them. You narrowed your eyes at him in pure dither. “Why are there seventeen?”
“Because I like them.” Right, right. To him, it was clear to have seventeen black shirts with zero flair to them.
“Jesus Christ, Tim was right. You are a hoarder.” You say in disbelief, shifting your weight as you check the tag. The date reads out 21/8/17. Wow. So he’s seriously letting these pile up. No wonder his room is such a mess.
“I’m not. I just have common sense.” He says, making a hand gesture. You deadpan at him and he compresses his lips in faux-yielding. He continues to sort various items; you don’t even want to guess how old they are.
You threw the shirt in your hands into the junk pile. “I’m throwing them all away.”
Brian’s eyes widened as he immediately snatched it back from the pile. He held it against his chest like it was a newborn child. “Don’t you dare.” Brian frowns at you, his hazel-colored eyes flickering to the other black shirts.
You laugh, brows lifting upward in shock. “See? You don’t even want to get rid of them!” You extend your arms out, emphasizing your point.
“Because they’re mine.” Brian fights back a smile, lips threatening to stretch into a smile mirroring your own. He starts to gather the stuff in the junk pile and dumping them into the now empty box.
“You haven’t worn half of these.” You flip through the shirts again, showing them individually to him.
“I might.” He shrugs his shoulders. You wince as you hear the sound of various items clinking together and breaking. Brian doesn’t seem to give two shits, simply dumping more crap on top of stuff.
“You said that about the tan jacket you have! It’s still collecting dust in your closet!” You say exasperatedly, rolling your eyes at him.
“I might wear that soon. When it gets chillier.” He clarifies, setting the black shirt on the floor before pushing himself upright. He drops the shirt onto the pile with the rest of them.
“You haven’t worn it since I met you. I’m sure of it.” You pause for a moment, searching through your mind. You were a hundred percent positive he hadn’t worn it at all in the time that you’ve known him. Maybe once at the beginning of your relationship, but it had been rotting in his junk-filled room since.
“That doesn’t mean anything.” He says, moving to dig through another box. He pulls out an old toy from his teen years. He grins as he holds it out to you. “Hey, look at this. Pretty cool, hmm?” He swings the toy around. It’s clearly broken and tattered, the plastic sharp and uneven on multiple edges.
You deadpan before ignoring him. You cross your arms across your chest. He needed to get rid of at least a few of these shirts. This was ridiculous. “Brian, we’ve known each other for—”
Your stomach growled loudly. You stopped. Brian looked at you and you looked at him. Embarrassment crept on your cheeks, hands uncrossing to touch your belly. How long had it been since you last ate? Wait—no, how long had it been since you started helping him clean?
Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched like a ticking time bomb, your embarrassment clear and evident as you felt heat rushing to your cheeks. Then his mouth twitched. You frowned, hand flying to rub your forehead. “Don’t even start.” You knew what he was going to say. And you did not want to deal with it.
“I didn’t say anything!” He says, a small laugh escaping his lips in the process. He covers his mouth with his fist and fake coughs to play it off. You glare at him, turning your back to him.
“You’re smiling.” You say, glancing over your shoulder. Your frown gets wider as he full-on grins. You’re a hundred percent sure your cheeks are flushed beet red at this point.
“I’m not.” He says, his grin fully exposed to you now. He walks up behind you, his hands slipping around your waist. “Promise.”
“You are.” You say, moving to push him away. He doesn’t relent, hand coming to rest on your belly as he mockingly rubs circles into it. You smack his hand away and he chuckles. “Poor baby. I’ve got you all cooped up here, working your ass off for a bum like me. And now you’re starving.”
You feel your frown slowly fading as he leans his chin onto your shoulder, his lips pressing faint kisses on the back of your neck. A small smile spreads on your lips. You can feel his mustache brushing against the small space between your shoulder and neck. “You hungry, sweetheart?” He asks simply, hands sliding to settle on your hips. You lift your head to the side, trying to be embarrassed. Around him, it’s impossible.
“A little.” You admit. Brian hums, moving upward to press a small kiss to your earlobe. Before you know it, he’s pulling back from you. You frown as you feel his heat fade from your back, leaving you missing his warmth. Brian moves, grabbing his wallet from the dresser. He slides it into his jeans pocket.
“I’m getting food.” He clarifies, moving to also grab his car keys. Your gaze follows him, glancing at the stuff littering his room and then back to him.
“Now?” You ask. You really did not want to be left in this mess alone. He was very picky about what he wanted thrown away and what he didn’t, depending on the item itself. Clothes and literal items were different. If he had an attachment to a certain piece of clothing, like the seventeen shirts for whatever reason, he’d never let them go. And he’d know if you threw them away. He always knew.
A few months ago, you had thrown away an old shirt of his. It was the one he used when he was working on cars—a side job of his. Due to the disgusting things that usually covered a mechanic during their job, the white shirt went from an ivory color to a gray color. Oil and grease faded into the very fabric with time, and he often got it caught on things and ripped holes into it.
After seeing him wear it for so long, you had enough. You tossed it out. He had plenty of other shirts he could wear. And you would know, all you ever got him for Christmas were clothes. He refused to wear new clothes because both of his jobs usually ended with him being covered in grime of all kinds. He didn’t wear new clothes unless it was all he had. Brian believed in the ‘wear it till you break through it’ crap. Meaning, he only used that shirt and specifically that shirt while he fixed up cars.
When he found out, because of course he eventually would, he was livid. He was pissy for the rest of the week, insisting that the shirt was ‘perfectly fine’ and that it didn’t need to be thrown out. He even had the gall to ask if he could dig it out from the trash. But, luckily for you, the trash panda didn’t have the chance. He had hauled the garbage out the day before. The dumpster truck had taken care of the shirt for you.
Overall, Brian was weird about clothes. He had a weird variation between what would be considered ‘work clothes’ and what wouldn’t. He’d only dress fancy if he was going on a date with you. If he wasn’t, he’d dress in his work clothes.
“Yeah. Can’t leave my baby hungry, now can I? Especially after you’ve been working so hard for me. Dealin’ with my bull.” He says, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You laughed and placed a hand on his chest.
“We have food, Brian. No need for that. I’ll be fine.” You said with a small smile. His consideration touched you, but you also knew you kind of deserved some food after all of this.
“You ate it. I saw you throwing the bag away this mornin’.” His hand comes to yours on his chest. He smiles down at you, and you can’t help but smile back.
“I ate some of it.” You emphasize with a playful roll of your eyes. His hazel orbs stare directly into yours.
“You ate the last of it.” He corrects with a quip to the side of your lip. You swat his hand away with your free one and he laughs.
“You’re the one who bought those chips!”
“And you ate them.” His hand slips to your chin. He shakes your head a bit with fondness in his eyes. You tilt your head away immediately, a quiet giggle escaping your lips.
“They were good! You know I love that kind. I couldn’t help myself. They were just sitting there, looking so.. appetizing!”
“They were supposed to last the week.” You shrugged.
“That’s optimistic. You know how I am. They were sitting there on the table uneaten. They looked so yummy.”
Brian gave you a flat look before pulling one of his gray jackets on. He zipped up the zipper before fixing the hood on the back.
“I’m going to that new buffet that you liked. Want what you got last time or something new?” He asks, grabbing his phone and sliding it into his jacket's pocket.
“Oh my gosh, yes, please. Get me that new meal combo they made.” He nods and pulls up his jeans.
“Alright. Give me 30. I’ll stop by the gas station and get us snacks too. We can laze around after finishing this mess.”
You nod at him, your smile still big on your face. But then you pause, remembering the need. You look around again, not too excited to get back to cleaning through it.
“You don’t gotta work through this alone. When we finish eating later I’ll come help you out. Promise. I’ll stop being stuck up about it.” He says after noticing your expression. He smiles apologetically, walking toward his bedroom door. You nod at him.
“Thanks. I’ll wait for you.” You say, moving to make a small space on his bed for you to sit. He nods before walking out. His door swings shut with a soft click. You lay back on his bed, feeling the sheets shift beneath you. You lay there for a second, listening to the sound of his car starting up. The sound of him pulling out of the driveway echoed before you moved to sit up.
Boredom ate at you as you swung your legs. Your phone was a no-go, since you wanted to let it charge before you used it again. Your mind lazily drifted to one of the oldest boxes in his room. You knew he had some under his bed as well. You couldn’t imagine what you’d find. Maybe old magazines from his teen years. Embarrassing yearbook photos.Or even better, some pictures of Tim when he was younger. The idea of it intrigued you immediately. Much better than lying here bored the entire time. You pushed yourself up and decided to rummage through it. For the next several minutes, you barely thought about him.
You found an old hoodie you remembered stealing from him once. A stack of photographs that you immediately snatched up. Flipping through them, you see photos of Brian and Tim—some of people you don’t recognize. In most of the photos, the people you assumed were Brian’s friends were jacking around in the woods. On the bottom of a Polaroid, a caption titled ‘Kralie and Merrick being stupid’ is legible. Beside it, the date ‘3/17/08’ is scribbled. You assume the one with the green jacket is this mysterious ‘Merrick’ dude, and the one with glasses is ‘Kralie’. You smile to yourself. Brian looked so different. So free. It hurt your heart a bit to reminisce on all he’s been through.
After looking through the photos, you place them aside and continue rummaging through the box. A broken pair of headphones. An absurd amount of loose change. Nothing too interesting.
You were halfway through dragging another box from underneath his bed when something caught against your fingers. You frowned. It felt rough, with a lot of edges and points. Half of it was flat, and the other part felt like heavy glass.
“What’s that?” You murmur under your breath. Your fingers feel around, careful not to poke yourself on anything else that may be stuffed under his bed. You can tell it’s something not that large, but not that small either. You reached further underneath, attempting to get a better grip on it. Your fingers fumble with a few buttons on the top of it. You grabbed it and pulled it out from under the bed. A black camera emerged; the screen cracked in a tiny spot. You sat back on your heels as you cradled the delicate plastic in between your palms.
“Oh.”
You turned it over. It was old. Not ancient, but clearly something Brian had owned for a while. There were scratches along the edges and a small dent near the bottom. You couldn’t remember ever seeing him use it. Dust hadn’t collected on it, so you assumed that he had maybe already seen it—or maybe was still using it. The thought intrigued you. If he was, what could he possibly be taking photos of?
You pressed the power button. The screen flickered on. You smiled faintly in triumph. “Still works.” The screen went from white to black, and you almost assumed that it was completely broken, and maybe Brian had wiped the dust off before scraping it.
Then you noticed there was already a memory card inside. You knew immediately that it wasn’t broken. You fumbled with the buttons on the side, trying to get it to turn on. After a few minutes of meddling, the screen lit up, and you grinned in triumph. The company's logo lit up the room, almost blinding you in the process.
There were multiple options; multiple albums with different titles. They were all labeled by years. You clicked on the oldest one. You shifted on your knees and started looking through the photographs. The first few were boring. Buildings. Trees. A road. A blurry picture of what appeared to be Brian’s shoe. All taken within the year of 2009. Nothing special, seemingly just a younger version of Brian trying to use a camera for the first time. It was almost cute, imagining him fumbling with the lenses and accidentally taking photos.
You snorted. “Wow. Artistic and creative.”
You kept scrolling. The year gradually changed from 2009 to 2010, and then 2011. There were photographs of places you didn’t recognize, old pictures of Brian, some people you assumed were friends, and a few pictures that looked like they’d been taken during missions. Nothing particularly interesting. Gradually, the album automatically switched to a new one—the second album from the years 2014-2016. He got noticeably better at taking photos with time, from nervous, blurry photos, to elegant ones of wildlife. Some of that Toby kid, and Tim. Even a few of Kate.
The photos were all wholesome in their own way. There were some of guns, knives, Kate in a tree, Toby chasing a frog, Tim smoking, stray dogs and cats, and even food.
To you, everything seemed normal. You didn’t doubt Brian could pass as a regular guy; in fact, he had fooled you for a full year before telling you his actual job. With a gentle sigh, you scrolled one last time. The photo wasn’t anything interesting—just one of an old diner, one you recognized as not being too far from your home. You were about to turn it off when you noticed a familiar face. You stopped and stared at the screen. Your own face stared back. You blinked, utterly flabbergasted.
“What the fuck?”
It was you. Definitely you. You recognized yourself easily. You stared, confusion swarming your mind. You moved your thumb, scrolling through the photos and checking the dates. Maybe you had just gotten confused, right? To your horror, the photographs weren’t from one day. They weren’t even from one week. They stretched back months. The first photo you saw of yourself was taken a few months before you even met him. And you knew—you remembered when you met him.
A chill ran down your spine.
In another photo, you were standing outside a convenience store, holding a drink and looking down at your phone. You remembered that day. You remembered the shirt you were wearing. You remembered being annoyed because you’d been running late. But Brian hadn’t been there. At least, you didn’t remember him being there.
You scrolled backward. Another photograph. You again. This time, you were walking through a parking lot. You scrolled again, and now you were sitting in your car, your hand resting on the wheel and the other wrapped around your phone. You moved your thumb, and a photo of you standing outside of your apartment lit up the screen.
Your smile had already completely disappeared. You looked toward the bedroom door, paranoid out of your mind. These photos made you feel trapped. The type of paranoid that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand. Of course there wasn’t anyone there. Brian was at the gas station. You knew that for a fact.
How long had he been watching you? It had nearly taken you years to ever find this. And if you had never found the camera, would you have ever found out? You looked back down. You swallowed every instinct that told you to throw the camera to the side. You scrolled again.
Another photograph of you sitting at a table in a restaurant. Another of you leaving. Another of you laughing. Another of you standing beside your car. All in great detail; each photo showing the viewer every aspect of your outfit. Your hair, your eyes, your face. All taken without you ever even noticing.
You continued going forward, the cycle repeating. You, before you met Brian. You doing everyday things. The same pattern continued. Different places. Different clothes. Different days. You slowly lowered the camera into your lap. There was no way.
The twisted reality of the situation starts to fully sink in. He’s known you before you knew him. He deliberately waited to introduce himself. What if he had been watching you longer than he had been taking these photos? How long had he been doing this? Why did he do this? Maybe someone had sent him these.
Maybe—
No. You knew these photographs. Not because you’d seen them before. But because you recognized the moments. You remembered them.
You remembered being there. You remembered being alone. Your thumb moved again before your brain told you otherwise.
A photograph of you at the shooting range appeared—and you went completely still. You knew exactly when that had been taken. You’d gone alone. You had specifically gone alone. The photograph had been taken from a distance, through a gap in the fencing. You could see yourself standing at the firing line; your face was turned slightly away from the camera.
Your heart began beating harder. You clicked backward. There was another. You were leaving and heading toward your car. The next one was you in your car; much like the photo from earlier, but on a different day. You were sitting behind the steering wheel, taking a sip of your coffee. You swallowed heavily, dread creeping into your body and crawling like a thousand tiny termites under your skin. The photographs weren’t just pictures of you. They were pictures of you when you didn’t know anyone was watching.
Your thumb hovered over the button. You should have stopped. Every instinct in you screamed for you to stop. Years of built-in impulse told you to drop the camera, and never bring it up again. You knew that it would be best for your sake to let it go. To not continue looking through the photos.
Pushing everything aside, you kept going. You knew you’d never get peace if you didn’t. The images changed as the dates approached the present. You started seeing photographs from places Brian had actually been with you. A restaurant you recognized as the one he took you to on your first date. A park. The couch in his living room.
You and Brian together. All innocent.
These weren’t pictures you’d taken. You’d never seen them. You clicked again. You and Brian at dinner. He took you to this restaurant on your fourth date. The one where he officially asked you to be your boyfriend. You’d known him for 7 months at that point. Brian told you that he only considered the times that he took you out to someplace fancy as an official date; even though the talthoughcally inseparable at that point.
He acted as if he loved you. He convinced you of it. This wasn’t love. This was obsession. This was deranged; an uncomfortable guise on his part. Why? Why was he doing this? What did he get out of it?
You scrolled again, your heart practically sunken into your stomach. You were asleep against his shoulder—innocent, vulnerable. He knew that. And he had been taking these photos without you knowing.
You pressed on. This time, it was of you laughing while baking him cookies. The photos were bittersweet. You didn’t know what to feel. Simple photos, like you asleep, with your head rested peacefully against the pillow. Innocent enough, right? No. Something was off.
You paused. That one was different. Your expression changed almost immediately as dread curled inside of you. You recognized the room. It was, without a doubt, your room. You recognized the covers, the curtains, and the interior. You were lying beneath the blankets, completely asleep. Your hair was a mess on the pillow, and you looked blissful. Blissful and unaware of the man looking over you with a camera. You stared at the photo. Then at the timestamp. Your breathing slowed as it clicked to you. You remembered that night. Brian had stayed over at your house for the first time. You remembered falling asleep beside him, under his arm.
You remembered waking up alone the next morning. You had assumed he’d gotten up early. Your eyes moved back to the picture. Brian hadn’t just been awake—he’d been standing somewhere in the room with a camera and taking pictures of you. He had taken this photo while you slept. And you would’ve never known if you hadn’t looked through this camera now.
As you continued to scroll, the photos were filled with the same scene. You sleeping; his camera taking photos from different angles. There was one of you with your mouth open mid-snore—and another with your face smushed into the pillow.
The deeper the timestamps went into your relationship, the lewder and dirtier. Eventually, you stumble across your first video. The video, uncoincidentally, is also the first labeled video with the title ‘Sweetheart’s First Rodeo’. In the clip, you’re buried in your pillow, your wrists held behind your back by Brian. You’re babbling praises while he pistons you on his dick perfectly. You can’t even finish watching the video before scrolling to the next one.
The next one is a photo. This time, the camera was angled to only show your ass. His dick was still buried inside of you with his cum bubbling around your hole. Your breath catches in your throat. Videos and photos alike; all lewd in their own way. Brian was calculated in his movements. You knew he was. He wouldn’t have angled your face away from the camera if he wanted you to know he was taking these photos.
They were all from the same night. You remembered this as your first time with him. The final photo from that day was of you in your afterglow.
Your finger hovered over the scroll button when you came upon a photo of you showering. Your eyes were shut, and you were lathering your shampoo into your scalp. Brian had seemingly taken the photo from your window, which you had made sure to cover before you got in. The date read as the day after he fucked you.
You lowered the camera, resting your hands in your lap. You felt your heart rate pick up in your chest as your fingers began to shake. How had he managed to do this for so long without you noticing?
The dates on each and every photo told you a story. He had snuck videos and photos of you while the two of you had sex more times than you could count. The question of why he chose to do it lingered in your mind. You looked toward the door. Brian still wasn’t back. You could hear absolutely nothing outside the room. You looked down again. There were more photographs. Hundreds, maybe. You hadn’t even reached the newest ones yet. Your thumb hovered over the button, curiosity threatening to drag you under.
Then you heard the faint sound of a car passing outside. You nearly dropped the camera as your head snapped toward the window. Nothing. Just the street—just some random car passing by. Not Brian, thank god. He wasn’t back yet—he was still getting food and snacks. You exhaled shakily, your eyes shutting as your head lolled back.
You looked back down at the screen. The next photograph loaded and you froze. It wasn’t from months ago. It wasn’t from before you knew Brian. It was recent. Very recent. And you knew immediately where it had been taken; your bedroom. You could see yourself in the photograph, and you knew your outline. You were changing out of your nightwear and getting ready for work. You had failed to notice him watching you from your bedroom window. Your stomach twisted, eyes crinkling together.
Your underwear was halfway on. Your shirt was halfway off. He knew what he was doing. He knew.
Then you heard the front door open. Your entire body went rigid, as if your blood had stopped pumping itself. A moment later came the unmistakable sound of Brian’s voice from somewhere down the hall. “I’m back,” He called. You could hear the sound of muffled paper and plastic bags as he set them down. “Food's here. Come eat, sweetheart.” He called out, tossing his keys into the small, ceramic bowl on the kitchen island.
Your hands tightened around the camera. You needed to confront him about this. You needed to find out why he had been taking these photos in the first place. You pushed yourself upward, lips pulling back into a frown. You felt your anger simmer.
Had he shown these to anyone else? Why specifically when you didn’t know? He could’ve just asked like a normal, regular dude! You knew he wasn’t exactly normal, but he tried to be! He kept you out of his murder business, he made sure you never had any ties to the entity he worked for, and he NEVER involved you in any crime! So what was different now?
What kind of sick perverted bullshit was this?
You exhale shakily, finally pushing yourself up from his bed. You wobble on your feet as you leave his bedroom. You walked down the hallway, flicking through the camera's photos once more. There was one of your head tilted back into the pillow while he groped your chest. One of you sleeping naked. There were so many photos of just you. Actually, you were the only thing he took photos of after a certain point. He had been taking photos of you before you even knew him. He had thousands of photos of just you. Seemingly, you were his muse. He rarely took photos of something different. Always just you.
You stopped at the end of the hallway. Brian was in the kitchen. You could hear him moving around, plastic bags crinkling as he unpacked whatever he’d bought. Something thudded against the countertop. A cabinet opened and then shut with a soft thud. Everything sounded painfully normal; domestic in a way that made you feel sick. You exhaled shakily, staring down at the camera in your hands. The screen was still illuminated; and your face stared back at you from the photograph. You quickly pressed the button and shut it off, shutting your eyes.
For some reason, that felt important. You didn’t want him seeing what you’d been looking at. Not yet. You curled your fingers around the camera until the edges dug into your palm. He’s been taking photos and videos without you knowing for literal years. Even before you knew his name.
You didn’t know how long you had been thinking for, but his voice broke you from your trance. “Come on, sweetheart,” Brian called. “Food’s gonna get cold.”
You didn’t answer. A few seconds passed of complete, total silence. “Baby?” With a shake of your head, you started walking.
Your legs felt strangely detached from the rest of you. You could feel yourself moving, but your mind seemed several steps behind. Every few feet, another thought surfaced.
The photographs. The dates. Your bedroom. Your bathroom. Your car. The shooting range. The restaurant. Your first date. Your first night together. Brian standing somewhere in your bedroom while you slept. You swallowed. And then the worst thought of all:
How many times had he been there when you didn’t know?
You rounded the corner. Brian stood at the kitchen counter with his back to you, pulling containers from a plastic bag. He’d already taken his jacket off. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, and his hair was slightly windblown from being outside. There was nothing sinister about him. That was the problem.
He looked exactly like Brian. Your boyfriend. The man who had kissed your neck five minutes before leaving. The man who had teased you about eating his chips. The man who’d promised he’d come back and help you finish cleaning.
He turned around, and you watched as his face immediately brightened. “There she is!” He said, opening his arms to you. “Thought you were gonna make me come find you.” You stared at him, arms crossed tightly over your chest.
Brian’s smile faltered in confusion. Not completely, but just enough for you to notice. His mouth twitched. His eyes moved over your face, barely narrowing in confusion. “What?” He asked, his arms slowly lowering to his sides.
You said nothing. He glanced behind you, presumably expecting to see something you’d discovered in his room.
“Find another box of my embarrassing shit?” Still nothing. You stayed silent, your face blank as a million questions raced through your mind. You opened your mouth to speak, but a knot in your throat caused you to falter. Brian’s eyebrows drew together.
“Sweetheart?” He started, worry creeping in his voice. Worry for you. Not for himself. He had no idea what secret you’d found.
Without facing him, you held up the camera, your fingers wrapped around the tough plastic tightly. Everything in him stopped; he froze up, his hands playing with the fabric around his jeans pockets.
It was subtle. If you hadn’t spent months learning his expressions, you might’ve missed it. His shoulders went rigid. His hand froze above the container he’d been opening. His eyes dropped to the camera and then back to you. And for the first time since you’d met him, Brian looked like he had absolutely no idea what to say. That reaction answered something before he ever opened his mouth. Your stomach twisted—and suddenly you felt like everything you’d ever eaten would splurge from your mouth.
“You know what this is.” Brian’s mouth opened, and you watched his mind scramble. His eyes darted around the room once before landing back on you. You laughed at the absurdity of all of this. You weren’t remotely amused.
“Wow.”
“Baby—”
“No.” Your voice came out sharper than you’d intended. Your confusion had long since shifted to a hot, bubbling anger. Brian stopped, lips pulling back into a tight frown. You walked farther into the kitchen. He watched you carefully as you approached.
“Where did you find that?” The question hit you so strangely that you almost stared at him.
“Where did I find it?” His jaw tightened as he glanced down at the camera before looking back to you. His expression barely hid his nervousness. His face was stuck in a stoic facade, but the look in his eyes told you everything.
“Under your bed.” Brian looked away. Just for a second. But you saw it. You felt something inside you sink. You didn’t want to accept the fact that he was guilty. You didn’t want to accept the fact that he had done this. You wanted him to be the perfect Brian you thought you knew—kind, charismatic, a gentleman, everything you wished for in a relationship. “How long?” You asked. When he didn’t answer, you took a step closer. “Brian.” He rubbed his palm against his jaw.
“How long what?” You stared at him. He knew. He absolutely fucking knew. His nonchalance was starting to piss you off.
“You know what.” His eyes returned to yours.“Don’t stand there and pretend you don’t know what I’m asking.” You felt like tugging your hair out. You both knew he was guilty.
“I’m not.”
“You are!” Your voice cracked. That made him go quiet. He glanced downward to his boots, the leather creaking against the wooden floorboards. You looked down at the camera again as your fingers tightened around it. “How long have you had these?” Brian’s expression changed. Not much. But enough. The casualness disappeared.
“Those are old.” Your stomach dropped. Old. Not what are you talking about? Not I don’t know what you’re talking about. Old. You gave him a hollow little laugh.
“I know,” Brian didn’t say anything. “That’s the problem,” You turned the camera around in your hands. “I kept going backward.” His eyes followed your movement.
“I found pictures of me from before we met,” Silence on his end. His hands balled into fists at his side. You waited. Nothing. “You knew me. Brian’s jaw flexed.
“You knew who I was before I even knew your name.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t you dare lie to me.” He stopped. Your eyes burned. You hated that they were burning. You didn’t want to cry. You wanted to be angry. Anger was easier. Anger made sense. “You were taking pictures of me before we were together. Brian looked at the floor.
“Brian.” His eyes came back to you.
“Yes.” The single word made your stomach lurch. You stared at him. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even try.
“Why?” Brian swallowed.
“I don’t know how to explain that.”
“Try.” You started.
“I—”
“Try.” He went quiet. You could hear the refrigerator humming behind you. The plastic bag on the counter crinkled beneath Brian’s hand as his fingers tightened around it. You stared at him. He stared back. “How long were you watching me?” His expression tightened. You immediately knew the answer wasn’t going to make you feel better.
“Brian.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I wasn’t keeping track.” Your mouth fell open slightly. You stared at him in disbelief. “You weren’t keeping track?”
“I didn’t have some fucking calendar where I wrote down every time I saw you.” He said, rubbing his hand down his face. He rubbed his chin between his fingers.
“Then what the hell were you doing?” Brian’s eyes narrowed.
“I was watching you.” The bluntness of it silenced you. Your heart hammered. He seemed to realize what he’d said. His expression softened.
“Before you start—”
“Before I start what?”
“You know me.” You actually laughed. A short, breathless sound.
“Do I?” Brian went still. You immediately regretted how much that hurt to say. But it was true. Or at least, you didn’t know what was true anymore. You looked down at the camera. “I thought you were taking pictures of things you liked.”
“I was.”
“You took pictures of me.” You say, the
“Thousands of them,” Brian didn’t answer.“Thousands, Brian.”
“I know.” Your eyes snapped upward.
“You know?” He looked away. You felt your anger flare. “How many?” He didn’t answer. “How many pictures of me are on here?”
“Does it matter?” Your entire expression changed.
“Does it—” You stopped yourself. You couldn’t even finish. Brian seemed to realize he’d chosen the worst possible answer.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I meant the number doesn’t change what happened.”
“Exactly.” You took another step toward him.
“It doesn’t.” Brian watched you. You held the camera against your chest.
“Do you know what I saw?” He didn’t answer.
“I saw myself everywhere.” Your voice became quieter. That somehow made it worse. “I saw myself outside stores. In parking lots. In my car. At the shooting range. Outside my apartment.” Brian’s face remained unreadable.
“And then I saw myself here.” Your throat tightened. “Sleeping.” Something flickered across Brian’s face. Guilt, maybe. You couldn’t tell anymore. “You took pictures of me while I was asleep. You took pictures of me when I showered, when we had sex!” You snap out, anger flaring in your blood.
“I didn’t hurt you.” The words came quickly. You stared at him.
“I didn’t ask if you hurt me.” Brian stopped. Your voice dropped. “I asked why you were taking pictures of me while I was vulnerable.” He had nothing. You could see it. And somehow that frightened you more than an excuse would’ve “Did you take pictures of me at my house? Brian’s eyes shifted. Your stomach turned, already expecting the inevitable.
“I didn’t break in.” You stared at him.
“I didn’t ask whether you broke in.”
“I was outside.” He admitted finally. Your blood went cold.
“Outside,” You repeated warily, unable to look him in the eyes. “Outside my house.” You could see the hesitation in his eyes as he replied.
“Sometimes.” You took a step backward. Brian immediately noticed. His entire posture changed.
“Hey.” He said warily, moving to follow you.
You raised your hand. “Don’t.” He stopped. You looked toward the hallway. Suddenly you wanted to be anywhere except here. Except in this house. Except in the bedroom where you’d spent the last hour surrounded by his things. You thought about the window. Your window. The one you’d covered before showering. Your stomach twisted.
“Did you take that picture of me in the shower?”Brian didn’t answer. Your heart sank. The silence stretched between the two of you like a barrier you didn’t want to cross.
“I was outside.” Your eyes widened. Your brows furrowed together as you gripped the camera even tighter.
“You were outside my fucking bathroom window?”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“How long?”
“Sweetheart—“
“How long?” You snapped out, glaring holes into him. He exhaled, fumbling with his fingers.
“Couple minutes.” You stared at him. A cold sensation spread through your arms. You suddenly remembered every time you’d stood beneath that showerhead. Every time you’d closed your eyes. Every time you’d changed clothes beside your bedroom window. Every time you’d assumed the curtains were enough. You hugged your arms around yourself. Brian noticed. His face fell.
“Sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.” That hurt him. You saw it. For one brief second, Brian looked genuinely wounded. And some horrible part of you hated yourself for noticing. Because you loved him. That was the most fucked-up part. You loved him.
You had just spent the afternoon sitting on his bedroom floor arguing about seventeen identical black shirts. You’d laughed when he teased you about eating his chips. You’d let him kiss your neck.
You’d trusted him. And now every single one of those memories felt contaminated. You shook your head. “Did you show anyone?” Brian’s eyes narrowed.
“What?” Brian narrows his eyes in confusion. He stares at you almost dumbfounded.
“The pictures.” You clarify nervously.
“No, sweetheart. No.” He rubs his hand down his face again.
“Did Tim see them?”
“No.”
“Brian.” You say in a warning tone. He exhales sharply through his nose.
“I said no, sweetheart,” You flinched at the sudden sharpness in his voice. Brian immediately softened. “Sorry.” You stared at him.
“Did anyone else know?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else take pictures?”
“No.”
“Did you send any?”
“No.” Your breathing slowly steadied. Then another thought occurred to you. You looked down at the camera.
“What about the videos?” Brian’s expression changed again. You saw it. Your stomach dropped.
“How many?”
“Not that many.”
You laughed bitterly. “Not that many. Right. Cause three albums stuffed isn’t that many.” Your fingers interlocked out of nervous habit.
“I wasn’t keeping them to show people.” He made a gesture with his hands, as if that was supposed to prove anything to you.
“Then why keep them?” Brian sighed. “Brian. Why?” His eyes remained fixed on you as you repeated your question.
“Because they’re mine.” Your stomach dropped. Brian seemed to realize how that sounded. His jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean—”
“No. No, I heard you,” You backed away another step. “That’s what all of this is, isn’t it?” You ran a hand through your hair, pissed off beyond belief.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You think I’m yours.” Brian’s expression hardened.
“You’re my girlfriend.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Silence. You could practically see the argument forming behind his eyes. You shook your head. “You don’t get to own pieces of me just because we’re together.”
“I never said I owned you.”
“Brian, do you realize how fucking crazy you sound? You took pictures of me without me knowing. You watched me before we even met. You stood outside my house—you filmed us having sex for God's sake! Who the hell does that shit?” Brian’s jaw clenched as he finally met your eyes.
“I know.”
“Then what am I supposed to call it?” He didn’t answer. Your eyes burned again. You looked away. You couldn’t even look at him right now.
“I don’t even know what parts of our relationship were real anymore.” Brian went completely still. That one landed; you could tell by the way he froze like a statue.
“Don’t say that.”
You looked back at him, hatred threatening to burn your tongue. “Why?”
“Because that’s bullshit.”
“How would I know?”
“Because I love you.” Your heart twisted painfully. Brian stepped forward. You stepped backward, and he stopped his approach immediately. The distance between you suddenly felt enormous.
“You don’t get to say that like it fixes everything.”
“I know it doesn’t,” His eyes stayed on you. His voice was softer than before. He kept his hands close to himself, not reaching out to you just yet. “I loved you before you knew who I was.” Your blood ran cold. Brian seemed to realize he’d said too much. You stared.
“What?” He swallowed roughly. Your gaze locked onto his face. He sighed to himself.
“Nothing.” By the look on his face, he regretted admitting it immediately.
“No.” You took a slow step toward him this time.“What did you just say?”
“Nothing.”
“Brian.” He looked away. You could barely hear yourself.
“How long?” He didn’t answer.
“How long did you know me?” His silence stretched.
“Long enough.” You felt something inside you crack. You shook your head slowly.
“That’s not an answer.” Brian’s eyes returned to yours.
“No,” His voice was quieter than before. “It isn’t.” You looked at the camera again. Then at him. The food sat untouched on the counter between you. The smell of it suddenly made your stomach turn.
“You bought me dinner.” Brian’s brows furrowed.
“What?”
“You went out and bought me dinner,” You felt your bottom lip start to tremble. His frown got deeper as he heard the tremble in your voice. “After I spent the afternoon helping you clean,” your hands clench into tight fists at your sides. “You kissed me goodbye,” you said with a tear threatening to spill from the corner of your eye. “And all I could think about was how much I loved you,” Brian stared at you. Your voice broke. “And you were standing outside my fucking window taking pictures of me.” His face fell. You didn’t wait for him to respond. You turned around.
“Where are you going?” You stopped. You didn’t turn back.
“I don’t know.”
“Baby—”
“Brian, stop.”
Your hand tightened around the camera. You glanced over your shoulder. For once, Brian didn’t look angry. He looked afraid. Not afraid of you. Afraid of what you’d decided about him. And that frightened you even more. Because you didn’t know what you thought about him either. You looked at him for another second. Then down at the camera. “You need to tell me everything.” Brian’s expression changed.
“Everything?”
“Everything.” You swallowed.
“How long? Why. Why did you hide it from me?” He said nothing. Your eyes narrowed. “And don’t lie to me.” Brian’s gaze dropped to the camera. Then back to you. You could see him thinking. And that was when you realized something that made your blood run colder than any photograph had. Brian wasn’t trying to figure out what you’d found.
He was trying to figure out how much you’d found. Brian’s gaze dropped to the camera again. Then back to you. You could almost see the moment something inside him settled. Not anger. Something quieter. Something that made your stomach twist.
“You really shouldn’t have gone through it.” Your eyebrows pulled together.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” You stared at him. After everything you’d just found, somehow that was what he chose to focus on.
“You’ve been taking pictures of me for months.”
“Years,” Brian said softly, wetting his lips with his tongue.
The correction came so casually that your stomach dropped. Brian seemed to realize what he’d said. You stared at him. “Years.” He said nothing.
“Brian…” You shook your head, taking another step backward. “You—“ you paused, trying to get your thoughts straight. “—Don’t get to be mad at me for looking through it. This is your fucking mistake.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Then what are you?” His eyes stayed on yours. He shifted the weight on his feet, his hand coming to settle on his left arm. He rubbed up and down in slow motions.
“I haven’t decided yet.” He said simply. He cocks his head slightly. A chill crawled down your spine. You tightened your grip around the camera.
“What does that mean?” Brian stepped toward you. You immediately stepped back, and he stopped. His eyes flickered downward, noticing the movement. Something almost amused crossed his expression.
“You’ve been looking through things you weren’t supposed to see.”
“You recorded me!” Your brows furrowed together. Your lips pulled back in a snarl, standing your ground. He started this. He was the one being a weird perverted loser! In what way was this your fault at all? “And somehow I’m the one who’s done something wrong?” Brian tilted his head.
“You went looking.” Your lips parted. You tried to find your words, but your voice caught in your throat like someone had squeezed it shut. You felt like tugging out your hair in tufts.
Your eyes narrowed. You could practically hear your heart beating in your head through your anger and frustration. “Because I found a camera under your bed!”
“You could’ve put it back.”
“And pretended I didn’t see anything?”
“Would’ve been easier.” He shrugs to himself. You scoff in disbelief.
“For you, maybe.” You say sarcastically. You lower your eyes into near slits.
His jaw tightened. “For both of us.”
You scoffed. “God, you’re unbelievable.”
You turned away. Brian caught your wrist. You froze. His grip wasn’t painful. That almost made it worse. Because he wasn’t struggling with you. He wasn’t angry. He simply held you there. “Let go,” He didn’t. You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “Brian.”
His fingers loosened slightly. But he didn’t release you. “Look at me.” You didn’t.
“Sweetheart.” Your stomach twisted at the familiar nickname. It sounded wrong now. You finally turned your head. His expression was unreadable.
“You’ve been digging through my secrets.”
“I was trying to understand what the hell you’ve been doing.”
“And now you know.”
“No,” You shook your head. “I don’t.”
His thumb moved absently against your wrist.“Then maybe you should’ve kept looking.” Your eyes narrowed.
“What?” Brian watched you, microanalyzing every single move you made. His eyes darted from your eyes, to your nose, to your mouth, even to the subtle movements in your fingers. “You wanted answers, didn’t you?”
“I still do.”
“Then stop pretending you’re scared of the answers.” Your lips tightened together. You balled your hands into fists at your sides.
“I’m not scared of you.” The words came out automatically. Brian’s expression shifted. Not quite a smile. Something smaller. More private.
“That’s not what I asked.” The silence between you two stretched. The kitchen suddenly felt too small. You could hear the refrigerator humming. The clock ticking. The faint traffic outside. Everything was painfully ordinary. Brian stepped closer. You didn’t move. He stopped just in front of you.
“You know what bothers me?” Your throat tightened as you stared into his eyes. After everything, this was still the man you loved. The man you fell so deeply for. You didn’t want to believe it. “You saw everything.” His voice was low. “You saw the pictures. The videos. The ones from before we met.” You swallowed roughly.
“And?”
“And you still came looking for me.”
You stared at him. “I came because I wanted an explanation.”
“You’re still here.” Your stomach turned in on itself violently. It felt like your organs were compressing together. You frowned deeply.
“I haven’t— I don’t know what I’m doing, Brian!” You say exasperatedly, your hand flying to rub your face. You were becoming nothing but a jittery, anxious mess. You don’t know what to think. This is all so stupidly complicated.
“I know,” His gaze dropped briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes. “That’s what makes this interesting.” You felt heat crawl up your neck despite yourself. You hated that your body could still react to him.
You hated that some part of you remembered his hands around your waist, his mouth against your neck, his voice calling you sweetheart.
The same person. The same man. And yet nothing felt the same anymore. Brian noticed the hesitation. Of course he did. He’d spent years watching you. He probably knew every tiny expression you made. “You’re angry.” He says softly. So sweet it makes you want to vomit.
“Obviously.”
“You’re scared.” You said nothing. “And yet, despite everything, you’re still attracted to me.” Your face burned. Because he was right. You couldn’t ignore the burning you felt in your gut when you saw those videos. You couldn’t ignore the new emotions it made you feel.
“Brian. Don’t—just, don’t.” He leaned closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough that you could feel his breath.
“Don’t what?” He asks. His thumb rubs small, soothing circles into the pulse of your wrist. Your stomach clenches as your eyes dart to his scarred hands and then to his eyes. Then, out of pure instinct, you swat his hand away. His Adam’s apple bobs as his hand returns to his side once more.
“Don’t use that against me.” His expression changed. For the first time, some of the amusement disappeared.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” You say sharply, your nose scrunching up as you look into his eyes. You search for the man you thought he was just hours ago. Instead, all you see is the perception you now knew. Gross. Perverted. Obsessed. Deranged.
He studied you for several seconds. Then quietly, he spoke. “You came into my room,” Your heart thudded in your chest while you stared into his eyes. “You found something private.”
“Something private?” His eyes flickered. He fought back a small smile. But you saw the way his lips threatened to curve upward. Your heart and mind fought at gunpoint. On one hand, this was Brian. The man you made wedding plans with. The man you gave your body to—the man who trusted you with his deepest, darkest secrets. Or, so you had thought.
On the other hand, your brain told you that this was wrong. If he had managed to hide this for years, then what else could he be hiding? What other major secret of his is he harboring deep in his mind? You weren’t sure you’d ever find out.
You hated that you still knew the shape of his hands without looking. Hated that you could remember exactly what his voice sounded like when he said your name softly.
You hated that none of those memories had disappeared just because you had learned something terrible about him. You could be furious with him. You could be afraid of him. You could love him. Somehow, all three things could exist at once. And wanting him didn’t mean you had forgiven him.
That was the part she needed to remember.
“You know what I mean.”
“You took private pictures of me, Brian,“ You say sharply. “You don’t get to just ignore the fact that you did that.” His jaw tightened in agreement. He exhaled through his nose.
“Maybe not.” The admission surprised you. Brian reached toward you; and on instinct, you flinched. He stopped immediately. His hand hovered between you. Then he slowly lowered it.
“Tell me to leave you alone.”
Brian didn’t reach out to touch you again. That was somehow worse. He simply stood there, watching you. Waiting. The decision was yours. You hated him for that, too. Because if he had forced the decision on you, it would’ve been easy. You could’ve hated him. You could’ve walked away. But he didn’t. He waited.
And you were left alone with the awful realization that some part of you still wanted to cross the distance between them.
You stared at him “What?”
“If you want me to leave you alone, say it.” You couldn’t answer. Brian waited. The silence stretched.
“Say it.” Your lips parted. Nothing came out. He nodded faintly.
“That’s what I thought.” You hated him for making you hesitate. You hated yourself even more for it. Brian stepped back. For a moment, you thought he’d actually walk away. Instead, he looked toward the camera still clutched in your hands.
“Give me that.” You hesitated.
“Why the hell would I do that? How do I know you’re not going to just do this shit again?”
“Because you’ve seen enough.” You slowly handed it over. His fingers closed around it. The screen remained dark. Brian slipped the camera into his pocket. Then he looked at you again. “You wanted to know what happens when you find something you weren’t supposed to.” Your heart began pounding again. “And now?” He stepped closer. His voice dropped.
“Now you have to decide whether you’re going to punish me for what I did…” His eyes remained fixed on yours.
“…or whether you’re going to let me show you why I kept coming back.” Your breath caught deep in your throat. Neither of you moved. The tension between you felt almost unbearable. You knew exactly what he was asking. And that was what terrified you most.
Because despite everything you’d seen, despite every photograph and every unanswered question, some part of you still wanted to close the distance between you. Brian seemed to recognize that. His hand slowly lifted.
He stopped just short of touching your cheek. Waiting—giving you the choice to reach back. You stared at him; and then at his hand. Then back into his eyes. Neither of you spoke. The moment stretched until the silence itself became unbearable.
His hand remained suspended between them. He didn’t touch you just yet, not with his right hand anyway. You could’ve stepped away. Instead, your fingers slowly curled around his wrist. Brian’s eyes flickered toward your hand. He didn’t move.
“I still don’t trust you,” she whispered. “I’m still angry,” Her throat tightened. “And I don’t forgive you.” His expression barely changed. You hated how easily he accepted every answer. Your fingers tightened around his wrist.
“But I still want you.” For the first time, Brian looked genuinely uncertain.
You closed the remaining distance yourself. And when you did finally lean closer, the rest of the world seemed to disappear.
Your lips pressed against his. You kissed him with all of your might. All of your anger, hatred, frustration, and pent-up emotions poured into your lips. His hands settled on your waist, pressing you back against the arm of your couch.
His lips move against yours in fervor. His hand slides from your waist to your ass, squeezing the skin tightly between his fingers. You gasp into his mouth, and he hums in delight. He slides you down onto the couch and hovers over you. You pant, trying to catch your breath before he settles on top of you.
“You know I love you, right sweetheart?” Brian coos to you. His thumb moves to your bottom lip, sliding across it sensually. You look up at him, eyes softening as you settle back into the couch.
“I know.” You say gently. You knew whatever version of love he harbored wasn’t normal. But right now, you weren’t focused on that.
You were focused on the boner poking through his jeans; pressing flush against your clothed cunt.
His hand slides between the two of you as he leans into your neck. He slides the skin of your neck between his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. His hand works on zipping down your jeans carefully. His thick fingers tug the fabric around your waist all the way down, the cold air of the living room gracing your thighs as your breath catches in your throat.
He murmurs praises into your ear as his two fingers rub small circles onto your slit. Your hips arch upward to meet his hands on instinct, whimpers leaving your throat before you can catch them. He hums in approval at your little sounds.
“So wet for me already. Doing so good, sweetheart.” He praises, making your heart flutter.
He impatiently tugs on the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down and throwing them on the coffee table. His fingers meet your bare skin, the pads teasing strips into your clit. You moan, gripping his arm tightly while his fingers move strategically to gather slick around the bud.
Your hips arch upward continuously to meet his hands, the euphoric feeling sending shivers down your spine. He spreads his fingers outward, admiring the pull of the slick between his digits. He brings his fingers back up to his mouth to lewdly suck every one of them and taste you on his tongue. You squirm on the couch, chasing the friction you so desperately needed.
He grins a wide, toothy grin, tooth gap on full display as he savors you on his tongue. He then presses his lips back against your own again.
His digits press against your hole, teasing the entrance by flicking around the slit. You buck into him desperately, wanting him to relieve you of your built-up tension as soon as possible.
Slowly, he breaks you open with his middle finger. His finger pistons in and out of you slowly, carefully scissoring you open and making your cunt gush loudly.
The lewd sounds of your cunt vibrate through the room. You could feel your walls squish his finger as you tensed up, gasping and throwing your head back into the couch. “Brian—oh my god, please..” you beg quietly.
“Please what, sweetheart? Use your big girl words,” You try to speak, but he pushes in another finger. You moan, bucking your hips desperately. After you fail to murmur anything but gibberish, he bends down to your ear. “Cmon, cutie. I know you can do it. Be a big girl.” You glance at him, your hands flying to grip the armrest behind your head.
“Brian.. please fuck me.. please..” you beg him desperately. His fingers start to move faster.
“Fuck you with what?” He teases, adding in a third finger. You moan loudly and gasp sharply into the air.
“Your dick—please, Brian.. fuck me with your dick.” You cry out, trying to keep up with his unrelenting pace. His fingers are swift and punishing, aiming to go as deep as they could inside of you.
He grins, finally pulling his fingers out of you. “Good girl. All you had to do was ask, hmm?” He drawls. The emptiness his fingers leave as your hole pulsates and begs to be filled again.
He takes his sweet time in pulling down his pants, his belt clinking against the floor as he tosses it away with zero hesitation. He shoves his jeans down his toned legs and kicks them off onto the carpet floor below.
He frees himself from his boxers, his dick already flushed at the tip. It’s burned a nice red color, pre-cum coating the edge and sliding down his head.
His free hand reaches down and grabs a handful of your tit, snapping you back to attention as you shudder deeply. He licks his lips as he stares down at you, fully parted for him.
He slaps his tip against your entrance, slowly teasing your folds. Your hands settle on his shoulders and slide down his back, already preparing to sheathe when he gets rowdy. He presses the tip inside, and the stretch is excruciating.
His fingers could never compare to his size. He was long and girthy in ways that make you see stars. His brows twisted in pleasure as he slowly drove inch by inch inside of you, stretching you out and making your walls accommodate for him.
You moan, your nails digging into the hard muscles on his back. He growls lowly as he fully bottoms out, hips pressing against your cunt.
He stays like that for a moment, savoring the feeling of you entirely. Then, carefully, he pulls all the way out, leaving just his tip inside of you.
Right after, he slams all the way back in. Filling you entirely up with him again. Your legs tremble as you practically scream out in pleasure. Your nails rake down his back as he picks up his pace, repeating his movements over and over again, making you see stars every time.
He thrusts in and out, keeping a deep and rough rhythm with zero shame. He lets out little grunts and growls, his dick pulsating inside of you as he fills you deeper with every single thrust.
You could practically feel him in your cervix. It had to be, with the outline of the bulge you could see in your stomach.
Every thrust makes your legs dangle, and your eyes nearly roll back into your skull. He knows exactly what movements to make to drive you entirely crazy. He knows exactly what to do to make you lose your mind.
“Cumming—Brian, I’m—“ you choke out. You felt the fabric sink deeper into your throat.
A knock made you freeze up. Brian paused, his thrusts slowing as he looked up toward the door. His brows furrowed in confusion before realization hit him. Shit. He had asked Tim to come help the two of you sort through his junk. And he came earlier than he thought he would.
“Are y’all home? Open up.” Tim says loudly, fists rapping against the door once more. Your eyes widen as you look at Brian.
Brian groaned lowly in his throat. He wastes no time. Tim’s stupid timing wouldn’t ruin what he was so close to getting right now. He fetched your underwear from the floor and stuffed them between your lips. You gasped, but his fingers shoved the fabric deeper. You gripped his arm as he spoke. “Make another fuckin’ sound and you’re not gonna cum at all tonight. Be a good girl and keep those lips shut.” He commands. You nod, head lolling against the couch as Tim’s incessant knocking continued.
Brian’s hips picked up their pace, slamming against yours violently over and over again. The sensation was intoxicating, swallowing you under and stretching you more than you ever thought you could.
You hiccuped against the fabric of your underwear, tasting a mixture of your slick and sweat. It was humiliating, but made your pulse spike in such a good way. Not too far away, Tim continued to practically bang on the door.
Brian’s thrusts shook the whole couch, sliding it across the harsh carpet floor. You wondered if Tim would catch on and back off. Knowing him, he probably wouldn’t anyway.
Your nails drag down Brian’s back, leaving long, red, angry marks on his pale skin. He leans down into your shoulder, biting down harshly between his teeth. “Fuck. Good girl. Being so good to me. Puttin’ up with my bullshit. Such a good fucking girl. Think you deserve to cum, hmm?” He says, punctuating every word with a rough thrust. You whimper and nod, gripping him even tighter.
Brian only grins, picking up his pace even more. The sounds of skin on skin only get louder and louder, lewd noises you no longer could differentiate bleed into your mind. Your head lolled against the armrest once more, your eyes deep into the back of your head as his cock pistons into your cervix over and over again.
“Brian—gonna cum—cumming—“ you warn pathetically through the fabric, tightening around him.
You feel your climax hit you, and you gush around him. Your release coats his cock as he chases his own. He squeezes his eyes shut as he moves sloppily, and without rhythm.
“Fuck, fuck fuck—“ he growls, his hips stuttering as he cums inside of you. His sperm fills you to the brim, stuffing you up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Tim seemingly still hasn’t gotten the hint, as he’s still knocking and now is calling Brian’s phone. Brian’s eyebrow twitches in irritation as he reluctantly peels himself off of you. He carefully slides his pants back on and cleans you up before helping you back into your ruined panties and jeans.
You slip your jeans up perfectly and fix your messy hair. Thankfully, you hadn’t gotten too sweaty. The room however, still reeks of your previous activities. Now, you’re sitting across from Tim on the couch you and Brian just fucked on. Tim’s nose is scrunched up as he smells the air.
“Eugh. What the fuck? Did something just die in here? The hell?..” he asks, glancing around the room. Brian chuckles, grabbing two cold beers from the fridge.
“Somethin’ like that. Cmon, let’s get to sorting. My sweetheart's tired. ‘Been dealing with my crap all day, the poor thing.” He says softly. Tim rolls his eyes and grimaces at you.
You sit there politely, trying to ignore the cum threatening to drip down your thighs.
Damn you, Brian—and your stupid camera too.
a/n: hi! sorry about not writing much in these past few weeks.. I just started high school and times are so tiring. Hope you guys understand! However I am working on multiple fanfics.. the next one to drop will be one about Habit & Alex & The Observer x Reader… so prepare for that as you will <3 thanks!
