"I can hit the rock better now, thanks."

“Why? It’s just a movie,” Henry mumbles, following you into the living room.

“But we’re doing it together!”

The corner of Henry’s mouth ticks up the smallest bit, and you lean up to kiss it.

“Hi, happy,” you murmur. “I love spending time with you.”

Henry nods, his hand brushing yours. “Me too.”

“Oh, you’re just the sweetest,” you say, leading him over to the couch. “Oh, look at all this, you—!” You shake your head, dropping on the lumpy, thrifted couch beside him and grabbing the thick old quilt from the back of it, tossing it over you and him. You reach out, grabbing one of the sodas he’d set out, and pop it open.

Henry’s arm pressed against yours, and you nudged your shoulder against him. 

Henry had become somewhat averse to touch—and, for that matter, loud noises—after his accident. Could you really blame him, though? His skin was horribly scarred and disfigured, and loud noises meant loud events, which he’d also grown to hate.

“Okay?” You ask quietly as the movie starts to play. Henry shifts in the dim light, then nods.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the screen. He wouldn’t look at you—you’d try to get all vulnerable, and he didn’t want that to happen. It was exhausting, the pity in your eyes and voice. Stupid.

You placed your hand on his forearm, gentle and testing. Henry tensed, but didn’t pull away. You stayed like that for the better part of the night, your hand on his arm and your legs barely touching under the blanket. You loved Henry, you really did, and you wanted to make sure he was comfortable. 

You’d spent the majority of the weekend lounging on the couch and in your parents’ bed in your underwear. Holland had attempted to make breakfast and nearly burnt your kitchen down, but he managed to save it with a nice dinner—takeout from the chicken place down the street.

On Sunday afternoon, you were sticky and sweaty from too much sex and too much booze. The master bathroom was right there. Your parents, lucky sons of bitches, had an in-ground jacuzzi and a walk in shower.

So, as Holland reasoned, why not use both? You filled the tub with warm water and bubbles and got in.

“Holland!” You called toward the bedroom. “I’m in, are you coming?”

“I’m stuck in my pants,” he called back. You heard a knock against the wall, then on the carpet, then a thrashing on the ground. He appeared in the doorway a moment later, hands on his hips like he hadn’t just fallen over. He puffed up his chest, flexing, then let his hands drop. “I really like this view. We should make a calendar or something. It’ll be like sexy firefighters, but better.”

You shake your head and wave your hand at him. “Get in here, dummy.”

He walked across the bathroom, dick swinging, and climbed down the steps to get in the tub with you. He picked up the glass you’d set on the edge of the porcelain and took a long sip, his arm finding its way around your shoulders. His bicep hugged the back of your head, and you leaned against him, your legs hooking over his under the water.

Holland leaned over, pressing his lips against your temple in a wet, sticky-with-alcohol kiss. “Tub sex?” He murmured against your ear.

You looked at him like you hadn’t considered the possibility, then cupped the back of his neck and crushed your lips against his. He groaned, his tongue slipping into your mouth and dancing against yours. You could feel his dick harden under the water, and you reached down to grab it.

Holland gasped, his hips lifting under the water. “Fuck—“

You broke the kiss, then trailed your lips down his jaw and throat, licking at the hickeys you’d left during days before. Holland groaned, his wet hands finding your hair. Shifting into his lap, your knee found the other side of the tile bench, and pressed his tip against your entrance, sinking down on him with one smooth motion. You both gasped, mouths open against each others. He filled you perfectly, your hips right up against his, and you ground down against him. Holland let out a high-pitched moan, one that wasn’t unlike one of yours, and you let out a shaky giggle, lifting yourself up before sinking back down. 

“Ho-Holland,” you mumbled. One of his hands found your hip, guiding your pace, and the other wrapped around your back, pulling your chest flush against his. “God, you’re good.”

“You’ve been saying that—oh, fuck—for the last two days. Oh my god!” Holland’s fingers dug into your skin the same place they always did, at your shoulder blade. You had to have a permanent bruise there by now. “Should I…” His head fell back against the tile edge of the tub, his eyes closed.

“Touch me,” you mumbled, leaning your forehead against his shoulder. “Touch me right now.”

Holland’s hand dropped from your hip to rest against your pelvis and his thumb found your clit, swirling perfectly pressured circles against your throbbing sex.

“Goddamn,” Holland gasped as you squeezed around him, the pressure steadily building in his groin. “God—fuck, yes.”

The front door opened, and you almost didn’t hear the intruder; not until your mother’s voice cut through your pleasure, calling your name.

You yelped, shoving yourself off Holland’s dick and throwing yourself backward. Your head slipped underwater, and you shoved yourself up. The house was a wreck—more dangerously, your father’s best friend was in his bathtub with you.

You hoped your parents would just assume you’d thrown a party, like any young adult who was home alone, never mind whether you were the type.

Holland whined, his orgasm lost, and you grabbed his shoulders. “You gotta fucking get out. Get out, get—go out the window, idiot!”

Holland spluttered, anxiety filling his eyes when he heard your dad’s voice. “Shit. Fuck. Uh—“

“Forget your pants! Forget them! Go out the window!” You leaned over the edge of the tub and shoved the window open. “Go! Go home!”

“You said they weren’t going to be home until tomorrow!” Holland hissed, grabbing a towel and pressing it against his crotch as he shoved himself up, hooking his leg over the windowsill.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” You snapped back, shoving at his ass. “Go—“

“Sweetheart?” 

Your mother was in the bedroom.

Holland finally fell out the window, and you slammed it closed, then sunk back against the tub wall.

“Honey, are you in there?”

“Mommy?” You called innocently, putting a thicker tone in your voice. “I fell asleep in the tub. Why are you home so early?”

“Your father finished his work early, so we got to come home. Why are there clothes all over the house? Did you go shopping?” She asked through the bathroom door.

“Yeah, um, and I had a little fashion show. Sorry, I’ll clean up as soon as I get out.”

“Not going,” he muttered, letting out a groan. “Not moving.”

“Colt, babe, you gotta get up. You’re gonna start feeling better if you start stretching it a little,” you insist, kissing his bruised shoulder. “I promise, Colt. Get up.”

Colt groaned, barely lifting his head. “Hurts.”

“Yeah, it’s going to. You broke your back.”

Colt groaned again, bracing his arms, then rolled, moving his back and hips together—as one, as the doctor had instructed. His hair flopped ver his eyes, messy and sweaty, and he grit his teeth in pain, white-knuckling the bedsheets. “Did I do good?” He muttered.

“Yeah. Yeah, babe, you did. So good, huh? Yeah, Colt.” You kiss his forehead, offering your arms. “Wanna get up? I can get your crutch, yeah?”

He nods, his hand finding your arm. He grips your skin tightly, just like he does every morning, fighting against the ache and the burn and the shooting pain in his back.

“We’ll get you some drugs, huh? Lots of painkillers.” You reach for his crutches and offer them to him. “Careful, careful… don’t lean too hard… let me get your brace.”

Colt nods, grunting as he stands up, then leans on the supports. “Shit, my back…”

“I know. I know. Here.”  You step behind him, setting one knee on the bed, and wrap the brace around him, securing it in place with the velcro. “Too tight? Is it too tight?”

Colt clenches his jaw and gives his head an aggressive shake, then takes a deep breath. “That’s… fine. It’s fine.”

“Yeah. It’s fine. You’re so tough, you’re so strong, baby, there we go.”

Colt nods, hair falling in his face.

“So brave, Colt.”

Colt nods like he knows he’s brave.

⚬──────────────────✧──────────────────⚬

Your hips fit snugly against his, his cock buried inside you. He whines unintelligently, his hands gripping your thighs. He whines and moans, wanting to fuck up into you, but he isn’t allowed.

“Don’t, Colt,” you murmur, grinding against him. It produces a delicious friction and gives his cock some much needed attention—as if your tightness isn’t enough. “Don’t move. You might hurt yourself.”

“But I wanna—need to—“

“Don’t make me tie you up, babe.” You plant your hands on his chest, lifting your hips slightly. “Yeah, yeah, baby… Colt, mm…”

Colt struggles, bringing his knees up behind your back. “Let me—let me, please!”

“Do not,” you say sharply, patting his cheek. 

“Hit me. Hit me again. Hit me again.”

You raise your eyebrows, stopping for a moment. “You—what?”

“Hit me. Slap me, punch me. Please,” Colt begs, his hands tightening on your thighs. “Please. Please, I want you to.”

Your hands finds his cheek, rough and sharp. His face turns white, then red, then your handprint blooms on his skin. He moans, his eyes squeezing shut, and he tries to rut up against you again.

“Colt! Stop it!” You snap, pulling off and putting your hands back, forcing his knees down. You sit on his legs—almost. “You’re going to hurt yourself!”

Colt’s eyes open, and he swallows tightly. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to… I just love you. Let me have sex with you. Ride me.”

You shake your head, guiding him inside you again. You roll your hips against his, and he all but gasps. You lean down, your lips brushing against his. His lips part, and he moans, shaking with the effort of not filling you at his pace.

“Hit me again, hit me, please—!” Colt whimpers when you bite his lip hard enough to draw blood. Blood stains his teeth, finding the gaps and dying them red. “I-I’m gonna—“

“Already?” You murmur against his tongue. “Barely done anything.”

“I haven’t been touched in months,” Colt gasps. “Hold—hold me down!”

You press your hands against his shoulders, forcing them against the bed as cums, hips twitching against yours with the effort of keeping them still, even as the orgasm tears through him.

Colt comes down, opening his eyes against and panting softly. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, looking guilt-ridden and teary-eyed. His hands squeeze at your thighs, anxious.

“It’s okay, Colt. It’s really okay. It’s okay, babe. Oh, Colt…” Your hands slide from his shoulders to his face and thumb over his cheeks. “Babe, another time, okay? When… you’re better. When your back’s not so bad.”

Colt nods, a tear trailing down his face. You wipe it away with a kiss, then kiss his lip. 

“I love you, Colt.”

He nods, and you wipe his lip, blood smearing across his skin. “I love you. Thanks for hitting me. I know we didn’t talk about it before.”

You nod, running your fingers through his hair. “Yeah. You asked me, and I told you before, we can do… anything you like. And if you change your mind, I’ll write you an apology letter with my mouth below the belt.”

You pick up a shirt bearing the band’s logo and hold it up to your chest, turning to Driver. “Thoughts?”

He nods, distracted and silent.

“Babe. Driver…” You poke him. 

Driver finally looks at you, then at the shirt, and nods again. “It’s nice.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet, but you’ve already gotten yours out and are offering the booth tender a wad of cash with a wide smile.

You pull the shirt on over the one you’re wearing, beaming as you wind your arm through Driver’s. “So, do you like the music?”

Driver shrugs. “It’s good.”

You pull back, looking up at him. “Oh. Oh, you’re done. Oh, okay. You wanna go? Come on, baby, we can go.” 

When he stops walking, you look back at him. He meets your eyes and shakes his head, making you knit your eyebrows.

“What? I thought you were ready to go, Driver, you look so done—“

“It’s alright,” he mutters. “You’re not ready yet.”

“But—“

“I said no.”

You move close, kissing his cheek gently. “Thank you, baby. If you change your mind, let me know.”

He nods, looking over your head again.

A few hours later, when you are ready to go, Driver’s the one leading. He pulls you out to the car and gets in, then drives you home in silence. You know he’s appreciative, though—just winding down from his long, loud night. Once he gets you in the door, he’s laying you down on the bed and taking off the shirt from the band that he hates, he’s kissing your neck, and gently fucking into you, his thanks for letting him leave the concert.

“Goddammit, don't call me that,” Holland huffs, gripping your hips tightly and hiking you up further against the wall. The splintery wood digs into your back and you wince. “It's fucking Holland.”

“Mmh—okay, okay, fuck—“ The new height, the new way his dick drives into you, makes you want to cry. He’s not even that big, but god does he know what he’s doing. “I’m so—oh, oh, god—“

“Yeah, yeah, gettin’ close,” Holland huffs, pressing his mouth against your ear. “Shit, you’re so good.” He reaches down, pressing his hand against your stomach to feel himself inside you, then presses his thumb against your clit as it throbs. You squeal, wrapping your legs tighter around him. “Baby, baby, shit—“

“God, Holland!” You gasp, throwing your head back as you cum around his cock. “Oh, oh, god, god—“

Holland finishes inside you with a low moan, one that bounces around your skull. “Yeah, baby, oh, yeah…”

“Holland,” you whimper softly, lifting your head to stare at him through teary eyes. You’ve never cum so hard in your life, not by yourself, not with any of the stupid guys at school who disinterestedly finger-fucked you and didn’t know where the clit was. “So good, mmh…”

“Yeah, baby, so good, fuck…” Holland pulls out, cum dripping down the front of his slacks. “Shit.”

You look down, letting out a sputtering, wet laugh. Your knees are weak and your brain feels like mush. Holland March, as taboo as it may be, was the best lay you’d ever had.

The back door slams, and Holland looks out the window. “Mother fuck—“ He drops you, tugging his pants up and tucking his dick away. Your knees give out, and you nearly crash on your ass. “It’s your dad, it’s your fucking dad—“

“Holland. Holland!” You almost slap him, your hand a sharp spike of pain against his bicep. “He’s not coming out here. He doesn’t even keep the lawn tools in here, they’re in the garage. He’s probably picking up from the party or something.”

Holland swallows, his heart pounding in his chest. “Are you sure? Okay, okay…” He nods, anxious.

You pull your clothes back together, and by the time you’re dressed, your father is back inside. You push the shed door open, peeking out, then step into the yard. Holland makes a break for it, sprinting across the yard to his own. He hops the fence and doesn’t look back until you call his name.

“What? What?” He asks, looking around wildly. “What’s wrong?”

You plant your hands on the fence, leaning over it to press your lips against his. When it breaks, he grins stupidly, then straightens your shirt’s strap. “Bye, kid.”

“Babe,” Colt says, materializing out of thin air and swinging an arm around your shoulders. “I love you.”

“I love you too?” You say, your voice rising like it’s a question. Colt grins idiotically, leaning into your space. 

“So, what’s up?” He asks, eyes falling to your lips. “You’re pretty.”

“Thank you,” You say, leaning back. His breath reeks. “What… are you on?”

“Oh, I had a pill. And a bottle of champagne. C’mon, babe, it’s a wrap party.”

You nod, putting your hands on his shoulders and pushing him away. “I know where we are. Do… are you okay?”

Colt nods brightly. “I’m so good. I like your shirt.”

“We’re wearing the same shirt, Colt.”

“You wear it better! Here, take my jacket. You look cold.”

“I’m not cold, Colt.” You push the hoodie back over his head. “Keep it. I really don’t need it.”

Colt nods, pulling the hoodie down and running a hand through his hair before looking back at you. He always looked at you like that—like the world was spinning around you, like nothing else mattered. 

God, you loved him.

“I love you,” Colt says quietly, bracing his forearm by your head. “I really love you.”

“I really love you, Colt,” You tell him, just as gushy as him—even if you’re nowhere near as close intoxicated. “I really love you so much.”

Colt nodded, leaning into your space and slotting his mouth against yours. His hand found your waist, the other one curling around your head as you leaning into him. His mouth tasted like champagne bubbles and cookie cake. Your lips parted against his, your hands curling into his shirt. 

Sex with Ryland was always an experience. He was slow and nice, then rough and fast. His lips would trail down your neck, whisper sweet nothings against your heated skin, then dig into your shoulder, silencing the grunts that wanted to escape him.

The sun was dying. Slowly going out. Dimming.

But you were going to go out in a blaze of glory with a pleasurable peak.

His length dragged against your walls, putting pressure and pleasure in all the right places. Your legs hooked around his hips, your hands clung to his shoulders, and his hips met yours, over and over again.

He gasped your name, barely pulling out before he came and painted your stomach and thighs. “Jeez…” He muttered, lowering you back to your feet. He slipped to his knees, pressing needy kisses to your hips and pelvis before his tongue was on you, sucking at your clit and teasing your entrance. You hadn’t cum yet, and he needed it to happen.

“Mmh… Ry…” You mumbled, hand finding his hair as your head leaned back against the shelf that was just digging into your spine. “God, so good…”

Ryland groaned against your folds, his fingers replacing his tongue and curling inside you. You gasped, back arching, while he kissed your clit, practically begging you to cum.

Your thighs tensed, squeezing around his wrist and jaw, and Ryland moaned into you again. “Fuck, baby!” Your orgasm hit you like a truck, crashing into you and leaving you trembling against the wood. “Ry… Ry, god… fuck…”

Ryland rose to his feet, his hands finding your hips and stroking your skin. “I love you,” he murmured, wiping his mouth before kissing your lips. “I love you. There’s nobody I’d rather hide in a janitor’s closet with.”

“I… I love you too,” You say back, a little surprised.

He’d let down his walls for you. He loved you.

“I love you so much,” He repeated. “I love you. I love you.”

Your bed, the one Holland and your father had built for you, creaked from the force of Holland’s thrusts. Each one was deep and buried him inside you, making the bed knock the wall quietly. Your legs were around his hips, ankles locked at the small of his back to keep him close. 

Holland’s eyes flicked down your body, watching and wild. “Feels good, huh?” He mutters, leaning down to trail his tongue up your neck. “Love fuckin’ you.”

You let out a whimper that he silenced with his mouth, his tongue sliding against yours. Your hands tightened in his hair as he kissed you, and when he pulled away, a strand of spit followed, clinging to his mustache and making you wetter. 

“Don’t want Dad to hear you,” he grunted, hand snaking down to find your clit. “Say my name, baby.”

“Hol—Holland,” you groaned, hips rising to meet his as his thrusts got a little sloppier, chasing his orgasm. “Holland, don’t stop, god…”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” Holland muttered, planting his hands beside your head and angling his hips to be flush against yours. “C’mon, baby. Shh, shh, Dad’s next door, don’t want him to catch us, do we…?”

You tightened around him as his pelvis ground against yours, his hair giving your throbbing clit a little much desired attention. “Holland!” You gasped, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“Cumming?” He asked, pounding into you. The bed was knocking against the wall aggressively now, surely leaving dents if not waking up your parents. “Shh, shh, shh… shit!”

You nodded, your lips pressed together to keep quiet. Holland watched you in the dark, throbbing inside you. You squirmed as you came, your orgasm washing over you and driving Holland to his. Neither of you could suppress the whines that escaped you as you finished, and Holland slowed to a stop, resting his head against your shoulder. 

“Shit, baby,” he muttered, lips brushing your collarbone. 

“Was really good, Holland,” you mumbled, panting quietly. “God…”

The hall light flicked on, and Holland sat straight up as if electrocuted. He rolled off the bed, thudding on the carpet on the side opposite the door. 

“Where are my pants?” He hissed, fumbling in the dark. 

“Just get out!” You snapped back, pulling the blanket to your chest and sitting up. “Go, go!”

There was a rap on your door, and Holland caught his breath. 

“Sweetie?” Your mom’s voice came through the door, high but tired. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Mom,” you called back, your voice cracking. “Just fell out of bed!” You winced, but the hall light shut off a moment later, and Holland finally breathed again. “Get out!”

Holland found his pants draped over your bedpost and hopped into them, nearly falling over. You pulled the window open and he climbed out, falling off the ledge and into the flowerbed. “Fuck,” he muttered, then coughed as he stood up, dusting dirt from his ass. “Bye, baby.”

“Bye, Holland,” you said quietly, leaning over the sill to kiss him. 

Your first release, one he’d given you with his tongue, still stained his mustache.

“Tomorrow?” He asked hopefully, doing up his belt.