Zesty

Tim

You go silent and Tim feels it like a wall slamming down between you. His face hardens. For the first few hours he matches your energy with his own brooding silence, jaw clenched, movements sharp as he stomps around the house. The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on.

Eventually it gets to him. He grabs his jacket. “Porch. Now,” he grunts, not really asking.

You follow him outside into the cold night air. Tim lights a cigarette, the flame briefly lighting up the hard lines of his face. He takes a long drag, then holds it out to you without looking over. You accept it, fingers brushing his. The two of you sit on the wooden steps, shoulders almost touching, passing the cigarette back and forth in the quiet.

After several minutes of smoke curling up between you, Tim exhales heavily. “This silent shit sucks,” he mutters. “I know I fucked up, alright? Didn’t mean to push it that far.”

He bumps his knee against yours, a small, tired gesture. When you finally mutter something back, even if it’s short, the stiffness in his shoulders eases. He takes the cigarette back, then surprises you by wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. His jacket smells like smoke and him.

“Next time just yell at me instead,” he says, pressing a rough kiss to the top of your head. “Hate not hearing your voice.”

Brian

Silent treatment is Brian’s specialty, so when you turn it on him, he hates it. His first instinct is to give it right back. He becomes a ghost in his own home: quiet footsteps, no unnecessary words. He does his tasks with that calm, detached precision, eyes passing over you without lingering, like he’s proving he can play this game better than anyone.

You feel the coldness of it after a few hours. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable. Eventually you cave and ask for something small. “Brian… can you get the box from the top shelf?”

Without a word he crosses the room, tall frame reaching up easily. He sets the box gently in your hands, his fingers brushing yours for a moment longer than needed. The touch is warm, a tiny crack in the ice. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes soften just slightly when they meet yours.

You try again later with another small request. He helps every single time, wordless but attentive. A blanket draped over your shoulders when you look cold. A mug of tea left beside you without fanfare. Each act is silent, almost detached on the surface, but the care is there in the details - how he adjusts the blanket so it covers you properly, how the tea is made exactly how you like it.

Finally, when the weight of the silence becomes too much, you break it properly. “Brian… I hate this.”

He pauses what he’s doing, turning toward you slowly. For a long moment he just looks at you, expression unreadable. Then he steps closer, one hand coming up to rest lightly on your arm, thumb brushing your skin in a rare show of softness.

“I know,” he says. “I hate it too.” He doesn’t pull you in or overwhelm you with words, that’s not his way, but he stays close, letting the silence finally shift into something gentler. His hand lingers, steady and reassuring, until you’re ready to talk more.

Ben

Ben does not handle the silent treatment well. At all.

He starts annoying on purpose. Whining dramatically from across the room. “Baaaabe. Hello? Earth to my favorite person?” He drapes himself over the back of the couch while you’re sitting there, sighing loudly every thirty seconds. “I’m literally dying over here. Respawn me with attention, please.”

When that doesn’t crack you, he gets fidgety, guilt creeping in. Eventually he crawls onto the bed beside you, hair a mess, expression genuinely sorry for once. He pokes your side gently.

“Okay, okay… I was a dumbass. I’m sorry,” he says, voice softer. “I hate when you go all quiet like that.”

You glance over and he gives you that crooked, sheepish grin. “So… we good now? Can I make it up to you?” His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Lemme eat you out. On my knees and everything. What do you say?”

You smack his arm and he laughs, rolling on top of you in a tangle of limbs, pressing sloppy kisses all over your face and neck until you’re laughing too. “There’s that sound I missed,” he mumbles against your skin, still grinning.

Jeff

Jeff reacts with his usual sharp edges first.

“Fine. Be a bitch then,” he snaps when you refuse to answer him, voice cutting. He storms out of the room, door slamming hard behind him. You hear him moving around the house for a while, restless and pissed.

But he comes back. He always does.

Later that night you’re lying in bed, still wrapped in silence, when the mattress dips heavily. Jeff stretches out on his back right beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours. He doesn’t speak at first, just stares at the ceiling. Then he turns his head, looking at you with that dangerous, crooked smile - the one that’s equal parts asshole and charm.

“C’mon, baby,” he drawls. “You gonna freeze me out forever? I know I’m an asshole, I can't help it.” He shifts onto his side, facing you fully. One hand comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “Don’t make me beg.”

When you finally crack a tiny smile, his grin widens. He scoots even closer until his forehead rests against yours, breath warm on your lips. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “Hate not hearing you talk shit back to me. Don’t do that silent crap again, you hear me?”

He stays right there until the wall between you melts completely.

Jack

Jack notices the shift right away. His dark voids linger on you a little longer than usual, head tilting slightly in that quiet, thoughtful way. He seems a bit confused, like he’s not entirely sure what the right amount of space is, but he respects it completely.

He doesn’t crowd you. He moves around the infirmary or the house with his usual careful precision, still doing small things to take care of you from a distance: leaving water or snacks where you’ll find them, making sure the lights are dimmed when you’re in the room.

The silence stretches, but it never feels angry with Jack.

After some time, when you finally step closer or speak, he turns to you immediately. “Are you ready to talk?” he asks, voice low and calm, no pressure at all.

When you nod or reach for him, Jack pulls you in. His arms wrap around you with that careful, solid strength, cool skin against yours as a low purr starts rumbling deep in his chest. He rests his cheek against the top of your head, holding you close.

“I... missed your voice,” he murmurs quietly. His hands rub slow, soothing strokes down your back.

Jeff

Jeff cursed everyone out day and night. He was wanted and if he showed his face anywhere he’d be shot on sight. And while running away from the cops he dropped his phone and broke it leaving him with no contact to you.

Tbh everyone wanted him out of the house, he was a pain in the ass and made his misery everyone else’s problem.

He’d drink almost all the time, and stalk around the perimeter of the house for stragglers.

If he did find one he’d kill them mercilessly, making it impossible to identify them. And in his haze of murderous intent and alcohol, maybe even weed, he’d carve your initials anywhere he could. To let you know he still thinks about you, wants you, hell even loves you.

If the body’s don’t hit the news, or show off the initials he worked hard to carve, he’d toss the remote at the tv and break it. Infact that’s the fourth tv they’ve had to replace.

He’ll be pent up and it shows, he’ll use your old clothes he has that barely smells like you anymore and he hates it. Any photo he can get of you is added to the list.

It’s over when slenderman gives him the clear to go find you. He’s running as fast as he can, drunk or not he’ll sober up on the way there. Dipping through back alleys until he’s slamming into your door. Pounding on it until he gives up and breaks the lock on your window falling gracefully into your living room with a hard thunk.

Your rushing down the steps in your night wear only to see Jeff scrambling to get to you, basically tackling you into a desperate kiss, hands wandering everywhere he can gripping onto you with bruising strength.

It’s every thing he’s craved for the past months. Your house, your stupid clothes that smell just like you, the way you bitch at him to do shit.

He’ll tell you to be rough with him, grab onto him, hit him even, he just wants your touch, wants to know you needed him as much as he refuses to tell you the same.

Tim

Tim is so close to losing it genuinely. Brian and Toby have to placate him by saying things that don’t always work some nights.

He stares at his pills like they’ve personally offended him as he try’s to tell himself to be patient, that your waiting for him worried sick, and then he cycles back to how he can’t tell you he’s gonna be ok. Now he’s starting to worry you might think he’s dead, or worse just abandoned you.

He’ll break things, drink, wallow in his guilt until Brian’s had enough and smacks him over the head giving him a wake up call and tells him to do some yard work or something to keep him moving.

He’ll fall asleep with your photos in hand, the ones that he was forced to take with you per your request. Unfortunately for him he’ll think about the things he wants to do to you when he gets back, to make up for all the time that’s been lost.

When he gets the all clear to come see you, he doesn’t think twice about hopping in the truck, driving to your house with worrying speed. But when gets to your house he stands outside your door realizing he’s got to say something, fuck anything at this point.

And when the door opens after he psyched himself into ringing the door bell, standing there sweating running a hand through his hair, foot tapping a mile a minute, it all freezes when he sees your stunned face.

Just taking a moment to breathe you in when he says, “Baby I..” at a loss for words he comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t need them, when you close the distance, slamming your mouth against his in a heated kiss. His burly arms are straining against his flannel as they wrap around your waist. Moving to pin you against the wall, breaking away to tell you how sorry he is, how he missed you so much, that he lost his phone and couldn’t contact you.

You’d have to tap his shoulder to pull him away from the sloppy make out to take him inside to where you really need him, and believe me he gladly obliges. Picking you up, with his hands supporting your thighs while he kicks the door shut.

Brian

Brian would be livid, when he realized he dropped his phone hearing the sick crack hitting the pavement his heart dropped and he almost went back for it. But if he got caught he’d actually never see you again, so he keeps running with Tim in front.

Brian realizes that he can’t use the computers cause they try to track it, so Tim basically confiscates it so he doesn’t attempt to make contact.

He’ll sit and watch tapes of you guys doing stuff around your place or out at the park, and drink his whiskey.

He refuses to go out some days, cause all he wants to do is sit in front of his tv watching tapes like their reruns while silently brooding. During this his stubble grows out quite a bit, and Tim has to tell him he basically looks homeless for him to shave and take care of himself.

Brian likes to work on the truck when he’s sick of the couch he’s basically called his home. He likes to play tape recordings of you talking and sometimes he answers back to make it feel like he’s home again.

When the tape ends he’s broken from his trance and calls himself pathetic while becoming angry again. He’ll try to calm himself saying it’s only for a few more days, cops will give up, and he’ll take you for a nice drive.

Slenderman’s go ahead was everything he’s been craving to hear. Making sure he shaved before hand because Tim’s been nagging him about it, and because he doesn’t want you to see how badly this affected him.

He’ll take the back roads to your house, thinking of every apology he’s gonna say, every thing he’s gonna do to make up for the time he’s missed out on, and suddenly he’s already fidgeting on your porch as he knocks heavily with more force then he meant to.

And when the door swings open all the words he was planing to say were thrown out the window, taking you in for a desperate kiss that knocks the breath out of you as he backs you up into the house, the cold wall of the entrance making you shiver.

He’s taking his time, it’s slow, and hot as if he’s taking the moment to remember every detail. Making sure he doesn’t forget a damn thing.

Toby

Toby is a whole mess, when he realizes he’s lost his phone. His tics get worse, he’s snapping and throwing fits left and right. All he wants is to see you, be in your arms, he wants you to tell him it’ll be ok.

Brian is sick of his shit, having to hide is computer from him so he doesn’t try contacting you. And Tim refuses to leave the car keys out in the open so he doesn’t get arrested on his way there.

He has to force himself to shower, he hates this distance and keeps thinking you’re mad at him, that you hate him and moved on. Toby doesn’t leave his room either, and it’s mostly trashed now, due to his fits and in his searches for your leftover clothes.

He’ll absolutely jerk off to your clothes, crying that he’ll come home and make it right. Fuck you right, give you whatever you want. He’s desperate and digs for any scrap of you left.

When slenderman lets them know the cost is clear, he’s demanding for the keys, saying he needs to see you. Brian doesnt want him driving his nice car and crashing it, Tim doesn’t want them to go back into hiding and he also doesn’t wanna be in the car alone with Toby, so they all pile in and drive him to your place.

He is legit tweaking out, being the worst back seat driver as he presses up against the glass looking for your house.

They eventually kick him out of the car and speed off, yelling that they’ll never do any favors for him again. But he doesn’t care as he scrambles up to your window climbing the side of the house to get into your bedroom, slipping in with a yell.

Luckily he can’t feel it, but you’re stunned seeing your boyfriend crack his shoulder back into place almost forgetting why he’s here until your eyes meet each other’s.

Suddenly he’s ripping his muzzle off, spewing apology through harsh tics and snaps. Toby wants to scoop you up and squeeze you so badly, but he’s afraid he’s not worthy of it after leaving you with no communication.

You’ll have to pull him into your arms first, peppering kisses all over him until he breaks down and curls up into you. Repeating his words of how sorry he is until you both pass out on your bed.

Habit

Habit would have to be in a lot of trouble to be hiding. And he’d try every way possible to communicate that but he just can’t stroll through this like he usually would.

He’s mad, livid, that his mate, as he likes to call it, is all alone without him. You need him and he’s not there.

He’ll wonder if you’re bored without him, if you’re looking for him too. Habit didn’t have the luxury of taking anything with him but sometimes on his journey he’ll steal phones and try to text you but most times the phones die before he gets to have a full conversation with you.

They’ll be ominous and you’ll be worried that someone else is stalking you now that habits out of the picture. What’s left of him you take and moving somewhere else. Cops are bound to sniff around there and either way you won’t be safe.

By the time habit is out in the clear, the house is already excepting nature, its dusty and whoever he left in there that you didn’t know about has also withered away.

He’ll track you down, it’s not what he wanted but he knows that you’re his and he will always come back. Whether you like it or not.

Nina

Girl is panicking. She’s upset and crying, glittery mascara that you bought her is staining her face.

She doesn’t leave her room, barely showers, eating is an after thought, and all these pictures of you are her only comfort.

Nina hates that all the photos she had mostly of you on her phone were crushed during her escape. Her time away from you affects her worse, sending her spiraling to the point her bed sheets haven’t been changed ever since you last slept in them.

It’s like she’s trying to preserve you, mourning you in a way. She’ll write manically about what she’s gonna do to the people who thought they could get close to you while she was gone, and what kinda stuff she’s gonna get you at the mall. She broke quite a few glitter pens in the making of these.

When she gets the word she can see you again she panics, she needs to shower, shave, get dressed in something remotely clean, do her makeup.

By the time she comes to see you she’s sweating nervously, knocking on the window for you to let her in. You’re already on her, helping Nina come in, while asking her what happened and where she’s been.

She’ll explain nervously, telling you how her phone broke, how desperate she was to come back to you, that she needs you in every aspect of her life. Promising you that she’d never leave you like this.

Nina also thought it a good idea to grab you a little something on the way back, it’s not much just some snacks you like. She’ll munch on them while curled up in your bed with you, watching some cheesy romcom like you usually do.

Not just tired—drained. The kind of tired that settles into the marrow of your bones and makes you feel like even blinking is too much effort.

You stand on the front steps of your house for a second longer than necessary, keys in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, and try to summon the energy to go inside. Your muscles ache. Your neck hurts. Every part of your body begs for the sweet mercy of a hot shower and soft clothes. It’s cold out here, the nighttime air unforgiving. It’s all you can do not to collapse on the stairs outside.

The keys rattle in your hand as you finally slide one into the lock, twisting it until the door unlatches with a muted click. You shove the door open with your shoulder, stepping into the dark. The familiar scent of home greets you—laundry detergent, the faint trace of that candle you lit last night, something faintly musky that’s just… you.

You sigh, shoulders slumping with relief as you kick your shoes off one at a time. Your bag hits the floor with a muted thud, but you could care less to remember if there was anything valuable inside. You shrug your jacket off, tossing it haphazardly onto the hook. It’s your sanctuary, your space to finally breathe, not having to perform for your dumbass coworkers any longer. 

Work sucks. Everyone knows that, especially you.

There’s just something about a 2pm to 12am job that makes you want to rip everyone’s throat out, including your own. The money is nice, but some days you wonder if it’s worth your sanity and the constant back pain.

You start walking toward the kitchen, already reaching to loosen the tension from your neck, mentally checking off what leftovers might be in the fridge. Are you even hungry? You round the corner,

And stop cold.

The back door is wide open.

The long glass pane stares back at you like an eye, wind pushing it gently so it sways on its hinges, creaking faintly. The night air curls around your ankles, carrying the sharp, damp scent of wet leaves and earth. It raises goosebumps on your arms.

You blink, stunned for a moment, almost unsure you’re really seeing what you’re seeing. You never forget to lock that door. Ever. It's a habit, muscle memory, you could lock that thing in your sleep. There’s one too many home invasion cases on the news for you to just be comfortable with an easily accessible back door.

“…No,” you whisper under your breath. “No, I didn’t leave that open.”

Your heart gives a small jolt in your chest.

Immediately your mind reaches for something rational, something safe. Him. Maybe he came by. Maybe he used his key. Maybe he forgot to shut the door all the way. But even as you grasp for the thought, it doesn’t settle. He doesn’t forget things like that. He’s careful—always has been, he has to be. 

“Hello?” you call out, voice already tense. “Anyone here?”

No answer. You mentally punch yourself, you’re no better than the stupid girls who you make fun of in horror movies. 

Your house is still. The silence feels unnatural, forced, like it’s trying to hide something from you.

A pinprick of unease worms its way into your spine. You move quickly to the opposite side of the kitchen, flipping on every light switch available and illuminating the entire dining/living area. It doesn’t ease the pit in your stomach, but at least nothing can sneak up on you. You rummage through your broom closet in the laundry room, grabbing the wooden broom leaning against the doorframe. It’s not much, but at least there’s something for you to protect yourself with. You will not be as dumb as those horror movie chicks.

Your voice rises, more firm this time. “Seriously, if this is a joke, it’s not funny.”

Still no reply.

Your breath catches in your throat. You start moving from room to room, switching on lights as you go. The living room? Empty. Bathroom? Empty. Guest room? Nothing. You scan every corner, every shadow, peek behind every door with broom gripped tightly in hand.

The tension grows with every room you clear. The open doors groan behind you, the breeze from outside trailing in like fingers sliding across your back. The feeling of being watched is as strong as ever, and now you feel like you could throw up.

Your bedroom is the last place left.

You step in and flick the light on. The room is empty. Neat. Undisturbed.

And yet… your heart won’t stop racing. The hairs on your arms are standing straight up, and there’s a pit forming in your gut again, deep and cold.

You take a step back into the hall, gripping the flashlight tighter, half-waiting for something, anything, to jump out.

“Okay,” you whisper, trying to convince yourself. “Okay, it’s fine. I’m just tired. I’m overthinking this. He probably—he probably just stopped by, right? Left in a hurry. Right?”

You want to believe it. God, you want to believe it.

But then, just as your breathing starts to slow, just as you start to think maybe it really is nothing—

Arms wrap around you from behind.

A strong grip, smooth and steady, sliding across your waist, locking tight before you can even scream. You freeze. Your body goes stiff, lungs seizing as hot breath ghosts over your neck, close, too close.

You can’t move. You can’t even think. The broomstick is rendered useless in your hands. 

Until you hear that all-too-familiar chuckle humming into your ear…

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ JEFF THE KILLER

“Miss me, baby?”

You shoved the blunt end of the broomstick back with everything you had. It didn’t land hard, but it startled him enough that he stepped back with a laugh.

You whipped around, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum, and there he was.

Jeffrey.

His grin was still spread wide across that pale face, lips too stretched, eyes too sharp, the darkness under them as deep as ever. His hoodie hung off his frame like always, smudged with god-knows-what, hair falling wild around his face. He looked like something from a nightmare.

But he was your nightmare. And right now, he was standing in your hallway with his hands up in mock surrender and a cocky smirk like he hadn’t just scared the absolute hell out of you.

“God—Jeff!” you snapped, pressing a hand to your chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Too much to list, babe,” he said smoothly, taking a step toward you. “You looked so serious. I had to mess with you a little.”

“You left the door wide open.”

“I left it ajar.”

“Wide. Open.” You glared at him, storming past him toward the back door to slam it shut. “I thought someone broke in. I was about to call the cops.”

Jeff snorted, following you lazily. “Yeah? That would’ve gone well.”

You stopped and looked at him. “What if it wasn’t you?”

“It was,” he shrugged. “I got here first.”

“That’s not the point!”

Your voice cracked under the weight of the day. Between exhaustion, stress, and now this emotional whiplash, your eyes burned with unshed tears. You turned away, biting down on the frustration. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him, not now, not ever.

“…Hey,” Jeff said softly after a moment, voice losing that teasing edge. “C’mon. Don’t be mad.”

You didn’t respond, just walked toward the kitchen to start your evening routine, collecting your abandoned bag from the ground and dumping your keys and phone on the counter. You opened the fridge, stared inside, then closed it again.

Jeff padded in behind you, quieter now. The change in mood was subtle, but real. He watched you for a second, then leaned his weight against the counter beside you.

“Rough day?” he asked, voice quieter this time.

You shrugged. “Same shit. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” he smirked. “My day involved a guy’s trachea and a folding knife.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course it did.”

“I brought you something,” he offered.

You looked over at him warily. “Is it a severed finger again?”

“…No.”

“Because last time you said you brought me something, it was in a ziplock bag and I still have nightmares.”

Jeff chuckled. “Okay, this time, it’s better.” He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a single gas station chocolate bar, a little squished. He offered it to you like a peace treaty.

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “You stole this, didn’t you?”

“Obviously.”

You took it from him with a sigh and opened it. “Fine. You’re lucky I’m too tired to stay mad.”

He grinned and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You always say that.” His lips were cold and he smelled like outside, meaning he had definitely walked here from the mansion. Also meaning he probably intended on staying the night. You didn’t mind, him being here made you feel safe.

You munched on the chocolate and walked toward the couch, flipping off all the lights you had turned on in your panic, and shedding your outer layer again as you sat with a deep exhale. “You’re not even supposed to be here tonight. You’re still on call, aren’t you?”

“I ditched early,” he said, dropping beside you like a cat, legs sprawled, arms resting behind his head. “Told Masky I had important business. And I do.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, kicking your feet up. “What business is that?”

He tilted his head toward you, eyes hooded. “You.”

You shook your head with a soft, helpless laugh. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“And you love it.”

His hand found your thigh, fingers tracing patterns there while you chewed the last bite of chocolate. The warmth of his palm soothed more than it should have.

“…Missed you,” you admitted finally, softer now. “Even if you’re the worst.”

Jeff turned his face toward you, smile a little smaller now, but more real.

“Missed you too.”

You leaned your head back and closed your eyes, feeling the weight of the day finally start to lift. He didn’t leave your side. Just stayed there, content, his presence strange and comforting all at once.

Jeff’s hands were warm and steady, his touch deliberate as he pulled you closer onto his lap. The weight of your body against his felt grounding, like an anchor to the calm you hadn’t realized you’d been craving all day. His fingers curled lightly around your waist, easing the tension that had curled tight inside you since morning.

His breath brushed softly against your ear, low and rough in a way that sent a comforting shiver down your spine. 

“Hey,” he murmured, voice thick with something softer than you expected. “You don’t gotta be so tense.”

His lips traced a lazy path down your neck, featherlight kisses that felt like a balm on skin that had been cold and raw for hours. You could feel the slow unwinding beginning deep inside your chest, the tight coil of exhaustion loosening with each gentle touch.

One hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingertips ghosting along your ribs, memorizing the curves and the way your breath hitched when he found the tender spots. You closed your eyes, letting his touch carry you away from the harsh buzz of the day—the deadlines, the weight of responsibilities, the pressure that never seemed to ease.

Jeff’s other hand traveled lower, trailing along your thigh, fingertips tracing delicate circles that sent warmth blooming through your skin. 

“My girl is so stressed,” he whispered against your skin, voice a soft promise. “We gotta fix that, right?”

You leaned into him, back to chest, letting yourself breathe him in—the faint scent of smoke and earth and something darker, something utterly Jeff. His hands moved with slow certainty, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, skin pressing against skin, grounding you in a way no words could. His fingertips were cold, but it wasn’t a terrible sensation.

His lips pressed firmly against yours, coaxing, teasing. The kiss was patient, undemanding, the kind that made your whole body still except for the slow burn growing inside your chest. His hands explored without hurry, mapping every line, every shiver, every breath you let slip.

They roamed down, fingers pushing past the waistband of your pants and slipping them down slowly, as if you wouldn’t be able to notice if he did it easy enough.

“Jeff,” you sighed, lying your head back onto his shoulder. 

The tightness in your jaw eased as he pressed his chin atop your shoulder, his eyes half-lidded with something raw and hungry. “Just relax,” Jeff breathed, his thumb tracing small, lazy patterns along your skin. “I’ve gotcha.”

You could feel tears prickling at the edges of your eyes—not from sadness, but relief. Relief that someone saw you, that someone wanted to take this burden away from you, even if only for a little while—even if that person used these same hands to end lives.

“You don’t have to fight it,” Jeff whispered, voice low and steady, coaxing you into surrender. “Let me help my baby out.”

He pushed the fabric of your pants down past your knees, the garment pooling onto your ankles as your thighs fell apart, kicking them off onto the carpet beneath.

The fabric of your panties was already damp, Jeff’s arm reaching around your hips to press his palm atop the fabric. He hummed in your ear, planting one wet kiss after another against the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe that he knew made chills run up your back.

You sighed, hands falling down beside you to grip the fabric of his jeans underneath, his arms wrapping around you tightly as you let your body relax into him.

“What so ever could they be doin’ to you at work to make you this tightly wound?”

“Jeffrey, do not talk to me about my job right now,” you huffed, gripping the side of his leg when he began to rub his thumb in tiny circles against your clothed clit. “You’re so mean.”

He chuckled, pressing his thumb down firmly. “That so?”

Jeff’s fingers were now rubbing against your folds through your panties, causing you to moan at the friction. He playfully nipped at your neck before looking at you with eyes that look like he wanted to eat you alive.

You were close to nagging at him for teasing so bad, until he’s moving both hands away from your cunt and up under the fabric of your shirt, sliding it up your stomach and over your bra, letting it bunch up on your chest under your chin.

“Jesus, I love you,” he groaned, palming your tits through your bra, squeezing them enough to make you whine, then letting them go. You could feel his bulge hardening against your back, the length pressing against your tailbone as Jeff slid his hands back down your stomach to the hem of your panties.

You reached your hands behind you, blindly searching for Jeff’s belt, before his hand snatched your arms forward.

“Nuh uh,” he warned, moving both of your hands back to your front and readjusting the two of you so you weren’t sitting directly on his bulge. “I’m takin’ care of you, baby.”

“You’re telling me the Jeffrey Woods doesn’t want to get off? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

“Enough,” he groans, slipping his fingers under the hem of your panties and dragging them down your thighs. You lift your hips, helping him get them down your knees and off your ankles. He cups his left hand under your knee, pulling your thighs apart as you place your right foot on the couch next to his leg. You gasp when the cold air hits your damp folds, but Jeff’s hand quickly comes to remedy that.

“Now shut up,” he grumbles, licking lewd little circles on your neck, thumbing open your puffy folds to watch in amazement at the way you glisten and clamp around nothing.

You sigh, letting your head fall limp against his shoulder as you watch his face, his brows knotted and concentrated as he runs his fingers through your slick, easing you more.

He pressed the pads of his fingers against your clit, swiping slowly back and forth, sending the nerves in your legs and stomach jerking, legs nearly closing if it weren’t for his hand tugging them back apart.

You tilted your hips up, trying to get his fingers to push down further to where your cunt was weeping and clamping around, sadly, nothing. You’re soaked, pussy lips practically glistening in the glow of your table-side lamp. Your whines were enough to make Jeff chuckle, the vibration of it against your back. “So impatient.”

“I don’t like to be teased, you kno—oh…”

You can’t even finish your sentence before his two middle fingers are pushing against your entrance, the first inches of them slotting in and out, loosening you up. You huff a gasp, stomach clenching as your walls immediately clamp tight around the thick digits, sucking them in greedily. Jeff watches over your shoulder with hungry amusement.

“This all for me? Shit, baby, I’m gonna have to ruin you.”

Jeff never has and never will be a patient man, no matter how breathy your moans are when his two middle fingers begin to pump deeper and deeper into your cunt with each jerk of his wrist. He doesn’t stop until he gets knuckle-deep, letting your filthy hole clamp and flutter around him, before massaging his fingertips against your walls.

“Ah, yeah—right there-” you groan, letting your knees fall limp apart as you reach behind your head to grip into the back of Jeff’s hair. The veins running up his forearm are bulging, muscles tensing as he begins to pump his fingers in and out, dragging the hilt of his palm against your clit with every jerk.

There’s no room to catch your breath, no time to readjust your body as it slips down his chest and further into his lap, only relying on Jeff’s hold on you to keep yourself upright. You grab and tug at his hair, searching for anything grounding as his knuckles bulge in and out of the first tight ring of muscle, cunt stretching across his fingers when he begins to scissor into you slowly.

You didn’t get to dwell in the feeling for too long before his fingers were slipping out of you, fingers soaked all the way to the knuckles as he dragged them back up to your clit and began massaging, faster this time. Harder.

“Oh shit—okay-” you whine, thighs instinctively trying to close back together, but Jeff’s grip holding tight as always. You tried to sit back up, to give your body some relief, but Jeff just pressed his fingers down harder.

“You’ve got it, babe. Don’t go runnin’ from it.” He growled, plunging them back into your cunt and starting to fuck them inside of you quickly. He gave you no time to adjust, curling and crooking his fingers to snag against every sensitive spot he knew all-too-well, his thumb rubbing circles into your clit.

“Jeff—hah—hold on-”

“No can do. Gotta finish what we started, right?”

Pulling back to tease your folds with your own slick, he plunges into your swollen pussy once more, easily hitting that spot over and over. 

“Hngh- Jeff, more!” You grind your hips to meet his merciless rhythm, clenching around his fingers. 

You feel as if you’re losing your sanity when he adds in another finger, walls burning as your cunt stretches around his thick digits, rhythmically curling upward. The noises are so lewd, wet squelching and skin slapping filling up the quiet noises of your house.

It’s halted when he’s dragging his fingers out again, moving to swipe against your twitching clit as he had before, but this time with a faster pace. More focused on making your lips fall open and whines of sensitivity slip from you. “Ah—hah, Jeff, c’mon-”

“Now now…not yet,” he tuts mockingly.

“Please, Jeff. Please let me cum.”

“Begging? Really?” He chides, pushing three fingers back into your sloppy with no resistance anymore, your cunt open and weeping around the stretch. “You really must be tired, huh?”

You feel his cock twitch against your back, jeans stretching over the bulge that reminds you he’s enjoying this just as much as you are. Well, you’d be enjoying this a lot more if you could fucking cum. Every time you get that familiar feeling, his fingers are slipping back and forth between hole and clit, ruining any build-up you had.

It took you jerking his hair and turning your face into the side of his neck with pitiful whines before he finally nestled his fingers deep inside again, sheathing them to the knuckle. Increasing his pace, abusing your g-spot relentlessly, Jeff knew by your breathy moans of his name that you were getting close. 

His left hand moves from under your knee, letting it drop atop his leg and dangle with all the exhaustion you held. His now-free hand wanders the expanse of your body—groping your breasts, gripping your hips back, forcing your ass to grind back into his clothed length. All the while your soft mewls making him grin.

Jeff’s hand, blister riddled and fingers calloused from years of weaponry, finally rest on your face. He pushes your cheeks together, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth and forcing you to look at him. Your dazed eyes meet his darkened ones, a smug grin as he rubs his thumb hard against your clit.

“Look at me when you cum,” he murmurs raspily into your neck, teeth ghosting over your rapid pulse. You couldn’t look away if you tried, his lips ghosting up your jaw and across your cheek until they planted firm on your puffed ones.

He tugs his fingers out, before slamming them just right inside of you. All you know is you’re cumming all over Jeff’s fingers, hands clutching into his hair and eyes rolling just enough to make your head feel light. Jeff watches the entire time, wide eyes trained on the way your lips fall open.

“Fuck! Jeff- Jeffrey!” You whimper.

“Yeah, there you go. There you go.”

He keeps his palm pressed flat against your cunt, fingers clamped together by your constricting walls, letting you ride out every rippling wave of your orgasm. His hand is soaked, your juices dripping from your cunt and down the roundness of your ass, down onto his jeans. You’ve made a mess.

As your climax bates, he buries his face in your neck, kissing softly over your slowing pulse. “Did so good, baby. You did perfectly,” he breathes out, hugging you closer as if to hide this vulnerable moment. But you feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin. You also still feel his cock pressing into your ass.

Lifting your head, you admire Jeff’s hardened features. Face flushed, lips swollen, dark eyes half-lidded as he stares down at you in admiration.

“You’re merciless. Ruthless, even.” You huff out a low laugh.

“No doubt about it.” He finally slips his fingers from inside you, your teeth gritting as your walls try their best to hold him in place.

His fingers are soaked, tips nearly pruning from the wetness. More juices pool from your cunt, sending a shudder down your skin, goosebumps rising on your legs from the cold. But even with all the uncomfortableness of it, you can’t help but notice your head has quit hurting, body isn’t as sore, overall attitude less fogged from the day you’ve had.

“I need a shower. And food. And to sleep for the rest of my life.”

“I’m pretty good at making people sleep for the rest of their lives.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, Jeff’s arms wrapping under your back and twisting you sideways, his one arm scooping up your legs and lifting you up as he stands off the couch. He carries you towards your bedroom, holding you close to his chest.

“You take a shower, I’ll make you food.”

“Your cooking sucks.”

“You’ll get over it.”

He set you down on the bathroom counter, the cold tile making you hiss as he sauntered over to start the water in the shower.

You couldn’t help but notice the obvious stain on his thighs, dark wetness soaking into the thick fabric. You smiled, glancing up just enough to see that he was still very-much sporting a boner.

“Are you still hard?” You smile, teasing him as the water begins to warm, steam rolling over the glass. Jeff doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and walks over to help you off the counter, pushing you towards the shower.

You think for a moment before stepping in, turning to run a hand down his chest, heart thudding against his ribs.

“If you make me a grilled cheese, I’ll suck your dick before we go to bed.”

Jeff doesn’t need to be convinced any further. With a kiss against your cheek and a helping hand to get the rest of your clothes off, he’s disappearing back toward the kitchen with a jittery laugh.

“Deal. But don’t get mad if it’s burnt, alright?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ MASKY

You froze.

A rush of cold spilled down your spine as two arms wrapped around your waist from behind, tight. But before panic could reach your throat or your hands could react with the broomstick, you heard a familiar breath—low, steady, a little tired.

“Hey,” came the voice, muffled against your shoulder. “It’s just me.”

Masky.

You let your tensed shoulders sag, releasing a sharp breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, and nearly dropping the broom on the ground.

He pulled you back a step, chest against your back, hands smoothing over your sides like he was trying to melt the stress out of your skin. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said quietly. “The door, I didn’t have time to close it before you were unlocking the front. My bad.”

You twisted in his arms enough to look up at him. Even with the mask still on, his body said everything—guilt in the way he ducked his head slightly, gentleness in the way he held you like something he didn’t want to break. Still, you glared with all the anger and fear burning in your body.

“You think?” you grit, voice shaky but slowly recovering. “I thought I was about to get murdered.”

“Evidently.” He eyed the broomstick squeezed in-between the two of you. You nudged him, and he gave a slow exhale, cupping your face like he was handling porcelain. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Really.”

And you believed him.

“I should have grabbed a knife. Maybe getting stabbed will teach you to not to sneak up on people.”

“I promise you, it wouldn’t.”

You leaned into his touch just a little. “You always sneak around like a damn ghost. You ever think of just knocking?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Wouldn’t be me if I did.”

You rolled your eyes, but the tension was already ebbing. You wanted to be upset with him, but the constant hardened look in Masky’s eyes always rolled unease off your shoulders. He kissed your forehead through the mask, then nodded toward the kitchen.

“Sit. You’re gonna tell me about your day, and I’m gonna make you something before you start melting into the floor. You look beat.”

You didn’t argue. You dragged your feet to the living room, switching off all the lights you had flipped in your panic, throwing the broom back into the closet, dropped into the couch, and watched him bustle around like someone who had done this a dozen times before. He made sure to shut the back door, too. Coffee brewed, a pastry from your cupboard was plated, and all the while, his eyes flicked back to you with that quiet protectiveness he wore like a second skin.

When he returned, he gently nudged your legs to drape over his lap as he sat next to you. You crossed your legs, calves lying atop his thighs, back pressed into the arm of the couch, as he handed over his gifts.

“Eat first,” he muttered. “Talk later.”

You sighed at the first touch of his hands kneading into your calves, thumbs pressing into the tight spots just right. It was maddening how good he was at this. The kind of man who knew the exact angle to dig into the muscle, the exact pressure to make it all unravel.

You ate what he had made you, sipping on the steaming coffee that Masky just always seemed to know how to brew just right no matter what brand you bought. When finished, you laid it on the table next to your couch.

“Long day?” he asked, his voice quieter now, slower. He ran a hand up to your knee, not asking for more than you were willing to give.

“The worst,” you murmured, letting your head fall back. “You ever feel like no matter how much you do, it’s never enough?”

“All the time,” he said simply.

He worked his way up your legs, then, shifting until your knees bent and he could pull you into his lap without resistance. You settled into him with a quiet sigh, your cheek against his shoulder, cradling you. He smelled like cold air and pine needles, something earthy that grounded you instantly.

He tilted your chin gently, mask still on, but his mouth pressed atop your head, chin resting there. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But I’ll listen if you do.”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

And for a while, you just… talked. About the manager who wouldn’t leave you alone. About the customer who screamed over nothing. About how tired you were of pretending to be okay when really you just wanted the world to stop spinning for five minutes.

Masky didn’t say much—but his hands did. One arm around your waist, the other slowly brushing up and down your spine. Reassuring. Real. His mask shifted up his face while you spoke. First, above his mouth so you could see the dark facial hair across his jaw, then above his nose, then completely off, left on the table next to your dirty dishes. You tried not to make a show of seeing his face, but it always made you a little giddy when he removed his mask on his own.

And then—quietly, like he was asking permission—he lifted you just enough to shift you deeper into his lap. His other hand skimmed up your side, drawing idle circles as he began to press kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.

“Forget the rest of it,” he murmured. “Right now, it’s just me and you.”

The heat of him, the slow way his fingers ghosted over your ribs, the softness in his voice—it was everything you needed and nothing you deserved.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he whispered. “Not with me.”

“Sam can be said about you, tough guy.”

He chuckled, but didn’t respond, so you continued.

“How was your day?”

He waited, thinking over his answer. “Had worse. But still not good. Left after everyone went to sleep ‘cause I decided I wanted to see you.” He paused for a second, glancing between you and the window outside. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”

“Don’t. Stay as long as you want. Anything to get you out of that mansion for a bit, yeah?”

“If you insist,” he chuckled.

You melted then, entirely, your fingers curling in the front of his shirt. Letting him kiss your worries away, one soft press at a time. Every nerve in your body quieted. Every fear, every sharp edge the day left behind, dulled under the warmth of his touch.

You didn’t need anything else.

Until his hand dipped in-between your thighs. 

It wasn’t rushing or assuming, but just a flat palm slid between the warmth of your legs and resting against the apex of your body. The touch was lightening, tired body shifting to life when the hilt of his hand pressed firm against your center.

”Masky…” you breathed between kisses, half a question and half a sigh of want. He didn’t make any movement, but he didn’t pull away either, just continued kissing.

“Tell me to stop if you wish. Just want to help you relax a lil’.” He hummed against your temple, his facial hair tickling against your cheek.

“No— Uh, no.” You hesitated, evaluating your own body and tiredness, then accepting the fact that now you would be too stirred to relax anymore after the move he had just made. “Want you. Need you.”

“Easy now, don’t get worked up.”

“Hypocrite,” you shoved his shoulder, twisting off of his lap and planting your feet on the ground. You stood in front of him, facing away, and began to unbutton your pants. Your cheeks burned, no doubt Masky being able to see the deep red on the tips of your ears as you shimmied your pants down your thighs and off your legs.

You heard the unstrapping of laces behind you, boots being kicked off of feet and jacket being thrown to the other side of the couch before hands were planting on your hips and turning you around.

You placed your hands on Masky’s shoulders, his fingertips tracing the stitching of your panties as he leaned forward to place slow, breathy kisses against your stomach through your shirt. He hooked your panties around his thumbs, then slowly slid them down your thighs and off with your pants behind you. 

Masky lifted the hem of your shirt, placing another kiss just below your belly button before he was sitting back to look up at you, eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks a dark shade of red. You ran your fingers through the short hairs at the back of his head, but before you could make a move to remove any more clothes—his or yours—Masky was grabbing your arms, turning you, and pulling you down onto his lap.

He shuffled you both back, laying long-ways on the couch with his back sitting up against the armrest. He laid your back against his chest, planting his feet into the cushion so your legs hard to spread around them, cold air hitting your center with a chill.

“Wha- You’re not even taking your shirt off?” You question, readjusting and making yourself comfortable on top of him, entire body laying against his. Masky just chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist and planting kiss after kiss against your neck.

“No need,” he hummed, running his hands down your waist and over the tops of your thighs, dipping under them to tug your legs back, pulling them apart. You planted your feet against each of his knees, socked feet slipping against the material of his jeans. “I scared you, so I have to make up for it somehow.”

“Ah, don’t say that,” you mumbled, hands tugging up the hem of your shirt as Masky’s rubbed further and further down. “I already forgave you.”

“Mhm. But I don’t see you stopping me.” You could feel his smirk against your jaw as he spoke, the deep baritone of his voice vibrating against your back. You would have given a retort back, but Masky was suddenly sitting up and hissing in pain.

“Wha-”

He reaches behind him, a click of something being unsnapped, and the rustling of metal. You’re jarred, until Masky pulls out his pistol that usually stays strapped to the holster on the back of his belt. He grimaced, setting the gun back on the nightstand next to the dishes.

“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

“Whoops,” he chuckled, lying back down and dragging you back with him.

It was a blur of hands and lips next—Masky’s arm came to wrap around your middle, while his free hand grabbed your jaw and turned your head to kiss him fully. You smiled into the kiss, but found yourself being cut of when two fingers pressed between you, fingertips pressing against your lips.

You happily obliged, parting your lips as Masky sunk his thick middle fingers into your mouth, your hand wrapping around his wrist when he tried to push back further, slightly coughing on the digits.

“Nice and wet. There we go…” he hummed, feeling your tongue slip around his fingers and groan at the salty taste of them. Only when your drool began to coat your own lips and shine on his knuckles did he draw them out, leaving you breathless and flushed.

One arm still gripped around your middle, he let his spit-glistened fingers trail down between your legs. He found your clit immediately, wasting no time in pushing his fingers through your folds and spreading you open, fingertips pressed firm against your sensitive nub and drawing small circles.

“Ah, hah- Masky-” you huffed, planting your hands on his forearms and digging your nails into his sun-kissed skin. Thick veins ran up his arms, strong muscles from countless missions toning his body in all the right ways. It was mouthwatering, really. The only downfall? Every part of him was thick, fingers especially.

“Let it out, there you go.”

If there was one thing about Masky you knew for certain, he knew what he wanted and he always knew how to get it. Whether that be your noises, a specific body reaction, or just your pleasure all over his fingers—he was going to have it, and it was going to be now.

Another circle on your clit before Masky was pressing downwards, scissoring his fingers to spread your pussy lips apart and hum at the glisten that shone in the lamp light. You were dripping, and he hadn’t even done anything yet.

Your nails dug into the skin of his forearm when he began to prod his middle finger against your entrance, swiping up and down the slit but never fully pressing in. You whined, shifting your hips with each movement and praying that he would just finger-fuck you already.

“C’mon-”

“Shhh, don’t be whining,” he smiled, planting an open-mouth kiss against your neck, sucking the skin lightly and sending shock after shock through your body. “Need’a just let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

He tightens his grip on your waist, and you release a spell of air, giving Masky the chance to slip the first knuckle of his middle finger into the warmth of your cunt. You mewl, head lying back on his shoulder, eyes blinking slowly as he works the digit slowly in and out. It’s thick, and Masky can’t help but groan to himself at the way your folds stretch around it.

His bulge pressed against your back, the subtle shift and grind of his hips against you making you reel.

“More…” You huff, pushing his arm down and angling your hips up, whining for the entirety of his finger, not just the first knuckle.

“Greedy, greedy girl…” He purrs, popping off of your neck and moving up to your jaw, continuing his abuse there. Your neck is shining with his spit, little flowering bruises slowly fading in with each minute.

Masky obliges, curling his middle finger and pressing it deeper, warming his finger in your wetness and feeling the fluttering of your walls just begging for more, more.

You grovel, tilting your hips back and forth in time with his wrist, his one finger pumping in and out of you quickly, stirring your stomach with shocks of pleasure. It’s still not enough, you decide, turning your face into the side of Masky’s neck and whining there.

“Oh, what? C’mon, tell me what you want,” he slows his finger, teasing it in and out, the digit soaked with your arousal. “Don’t get all shy.”

“Another…”

“Another what, sweet girl?”

You huff, digging your nails into his arm just to prove a point, “Your fucking finger, Masky. Please.”

“Atta girl.”

Masky free arm unwraps from your waist, hand snaking down to press finger pads against your clit, hard—enough to make you flinch. You feel a second finger begin to stretch against your entrance, the tight ring of muscle sucking in the thick digits like they belonged there.

“Yeah—yeah—yeah-” You chant against his neck, tilting your gaze down to watch as one knuckle after another dips inside of you, just to tug back out again. He begins to slowly pump his two middle fingers in, your hips jerking to meet every pass.

His other hand does wonders, swiping lewdly across your clit, sounds of wet skin and arousal overtaking the silence of your home. You brace your hands on his forearms still, fingers clenching in time with his.

“Tell me what you’re feelin’, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your ear, biting at the carriage and sending goosebumps shooting across your skin. It’s accompanied with the repetitive massaging of that sweet spot deep inside that only he can reach, fingers pumping and knocking against every sensitive nerve on their way out. Masky knows your body like the back of his hand, and it’s proven here and now. “Let me hear that sweet voice.”

“Good—hah-” You gasp, gritting your teeth when he curls his fingers upwards, scissoring your cunt wider. “Jus-hngh-Just keep going.”

He gives a heavy circle onto your clit, fingers tugging at the nub, before his hand is retreating. You nearly whine, exasperated that he did exactly what you told him not to do, until his hand is wrapping around your wrist.

He maneuvers your hand down, pressing his fingers atop yours directly onto your clit, showing you how to rub yourself. When you slowly start doing the motion on your own, he lets your hand go.

You want to question, but he’s wrapping his hand around your jaw and tilting your face up, pressing a firm but wet kiss against your swollen lips. Then his fingers are slipping down, until his fist is wrapping around your throat and—

Oh.

The lightheaded sensation is instant, brain growing fuzzy with the little oxygen that you’re not getting to your head. He places the pressure on either side of your neck, right under your jaw, and squeezes until your lips are parting and you’re gasping.

Your fingers stall their movements on your clit, his two still pumping mercilessly into your sopping cunt, and a low rumble erupts from his chest.

Then his fingers inside of you come to a dead stop.

You whine, sucking in a rattled breath against the pressure constricting you, and try rocking your hips. Masky stays still.

“Move them fingers, sweetheart.”

You immediately light up, your hand getting to work at rubbing your cunt until tears prick the corners of your eyes, thighs jerking to close with every circle. Masky catches up immediately, the palm of his hand hitting against your fingertips every time he fucks his fingers into your wilting hole, his digits glistening.

His grip on your throat tightens, your eyes rolling back as your mouth creates an ‘oh’ shape, gasping for air. The air swimming in your brain makes your vision hazy, but it also heightens the sensations of every nerve lighting up in your cunt, every curl and jerk of fingers against yourself.

“You’re gettin’ close, pretty girl,” Masky hums, pressing his lips directly against your ear, gritting his teeth when your free hand comes up to wrap around his wrist. “Let it all out. Come all over me, sweetheart.”

His fist tightens one final time, your airway completely shuts out, and that’s what does you in. Your orgasm hits you like a train, hard and fast, and with barely any warning. Your nails are tearing into his arm, fingers rubbing your clit so hard you see stars, and his fingers—they’re slamming into your g-spot, legs shaking so hard they slip off his knees and fall wide. 

You cum into his palm, your arousal soaking his fingers and dripping down his wrist, absolutely covering your inner thighs and plush lips. Masky growls, deep and low, nipping at the corner of your ear while your cunt convulses and grips his fingers impossibly tighter.

He lets his grip off your throat, a crying gasp for air that has your stomach tightening and eyes shooting wide. He shushes you, rubbing methodical circles against your cheek as your head falls back limp against his shoulder. You’re shaking all over, body absolutely wrecked.

It took more effort than you care to admit for Masky to slowly tug his fingers out of you, muscles clamping down against the digits like they were begging him to stay.

The couch creaked softly beneath you both as you lay draped over him, cheek pressed against the side of his neck, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat in his pulse.

Masky’s arms slung lazily around you, one hand tracing slow circles onto your chest, the wiping against his pant-leg. His chest rose and fell beneath you, and you felt his lips brush your temple.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick and gravel-warm, like it had melted under the weight of contentment. “So damn good for me.”

Your tired body softened further at the praise, sinking against him with a faint sigh. He could feel your heartbeat syncing with his, slower now, soothed. There was no residual work-related emotion left in your body, no room when now all you could think about was how good you felt, how full.

His fingers ghosted along your jaw again, dragging a quiet shiver from you despite the warmth still lingering between your bodies. “You’re so pretty,” he added, quieter this time, like it wasn’t meant to be said aloud—but he said it anyway. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You nuzzled against him, and he chuckled — low and affectionate. Then, gently, he shifted beneath you.

“C’mon,” he whispered, sitting up with you still loosely wrapped in his arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You wanted to protest, say you were fine, but your legs felt like jelly and your brain wasn’t quite caught up to your body yet. He carried you effortlessly, strong arms cradling you to his chest, his jacket and your pants abandoned on the floor behind him.

He carried you to your bedroom, sitting you on the bed while he disappeared to the bathroom. You could’ve fallen asleep right there, if the chilly air was lighting your body with goosebumps.

The bathroom lights were low and the tub was already half-full, steam curling upward like fog in the amber light when he gathered you back up and guided you to the bathroom, helping you remove the rest of your clothes.

Masky sat on the edge of the tub with you still in his lap, his skin warm where it met yours, holding you like you were something fragile and precious. The water lapped gently at the porcelain.

He ran his hand along your arm, soothing, grounding. “I got you,” he said. “Always.”

Once he eased you into the water, you sank with a small moan, the heat cradling you like a second set of arms. You leaned back against the edge of the tub, head falling to the side where Masky sat on a folded towel beside it, one arm slung along the rim, fingers trailing in the water next to yours.

You blinked up at him through the haze. There was this softness in his eyes he never showed anyone else. Not even the others. Just you.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

“Yeah…” you breathed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Just… floaty.”

He smiled, barely there. “That’s the idea.”

Silence stretched comfortably between you, the kind that doesn’t need filling. Just the sound of the water sloshing quietly as he washed your legs, gentle and unhurried.

“I’ll be gone in the morning,” he said suddenly, not looking at you. “Long mission coming up, some out of town stuff.”

You opened your eyes at that, meeting his gaze.

He reached forward to brush wet strands of hair from your face, thumb trailing down your cheek. “I promise not to sneak up on you when I get back. Keep yourself safe until then.”

Your hand found his, fingers curling around his wrist, and you smiled—soft, tired, but real.

“Will you wake me up?” you whispered. “Just so I can kiss you bye.”

His lips quirked, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.

“Of course.”

You knew he wouldn’t, knew that he would get too sentimental about letting you sleep, but that was for tomorrow.

Tonight, you just couldn’t wait to kiss his face and tell him your every thought before slipping off to sleep.

And maybe repaying the favor, too.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ TICCI TOBY

You heard the fast cadence of feet moving behind you before you ever saw who it was, so obviously, you swung around broom-handle first. 

You felt the CRACK of wood against something hard, then turned the rest of your body around to see—

Toby?

His shoulder slumped against the wall, hands up in defense, and a sheepish grin on his now-red face. You knew he didn’t feel the pain of the hit, but he definitely felt the way it shook his brain for a second.

“Toby—!” you snapped, whirling towards him and swatting at his chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He was already grinning—goggles askew in his messy brown hair, hoodie half unzipped like he’d just walked in from a tornado. He ducked your halfhearted hits with an exaggerated lean, still giggling.

“You should’ve se-seen your face,” he said, wheezing through his grin. “I was gonna jump out from the closet but figured you might act-actually kill me.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t just now,” you muttered, heart still racing.

Toby tilted his head. “Yeah, but then you’d be stuck all alone again. Didn’t y-you miss me?” He stepped closer, hands slipping around your waist.

Your lips pressed into a line, still too wound-up from the fear to melt into his teasing right away. “Maybe. A little. But not enough to forgive you sneaking in through the back door like a horror movie villain.”

He leaned in, rubbing his nose gently against the side of your face. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Just… couldn’t help it. You’re so fun to surp-surprise.”

You sighed, the weight of the day still pressing down on your shoulders. He felt it too—because his smile dimmed, his hand reaching up to trace the curve of your spine over your shirt, slowly and carefully.

“Tough day?”

You nodded. “Always is.”

“Then let me fix that.”

Before you could argue, Toby grabbed your hand and gently tugged you toward the couch, taking the broom from your hands and throwing it back into the hall closet. “C’mon. Si-Sit down. You can yell at me later—right now you need to unwind.”

Toby’s hand was warm, his grip light as he tugged you toward the living room. You didn’t resist, not this time. After the day you’d had—and the scare he gave you—you didn’t have the energy to argue. Not when your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts were foggy from pushing too hard for too long.

The two of you flipped off every light you had anxiously flipped on on the way back, and made sure to shut the back door tight.

He plopped onto the couch first, legs spreading carelessly as he sank into the cushions with a groan that sounded far too satisfied, kicking his boots off. Then, without waiting, he grabbed your arm and pulled you down with him—until your body was tucked into his side, your head resting against his hoodie-covered chest, the rhythm of his breathing loud in your ear.

“That’s better,” he mumbled, shifting slightly so he could wrap both arms around you, folding you into his warmth like a blanket he’d been missing for days. “You always smell like… I dunno. Like so-soap. And work.”

You chuckled weakly, your body already starting to sink against him. “That’s probably accurate.”

He made a content little noise in the back of his throat, the sound vibrating in his chest under your cheek. Then one hand came up—calloused fingers brushing your hair back, again and again in soft, soothing strokes. He played with the strands absently, combing them through with care, sometimes curling a few around his finger and letting them slide loose.

You didn’t realize how much you needed this until you felt yourself beginning to melt.

No pressure. No noise. Just the low hum of his breathing, the sound of the wind against the house, and his fingertips skimming over your scalp like he was drawing patterns only he could see.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to.

Toby was always better at this than you expected. For someone who buzzed with chaos and laughter and unpredictable energy, he could be surprisingly… still. When it counted. And right now, he knew better than to fill the space with words.

You closed your eyes.

“Want me to get you anything?” he murmured after a while, quieter now. “Water? Snacks? I saw a bag of chi-chips in the pantry that looked lonely.”

You shook your head. “Just this.”

“That’s easy,” he whispered, a soft smile curling against your temple. “I can do this all night.”

He pulled the blanket off the back of the couch with one arm, dragging it around both of you with a lazy flourish, then curled tighter around you. His chin rested gently on top of your head, and his thumb traced a lazy, slow circle on your side. Over and over. Repeating the motion like it meant something. Like maybe he was grounding himself too.

You didn’t have to talk. You didn’t have to think. He made sure of that—kissing your forehead now and then, humming softly under his breath, keeping his arms steady and his presence warm and close and real.

“You’re good now,” he said, so quiet you barely heard him. “I’m here, okay? I’m here.”

And for the first time that day—hell, maybe the first time that week—you believed it.

And in the lull of your stress fading and his fingers gently massaging behind your ear, it finally clicked: no matter how weird or chaotic or infuriating Toby could be, he always came back to you like this—like home.

But every home has its cracks, and every crack is a breach at the foundation. And sure as hell, you both had your cracks.

You tried and tried to get comfortable, but after a little bit, your body was just too sore, mind too hazy with work. But, like the adult you were, gritted your teeth and scrunched your brow. Toby, however, wasn’t going to let you get off so easy.

“‘Just this’ my ass,” he laughed, pulling your hips back against his when you turn off of his body and onto your side, back flush against his front. “You’re still sw-swimmin’ in stress.”

Even though he can’t see you, you roll your eyes at his dramatics. It’s hardly the first time you’ve forced yourself to sleep through a muddy brain, and usually by yourself. If anything, Toby’s pestering is making it more of an impossible task.

And yet, here he is wrapping his arms around your middle and pressing his face into your hair. His body shifts closer, the two of you laid out against the other, trying your best to play sleepy, knowing full well the other was wide awake.

You can’t help it.

You peel yourself from his body, sitting up and planting your feet off the ground. Toby groans, hands trying to grip at your shirt, but you’re already moving to the kitchen by the time he’s up.

“Whe-Where’re you going?

The kettle’s old, a little too loud when it clicks onto the burner. You reach for the tea tin, fingers trembling slightly from the built-up static in your bones. You didn’t even realize how deep the tension ran until you peeled yourself away from the couch. Every joint ached like your body was still clocked in.

Toby isn’t far behind, of course.

You hear the soft pad pad pad of his mismatched gait, socks barely making a sound on the floor. He doesn’t say anything right away—just leans his shoulder against the doorway, watching. You feel his stare like a heat across your back.

“…You didn’t answer me,” he says after a beat, voice thick and scratchy, like it’s caught somewhere between sleep and screaming.

“I needed something warm,” you mumble. “Can’t settle.”

“Couldn’t se-settle with me,” he teases, pushing off the doorframe. “Ouch.”

“It’s not you,” you say with a soft huff, grabbing two mugs out of the cabinet. “It’s just work. Manager’s still refusing to hire more help.”

He hums, unconvinced, and steps closer. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his hands find your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, just enough to touch skin. The contact makes you shiver. Not cold—never with him around.

“I said you were st-still swimmin’ in stress.” His voice is closer now, the warmth of his breath skimming the curve of your shoulder. “Bet your head’s still full’a ema-email chains and shit.”

“It is,” you admit, biting back a sigh, scooping loose tea leaves into the strainer with slow, practiced fingers. “And tomorrow’s gonna be worse. I should be in bed.”

“So let me help,” he murmurs, all faux-innocent as his hands start to travel. “Didn’t I alrea-already do such a good job loosening you up earlier?”

“Toby,” you say warningly, but there’s no bite in it.

He grins into your shoulder.

The kettle isn’t even halfway to boiling when you feel him really close the distance — chest to your back, hips pinning you lightly to the counter, the twitchy energy in him turning molten. His lips brush your neck, first a feather-light graze, then a drag, then a kiss, slow and open-mouthed, right at the base of your throat.

Your breath catches in your lungs.

“Tobes…”

“You smell like me now,” he says into your skin, nose nuzzling behind your ear. “You got no idea how hard it is not to wanna crawl here after every day, just to see you, touch you, feel you.”

His hands spread wide across your stomach, palms flattening to keep you close. The gentle motion of his thumbs stroking absent patterns is a stark contrast to the heat coiling behind his kisses.

You let your head tip slightly, involuntarily—the smallest invitation.

“Still stressed?” He murmurs, one hand skimming undernesth your shirt and up to your ribs, not quite groping—just holding, grounding. “Or do I fi-finally feel you easin’ up?”

Your body is softening against him despite yourself. “You’re cheating.”

“You’re too uptight,” he counters, tone half-mockery, half-concern. “I’m just multitasking. Bein’ g-good for you and selfish at the same time.”

The kettle starts to whisper with pressure.

You could push him off. You should, maybe—wait for the tea, try to rest like an adult. But he feels safe against your back, fingers warm, breath warmer. Your thoughts slow a little under his touch, each kiss tugging you further from the work-stained haze you’d been drowning in.

“You’re not gonna let me drink that tea in peace, are you?”

Toby chuckles, the sound dark and fond and unmistakably turned on. His lips graze lower, teeth barely grazing where your shoulder meets your neck.

“…Nope.”

And then he bites, hard—enough to make you groan.

You grip the counter harder, bracing yourself as he presses fully into you from behind. You can feel him—hard, twitching, needy, through the thin fabric of both your clothes, and it makes your breath hitch again.

“I thought this was about helping me relax,” you say shakily, lips tugging into a grin despite the heat pooling between your legs.

He laughs, husky and low. “Oh, I am helpin’,” he mutters, biting gently at your earlobe. “You’ll be too tire-tired to think by the time I’m done.”

Toby watches over your shoulder as he unbuttons your pants, tugging them open as he dips his hand in and under the front of your panties, barely giving you time to gasp before his fingers are pushing through the growing wetness at your center.

Your hips buck against the counter as he drags two fingers over your folds, slow, testing. You’re already out of breath.

“Well fuck, sweetheart,” he growls, voice suddenly wrecked with want. “I haven’t even gotten st-started yet.”

“Your fault,” you whisper back, trembling, eyes fluttering shut as he teases his fingers through your folds, swiping slick against your puffy lips. “You started it.”

“And I’m gonna finish it,” he promises darkly, licking up your neck again. “Right here.”

Your eyes almost roll into the back of your head as he crooks one evil finger through your folds, gathering your slick to aid the taunting circles he begins to draw over your clit. He doesn’t care to drag your pants down any further, perfectly content with shoving your front against the counter and pressing his bulge against the roundness of your ass.

“Aha—Toby-” You whine, his fingertips rubbing merciless circles against your clit, your knees resisting the urge to buckle and crash you into the floor. Toby, all the while, is littering your neck with bites and kisses, disregarding exactly how much whiplash this is giving you. “Slow, agh—slow down.”

He lets off your neck, his free hand coming up to grip your jaw with wincing force, twitchy fingers dragging your deeply flushed face to turn and look at him.

He bores wide eyes at you down the length of his nose. He looks gloriously smug as he eases his middle finger inside you, but his mouth curling upwards at the wanton moan that spills from your lips as you clench around him.

“Naughty girl,” he murmurs, as he curls it just so. You nod fervidly and capture his lips in a desperate kiss, as though eager to prove his point. You whimper against his mouth when he repeats the movement, and he swallows the sound of your pleasure; opening up to you and delving in with his tongue.

His finger is quick, edgy jerks of his wrist lighting your cunt up with shock after sensitive shock as your thighs shake under you. His tongue explores your mouth, spit coating each other’s lips with each hungry kiss Toby plants upon you.

Pressure builds against the kettle's spout, air growing louder. 

“Think I can make my sweet girl cum before your pre-precious tea is ready?” He grits, popping off of your mouth with a satisfied grin and spit-glistened lips. You go to shake your head, go to tell him to take it easy, but he’s already bullying another finger into your sopping cunt, panties soaked nearly through your work pants.

“Jesus, Toby—yeah, yeah okay-” you spread your legs a little wider, leaning just a little further against the counter as Toby’s palm nudges ruthlessly against your sensitive clit.

He smiles wide, pressing his hips harder against your ass, grinding himself in time with his curling fingers as his free hand snakes up the front of your shirt, groping your tits. He’s becoming frantic, and you can only hope to keep up.

You bite down on your tongue to cut short your whiny moan as Toby presses the pad of his fingers into your g-spot. The depths of his eyes glitter dark with malevolent glee as you writhe between him and the counter—your body caught in a battle between wanting to chase what his fingers are doing and needing him to stop for two damn seconds so you can focus on not buckling under both his and your weight.

“Let it all out, c’mon sw-sweet girl, let me hear you,” he growls against your jaw, nipping against the skin there. Your hips jerk in time with his hand, body following the rub of his palm on your clit, feeling the ever-closer tightness in your gut.

He pulls out of you and begins to circle your clit once more.

Your frustration materialises in a noise that’s partway between a whine and a growl, and you throw your head back against his shoulder—dishevelled breathing nearly overshadowing the faint whistle building on the kettle.

There’s no controlling the way your hips roll to compliment his movements, even though you’re trapped against the counter thoroughly enough that your own movements are limited by Toby’s arm.

“Please,” you beg.

“Please what?”

Your hips buck when he catches on a particularly sensitive spot, a desperate attempt to have his fingers press into your entrance again. But he moves with you, continuing only to draw stuttering patterns.

“Let me hear you, sweet girl,” he repeats.

Your breaths have increased to a heavy pant, broken only by the small gasps and mewls at each movement he makes—all at once too much and not nearly enough. 

Maybe it’s the stance, or the overstimulation, or the fact that you’re about the cry if Toby doesn’t put his fucking fingers in your fucking pussy. But you’re slipping one hand off the counter and reaching back to tangle into his hair, dragging his gaze to meet yours.

“Please, Toby,” you pant. “I don’t care how fast you go, I do—hah—don’t care what you do. I just need to cum, right now. I need you to make me cum, Toby.”

Each word from your rambling mouth makes Toby’s eyes widen, grin growing wider and wider. He doesn’t need to be convinced any longer.

You mewl as he curls his fingers inside you, dragging against your walls as he begins a rapid, tear-jerking rhythm. He kisses and sucks at your ear, tugging on the lobe with a sharpness that has your eyes clamping shut and moans shrieking from your lips.

His free hand slithers from under your shirt to snag a bruising grip on your hips, encouraging you to grind your hips down onto his hand, his own hips rutting against you like a dog.

“Yeah, Toby—Yeah.”

You moan as he scissors his fingers inside you. You’ve been so overwhelmed by sensations until now that you’re only just realising the kettle is nearly ready, faint whistle growing louder—as Toby’s fingers grew faster.

“C’mon, baby, almost there—al-almost there.”

He adds a third finger, and begins to pump into you with much more intention than before, the hilt of his palm purposefully rutting against your clit, cunt absolutely sloppy with your arousal in your panties.

“I’m close—Toby, ‘m so close, c’mon-”

“Let me feel it, sweetheart.”

His fingers hit a particularly sweet spot, and you gasp in approval as he begins to pick up speed, hitting that spot again and again, coaxing and curling and grinding his palm relentlessly against your clit.

Toby pays rapt attention to your face as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. His eyes dart between yours, and his lips curl upwards with every desperate sound that spills from you. He supports your weight while your legs tremble beneath you, and you cling to him for dear life as your stomach muscles shake, and coil ever tighter until everything inside you is pulled taut and—

The tension snaps. Your spine arches against him, his hips plowing against yours, and you cry out as the first relentless waves of your orgasm crash over you. Toby guides you through each pitiful swell with deep strokes that have you seeing stars. He doesn’t dare to let a single ripple of pleasure pass you by.

You’re still gasping for breath, knuckles white against the counter, thighs twitching where they press together, trying to regain some sense of control—but your body is spent, trembling, soaked through.

Toby’s palm is warm and steady where it rests between your legs, the heel of his hand applying just enough pressure to keep the mess contained while you come down from the high. His fingers slowly slip from you, careful not to overstimulate, though the ghost of them lingers, making you shudder in place.

Then—

The kettle screeches, high whistle filling the air.

Toby snorts through his nose, resting his forehead against your shoulder with a groan.

“Well, looks like I win,” he mutters, sounding slightly dazed himself.

You’re still catching your breath, legs barely cooperating. “I can’t move.”

He doesn’t hesitate—just guides you easily by the waist and back towards your bathroom, minding your still-sensitive body. He keeps one hand on your hip while grabbing a rag with the other, wetting it with warm tap water.

“Stay put,” he murmurs. “Lemme clean you up.”

You hum softly, dazed and grateful as he shimmies your pants and panties off of your hips and down your legs, this time not with lust, but with care. He eyes your soaked panties.

“Ruined ’em,” he comments, not unkindly. He gives you a cocky little smirk. “Might fra-frame ’em.”

“Gross,” you whisper, but there’s a sleepy smile on your face now.

His hands are gentle now—soft wipes between your thighs, slow dabs where the fabric is soaked. The wet heat of your panties clings uncomfortably, and without asking, he hooks his fingers into the waistband and peels them down.

Once he’s done wiping you clean, he presses a lingering kiss to your cheek—reverent this time—and tugs your shirt down to cover you back up before standing. He moves with less twitch now, more grounded, like something has calmed the buzzing in his own nerves.

He wipes you gently, but when he shifts to toss the rag into the sink behind him, the movement presses his hoodie up just enough for you to see.

A dark, unmistakable patch soaks through the front of his jeans.

Your brows lift slowly, a smile creeping across your face. “Toby.”

He freezes, mid-reach. “…Yeah?”

You lean forward, tapping a finger against the wet spot on his pants. “Did you seriously come in your pants?”

He jerks slightly at the touch, groaning as if you’d just caught him doing something far worse. “Fu-Fuck, don’t say it like that,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears flush red through his messy hair. “You were… God, you were makin’ noises, s-squeezin’ my fingers, it felt so good grinding against you… I wasn’t exact-exactly in control.”

You snort, amused and charmed all at once. “Didn’t even get your dick touched, and you still—”

“Don’t,” he whines, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh again, light and warm, and slide to stand in front of him. His hands instinctively land on your hips to steady you, but he avoids your eyes, embarrassed even though he’s the one who just made you come undone with his fingers alone.

“Hey,” you say gently, hands smoothing up under his hoodie, resting at his waist. “Let me take care of you now.”

His eyes open at that—cautious, a little wide. “You d-don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in, smiling softly. “But I want to.”

He swallows hard as you pull him toward the sink where the rag lies, damp and forgotten. You grab a clean one instead and dampen it with warm water, testing the temperature before turning back to him. “Pants down, killer.”

He stares at you like you just said the most blasphemous thing imaginable. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” you counter.

Toby groans in defeat, tugging open his jeans and boxers with minimal ceremony, wincing at the sticky mess inside them. You don’t laugh—not this time. Instead, you step between his legs, towel in hand, and meet his gaze with soft, adoring mischief.

“You really did make a mess,” you murmur, crouching slightly as you press the towel gently against him. You wipe him down with care, the same way he did for you—slow, soothing, careful not to tease too much, though it’s hard when you hear the little breathy sounds he makes.

He grips the edge of the counter behind him, watching you like you’re some kind of religious experience. “Fuckin’ hell, watch your hands.”

“I just like seeing you flustered,” you tease, brushing the inside of his thigh lightly.

He hisses softly. “You’re mean.”

“I’m sweet,” you correct, finally finishing your gentle cleanup and tossing the towel into the sink behind you. “You’re just really easy to get riled.”

He grabs your waist again and pulls you up against him, nose brushing yours. “You keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna make us both miss tea and bedtime.”

You press a kiss to his jaw, light as a feather. “Tempting. But I think I’ve earned my tea.”

You both fix your clothes, you slipping on a fresh pair of bottoms, and shuffling back to the kitchen.

The kettle is still whistling softly, having clicked off on its own. He moves to pour the water, and you slide to grab the mugs, still a little wobbly in the knees.

He steadies you with ease, eyes flicking down to check on you.

“You okay?”

You nod, curling into his side. “Yeah. Sleepy, now.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “My duty has been fulfi-fulfilled.”

He hands you your mug first—your favorite one, the one he always pretends not to use but definitely steals when you’re not home. He hands you a steaming cup of tea steeped to perfection, then takes his own and nudges you toward the couch.

You settle in against him, tucked under his arm, legs draped across his lap. He presses a palm to your thigh, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you sip.

There’s still tension in your muscles, yes—but it’s softer now. Quiet. Manageable.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say quietly.

He hums, resting his head against yours. “Yeah, I did. You weren’t gon-gonna stop. You never do.”

“Hypocrite,” you snide, but he looks down at you with that rare, unfiltered softness.

“I want you tak-taken care of,” he says simply. “I beat too many randos up everyday. Sometimes I just wanna take care of somebody.”

Your heart swells. The tea in your hand warms your palms, but it’s nothing compared to the heat that fills your chest.

You lean into him, nose tucked into his hoodie, your body finally able to melt against something solid. He holds you there in silence, kissing the top of your head every so often.

The night is quiet now—no stress, no thoughts of work.

Just tea, Toby, and the steady, rhythmic beat of a heart that’s completely and totally in sync with yours.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ HOODIE

Arms wrap around you from behind. Firm. Familiar. Gloved hands press against your stomach, steadying you as you flinch and try to spin around, broom handle gripped tight.

“No need to scream,” his voice is low, calm, muffled slightly by the fabric of his mask. “It’s just me.”

You tense. “Jesus, Hoodie!”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You turn in his arms to face him—not able to see his expression beneath the worn fabric of his hood, but it doesn’t matter. The tension bleeding from his shoulders says enough. He’s tired, like you. But he’s here.

“You left the door wide open,” you mutter, pushing against his chest with a huff, his hand leaving your waist to remove the broom from your hands. “You know I’ve had the worst week. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I thought something happened.”

He nods, quiet, and doesn’t let you pull away too far. “I got the weekend off. I was going to surprise you. Thought I’d beat you home.”

You raise a brow. “So you decided to break in?”

“Technically, I have a key,” he mumbles under his breath.

You cross your arms, unimpressed.

“Okay,” he concedes with a sigh. “I messed up.”

Despite your irritation, a little huff of laughter escapes. He always does this—makes you want to stay mad just a little longer than you can actually hold it. Still, the adrenaline is slowly leaving your system now, and your body remembers how exhausted you are.

He watches you for a moment. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He doesn’t press you. Instead, he steps out of your space and heads to the kitchen like he owns the place—and honestly, after all this time, maybe he kind of does. You hear the sounds of a mug being pulled down, the soft trickle of water filling the kettle. Cabinets opening. The scrape of a plate. It’s methodical. Gentle. Like he’s trying to undo the jolt he gave you.

You follow him, arms still crossed, trying not to let your annoyance outweigh your relief. On your way back, you flip off every light you had turned on in your frenzy, and make sure to shut the back door firmly.

Hoodie sets a steaming cup of tea in front of you a few minutes later and tugs the kitchen island chair back. “Sit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I’m the one who scared you half to death. Let me make it up to you.”

You blink at him. That’s as close to a romantic apology as you’re probably going to get. So… you sigh, scoop up the tea, and scoot into the stool. 

The mug’s warmth sinks into your palms. You lift it to your lips, take a slow sip—earthy, floral, a little sweet—and let out a sigh. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t disappear, but it dulls a bit, enough to make you realize how tightly you’ve been holding everything inside.

Across the island, Hoodie leans against the counter, his own mug cradled loosely in one gloved hand. His head is tilted slightly, watching you in that quiet, patient way of his — like he’s giving you time to unwind, wordlessly encouraging you to talk without pushing. 

You glance up at him through tired lashes. “Long week,” you murmur.

He nods. “Figured.”

“You?”

A grunt of acknowledgement. “We were out on rotation. Recon, mostly.” He shifts a bit, pulling his hood down with one hand and sliding the mask up above his nose just enough to drink. “Nothing exciting, but… exhausting.”

You frown a little. “You’re back early. That usually means something went wrong.”

He shrugs. “Not wrong. Just… tense.” A pause. “Tim’s been on edge.”

“More than usual?”

“Mhm.”

You blow softly on your tea, letting the heat curl against your lips. “Work’s been hell. My boss is a micromanaging narcissist and I’ve had two people quit in the last ten days. One of them cried in the break room before they left.”

Hoodie hums, like he’s picturing that too vividly. “You quit yet?”

You let out a dry little laugh. “I fantasize about it. Daily.”

“Do it,” he says simply. “I’ll hide the body.”

You roll your eyes, but the grin sneaks in anyway. “Not every problem can be solved by murder.”

“That’s where we differ.”

Another beat of silence passes, but it’s not awkward. Just shared weariness between two people who trust each other to hold the quiet without needing to fill it.

Then Hoodie lifts the front of his sweatshirt to his nose, sniffs himself, and grimaces.

You raise an eyebrow. “Charming.”

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. “We really are disgusting.”

You smirk into your cup. “I didn’t want to say anything, but you do smell like old sweat and outside.”

He glares at you over the rim of his mug. “You smell like stress and three-day-old coffee.”

“Fair.”

He finishes the last of his drink, sets it down with a soft clink, then pushes away from the counter. “Come on. Shower.”

You blink, surprised. “Together?”

He pauses. His body language doesn’t change, but you can feel the way his attention snaps to you—heavy and focused like a shift in air pressure.

You weren’t trying to sound suggestive, not really. But the way his eyes darken just slightly beneath the mask, the subtle way he squares his shoulders—it hits you low in your stomach.

“…That an invitation?” he asks, voice lower now. Rougher.

You stare at him for a long moment. Then nod. “Yeah. It is.”

The tension that follows is thick—not awkward, but heavy with something slow-burning, simmering beneath the exhaustion. Craving contact and comfort in the most stripped-down way.

He doesn’t move quickly. Just steps around the island and stops in front of you, gloved fingers brushing yours where they rest against the mug. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to.

Because when his hand slides into yours and you let him lead you down the hallway, it’s not about rushing or undoing the tension with heat—it’s about scrubbing off the week, the weight, the grime, together.

The bathroom is quiet, lit only by the small bulb over the mirror and the faint orange glow bleeding in from the hallway. You pad in behind him, feet soft against the tile, while Hoodie reaches for the knobs on the shower.

The pipes groan as hot water spills from the head, steam rising slowly. His gloves come off first, dropped beside the sink in a damp little thud. You reach out without a word, your hands brushing his as you move to help—first with his sweatshirt, tugging the hem up, his arms lifting in silent permission.

He watches you the entire time. You can’t see his eyes fully behind the fabric, but you feel them. Heavy. Focused. You pull the hoodie up over his head and it catches briefly on his mask—the cloth tight over his jaw—and you freeze. One hand lifts gently, thumb brushing the edge of the mask just above his cheekbone.

His body tenses.

“I don’t have to,” you whisper.

But he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t speak. He just watches.

So slowly, carefully, you slide the mask up and off—exposing his mouth, his knotted brows, the quiet twitch of nerves along his throat as he swallows. His blond hair is messy, but you don’t care to fix it. You don’t stare. You just fold the fabric and set it aside, stepping close enough to press a kiss just beneath his chin. He exhales—long and low—and his hands settle on your hips, grounding himself.

Then it’s your turn.

You tug your own shirt over your head, his hands slipping around your back as soon as it’s gone. You feel him press a kiss to your collarbone, soft and unhurried, while you make quick work of the rest—pants, socks, underwear. He follows suit, until the only thing between you is warmth and anticipation.

The shower is fogged by the time you step in.

The hot spray hits your shoulders first, drawing a sigh from you both. You lean back against him as he closes the curtain behind you, his body flush against yours, his arms slowly wrapping around your waist. The water beads down your skin, over your back, between your bodies.

Neither of you speak.

His hands start slow—washing, soothing, mapping the lines of your body like he’s grounding himself in the shape of you. You do the same, fingers sliding across the plane of his chest, up to his shoulders. You trace the curve of his neck, the muscles tense beneath your fingertips, and he lets out a low hum that vibrates against your back.

His hands wander lower, over your stomach, hips, the inside of your thighs. Not demanding—just feeling. Exploring without pressure.

You tilt your head back against his shoulder. “Still feel gross?” you murmur.

His lips brush your ear. “Not even a little.”

You laugh, breathless, and twist in his arms so you’re facing him. The spray catches you both in the face, so he shifts slightly, shielding you with his body. One hand cups your jaw, the other smoothing over your lower back, pulling you closer.

Your chest presses to his, slick and warm under the water.

He doesn’t kiss you yet—just watches, eyes roaming your features like he’s trying to memorize every expression. One of your hands comes up to brush his damp hair back from his forehead. He’s so much more real like this. Human. Not the shadow you’ve grown used to meeting in alleyways or at your back door.

You lean in. Your lips touch his.

It’s slow. Not rushed or hungry—just hot, steady, present. He kisses you like he means it, like it matters. Like being here, with you, is the only thing that’s made his week feel real.

His hand slides down again, fingers brushing the swell of your ass, pulling you in. Your thighs meet his hips. Your body melts against him.

And it’s not just comfort anymore. It’s hunger in disguise.

The spray from the shower rolls heat around you, hot and soothing—but the real heat is pressed against you. He turns you, Hoodie’s chest flush to your back, his hands skimming up your sides, palms calloused but purposeful. Every touch is unhurried, deliberate, like he’s tracing your nerves from memory.

One hand finds your jaw, turning your face slightly so he can kiss you again—slow, deep, his lips dragging across yours like he’s trying to sink into you. The other dips lower, brushing your stomach, your hip, until he’s between your thighs.

You gasp, fingers gripping his wrist.

His palm flattens across your mound, his fingertips dipping between your thighs with featherlight pressure—teasing, exploring. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches your face tilt slightly toward his, breath quickening when his fingers stroke along your slit.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. “Just relax for me.”

Your body leans into his, already giving in.

You’re already wet. Not just from the water—him.

A low, satisfied hum escapes his throat. “You’re soaked.”

You whimper as he drags his middle finger up slowly, parting you, brushing right over your clit. His fingers are big, his entire palm covering your cunt and making you squirm.

“Sensitive?” he murmurs against your temple.

“God—yes…”

You feel his smirk more than you see it. His lips graze your ear, breath hot, teasing.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

His hand moves with a firmer purpose now. His middle finger dips between your folds, gliding down to your entrance, and slowly—so fucking slowly—he pushes the first knuckle in. Your back arches against him as his finger sinks deep, curling slightly, testing the way your walls squeeze around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, the sound husky, almost reverent. “So tight…”

You whine, eyes fluttering shut. His other hand comes up to brace your chest, sliding across your ribs, then down again—holding you still as he starts to move his finger, curling it gently with each pump. The water pours down over both of you, but all you feel is him—every slow press, every filthy grind of his palm against your clit.

You’ve barely had time to adjust when he’s pushing another finger.

Your legs nearly give out.

“Easy,” he murmurs, shifting his body behind yours to support your weight. “I’ve got you.”

The stretch of his fingers—thick, deep, perfect—has your mouth falling open in a gasp. He keeps them pumping in a steady rhythm, thumb circling your clit now with increasing pressure, drawing tight little spirals that make your stomach flutter.

“You feel that?” His voice is in your ear again, ragged and dark. “How wet you are for me? How fucking hard you’re squeezing?”

You nod helplessly, body tensing with every thrust of his fingers.

“Say it,” he demands softly.

“I—fuck—I’m so wet for you,” you breathe, barely able to form the words. “Feels so good, Brian—”

“That’s it,” he growls, voice cracked with restraint. “Let me make you cum. Let me feel you lose it.”

His fingers drive deeper, faster now—fingers still curled, stroking that sweet spot inside you over and over, his thumb unrelenting on your clit. Your knees start to shake. One of your hands flies up to brace the slick tile while the other scrambles to grip his wrist, holding on for dear life.

Your body is falling apart under him.

Every drag of Hoodie’s fingers has you writhing—hips rocking, thighs twitching, your hands scrambling to grip the slick wall for leverage as your orgasm builds fast and hard. The water from the shower pelts your chest and stomach, but all you can feel is him—his broad chest flush to your back, his breath hot and steady in your ear, and those thick, relentless fingers stroking deeper inside you with every second.

But your body’s fighting it.

Too much pleasure. Too intense. Your hips twitch forward, your spine arches, your whole body bucks instinctively to escape the overwhelming stimulation—

He doesn’t let you go.

Suddenly his chest is pressing harder into your back, and both your wrists are yanked behind you, caught in his grip. His free hand locks around them tight, pulling your arms behind you in a rough, controlled hold that drags a breathless cry from your lips.

“Stay still,” he growls into your ear, voice low, commanding, not up for argument.

Your gasp is punched out of you as the new position throws your balance off—spine arched, chest pushed forward, legs shaking as you try not to collapse under the weight of your own pleasure. You’re pinned now. Arms locked behind your back, completely open to him, vulnerable, dripping wet, and aching.

The fingers inside you don’t slow down. If anything—they get rougher.

“Don’t stop—don’t stop—” you gasp, hips grinding into his hand, chasing the release that’s almost too much too fast.

“Not gonna,” he grits. “Wanna feel you break for me. Right here. Right now.”

He plunges deep with every stroke, knuckle-deep, curling his fingers in a punishing rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. His palm grinds against your clit now, adding even more pressure—building you to a fever pitch, pushing you over that edge harder than you were ready for.

“F-Fuck, Brian—!” you cry out, voice shaking.

“You wanted to cum so bad,” he hisses into your hair. “Then cum for me. Right here. Let me feel it.”

Your whole body goes tense—knees buckling, thighs squeezing shut around his hand as your orgasm hits like a lightning strike. Your scream tears from your throat, raw and high and completely involuntary. 

“That’s it… good girl… fuck, that’s so hot. You’re so good for me.”

Your walls clench around his fingers like a vice, pulsing so violently it almost hurts. He groans low against your ear, gripping your wrists tighter behind you, holding you steady while you thrash against him, shaking and twitching through it.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice reverent. “Look at you…”

You’re panting, trembling, your body sagging against him as your orgasm crests and crashes. Your knees start to give, and Hoodie finally releases your wrists, catching you before you can drop. His arms wrap around you, one hand slipping to your front again to gently cup between your thighs, rubbing softly as the aftershocks leave you whimpering.

“Shhh… easy now,” he whispers. “I got you. It’s over. You did so good.”

His nose nuzzles against your temple. His other hand lifts to brush the hair back from your face as you catch your breath.

You melt back into him, boneless and flushed and soaking wet—in more ways than one.

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You nod weakly, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Jesus.”

He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Let’s get you clean. Then I’ll carry you to bed.”

His fingers leave you slowly, the tight ring of muscle clamping as you gush around him, and you can feel your body flutter around the absence, still sensitive, still twitching. But now it’s gentle again—his touches soft, calming. And the steady weight of him holding you upright, even when you can’t stand.

The water runs warm over your skin, steam curling lazily around your shoulders as you lean your back into Hoodie’s chest, heart still hammering beneath your ribs. Your thighs twitch now and then with the aftershocks, but his arms are steady around you—one curled low around your waist, the other reaching for the washcloth.

You don’t even flinch when he starts cleaning you up.

He does it slowly, gently—as if he’s smoothing away every trembling breath you let out. Between your thighs, the soft cloth catches the slick remnants of your release, and he’s careful. Tender. Like it’s important to him you know you’re not just some frayed thing he unraveled for fun.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers and kisses you once, slow and warm, then returns to washing you, rinsing off the sweat and tension like he can scrub away everything that made your week hard.

“You good?” he asks quietly after a while.

You nod, leaning your head back on his shoulder. “Yeah. I think I just melted a little.”

He chuckles low. “That was the goal.”

You roll your eyes, smile soft. “You’re smug.”

“Only when I earn it.”

You hum in response, watching the water swirl around your feet. It’s quiet for a few seconds. The kind of silence that feels like the weight has been lifted from your chest. You take a long breath in—and for the first time in days, your muscles don’t resist.

Your voice comes softer now. “I don’t feel as tense anymore.”

“Because I fucked the stress out of you?” he deadpans against your ear, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.

You reach behind you and swat his hip.

“No,” you say, turning your head slightly. “Because you’re here.”

That gets him.

You can see his face, but Hoodie has always been more of a body language guy—the way his arms tighten around you, the way his chin dips slightly to rest on your shoulder—yeah, you got him.

“I missed you,” you add. “Even your dumb sarcasm.”

“I missed you more,” he says without hesitation. “And I hate everything, so that’s saying a lot.”

You huff out a laugh and press a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “Come on. Let’s rinse off so we don’t turn into raisins.”

He grumbles but helps you finish washing the rest of your body, then lets you return the favor—dragging the cloth over his chest, down his arms, across the curve of his hipbone. You take your time, watching the way his muscles twitch beneath your touch, the way he bites back little groans when your fingers wander too low for too long.

“Careful,” he warns under his breath as you rake your nails over his abdomen. “You’re gonna restart something you just recovered from.”

You give him a slow smirk. “I’m just learning the terrain, soldier.”

He stares at you for a long second, then turns off the water without a word—stepping out first, grabbing two towels and handing you one. You both dry off, sharing lazy touches and lingering glances in the soft bathroom light. 

You glance at him in the reflection.

Still bare, hair damp, mask long gone—Hoodie looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your spine, the way your expression softens when you catch him staring.

“What?” you ask, toweling off your arms.

He just shrugs, eyes warm. “You look like you again.”

Your hands slow. “Was I looking like someone else?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Just… you look lighter.”

You smile, small and sincere.

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to pad into the bedroom, bodies warm and lazy from the shower. You throw on one of his old black shirts, oversized and soft, and he tosses on some sweatpants he left here last time, towel-drying his hair half-heartedly before flopping onto the mattress.

You climb in beside him, crawling over his chest until you’re straddling his hips.

He raises a brow. “Starting round two?”

You grin and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Not yet. Just getting in position for when I do.”

He groans, palm dragging over his face. “Jesus. You were just screaming five minutes ago.”

“And now I’m thriving.” You dip down and murmur against his ear, “Next time, I’m gonna make you squirm.”

His hands find your thighs, squeezing once. “Promises, promises.”

You settle in beside him, curling against his side, the both of you tangled under the covers, body to body and nothing between. It’s the kind of peace that only comes after wreckage—the kind that settles in your bones and refuses to let go.

And as you close your eyes, cheek pressed to his chest, you realize something.

You’re not thinking about work. You’re not thinking about deadlines. You’re not thinking about anything but the weight of his hand on your hip and the sound of his breathing. You’re not just less stressed.

You’re home, and falling asleep easily for the first time in days.

This was an anonymous request!

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

This visual novel is powered by GOOGLE SLIDES! It has 0 programming and was created by one person in a little over a month, so please bear with any "bugs" and clunkiness!

TUTORIAL

>Click using mouse/trackpad >Go slowly to not break game >Do not use arrow or space keys

EXTRA NOTES:

>Works best on PC/Browser, I haven't tested the full game on mobile yet >In general, clicking the PNGs on the textbox (Apple, Teddy Bear, Hatchet, etc) will lead you to the right page >If you land on a page that tells you to "go back," that's when you should click the back-arrow key. If your cursor disappears, it doesn't register the click correctly >I recommend moving your cursor periodically to avoid it disappearing and sending you to the wrong page

EXTRA ART

some WIPS and the original sprite-style i was gonna choose LOOOOOOOL

Q&A

Q: Is this an x reader? A: This is a reader-insert, but it's not romantic and I try to keep it as neutral and unidentifiable as possible! Q: What's the plot? A: GENERALLY AND WITHOUT SPOILERS, your dog gets you into trouble and you're just looking to help him!

Q: Who is in the prologue? A: Tim, Brian, Toby, and Kate! More will be added in future chapters.

Q: When will future chapters be posted? A: Not sure! This took me about a month to do, and half was spent over winter break. I will try to get chapter 1 posted before summer, but I am a full-time student, employed, have extracurriculars, etc etc

ok thats all i only remember 4 questions feel free to ask more LMAO

CHATTER(because you know i can talk forever)

ok i just wanted to be able to talk about how the process was with this and how i feel about the results and whatnot...

ive been wanting to make a google slides visual novel since i was like 13 LOL it hit the point where i was repeatedly told i should just learn to code but i was like NOOOOO ITS GOTTA BE GOOGLE SLIDESSSS which is totally stupid but hey. i think that gives it some sort of simple charm that reminds me of being 16 and doing little projects in my room LOL i like working with the easiest tools . my bad

anyway. im just very happy LOL. it's not perfect but i feel like i came full circle in a sense?!?! i've been into creepypasta since i was 9 and it comforted me when things were really hard, and when i was 18 i was going through a really hard time and got back into creepypasta as a way to distract myself. i've always had a habit of throwing myself into fiction for escapism when things suuucked.

i'm 20 now but i've met SO many amazing people, had so many fun awesome exciting projects with friends, created tons of stuff im proud of, felt more motivated to create since i was like 13, have been inspired by so many amazing artists/authors on here, etc. just so so so lucky to find community in such a tight-knit cute fandom that thrives off of creativity and playing around! i hope i can keep the momentum and make a couple more chapters this year, but im kinda busy with school and work...LOL . i'm just excited to have this posted so i can have more discussion about it T_T

So are dingy diner breakfasts. And full packs of cigarettes. And, most importantly—

Coffee.

Some days, the proxies could afford to splurge on a pack of Marlboro 47’s instead of the chalky Sonoma’s that constantly clouded their lungs.

And, god, what Masky wouldn’t give to have one of those filters sitting between his teeth right now.

Instead, he’s huddled in the passenger seat of their rusting pickup, fog curling on the inside of the windshield and moisture creeping through the seams of his gloves. The heater gave up somewhere outside of the interstate. The storm started maybe twenty minutes after that. Wet, heavy, and endless. It was just past sunset now, the last fragments of day holding on between the rows of pine trees. The windshield wipers made a soft chk-chk sound as the rain pelted the truck in rhythmic sheets, casting streaks of grey across the glass. The headlights cut through fog like a dull blade, barely illuminating the sign ahead: Hollow Pines Motel—a crooked “O” flickering like a stuttering heartbeat.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Masky muttered, voice low, rasped from disuse and days-old cigarette damage.

Hoodie, hands still on the wheel, squinted out into the rain. His soaked hood clung to his neck, the fabric stiff with damp. He hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour, not since they passed the blown-out gas station miles back, but now he nodded toward the structure. “It’s this or another two hours in this storm. But it’s starting to get rough, I can hardly see.”

You shifted in the back seat, body sore and stiff from being crammed in with gear and backpacks. “I’m not sleeping in this car again,” you said quietly. “I’d rather break into the motel laundry room and curl up in a dryer.”

Masky grunted something that might’ve been a laugh. Hoodie turned the wheel with a slow exhale and pulled into the lot, tires hissing over slick pavement. The neon vacancy sign buzzed weakly overhead like it was embarrassed to still be working. The three of you sat for a second in the silence. The kind of silence that comes from exhaustion that goes bone-deep. Hoodie shut off the engine, the low rumbling sputtering to a stop, steam wafting into the cold air.

“Christ.” Masky shoved open the passenger door, the wind snatching it like it was trying to pull him out. “You see the price?” he asked, yanking his coat tighter around his chest as he leaned into the rain to check the window near the front office. You all hauled your backpacks and loose gear into your arms, making sure to grab the pistols that were haphazardly shoved onto the console.

Hoodie was already out of the car too, stepping around the front with that slow, silent way he had. You followed them, boots sloshing in ankle-deep puddles.

Masky tapped the dusty glass of the check-in window. “Hundred bucks a night,” he confirmed.

You scoffed. “For a mattress that probably smells like piss and black mold.”

“Luxury accommodations,” Masky muttered.

Hoodie didn’t say anything. Just tilted his head toward the back lot, already making his way around the side of the building without waiting for a vote. You and Masky exchanged a glance—his eyes just barely visible behind his mask, shadowed and unreadable—before following.

The back of the motel was unlit, the shadows hugging the cracked stucco and chipped siding. The storm covered your movements well; even if there were cameras, the rain was so thick it blurred everything. Your boots slipped once in the mud, but you caught yourself on the siding. Hoodie was already crouched by one of the doors, gloved fingers working at the cheap lock with a bent nail file and a bit of force.

You leaned close, your voice barely above the wind. “You always this good at B&E, or is this just desperation?”

He glanced up at you, a little smirk twitching behind his balaclava. “You doubt me?”

“No,” you said. “Just surprised. Figured Masky was the one who played with locks.”

“I break things,” Masky replied from behind you. “Not finesse. That’s his job.”

The lock gave with a sharp clack and Hoodie stood, pushing the door open slowly. You all slipped inside like shadows. 

It was dark—no surprise—but you flicked on the wall switch, half-expecting nothing to happen. A single yellow bulb buzzed to life. The room was small, boxy, and smelled like mildew and cheap cleaner, the scent already soaked into the fake wood paneling and shag carpet. A dresser sat crooked against the far wall, one drawer missing. There was a tiny bathroom tucked to the left, door already ajar.

And there, smack in the middle of the room, was a single queen-sized bed.

The three of you stood there, dripping, steaming slightly from the sudden warmth of the heater kicking on. There was silence for a long moment, just staring at the ugly quilt bedding and the thin headboard.

“…Shit,” Masky said under his breath, breaking the tension.

You blinked slowly, peering around like maybe there’d be a cot hidden in the closet. No dice. “Well,” you said, unstrapping your gear. “At least it’s not the car.”

Hoodie dropped his bag with a soft thump. “I’ll take the floor.”

“You’ll freeze your spine into the carpet,” you muttered, shrugging off your coat. The boys pulled off their masks, wind-bitten ears and scowls now easily viewable. “We’ve all slept shoulder-to-shoulder in worse places. It’s fine.”

Masky huffed, peeling off his gloves and shaking out his sleeves. “Yeah, but this time I’ll have your elbow in my kidney.”

You smirked faintly and tossed him a dry shirt from your pack. “Then don’t sleep on the edge.”

“Not your call. I’m not sleeping between you two.”

The storm outside cracked louder now, wind howling through the gaps in the warped window frame. Hoodie knelt by the heater and fiddled with the dial. “It’s gonna get colder.”

“I’ll still hide in that dryer if I have to,” you replied, rubbing your arms.

Masky eyed the bed again, exhaling slowly through his nose. “You take the middle, then. I don’t want to wake up to your cold feet on my back.”

“Deal,” you said, without hesitation. “But if either of you snores, I swear I’m rolling off the bed and letting the carpet bugs have me.”

Masky shook his head, half a laugh slipping out. “We’ve slept next to corpses, and you’re worried about snoring?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Exactly. I deserve peace after that.”

Your joints ached from the cold, and your socks squelched as you peeled them off near the foot of the bed. The idea of crawling in without cleaning off three days of dirt, sweat, and blood made your skin crawl. You grabbed your pack and slung it over your shoulder, dragging it toward the bathroom.

“I’m showering,” you announced, not waiting for approval. “If I don’t come back in fifteen minutes, assume I’ve been consumed by mold.”

Masky raised a brow behind his cracked mask. “If the water’s hot, leave me some.”

“If it’s hot, I’m never coming out.”

You slammed the door shut behind you with your hip.

The bathroom light flickered, then steadied. It smelled like damp towels and lemon-scented cleaner that hadn’t touched a surface in years. The mirror was warped, streaked with time, and the tiled floor was a patchwork of mismatched squares, some missing entirely. You dropped your pack, stripping out of your gear with heavy, sluggish movements. Clothes hit the tile with a wet smack.

The water knobs were stiff. You wrestled with them until the pipes coughed to life, sputtering brown water for three full seconds before clearing into a thin, pitiful stream of heat.

It was glorious.

You didn’t even care that the pressure was weak or that the water smelled faintly like iron. You stood under it until the chill started to lift from your bones, your fingers red from scrubbing grime out of your hair. The shampoo from your travel kit barely lathered, but it was enough. Just enough to feel human for a moment.

When you finally stepped out, towel slung around your chest and hair dripping down your back, the small mirror was fogged over. You swiped your hand across it and stared at yourself. Hollow-eyed. Pale. Tired.

But still living.

You dressed fast—baggy shirt, clean sweats, and thick socks—and stepped out into the main room again.

“Bathroom’s yours,” you said, tossing your towel toward the radiator to dry. “If you want a shower before we all start reeking like death.”

Masky looked up from where he was pulling the dresser away from the wall. “You sayin’ I smell?”

“I’m saying we all do. But I’m starting with you.”

He snorted and grabbed his own bag. “Fine. Brian, you go after me.”

Hoodie gave a small nod from where he was sitting wide-legged on the foot of the bed, unpacking a crushed protein bar and flipping a knife lazily in his other hand.

The bathroom door didn’t quite latch all the way when Masky shut it behind him. The rattle of the fan and the sound of the shower pipes starting up again filled the room. Steam already began to curl out into the room.

You pulled your legs up onto the bed, leaning against the headboard beside Hoodie. “You think it’s gonna keep raining?”

He nodded once. “For a while. Pressure’s low. Wind’s picking up, too.”

“We’re a good three hours out from the mansion with clear roads. Storm like this?” You looked toward the window. “Could trap us here.”

Hoodie didn’t look concerned. Just thoughtful. “We have supplies for two more days. After that, we’ll need to hit a gas station or raid a rest stop.”

Masky’s voice echoed faintly from the shower. “We shoulda taken that turnoff by Route 16. I told you the forest line was too flooded.”

You called back, “Yeah? And then we’d be stuck in that ravine with the blown bridge.”

“I still say we’d have made better time!”

The pipes groaned as Masky shut off the water. You heard the sharp snap of a towel and the thunk of the cabinet door being yanked open. A second later, he stepped back into the room wearing black sweats and a Yale shirt he stole from a thrift store, towel hanging around his neck.

“Enjoy your mold bath?” you asked.

“Best bath I’ve had all week,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair. He was still a little flushed from the heat. “Your turn.”

Hoodie stood and passed you a granola bar from the floor. “If I’m not back in ten, assume I fell through the shower tile.”

“Then I’m keeping your coat,” you said, biting into the bar. He smirked faintly and stepped into the bathroom, the door left cracked open again.

Masky sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, closing Hoodie’s open knife and tossing it across the room with a thud. “We need to barricade the door,” he muttered. “Just in case.”

You nodded, chewing. “Already thought of it. That dresser looks like it wants to collapse under its own weight though.”

“Then we collapse it into the door. Makes it heavier.”

You both got up and hauled the thing across the carpet. The drawers creaked and sagged, one half-falling out, but the bulk of it pressed up solid against the door. Masky shoved a chair into place behind it just for good measure. “That’ll buy us time if someone gets suspicious,” he muttered.

You gave it a solid knock. “Better than nothing.”

The sound of Hoodie’s voice floated from the bathroom. “If the dresser doesn’t hold, we’ll hear it. But we should sleep light.”

Masky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I always do.”

You sat back on the bed again, rubbing at your sore neck. “This whole thing—getting cut off from the trails, missing the rendezvous… it felt off.”

Masky’s eyes flicked toward you. “You think we were set up?”

“No. Just… something’s been off since the last drop point. Toby didn’t meet us. The codes we found were weeks old. And the mansion’s been radio silent.”

Steam spilled out of the bathroom as Hoodie stepped back into the room, hair damp, sweatshirt sleeves rolled up with his baggy shorts. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out tomorrow. Right now we need rest.”

Masky grumbled, but nodded. You looked at the bed. Then at the two men standing near it.

“…This is gonna be cozy.”

Masky sighed, rubbing his face. “Don’t steal the covers.”

You plopped facedown in the middle of the mattress with a groan loud enough to rattle the springs beneath you.

“Kill me,” you muttered into the pillow. “Actually kill me.”

“We’d have to move your body,” Masky grunted.

“But then there’d be more room on the bed,” Hoodie added, his voice dry as the towel he tossed onto the footboard.

“Assholes.”

The mattress dipped as Hoodie moved first, reaching across you to shut off the lightswitch. The room was immediately swallowed in darkness, save for the flicker… flicker… buzz of the red neon sign outside the window. The words VACANCY pulsed through the cheap curtains, casting long, broken shadows across the cracked ceiling. It painted the room in hellish slices of red and black, over and over again, like a warning no one wanted to heed. Wind howled outside, and the storm pushed against the walls like a living thing, the door hinges creaking.

The floorboards creaked under Masky’s weight as he climbed in, shoving your legs with his knee. “Move over.”

“I’m in the middle,” you hissed. “You move over.”

“You agreed to the middle, idiot. That means you suffer.”

“Not my fault you both smell like a wet barn.”

Hoodie wordlessly climbed in on your other side, tugging the blanket halfway across himself and accidentally yanking it off your shoulder.

“Dude—! I just got warm!”

“Share,” he said simply.

You groaned again and tried to burrow under the half-flattened pillow. The mattress bowed toward the center, the way cheap ones always do, and the weight of both of them on either side left you trapped in a warm, squashed human sandwich.

“Your knee is in my back,” you grunted, trying to shift.

“Your elbow’s in my ribs.”

“Your foot is on my ass.”

“Should’ve slept on the floor,” Masky muttered.

Hoodie huffed beside you, and you felt the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. “Should’ve stolen a second room.”

“Would’ve been too risky,” you deadpanned.

Silence followed, except for the storm and the buzzing hum of the neon. Rain hit the windows like coins flung from the sky. Somewhere, metal creaked—maybe a sign coming loose in the wind. Every so often thunder rumbled, deep and low, followed by the sharp crack of lightning that lit the room up in stark, stuttering white.

You blinked slowly, staring at the ugly floral wallpaper that danced in flickering red.

“…I hate this,” you whispered.

Masky shifted beside you. “We’re not built for comfort.”

“No shit.”

No one spoke after that. The warmth of the bed was stifling and too hot on one side, too cold on the other. Someone’s arm was pressing into your shoulder blade. The mattress springs popped and squeaked every time one of you breathed too hard. But it was warm. And dry. And no one was bleeding out.

So it was enough.

You felt Hoodie exhale, his hand resting somewhere behind your shoulder. Masky’s breathing slowed on the other side, steady and deep.

The three of you, wedged together like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit, surrounded by motel rot, bad weather, and the hum of neon that never shut off. And still, somehow—somehow—you felt safer than you had in days.

Not comfortable. Not relaxed. But safe. Warm. Alive.

And that was all you needed.

── .✦

The cold woke you.

Not gently, either—rudely.

The kind of cold that slid under your clothes and coiled around your spine, setting your teeth on edge before your mind was even fully awake. The kind of cold that made your breath puff visible in the dark.

You cracked your eyes open and blinked slowly, vision fuzzy from sleep. The neon still pulsed through the flimsy curtains—VACANCY, VACANCY, over and over like a heartbeat. But the air in the room had shifted.

Frigid. Still. Dead.

You shifted, trying to burrow deeper into the blanket, but it didn’t help. The sheets were icy and clammy now, the warmth from earlier long since bled out. Even sandwiched between the boys, your body was curled in tight with shivers that refused to stop.

Your feet ached. Your fingers were numb. You muttered something like a curse and extended your leg under the covers, kicking sharply into Hoodie’s shin. He stirred with a grunt.

Another kick. “Wake up,” you hissed through chattering teeth. “It’s freezing.”

He groaned and rolled halfway toward you. “You woke me up to complain?”

“No, I woke you up to fix it,” you growled. “The heater’s dead.”

He sighed, sitting up stiffly and rubbing his hands over his face. “Storm probably knocked something out. I’ll check.”

You heard the soft rustle of fabric and blankets as he swung his legs off the bed. His feet hit the carpet with a dull thud. The air in the room was colder near the floor, and he muttered under his breath as he shuffled over to the ancient heating unit mounted below the window. You watched the silhouette of his body crouch in front of it.

Silence.

Then the sharp click-click-click of him toggling the controls.

Nothing.

“Anything?” you croaked, curling tighter.

He tried again. Click. Click. The machine made a low, sad whine and then gave up. “…It’s dead,” he said flatly.

Masky stirred beside you with a low groan. “Why the fuck are we talking.”

“Power’s out,” Hoodie answered, crossing the room and flipping the light switch. Nothing. No hum. No buzz. Just dark. “No lights. No heat.”

Masky grunted and buried his face deeper into the pillow. “Put on more layers.”

“I’d rather die,” you snapped.

“You will if you don’t move.”

But moving felt impossible. Every inch of your body throbbed from the chill, and even the thought of peeling back the blanket made your stomach twist with dread. You stayed still for a few seconds longer, limbs curled in, jaw clenched.

Then, against your better judgment, you did something stupid.

You turned over. And scooted forward.

Masky tensed as your frozen hands pressed against his back under the blanket.

“…Seriously?” he grumbled.

“I’m cold,” you whispered. “You’re warm. Shut up.”

“I’m not your personal space heater—”

“You are now.”

Before he could throw you off, you looked up toward the edge of the bed, toward Hoodie’s silhouette against the dim glow from the window. “You too. Come back.”

He hesitated for a beat—silent, unreadable.

Then, wordlessly, Hoodie climbed back into the bed and pressed in behind you, dragging the blanket back over your shoulders. His legs bumped into yours, cold against cold, but he wrapped one arm around your middle and flattened his chest to your back, sharing what little heat he had left.

“Fucking freezing,” he mumbled, breath curling hot against your neck.

“I told you,” you muttered.

Masky sighed like this was the single worst night of his life, but didn’t push you off. Instead, he rolled over to face you, adjusting just enough to tuck your frigid hands between his stomach and forearm, cursing under his breath when your fingertips touched bare skin.

The three of you laid there in stiff, half-defensive silence for a long moment—too aware of one another, too cold to care. The storm outside roared like it was clawing at the world, tearing through trees and battering the roof. Thunder cracked sharp again—too close this time—and you jumped a little, instinctively pressing back into the warmth behind you.

Hoodie didn’t move.

He was right up against your spine now, chest rising and falling slow and steady. One arm was still slung over your waist, hand resting on the curve of your hip. You thought he was asleep—until you felt it.

A small shift. A breath. Warm, humid, and far too close.

He was nuzzling against your shoulder without even realizing it, the scratch of his stubble catching your skin as his nose brushed against your shoulder. The blanket shifted with him as he exhaled, slow and hot right into the crook of your neck.

You twitched slightly, uncomfortable and hyperaware. “Hoodie,” you grumbled under your breath.

“Shut up,” Masky said against you, voice muffled as he turned his face into the thin pillow. “If he’s warm, let him be.”

“I’m not a heating pad.”

“You sure? You’re stiff enough to be one. Quit being a hypocrite.”

You let out a quiet, tired groan, but didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Didn’t want to, maybe. You weren’t sure anymore. Every inch of you was sore and freezing, but now you were also simmering—the kind of heat that came from nerves, not temperature.

Because Hoodie didn’t move away. Not after you spoke. If anything… he moved closer. His hand flexed gently on your hip, fingers brushing up under the hem of your shirt to rest against bare skin. Not in a purposeful way. Not even in a bold way. Just enough to make you feel it.

The heat of his palm. The silence between you. Your only saving grace against the awkwardness was the thundering rain to drown out your thoughts.

Masky shifted against you—closer. One leg hooked loosely over yours, tangling the blankets further, his knee brushing your thigh.

Your body tensed between them, caught in a coil of limbs and heat and quiet desperation to stay warm—except the room wasn’t cold anymore. Not even a little. You weren’t sure when the switch had happened. The heater was still off, but you didn’t think you’d need it anymore.

Maybe it was when Masky’s hand found your waist from the front, nudging Hoodie’s out of the way without a word. His knuckles dragged just below your ribs, resting on the dip of your waist. A sharp inhale rose in your throat, but you swallowed it back down. Then Hoodie’s hand moved—slow and steady—up your side, pushing the thin fabric of your shirt with it.

You let out the softest breath, barely audible, and immediately regretted it.

Because now? Now they both noticed.

Masky shifted again, his chest pressed against yours like he was trying to claim ground that Hoodie hadn’t gotten to yet. His hand stayed still—but the weight of it, the heat of it, was unmistakable.

“…We’re just trying to stay warm,” you mumbled, not sure if it was for them or for yourself.

“Right,” Hoodie murmured, voice lower now. Too low. Too quiet. Like he didn’t believe it either.

And yet, no one stopped.

Fingertips brushed skin in places they shouldn’t. Legs shifted and tangled until there was no telling whose was whose. Every exhale felt heavy. Every heartbeat, louder.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t even if you tried. Their breath was all around you now. Warm and slow and steady. Masky’s hand curled more fully onto your hip, hoodie’s fingertips resting dangerously at the edge of your ribcage.

Just trying to stay warm. Just trying to sleep. But none of you were sleeping. Not anymore.

The tension was palpable, like a low hum in the walls, crawling under your skin and pressing into your ribcage with every too-slow breath and unprovoked rub of Hoodie’s fingers. Not a single one of you had moved significantly in the last five minutes—but everything had shifted.

No one was breathing the same.

Masky’s hand was still on your hip, but his thumb now idly rubbed soft, small circles against your skin. Careless. Casual. Like it meant nothing. Like he wasn’t doing it on purpose. Except he was and you knew it.

And Hoodie’s hand? It was still resting against your side, fingers splayed just beneath the curve of your ribs. But his index finger kept twitching, tracing back and forth along the dip of your waist like he was memorizing it.

Not moving. Not groping. Not grabbing. Just there. There and not leaving. No one said a word.

The storm screamed outside—lightning strobing against the walls through the curtains, thunder slamming across the motel like a threat. But inside, the only thing louder than the weather was the silence. Heavy. Electric.

You swallowed thickly and shifted your hips slightly, just trying to get comfortable, but the second you did—

They both reacted. A small jerk from Hoodie’s side, as if startled. Masky’s hand tightening ever so slightly around your waist. And still—still—none of you spoke.

You could feel the heat building between your bodies, not just from physical closeness anymore, but from the constant, crawling knowledge that this was intentional. No one was pretending to sleep now. You could feel them thinking. You could hear them thinking. They were doing the same thing you were—holding their breath, trying to pretend they weren’t slowly, deliberately letting their hands wander. Acting like they were coy. Like none of this was deliberate. Like it was just… staying warm. It was. Sort of.

Your heart thudded too hard in your chest. You couldn’t breathe right anymore. Not with Hoodie’s breath now ghosting along your neck. Not with Masky’s fingers inching just a little lower, like he was daring himself.

Like he was waiting for a reason to stop. Or to keep going. The silence was unbearable again.

So you broke it.

“Y’know,” you said, voice a little too dry, “if you two are gonna feel me up, the least you could do is buy me coffee first.”

It hit the air like a lit match.

Masky let out a snort. Hoodie groaned and let his head fall forward against your shoulder, body shaking with quiet laughter. The tension cracked—not shattered, not gone—but enough to breathe again. Enough for everyone to get a second wind.

“Jesus Christ,” Masky muttered, dragging a hand down his face and rubbing at his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to toss your smartass off this bed.”

You grinned, even as his hand slid off your stomach, Hoodie’s following just after. They pulled back, barely, the air chilling where their hands had been. You rolled onto your back, staring up at the oddly colored ceiling.

“Relax,” Hoodie said, rubbing his palms against his chest like he was trying to wake up, trying to calm the sudden thrum of energy vibrating through all of you. “I wasn’t— we weren’t—shit, I don’t even know anymore.”

“No?” you said, voice lower now. “’Cause it felt like you knew exactly what you were doing.”

They went quiet again, for half a second. You reached out, grabbing both of their hands before they could retreat too far. Your fingers wrapped around their wrists, firm but not desperate.

“I said I was cold,” you murmured, “not that it was an invitation to leave.” Then you tilted your head, gave the smallest smile. “But if we’re gonna keep pretending this wasn’t happening—if we’re gonna lie to ourselves—then just go ahead. Crawl back under the covers. Sleep real close. Shake and sweat it out and pretend it’s the cold again. But I think you two know exactly what you want.”

That did it.

Masky’s eyes snapped to yours, sharp beneath the shadows of the room. Hoodie swallowed hard, his hand curling tighter into the fabric of his sweatshirt. You felt your pulse everywhere.

“If you’re gonna do this…” you said, quieter now, the storm filling in the background like it was listening, “then fuck it.” 

Your voice didn’t shake. “Do it.”

They didn’t wait. Hoodie moved first—he always did, once the hesitation cracked. He shifted back down, fingers sliding under your shirt with intent this time, not caution. His mouth found your neck before you could process how close he’d gotten, hot breath skating over your skin, lips brushing just under your jaw. Masky’s hands were on your waist again in an instant, pulling you toward him even as Hoodie leaned in from behind. They moved in tandem—without speaking, without planning—like they’d done this before, like they knew how to move together.

Like this was just another kind of mission.

Your shirt rode up as Hoodie’s fingers pushed higher, his teeth scraping your throat just enough to make your breath catch. A laugh slipped out, barely held in—half nerves, half disbelief.

“Still cold?” Masky murmured, voice low and husky near your ear.

You shook your head—because you weren’t. But not for the same reasons anymore. Masky’s hand spread flat against your stomach, fingers dragging upward, slow and deliberate. His mouth found your jaw, a low breath brushing your skin just before he murmured, “You sure about this?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

That was all they needed.

Hoodie’s fingers curled at your hip as he shifted behind you, one leg sliding between yours for leverage as his lips dragged heat up your neck. He didn’t kiss—not really. Just breathed, lips parted against your skin like he was trying to memorize your pulse.

Masky leaned in closer from the front, your bodies flush now, every part of you wrapped in them. His nose brushed yours as he looked down, searching your face, checking for hesitation—but there was none.

Not from you. Not from them. Only hunger. Only need.

He tilted his head and kissed you.

It wasn’t desperate. Not at first. It was careful, like he was trying to figure out just how far he could push you—how much you’d give, how much you wanted to be taken. Your lips parted, and he took that as permission to deepen it, his hand splaying wide across your back to pull you closer. You gripped onto his shirt, clawing at the fabric and the hot skin underneath.

Hoodie’s hand moved too—traveling up your spine under your shirt, the calluses on his fingers dragging sparks in their wake. You arched between them instinctively, and they both reacted like it was planned. Like they knew each other’s rhythm. Like they’d always known how to share.

You gasped as Masky bit gently at your bottom lip, Hoodie’s teeth following suit at your shoulder, syncing up without a single word. The world narrowed to touch and breath and heat, to the way your body trembled, not from cold anymore but from the overwhelming closeness.

Your shirt was sliding upward, Hoodie’s hands bunching it at your chest, Masky helping tug it over your head. You felt the way they stalled, felt the energy tighten around you. Hoodie’s mouth slid off your throat, attention elsewhere. Masky did the same, his mouth no longer moving against yours as you looked between them.

“What? Did you really think I was about to wear a bra to bed?”

Hoodie gave a stark laugh, tossing your shirt across the floor. Masky grinned, a rattled breath snaking through his lungs and brushing against your skin. If there was any chance of this fizzling out, that was all gone the minute you felt their rough hands on your tits. You could’ve blamed your nipples being already hard on the freezing temperatures, but you knew otherwise.

Hoodie tugged your shoulder, forcing you to lay on your back between them. He palmed at your right, strong hands squeezing and kneading the skin, planting kisses across your collar bone. Masky’s cupping the other—firm, rough, fingers spreading and squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. His thumb circles slowly around your nipple, not quite touching it yet. 

“You’re so sensitive here,” he murmurs. “Bet I could keep you whining just from this.”

Hoodie’s fingers are long and skilled, and you arch a little between them, like you can’t decide who you want more. “Let’s test it,” Hoodie says quietly.

“See how fast we can get you squirming,” Masky adds with a grin.

Masky leans in first, mouth latching onto your breast—hot, open-mouthed kisses around the swell, then his tongue flicks your nipple just once, and your hips buck. “There it is,” he mutters against your skin. “Already needy. Huh, mouse?”

Hoodie chuckles—low, dark. His mouth follows suit, kissing down your sternum, trailing heat, then latching onto the other. Slower. Teasing. He sucks it softly, just enough to make you gasp. You’re caught between them—their mouths warm and wet, their hands gripping and stroking and kneading like they’re mapping you out.

Your hands find purchase in their hair, each hand tangling into the short strands at the back of their head. They groan a little when you tug, eyes glaring up at you through heavy lids and hungry gazes.

Masky bites down—not too hard, but enough to sting. You yelp. He groans. “Easy now.” he growls.

“Watch it, Tim,” Hoodie says, licking a slow stripe up to your nipple. “Gonna overwhelm her.” He pinches it gently between his teeth. Sucks. Again. Again. The little gap in his front two teeth seems to be made for your nipple, rolling the nub like you’re not gasping at every move.

“Good. She asked for it.” Masky flicks his tongue fast and merciless, then blows cool air across the wet skin, watching you shiver. “You should see yourself,” he breathes. “So fucking hot. Should’ve done this ages ago.”

“Mhm,” Hoodie murmurs, the sound muffled as he sucks onto your nipple. His eyes are fluttering shut, fingers digging sharply into your hip as he groans against your skin.

Your mouth is parted, small gasps and quiet whines with every roll of their tongues and nips of their teeth. “Boys—shit.”

Now Masky’s sucking harder, pulling needy, wet little whines from your throat. Hoodie drags his thumb over the nipple he just left wet and stiff, watching you writhe. You tug their hair, the sensation making their eyes roll.

“Bet I could get you off from this,” Hoodie whispers.

“Bet you’d scream,” Masky adds, licking a circle around your nipple like he’s trying to ruin you.

And honestly? They’re not wrong. You’re soaked between your thighs, heart racing, every nerve on fire—and they haven’t even touched you there yet. Your clothes feel hot, sweatpants feel too thick—despite the clouds of foggy air that leave your lips every time you breath out.

“God, you’re beautiful like this,” Hoodie breathes, kissing along the curve of your breast, right where your ribs meet the rounded skin.

“So fucking responsive,” Masky grunts. “Twitching from our mouths alone.”

Then—hands. Everywhere.

Masky’s dragging his hand down your stomach, fingers slipping past your waistband. Your gasp, legs instinctively closing together, but they’ve always been stronger than you. Hoodie shifts off your nipple for a quick second, sitting up to slide two large hands under your hips and lift. Masky pops off too, leaning forward to push your sweatpants down and off your legs, tossing them behind him.

Your panties are soaked. Even in the low red light, even when you have to squint to see their awed expressions—you can feel it. The cold air hits your clothed core and your legs lock tight, trying to shield yourself from the frigid air. They just chuckle, thundering voices making every hair on your body stand up.

Hoodie moves first, two hands clasping over your knees, before he’s pushing your legs apart. Your shiver from the cold air—and maybe the feeling of ecstasy that shoots up your spine—before he’s leaning down between your thighs.

You gasp, sitting up onto your elbows, but Masky pushes your chest back down, crowding your space before you can panic. “He’s got you. Just relax, sweetheart.”

His mouth immediately finds the nipple that Hoodie was occupied on earlier, wet lips wrapping around the bruised nub and sucking gently as he kneads your other tit. He’s a lot more gentle than before, like he’s savoring the taste of your skin as he rolls his tongue. Your hands find his hair, but you’re now keenly aware of the hot breath that has found its way against your inner thighs.

Hoodie has leaned down between the spread of your legs, his short hair tickling your skin with every press of his lips against your inner thighs. He’s being slow, making sure the kiss is pressed firm, making sure you feel it. You find yourself spreading them wider the farther down the goes, his calloused hands kneading into the skin just above your hips.

“Hmm, Brian…” you huff, tugging Masky’s hair when he lets off one nipple and shifts to the other, eyes shut tight in quiet concentration. Hoodie chuckles, making your hips twitch, angling them upward. “So impatient,” he kisses your thigh again.

You’re about to wind off with something, making a snide remark—until you feel firm lips press against your clit through your panties. Your hips immediately jerk to the sensation, clit twitching for more when he begins to plant kiss after kiss against your folds, the sensation muffled by your thin underwear.

“Oh god, oh my god—”

Masky chuckles against your tit, kneading the mound in his hand as he looks up at you, eyes heavy with satisfaction. “Remember to be quiet, sweetheart. Don’t wanna wake the neighbours.”

There’s no way they would be able to with the intensity of the storm outside, but it lights a spark low in your stomach nonetheless.

Hoodie plants one final, heavy kiss against your cunt before he’s hooking fingers under the waistband of your panties, slowly dragging them up your legs and off your ankles.

You can feel the thickness in the air, even despite the cold.

“Fuck…” Hoodie groans, mulling over every inch of your soaked cunt before him, eyes so wide you’d think he’s crazy. Masky smirks against your skin. You feel them both reading each other, shuffling in time until Masky’s teeth are nipping your chest, then your collarbones, up to your neck—and Hoodie’s hands move between your legs.

Hoodie’s warm hand spreads your folds open with slow, confident ease. You can feel his breath on your skin—close. Teasing. He runs two thick fingers between your lips, collecting the slick building at your entrance onto his fingers. “Jesus, you’re so wet. Haven’t even done anything.”

He thumbs at your clit, pressing the pad against the nub and eliciting a stark jolt from your body. They both chuckle, then Hoodie’s middle finger presses against your entrance.

“Oh, fuck—” you whine, arms wrapping around Masky’s shoulders as he finds a home at the crease of your neck, sucking with the same force as before onto your throat. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, and suddenly you’re keenly aware of just how exposed you are compared to them, their clothes still completely on while you lay shaking and bare.

Hoodie begins to press his finger, slowly slipping the first knuckle into your cunt, the cold digit making you hiss against your scalding insides. Masky captures the noise, lips gliding up your jaw and onto your lips as you drag your hands down his back. 

“Damn—tight,” Hoodie mutters. “Burnin’ up inside.” He pushes deeper, bullying against the resistance, until his entire finger is crooning into the heat of your walls. You cry out—head tilted back, running your hands under Masky’s shirt and pushing it up his back. His skin is so warm against your cold hands, him grumbling against your lips.

“Oh my god—Brian—please—” His free hand is pushing your knees apart, holding them open despite the instinctual jerks to close them shut every time he pumps that finger into your sopping cunt. It’s not another second before he’s adding another, curling the thick knuckles, your arousal glistening on his skin.

“Shhhh. Tim, can you grab her?” You’re dazed, kissed and dizzy and way-too-cold to think straight, but the two still seem to have a level head about them. Masky nods, biting a kiss against your jaw before he’s sitting up, pulling his half-askew shirt off his head and throwing it behind him. 

Your eyes are blurry, but the sight is enough to make your heart thud against your chest.

His body is thick. Solid. Built like a brawler. Not sculpted like a model, no—this is the body of someone who’s carried people over his shoulder, fought tooth and nail, hurt and healed, all muscle and brute strength. His chest is broad, lightly dusted with hair, and he’s got old scars crisscrossing his ribs—pale white against flushed skin. One, angry and puckered, traces the edge of his abdomen. You want to ask about it. You don’t. You’ll save it for later.

Hoodie follows, easing his fingers out of you, and sitting back on his knees. He pulls one arm out of his sweatshirt, then throws the fabric off, breathing deep and heavy as he looks down at you. His body is lithe. Lean muscle. Strong and resilient. Like he was made to move in the dark. His skin is pale in the light—not sickly, but smooth, cold-toned, with a few old bruises and sharp collarbones you want to mouth at. His stomach is flat, lightly defined, the kind of body that doesn’t beg for attention until you look too long. And then it’s like it begs you to touch it.

Both of them in the red VACANCY light. They move before you can stare for as long as you’d like.

Masky pushes an arm under your shoulders, lifting you just enough to sit behind you, back against the thin headboard. You’re naked, trembling, and pulled into Masky’s lap—back to his chest, legs splayed wide across his thighs, pussy bare and soaking, dripping down onto the bedspread.

His arms cage you. One around your waist, firm. One between your breasts, hand teasing the soft weight of them, thumb brushing a nipple already sensitive from earlier, still slick with their mouths. “You look so good like this,” he breathes into your ear. “So helpless.”

“All for us,” Hoodie adds from below, kneeling between your spread legs.

You’re tilted back, cradled in Masky’s lap, thighs open wide and shaking—because Hoodie’s face is right there. Inches from your core, his breath hot, his fingers already sliding between your folds again. “So pretty,” he mutters. “So fucking pretty, little mouse.”

“Don’t make her wait,” Masky growls. “She’ll start begging.” Hoodie grins, Masky does too.

Hoodie licks a slow, devastating stripe through your folds—tongue thick, hot, relentless—and your whole body jerks against Masky’s chest. He groans behind you, lips dragging along your neck, holding you tighter. “Yeah. Just like that. Let him taste how bad you need it.”

Hoodie wraps his arms under your thighs, pinning them open, then sucks your clit straight into his mouth—firm, wet pressure that sends shockwaves straight up your spine. “Oh my god—B-Brian—”

His response is to moan against you—low and hungry—then slide two fingers inside your slick heat, curling instantly, like he knows the spot. And he does. Your arch into the feeling, gripping your hands into the fabric of Masky’s pants.

“Feel that?” Masky mutters, gripping your chest, grinding his clothed cock slowly against your lower back. “He’s already got you shaking. Not even fucking you yet.”

You sob, back arching. Masky holds you tighter.

“Eyes on him,” he commands. “Watch what he’s doing to you.”

You do. Hoodie’s devouring you—tongue flicking, lips sucking, fingers pumping slow and deep, angled perfectly—and the sight alone would be enough to undo you. But with Masky’s rough grip on your tits, his breath hot in your ear, his teeth nipping your neck? You’re already right there.

“Mhmm—Hah—Fuck—” you whine, moaning every time Masky’s lips brush under your ear.

There’s no rush in him. This isn’t frantic. It’s not desperate. It’s methodical. He licks in a rhythm—slow flicks to your clit, long, wet drags through your folds, then dipping just enough of his tongue inside you to make you cry out before he’s back up again.

Your hips jerk up, instinctive. Hoodie groans—and the vibration of it against your clit sends a bolt of pleasure so sharp you gasp. “There it is,” he murmurs against you. “That little flutter. Right around my fingers.”

He fucks you slow—fingers deep, tongue steady, so much eye contact. He watches every twitch of your thighs, every shake of your breath, memorizing you. “You wanna come?” he asks softly, lips brushing your clit. “Then take it. Grind on my mouth. Come just like this.”

You do. You grind. You moan. You beg. Hoodie speeds up. His tongue never stops—swirling, licking, sucking like he’s trying to ruin you forever—and his fingers are hitting just right, just right, over and over.

Masky’s mouth is on your neck, kissing hard, biting a little, hand dragging down to your throat just enough to hold. “Come on,” he growls. “Let him taste it.”

“Be good,” Hoodie pants. “Give it to me.”

You shatter. Your thighs clamp down, toes curling, back arching against Masky as you cry out—loud, shaking, the orgasm rolling through you so hard it blinds you.

Hoodie doesn’t stop. He keeps licking. Gentle now. Praising. Masky holds you through it, one hand stroking your thigh, the other soothing your chest. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Come all over his fingers.”

You’re a mess—you can feel it. Your thighs are slick, chest heaving, and your head’s tipped back on Masky’s shoulder as aftershocks ripple through you—little tremors you can’t control. Hoodie’s fingers are still inside you, curled perfectly, buried to the knuckle while his mouth rests just above your clit, his breath still hot against your overstimulated skin.

He’s staring. Watching your pussy twitch. Watching your orgasm leak down over his fingers, practically dripping onto his wrist. “Christ,” he says softly. “Look at this mess you made on me.” And then, slowly—deliberately—he slides his fingers out of you.

You feel everything. The drag. The stretch. The wet sound as you clench down, reluctant to let go. His fingers are soaked. Glistening. Sticky with you. “Still so warm,” he murmurs, eyes low, voice thick. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t wipe them off. Instead, Hoodie brings them to his mouth and sucks. First one finger. Then the next. Tongue swirling. Lips sealed around them as he tastes your orgasm like it’s dessert—slow, patient, savoring every drop of you like you’re something holy.

You watch. You can’t not watch. His eyes never leave yours as he licks his fingers clean, moaning quietly, like he could drink down your pleasure and still need more. “Tastes so good,” he mutters, fingers leaving his mouth with a soft, wet pop. “I could keep eating you all night.”

And he means it. Because once his fingers are clean, he leans back in. His hands return to your thighs, spreading them open wider again—reverent now, like he’s laying you bare for something sacred. Then he dips his head and licks you clean.

There’s no rush now. He already got you to fall apart. His tongue is gentle, slow. He licks up the mess he made, collecting the slick along your folds, savoring it. You gasp as he brushes your clit again—sensitive, overstimulated—and he pauses. Your hips twitch, instinctively tilting into him.

He groans. Masky kisses up your throat, trailing the pulse line up your neck, rubbing your sides as he watches Hoodie.

He licks along your slit. Soft. Deep. Focused. Devouring you slowly like the taste is something he’d kill to keep on his tongue. Every flick is precise. Every swirl of his tongue feels like the echo of your orgasm being dragged out longer and longer, until you’re shaking all over again.

Your thighs squeeze his shoulders. Your hands tug at Masky’s pants. You moan—loud, raw, needy—as he sucks your clit one more time. “B-Brian—please—”

He kisses your thighs one last time, then crawls up your body—slow, mouth wet, eyes hungry. He plants his hands at either side of Masky’s hips, resting his weight just above you. He doesn’t say anything as he leans down and kisses you, tongue slipping past your lips.

And you taste it. You taste you. Raw. Sweet. Still slick on his tongue. You moan into him, and he smiles against your mouth. “Told you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Fucking addictive.”

“Fuck,” Masky mutters, voice low, rough, gravelly with want. 

“Yeah,” Hoodie says, quieter, more composed—but there’s a rasp to his voice that wasn’t there before. “She’s still dripping.”

He lifts his fingers. Still slick with his spit and the taste of you. Masky stares. His jaw clenches. Hoodie grins.

“You wanna taste?”

That makes him freeze. His eyes flick up to Hoodie’s—sharp, uncertain. A silent what the fuck hanging in the air between them.

But then your voice breaks the tension, soft and breathy, “Please… I wanna see.” You smile small between them, looking up through wet lashes as they challenge each other.

Masky’s eyes snap back to you—and whatever resistance was there? Gone. Disappearing behind a smug smile.

Masky reaches out. Not for you—for Hoodie.

His fingers wrap in Hoodie’s hair, yanking him forward fast—rough, impatient, like it pisses him off that he even wants this—and he kisses him. Not clean. Not graceful. It’s awkward. Heated. All teeth and subtle fighting. Their noses bump. Their mouths don’t line up right. Masky’s jaw is too tight, and Hoodie’s caught off guard, breath stuttering against the pressure of it—but neither of them pulls away.

Masky tastes your slick on Hoodie’s lips and growls. “Jesus,” he breathes, breaking the kiss for just a second, staring at Hoodie’s mouth like it betrayed him. “What the fuck.”

“You’re the one that kissed me,” Hoodie mutters, but there’s no anger—only heat, confused and burning, as he presses forward again.

They kiss deeper this time. Still awkward. Still not romantic. But slower. Hungrier. Their tongues slide, catching the taste of you between them—and it’s not about each other—it’s about you—or at least they’re telling that to themselves.

Masky’s hands go back to your thighs. Hoodie’s palm presses against your stomach, holding you still as they lean in together—over you, around you.

You reach up and wrap your fingers into their hair, tugging them both close—sandwiched between them, heat radiating off their bodies like they’ve been waiting for this. You pull them down toward you with a breathless whine, lips parting—eyes wild with need.

“Good grief,” you whisper, voice wrecked, trying your best to sound humorous. “I can step out of the room if you need me to.”

You glance outside to see the way the rain is flooding off the gutters and onto the pavement below, and maybe think otherwise.

Their eyes flick to each other—sharp, unreadable—but they don’t speak. They don’t need to.

Because Hoodie’s fingers are already under your jaw, tilting your face up. And Masky’s grabbing your waist, yanking you back toward his chest. It’s greedy. Open-mouthed. Back and forth—Hoodie’s lips first, still tasting like you, then Masky’s mouth, rough and hot, tongue sliding between your teeth like he’s trying to take something from you. They groan—fuck, they groan like they need this—and you moan into them as your thighs clench around Hoodie’s hips.

Their hands are already on your body—gripping your waist, your hips, your jaw—and suddenly you feel it: a shift in the weight of the bed, a rush of cool air as they move.

“Off the bed,” Masky speaks, voice thick, already climbing down. “On your knees. Now.”

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Hoodie murmurs, gentler—but the command is still there in the grip of his hands on your arms.

You’re panting as they guide you off the mattress, strong hands dragging you to the edge and down—the motel carpet rough under your knees, your body between them.

Hoodie stands to your right, skin glistening with sweat, chest rising and falling steady. He hooks his thumbs in the band of his shorts, and drags them down, kicking them and his boxers off his ankles. Masky is on your left, he does the same, tugging the string of his sweatpants and kicking them off as well.

Your hands are resting on your knees as you kneel between them, but you’re fighting the need to wipe the drool from your lip as you glance between them.

Hoodie is long. Thicker than you expected. Veins along the shaft, flushed at the head—and fully hard now. Standing proud, ready. Like the sight of you wrecked is more than enough. His pubic hair is short and well kept, a light brown trailing up to his belly button. He grins, hand fisting the base as he watches you with blown pupils and parted lips.

Masky is heavy, thick, flushed from you grinding back against him. Half-hard, proud, veins visible in the light. He’s bigger than Hoodie, but not longer. His pubic hair is thicker, too—running up through his torso to the patches at his chest. You see the thick, aching weight of him, twitching with every breath you take.

They’re both standing over you. And you’re down between them—messy, panting, mouth wet, eyes wide, ready.

Their hands find your hair at the same time. You hiss as they pull you closer, up off your heels, hands finding their thighs.

Hoodie brushes your jaw with his thumb. “Open that pretty mouth,” he breathes.

Masky growls low in his throat. “Gonna ruin it, baby.”

Your knees press against the motel carpet, damp and rough beneath your skin, but you don’t care—all you can feel is the heat rising off them, their bodies looming over you like the storm about to break through the window.

Hoodie’s cock nudges your lips first, thick and flushed, twitching with need. His fingers thread into your hair, gentle but commanding, tilting your head forward. He holds himself at the base, tapping the drooling head against your pout.

You open your mouth, tongue lapping the tip, tasting the salt of him. He groans low, deep in his throat—and you suck him in slow, sliding your mouth down the length as far as you can go, then pulling back off with a wet pop.

Right then, Masky’s hand curls around the back of your neck, steadying you, thumb brushing your cheek as his cock presses at your other lip. You turn to him, parting your lips and wrapping them around his head, swirling your tongue around his head. He groans through his teeth, then huffs when you pull off as well.

Hoodie’s fingers tighten in your hair again, tilting your face toward him. You open your mouth willingly, and he slides in deep—slow, controlled. “That’s it,” he groans, his hips giving one gentle thrust. “Open wider for me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Masky stroking himself, smearing your spit down his length as he watches you.

Hoodie’s cock glides over your tongue, salty and smooth, his breath growing rough as you suck your lips around the size. You hollow your cheeks, swallow around him, making his knees twitch. “Dammit,” he growls.

He fucks your mouth deep and slow, thumb resting on your jaw, guiding the rhythm. It’s wet, messy—obscene—your throat working to take him in. 

When you choke a little, he lets out a dark chuckle, pulling out just enough to let you breathe. “Good… just like that. Now—”

“My turn.” Masky cuts in, voice rough with impatience. His hand replaces Hoodie’s in your hair, tugging you toward him. He doesn’t say much—just lets his cock rest against your lip, thick and leaking.

You look up at him. You know that look. You’ve seen it every time he runs out of cigarettes, every time he cleans his pistol before a kill, every time you’ve caught each other’s gaze tonight—need.

He slides into your mouth hard, almost punishing, like he hates how much he wants this. “Fucking hell,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “You like being passed around, huh?”

Your moan vibrates down his length. He grabs the back of your head and starts thrusting, shallow at first, then deeper—fucking your throat with sharp, possessive hunger. Your hands claw up his thighs, nails clenched into his skin until you go to reach for the base of his cock, wrapping a fist around to give yourself some relief.

He snatches your wrist before you could even really try. “Don’t use your hands,” he snaps. “Just your mouth.”

You obey, eyes wet, throat stretched—letting him use you. Hoodie scoffs, looking between the two of you, gripping his own cock so tight he’s wincing. He grips Masky’s shoulder, leaning his weight on him as they both look down at you, both get off to the sight.

Masky grabs either side of your jaw, pulling you until you’re buried to the hilt, your nose pressed against his pelvis. You gag, tears slipping from your eyes, refusing to look anywhere but between the dual-paired eyes. Then he pulls out, with a wet gasp and a tight grip to your jaw.

“Switch.” They trade you again.

Hoodie’s cock back in your mouth, already slick from your spit, sliding in easier this time. His pace is gentler, but more thorough—praising you, petting your hair—making your eyes flutter every time he tries to reach the back of your throat. “Doing so good for us, little mouse.”

And then it’s back to Masky—rougher now, grabbing your face, thumb dragging your spit from your lips as he pushes in again, groaning through his teeth as your tongue swirls around the head. He’s quick, cockhead knocking against the roof of your mouth with each snap of his hips. “So fucking wet.”

Back to Hoodie. He lets you moan around him, and jerks just slightly when your tongue flicks the underside.

Back to Masky. He groans, “Gonna ruin your throat, sweetheart,” while his fingers dig into your mouth, tugging your jaw open.

And they keep going, keep snagging you by the hair and dragging you into a different cock before you can get settled. It’s dizzying, but you’ve never been so horny in your life. You can practically feel yourself dripping onto the carpet below, inner thighs slick with want.

Eventually, your face is a mess—lips red, eyes wet, throat raw—and both of them are panting. Their cocks are twitching, flushed, glistening with your spit and smears of precum. 

“Fuck, I could come just like this,” Hoodie mutters, thumb brushing your lower lip.

Masky growls, holding your head back as your hands grip their hips, everyone taking a moment to breathe. He’s silent for a moment, eyes dark with something unspoken—hunger, jealousy, something sharper. His hand tightens in your hair, pulling your head back just a little, tilting your chin up so both cocks press against your lips.

Hoodie’s eyes darken, his fingers tangling in your hair on the other side, steadying you with a grip that says this is going to get messy.

They slide in together—slow at first—thick, hot, slick. Your mouth is so full it almost hurts, your tongue flattened beneath them both, trying to stretch and swallow, but there’s barely any room. They can barely get just past their heads, the first ridge of a vein on Masky’s length pressing into your lip.

You gag once—low, wet—but they hold you there, groaning above you.

“That’s it, baby. Take it all,” Masky growls.

“Good girl,” Hoodie whispers, hips twitching.

You feel them push deeper, their hands pulling your hair to keep you steady as they fill your mouth completely—every inch, no space left—you can’t even move your tongue. Your cheeks bulge out, saliva pooling, and your eyes water—but you won’t back down.

They start moving slowly at first, their cocks sliding in and out in tandem, driving you wild with the tightness and heat. You can taste them—salty, slick—mixed with your own spit, the feel of want and possession.

Their breaths are heavy, ragged, voices low and broken.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” Hoodie pants.

“Goddamn, how’ve we only just now done this?” Masky hisses.

You gag again, swallowing hard around them, desperate to keep up, desperate to show them just how much you want it.

The motel room fills with the sounds of wet mouths, shallow gasps, and the slick, messy rhythm of two cocks moving inside your mouth—one gripping, one teasing, both claiming. They rival the storm outside, the intensity not even close to the swirl of emotions in this room. The roar of the rain and thunder is nowhere near the roar in your skull.

Your jaw aches. Your throat flutters around them. And it’s so obscene the way they use you—not cruel, but so fucking filthy it makes your thighs press together, desperate for friction.

Masky’s voice is tight, groaning low as he watches your lips stretch around him. “Fuck, look at that. So fucking messy.”

Hoodie strokes your hair, his fingers trembling just a bit as you moan around both of them—the vibration making them both curse. “She’s drooling all over us,” he breathes. “Sweetheart, you want us that bad?”

You can’t speak—not with your mouth so full—but you whimper, the sound broken and hot. And they feel it. Your tongue flexes beneath them. Your throat squeezes.

Their hands grip tighter. And for a moment, they start fucking your mouth—not deep, not cruel—just slow, building rhythm, hips rocking forward in sync, stuffing you full again and again until your eyes roll back and your spit drips down your chin, slicking your neck.

You don’t want it to stop.

But suddenly, they pull out—quick, with a wet gasp and a groan, your mouth gaping open, lips red and glistening, a string of saliva still connecting you to them. You’re gasping, drooling, fucked-out and needy, and they just look down at you like they’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

“C’mere,” Masky rasps. “Up.”

Hoodie helps you to your feet—gentle now—kissing your spit-slick cheek, his breath shaking. “You did so fucking good,” he whispers. “But we’re not done.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before Masky’s hands are on your hips, gripping tight, pulling you toward the edge of the bed.

Hoodie’s already climbed up, sitting back against the headboard, his cock is heavy and red, leaking with need and smeared in your spit, twitching as he props himself up on one elbow, watching you with dark, hungry eyes.

You crawl forward on your knees, fingers grazing the soft fabric of the bedspread, then dragging up his thighs, and lower your head toward him.

Your lips part eagerly, tongue sliding out to taste the slick head of his cock. He lets out a low groan, hips lifting just enough to press into your mouth. Your lips open wide, tongue swirling, sliding over every inch of him. The salty taste of him fills you, hot and sharp. His fingers thread into your hair again, tugging lightly, steadying you. But the other wraps under your jaw, angling your head just right so he can press into the back of your throat. “So good, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with need. “Just go nice and slow.”

You obey, your tongue flicking over the underside, swirling around the sensitive tip, your mouth stretching, working him deeper.

Behind you, you feel movement. Masky’s heavy hands settle on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles over your skin just above the curve of your ass.

He leans over you, body pressed atop your back, pulling your hips up to meet where his heavy cock sits against your tailbone. His breath is warm against your neck, voice low and rough. “Got you good and wet, huh?” he growls. “Look at you, taking him like you were made for this.”

One hand slides under your hip, fingers slipping between your legs, pressing firmly against your soaked folds still incredibly sensitive. You shiver, hips pressing down involuntarily, grinding against Masky’s hand. His grip tightens, thumb brushing your clit in slow, teasing circles.

Hoodie’s cock twitches in your mouth, hips rocking gently, setting a slow rhythm. You suck harder, deepening your mouth around him, feeling his pulse through your lips. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails scratching lightly at your scalp.You wrap a fist around the base of his cock, helping you as your eyes flutter closed, breath hitching around him.

Suddenly, Masky’s mouth presses to your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly, sending a sharp thrill through you.

“Make him cum, alright?” he hisses. “Let him spill all in that pretty mouth.”

You hum around Hoodie’s cock in response, tongue swirling, lashes fluttering as you feel Masky’s fingers press one last time against your clit, making you arch back just slightly. You can feel every nerve firing, every muscle tightening in eager anticipation.

He sits back, gripping your hips with bruising hands. Slowly, deliberately, Masky lines himself up. You jolt at the feeling, bulbous head smearing across your folds and collecting your arousal. You shiver, breath hitching around Hoodie’s cock as your back curves toward Masky’s. He chuckles low, and then begins to push in.

At first, just the thick head of him bobs inside—slow and steady—stretching you wide, the new, delicious pressure making your muscles clench and pulse around him. Your walls immediately grip around him, sucking him in the best they can. Your hips press back, desperate to take more, to swallow him whole.

Hoodie moans deep above you, fingers tightening in your hair as he feels your gasp and throat flutter around him.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Masky rasps behind you, his breath hot against your skin. His hands grip your hips firmly, steadying you as he pushes deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt inside your warmth.

The stretch, the fullness—your body’s desperate response sends a wave of heat rippling through you, mixing with the wet slickness from Hoodie’s cock in your mouth. You try to focus on your breathing, but it’s hard when Hoodie’s hips rock up, pushing deep and slow against your tongue, while Masky’s hands knead your hips, thumbs digging into your skin.

Your hands clutch the bedspread, nails scraping the thin fabric as Masky starts to move. His thrusts are slow at first, deliberate and testing—letting you adjust, letting you savor the sensation of being filled by him.

The motel room is alive with sounds—the wet slick of Hoodie’s cock sliding in and out of your mouth, your muffled moans and gasps, and Masky’s low growls as he fucks you from behind—all accompanied by the wonderful pounding of the storm.

You feel every inch of Masky’s cock inside you—thick, hot, and demanding—while Hoodie’s steady rhythm in your mouth keeps you dizzy with pleasure. Fucked absolutely out.

Masky leans down, pressing his chest to your back, one hand sliding under your body to cup your breast, fingers teasing your nipple. He kneads it roughly, making you arch against him, grinding back with every thrust.

Meanwhile, Hoodie’s hands tighten in your hair, pulling your head closer, making you take him deeper, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside. You’ve almost got it all—almost.

The mingled sensations—the fullness behind, the heat in your mouth—makes your head spin. 

Your breath comes in ragged gasps; your hips start to move with Masky’s rhythm, meeting him, pushing back harder. He growls, biting lightly at your neck, leaving mark after mark.

Hoodie moans deep, head leaning back to hit the headboard, voice thick with need. “You’re such a good girl for us,” he groans. “Taking us both so well.”

Your cheeks burn with the praise, your body trembling as Masky’s thrusts get harder, faster, hips slapping wetly against your skin. His hands roam greedily, one sliding between your legs to brush your clit, thumb circling as he fucks into you. Every thrust knocks against your g-spot, every tug of your hips angling your spine, forcing his cock deeper.

You cry out around Hoodie’s cock, your throat full and achingly stretched, saliva dripping down your chin. The waves of pleasure rise quickly now—your body screaming with need and overstimulation.

Masky’s grunts grow louder, his hips slamming against you, every thrust harder than the last. Hoodie’s breathing grows ragged; his fingers tighten in your hair as he holds you captive, your lips and tongue worshipping every inch of his cock inside you.

“Gonna come—” Hoodie gasps.

“Yeah,” Masky growls, voice rough and desperate.

Your body trembles, caught in the eye of their storm—filled, stretched, pleasured from both ends.

Your throat is sore, stretched perfectly around Hoodie’s cock as he shudders, his hips twitching deep inside your mouth. You feel the thick pulse, the hot flood spilling down your throat. Hoodie groans low, voice ragged, as his hips collapse down onto the bed, breath heavy and satisfied.

His cum floods into your throat, and you swallow in time with every twitch of his cock, nails digging into his skin. You pull back just enough to catch your breath, lips swollen and slick, your gaze flickering up to meet his. But before you can savor that moment, you feel Masky’s grip tighten on your hips, rough and insistent.

He growls, voice dark and possessive. “My turn.”

Without warning, he yanks you up by your hips, pulling you up onto your knees and back against his chest. Your legs wobble, but his hands hold you steady, strong. His cock is still buried deep inside you, thick and hard, and with a sudden force, he starts thrusting again—harder, faster—driving up into you with a hunger that steals your breath.

His arms wrap around your middle, holding you close as you bounce back to match every thrust. Your hands reach back, clutching his head and shoulders for support as you try to keep up with the sudden increase in pace.

Masky’s breath is hot against your neck, low and rough. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he snarls. “You gonna cum all over this cock?”

Your body responds instantly—every nerve on fire, every muscle trembling as he pounds into you. You nod, eyes rolling into your head.

Hoodie watches with dark, hungry eyes, sitting up off the mattress to press against your front. He palms at your tits, rolling your nipples as they bounce with every knock of Masky’s cock.

He leans forward, pressing a wet, teasing kiss to your cheek, then down your jawline. “You’re so good for him,” Hoodie whispers. “So fucking perfect.”

He nips at your jaw, trailing his hand down your stomach and between your legs, pressing the pads of his fingers against your clit. He jerks the bud, and you cry out, wrapping an arm around Hoodie’s shoulders.

You pull him to you, chasing hips lips as you feel your cunt ache, feel the familiar coil in the pit of your stomach. Masky feels how you tighten around him, his pace stuttering. His breath grows ragged, voice thick with desperation as he pulls you tighter against him.

“I’m—fuck—gonna—” he gasps, hips stuttering.

“Yeah—please—inside—” You’re cumming so hard your vision cuts, eyes rolling so hard the two have to hold you steady when you go limp in their arms. Hoodie’s fingers slow, easing you through the waves of pleasure. Masky thrusts once, twice—until he buries in as deep as he can.

Masky presses his face into your shoulder, biting the skin as he cums into your cunt. You feel the spill, the thick ropes that paint your cervix and fill you so good.

The bed creaks, old springs shifting under the weight as bodies shift and breathing rattles lungs. You’re gripping both of them, a head pressed close to either shoulder, each kissing your skin.

“Fuck…” you huff, eyes struggling to stay open. You rest your chin against Hoodie’s shoulder, trying your best to catch your breath. “Feels good… So warm…”

Hoodie’s eyes darken with a dangerous hunger as he pushes his fingers further past your clit, feeling the spot where your entrance begins—stretched full of Masky. He hums, making your body jerk as he tries to press his fingers into the little space there is left.

“Brian—” you warn, nails digging into his shoulder. It doesn’t matter, he somehow manages to press the first knuckles of his middle fingers in, digits burying in the warmth of your cunt along with Masky’s cock. You all groan, Masky’s hips involuntarily jerking up at the sensation of Hoodie’s knuckles against his length.

“Brian, man. What—” Masky starts.

“Stay in,” Hoodie murmurs to Masky, voice low and urgent.

Masky stalls, searching his eyes, but growls his assent, hips still heavy inside you, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid to lose you.

Hoodie pulls his fingers out of your sensitive entrance, reaching around behind your legs to pull them out from under you. Masky catches your weight, holding you steady as Hoodie pulls your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back. Hoodie grips under your ass, Masky holds under your thighs, your body sandwiched between them.

Hoodie shifts closer, positioning himself at your entrance. Your body tightens instinctively, every muscle clenching around Masky’s cock buried deep within you.

“Wait—Wait, hold on—”

“You can take it,” Masky kisses against your shoulder, continuously glancing between you and Hoodie. “You will.”

Slowly, carefully, Hoodie pushes forward. 

At first, just the tip teases your wet, stretched folds. You gasp—a mix of pleasure and shock—as you feel yourself being stretched again, wider than you thought possible.

Masky’s hands grip your thighs tighter, steadying you as Hoodie tries to fight the resistance, bobbing the very tip of his cock against the tight ring of muscle burning from the attempted stretch.

“Shit—shit, shit shit—” Your breath hitches, eyes fluttering closed, mouth parting in a moan. You try your best to relax, try your damnest not to cry and whine with every burn that runs up your body.

Finally, one angle catches his head, your cunt opening up around his thick head. Hoodie’s cock slides past Masky’s inside you, the sensation unlike anything you’ve felt before. A delicious fullness floods your senses, your body opening to take them both, cunt absolutely screaming in sparks of pain and overwhelming ecstasy.

Masky shifts, thrusting just enough to give you room, hips grinding slowly, his voice a low growl against your skin. “Gonna ruin this pussy,” Masky rasps. “You’ll never be satisfied again if it’s not us.”

The three of you move as one tight, wet unit—Masky’s cock buried balls-deep, Hoodie’s cock sliding alongside him, pinning you open so completely it’s like you don’t even have a choice. The motel sheets are rumpled beneath you, their knees pressed hard into the thin mattress, arms braced against their shoulders for balance as Masky’s heavy thrusts rock you forward into Hoodie’s chest.

You can feel both of them inside you. Masky’s thick length fills your back walls, the girth taking up most of the room inside, causing you to lose your breath with every hardened thrust. Hoodie’s cock presses into your front, sliding quickly past Masky’s still-buried base, the dual pressure stretching you wider than you’ve ever felt before.

“C’mon, little mouse. Let us hear you.” Hoodie smiles.

Their hands grip your hips and thighs like anchors, thumbs digging into flesh, guiding your movements. Every time Masky pulls out slightly, Hoodie pushes in an extra half-inch, and vice versa, the two of them taking turns controlling your rhythm. The sensation is overwhelming—a deliciously torturous fullness that has your entire body humming with overstimulation.

Your senses explode. The slick heat of Masky’s cum still coating you from before mixes with fresh heat as you’re squeezed around both of them, a salt-tinged warmth that makes your toes curl. Their breaths are hot in your ear and on your neck—Masky’s rough growls vibrating against your spine, Hoodie’s low moans tickling your shoulder.

The sound of skin slapping skin echoes around the cramped room—Masky’s thighs smacking against your ass, Hoodie’s groaning as he presses flush into you.

With each thrust, Masky leans forward, chest against your back, caging you. His hands push your hips down, angling you so every stroke smacks your cervix with delicious force. You feel every ridge of his cock sliding deep inside, muscles clenching around him. “Hnn—gonna fu—shit—gonna fuck you stupid, sweet girl.”

Hoodie shifts his grip from your ass to slide to Masky’s hip, feeling his timing. He digs his nails into Masky’s skin, matching his pacing so he fucks you in perfect sync with Masky, making you cry out. “Feels so good, doesn’t it?” Hoodie pants. “Wanna do this forever.”

Your head falls forward onto Hoodie’s shoulder, lips parted in breathless moans that each of them feeds on. You can taste yourself on their skin—your slick mix of spit and cum—and it makes you ache for more. Every nerve ending feels alive, your clit crushed against Hoodie’s pelvis, Masky’s cock pulsating inside you like a living thing, and your brain goes fuzzy with the exquisite pain-pleasure of being stretched beyond your limits.

“It’s too much—fuck—I can’t—can’t keep up—”

They don’t let you rest.

Masky’s thrusts grow harder, sharper, forcing your hips up into Hoodie’s pelvis each time the head of his cock hits your g-spot. Hoodie, in turn, squeezes your ass so tight you can’t move, riding those jolting shocks from Masky’s cock, matching you thrust for thrust with a fierce, driving pace that threatens to break every bone in your body.

Your vision swims; sweat beads on your skin. You feel your orgasm building again—hot, desperate, unstoppable. They know your signs now. They’re built to adapt, to learn, to complete impossible tasks—so of course they know exactly what it feels like when you’re about to cum already. As the pressure peaks, Hoodie’s hand slaps down hard on your ass, and Masky’s fingers dig into your thighs in a gritted command, “Come for us.”

With a final, simultaneous plunge—Masky’s cock buried to the hilt, Hoodie’s thrusting floor-to-ceiling—you break.

“Fuck!”

Your toes curl, your back arches, and a guttural cry tears from your throat as wave after wave of orgasm ripples through you. Your body clenches so fiercely around both of them that it drives them over the edge, too.

Masky roars, releasing inside you in long, trembling spurts, his cock pulsing deep within. Hoodie groans your name, spilling his hot cum as he holds you tight, his fingers still gripping your ass as he comes.

Their combined release floods you, warmth coating your insides as the tremors of your orgasm shake your limbs. For a long moment, the three of you move together in trembling grinds—skin gleaming with sweat, breaths ragged and mingling as you ride out every inch of pleasure, tight cunt milking every drop they’ve got.

Finally, Masky pulls back, still buried inside you, and Hoodie slides out, collapsing under you on the bed. You fall forward, landing on top of Hoodie, Masky following behind.

They sandwich you, sweat-soaked bodies pressed close as Masky musters the last of his strength to slip out of your spent cunt, sending cum spilling from your folds and onto the bedsheets below. 

The room smells like sex and sweat and crappy motel soap.

You’re sprawled across Hoodie, boneless and dazed, your body still trembling from the storm they dragged you through. The thin, scratchy sheet is tangled around your legs. The pillows are damp and askew. The red light from the neon sign outside bleeds in through the blinds, painting everything in a low crimson haze.

Everyone rolls off each other, taking up the entirety of what little space there is of the matters.

You’re caught in the middle, surrounded by the weight of their bodies, the heat of their skin, and the press of breath that slows with every minute on either side of you.

Masky’s against you, chest to your back, arm slung lazily around your waist. His hand is splayed across your stomach, fingers twitching occasionally, as if he’s trying his best to go back to staying still. His breath brushes your shoulder in soft exhales, nose buried in the crook of your neck.

In front of you, Hoodie lies on his back, one hand lazily stroking your arm, eyes half-lidded and dark with something softer than before. He’s flushed, chest rising and falling slow, mouth slightly parted. There’s a sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin, his lashes damp from the heat and friction of everything that just happened.

No one speaks for a long while. Just breathing. Just silence. The weight of your shared pleasure settling in the small, hazy air of the motel room.

Your body aches in every place they touched. You’re full, sore, and you feel like your soul’s been picked clean—but not in a bad way. It’s grounding. It feels good, like you’ve finally unwound all the tension in your psyche.

Eventually, Hoodie shifts, his knuckles brushing your cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but the touch is soft, thoughtful.

Masky murmurs into your shoulder, his voice scratchy and low. “You good?”

You nod, barely, too tired to speak yet. But your hand finds his on your stomach and laces your fingers through his, gently squeezing.

Hoodie lets out a breath—somewhere between a sigh and a huff of amusement. “Didn’t think you’d actually let us go that far.”

You blink slowly, managing a tired little smirk. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Hoodie chuckles under his breath, the sound light, pulling you a little closer with the crook of his arm. You nuzzle into the curve of his shoulder, lips brushing over the faint scrape of stubble on his jaw.

Behind you, Masky groans quietly. “Stop flirting.”

“You can’t call dibs on her after we just shared her.”

You laugh under your breath, soft and barely there. Masky’s grip tightens just a little at your waist in response.

“You okay?” Hoodie asks this time, a little more serious.

You nod again. “Yeah. Just… full.”

Both of them laugh, low and lazy and quiet, and you let your eyes flutter shut as they sit up.

They don’t say a word.

They just move—Masky sliding down your body to one side, Hoodie shifting to the other—and before you can protest, both their heads dip low.

Masky begins at your hip crease, tongue tracing slow, firm licks along your soaked skin, gathering every last drop of cum that smears across your skin. His free hand cups your thigh, pressing you open for him, while his other hand snakes between your legs to steady you. Each broad stroke of his tongue pulls your body taut with sensitivity, the warmth of his mouth searing against your skin.

Hoodie, mirrored on the opposite side, leans in beneath your belly, tongue flicking up in short, quick passes at your lower lips—then sliding deeper into your soaked center. He laps gently, methodically, collecting the sweetness you left behind. His breath hovers warm across your thigh as he cleans with expert devotion, making sure no spot is missed.

They work effortlessly.

Every few inches of Masky’s slow, worshipful licks are matched by Hoodie’s precise, teasing sweeps. You feel the wet press of their tongues meet at the center, swallowing and savouring you, their mouths hot and insistent.

Masky’s tongue drags a slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, then circles it, flattening and pressing until you arch your back, legs tensing around both of them. Hoodie’s tongue dives in synchrony, curling just right to find every crevice, every tremble point. You grab the bedsheets, tugging and pulling with every sharp roll of the muscles.

Their hands aren’t idle either. Masky’s fingertips brush delicate arcs along your inner thighs, glide up to tease your sensitive folds; Hoodie’s thumb brushes gentle, reassuring circles over your hip bone as he leans in to work the tip of his tongue against your clit again.

You moan—soft, breathy, nearly pained with relief and pleasure—as they feed on you, cleaning you with their mouths like they’re righting some cosmic wrong. The red neon light flickers in the curtains, painting their faces in shadow and warmth, and you’re suspended between their ministrations, heart pounding.

Finally, when every drop is gone, they lift their heads together, lips glistening, eyes dark with need and something softer—care, devotion, worship. Masky presses a slow, wet kiss to your inner thigh; Hoodie brushes your stomach with his nose, his breath feather-light.

They slide back up—Masky pressing a gentle kiss behind your ear, Hoodie trailing one across your collarbone. Their hands settle on your hips and shoulders, cradling you in a triangle of warmth and quiet satisfaction.

You’re nestled between them again, chest still rising in unsteady waves as the weight of their attention and afterglow begins to soften into something cozy, close. The scratchy motel sheet is pulled half-heartedly over your legs, but Hoodie reaches to tug the heavy comforter up higher, draping it over all three of you. You instinctively scoot closer to the body heat pressing into you from both sides. The heater is still broken, the electricity is still shot—but you’re incredibly warm despite it.

Masky’s arm is hooked under your neck, fingers resting lightly on your shoulder. Hoodie’s hand is against your hip, thumb rubbing slow circles into your bare skin. Their bodies bracket you like armor, all strong limbs and quiet breath.

There’s a quiet moment—just the loud thrum of the rain in the background and the distant hum of neon through the window.

Then you tilt your chin up toward Hoodie and nudge Masky’s jaw with your nose. “C’mere,” you whisper, voice still low and sleep-thick.

They don’t hesitate. Hoodie leans in first, kissing you slow and unhurried, his lips soft and warm, the kind of kiss that isn’t asking for more—it’s just being. A little messy, from how relaxed he is, but sweet.

When you break apart, Masky is already there, nudging Hoodie aside with a little grunt like he’s annoyed he had to wait. His kiss is rougher, more teeth, more pressure—but not because he’s impatient. It’s just him. And you like that.

They both kiss you again—switching off without a word—until you’re dazed, lazy, flushed all over again from nothing but mouth and hands and heat.

You hum against Masky’s lips as he kisses you one last time, then break away with a smug little grin. “You know…” you murmur, glancing between them. “You two should kiss again.”

Hoodie’s eyes flick toward Masky, brow arching slightly. Masky scoffs, instantly bristling.

“Fuck off,” Masky mutters, shifting on the mattress. “Not gonna do that just ‘cause you get off on it.”

“Yeah,” Hoodie echoes, dry but amused, “not a circus act for you.”

You pout playfully, dramatically cuddling into Hoodie’s chest like you’re wounded. “Rude,” you mumble. “After you did unspeakable things to me, too.”

Masky snorts. “Yeah, more like you begged us to, sweetheart.”

But even as he says it, you catch the glance he and Hoodie share—a flicker of tension, a spark of something under the surface. A challenge.

And then Hoodie shrugs. “Fine.” He grabs Masky by the jaw, jerks him forward, and kisses him across you.

It’s not graceful. It’s not slow, or romantic. It’s messy and firm and unexpected—Hoodie’s hand in Masky’s hair, their mouths pressed together hard enough to bruise. Masky makes a surprised sound, fists clenching in the sheets, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.

The kiss breaks after a few seconds—both of them pulling back just a little, eyes locking for one tense, unreadable moment.

“Happy now?” Masky mutters, breath warm and a little shaken.

You beam. “So happy.”

They groan in unison—so done with you—but they don’t move away. The three of you settle again, tangled under the blanket, skin against skin, quiet and warm. Hoodie lets out a soft breath, his fingers threading lazily through yours. Masky shifts until his nose brushes your shoulder.

And it’s not another minute before your breathing slows, eyes fluttering shut whether you’d like them to or not. It’s just so warm, and safe, and…

── .✦

The first thing you notice is the sharp click—the unmistakable hum of power rushing back through the motel’s ancient wiring.

Lights flicker on, harsh and sudden, cutting through the red glow of the neon sign outside. The storm has passed. Outside, rain still trickles down the windowpanes, gentle now, like a quiet exhale after a violent scream.

You stir slowly, eyelids fluttering open to find Masky’s warm chest pressed against your back, Hoodie’s arms wrapped loosely around your waist. All three of you are tangled, skin slick with the aftermath of last night’s messy heat. Your muscles ache, sore from every touch, every thrust—but that ache feels good, grounding.

You reach out, fingers trailing softly over Masky’s shoulder, then nudge Hoodie’s arm. Their eyes blink open, heavy-lidded and slow, matching your own sleepy haze.

Masky grunts low, voice rough from sleep. “Power’s back. Storm’s over.”

Hoodie’s lips twitch into a tired smile. “Figured. I heard it snap back a few minutes ago.”

You press a kiss into Hoodie’s shoulder, then turn to face Masky, your hand resting on his chest. “Feels like… we should get up.”

Masky groans, pulling you closer. “Five more minutes.”

You shake your head with a soft laugh, the warmth of their bodies still wrapping around you like a cocoon. “Nope. We gotta move before motel staff starts getting suspicious.”

Hoodie shifts, fingers brushing your ribs, his eyes dark and sleepy but amused. “Final shower before the road?”

You nod. “Yeah. Warm water. Then hit the road and figure out why Toby didn’t meet us.”

Masky lets out a slow breath, reluctantly peeling away from you. Hoodie follows, helping you all untangle from the sheets and each other, muscles stiff but spirits gentle.

Together, you move toward the bathroom, the air cool against your heated skin, the scent of rain still lingering in the cracked-open window. The sound of water soon fills the room—steady, soothing—and you lean against each other, sharing quiet moments of comfort before the world outside calls you back to motion.

The morning was cool but the shower was blistering hot—steam clouded the cracked mirror, dripping down the grimy tiles like sweat. You shuffled in first, hauling the wrinkled plastic curtain closed, the water sputtering uncertainly before finally warming up.

The spray hit you in jagged pulses, barely enough to drown the sweat and grime from the night. You grabbed your clothes from the grimy floor and hung them on the rusted rack, wincing as the cold brushed your skin.

Then, the bathroom door creaked open.

“Hoodie?” Masky’s voice echoed in the tight space. “You getting in or what?”

Hoodie grinned, stepping into the narrow space, brushing damp hair from his eyes. “Hell yeah. This place might be a shithole, but a hot shower’s a hot shower.”

You laughed, leaning back against the cool tiles as Hoodie slipped in beside you. Masky pressed in from the doorway, careful to avoid knocking over the lone soap bar.

The three of you shuffled under the tiny showerhead, water washing away the grime and the tension. The cramped space forced your bodies close, and though it was uncomfortably tight, it was also… familiar.

“Man,” Hoodie said, voice muffled by the water. “You ever crave something stupid after missions? Like, I dunno—pancakes? With syrup? Maybe some crispy bacon?”

Masky chuckled. “Pancakes sound nice. But all I want is a coffee.”

You smirked. “I’d kill for a greasy diner breakfast right now. Coffee that’s strong enough to wake the dead. Eggs over easy. Hell, I’d even take burnt toast.”

“Burnt toast?” Hoodie teased. “You’re picky.”

“Not when it comes to food. I’m starving.”

The water splashed harder as Masky shifted, nudging you gently. “We’ll get there,” he promised. “Back at the mansion. Full kitchen, good food, and maybe even a bed that doesn’t squeak.”

The warmth seeped into your bones, but reality crept back in. The storm had passed, but you still had to get out.

You rinsed off quickly, the water cooler than before, and dried off with the thin motel towel. Masky and Hoodie did the same, the cramped bathroom turning into a mess of wet clothes and half-stifled laughter.

Back in the room, you grabbed your packs, and Hoodie yanked open the dresser. With a grunt, the three of you shifted the heavy, scratched piece of furniture off the door—praying that nobody heard the loud shuffling.

“Think they’ll lose their shit when they see this place?” you asked, peeking over your shoulder to see the absolute disarray you’re leaving it in.

“Doubt it,” Masky shrugged. “They probably get worse than this.”

You peeked out the grimy window. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the lot was nearly empty.

“Alright,” Hoodie said, voice low. “Let’s move before someone sees us.”

You crept out the door, puddles of water and broken tree limbs littering the lot. Outside, the cold air hit you all at once, bracing and sharp. The truck was waiting, just like you left it—windows streaked with rain, engine cool but ready.

You climbed in, each of you wiping the last drops of water from your faces. Hoodie turned the keys, the engine sputtering to life, before you peeled out of the parking lot. Music was turned up, the heater was turned high, and you all relaxed back into your familiar spots.

Masky’s hand dipped into the glove compartment with that familiar, casual ease—the one that made you forget just how much he needed the habit. His fingers closed around a crumpled pack of cigarettes, the familiar crinkle of cellophane breaking the silence. He pulled one free, flicked the lighter from his pocket, and inhaled deep.

Passing the cigarette over, you caught it next—fingers brushing against his briefly as you took a slow drag, the smoke filling your lungs and settling the restless ache that lingered after the night. Hoodie leaned in, grabbing it carefully, his eyes half-lidded in that hazy, just-woken-up way.

Just then, your phone buzzed—buried deep in the bottom of your pack, vibrating insistently. It was a burner, one used only to communicate between proxies. You cursed softly, fumbling to unzip the heavy canvas and dig through the clutter.

“Shit,” you muttered, finally pulling it free. The screen flashed with Toby’s name.

“Where the h-hell have you be-been?” his voice was sharp, frantic.

You glanced up at Masky and Hoodie, who had gone quiet, exchanging looks loaded with equal parts exhaustion and irritation.

You answered, voice low, “We got caught in the storm. Couldn’t get back to the mansion.”

Toby’s rant came fast and furious through the speaker. “You should’ve c-come back. The meeting point was h-hours ago. I never met you gu-guys cause boss told me to come back. Not wo-worth getting caught in a storm. St-Staying out like that? Stupid.”

The three of you shared a glance—silent, tired, and pisses beyond compare knowing that while the three of you were forced into a shitty motel to stay safe, Toby was lounging at the mansion with his feet kicked up.

You cut the call, the line going dead with a quick flick of your thumb. You tossed the phone back in the bag with a groan.

Masky cracked a crooked grin, shaking his head. “Screw it. After last night? A diner stop is worth it.”

Hoodie nodded, the cigarette between his fingers almost forgotten as he looked out the window. “Yeah. Pancakes, bacon, coffee… Toby can kiss my ass.”

You smirked, leaning back against the seat, the morning sun finally breaking through the clouds as the truck rolled down the highway. The energy stirred, a silent thrum between the three of you that was undeniable now, one that you didn’t even have to speak on to know.

Sleeping in your own bed is a luxury, no doubt.

But when two pairs of strong hands keep you warm, hold you close, and make you feel like the cold isn't going to kill you.

Maybe sharing one isn’t so bad.

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

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