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@d3adite666
My commissions are officially open again! Please take time to read through the posted info, i will not take any requests that have used AI to generate ideas. Nor will I utilize AI anywhere within my artistic and creative process, we support human creativity here.
Seven Minutes in Heaven - Tim Wright (Masky)
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
─────────────────────────────── ready to start - arcade fire
── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI
✦ . Summary: (No correlation to other parts, only prologue) The bottle lands on Tim.
✦ . Characters: Tim Wright (Masky) x Reader
✦ . Warning: Alcohol, cigarettes, erotic asphyxiation, breath control play, semi-public sex, dirty talk, oral fixation, blowjobs, choking, risky sex, nicotine high, dizziness, hair pulling, fingers in mouth, spit, oral sex, rough oral sex, first time blow job
✦ . Words: 12.1k
✦ . Note: Please do not hang me and kill me for how long this took to post. Apologies! Hopefully the length makes up for it! School is officially over, so now I can dedicate my time to writing more, so be on the lookout! For all my blow job lovers (I see you and I appreciate you), this is for you!!!
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It was ironic watching your fate be decided by a lousy beer bottle you hadn’t even gotten to drink out of yet.
But everything in this lousy mansion is out of your hands anyway.
The bottle spun on the coffee table, wobbling through the leftover alcohol and cigarette ash stains before it slowed and finally stopped.
It landed on—
You looked up.
Tim.
Before the room could go completely silent, Jeff let out a loud, ugly laugh.
“Well shit,” he crowed, leaning back on the couch and covering his face with his hands. “Looks like Timmy gets the consolation prize. Try not to bore her to death in there, old man.”
Tim didn’t snap back. He just stared Jeff down from across the circle, his eyes dark and narrowed. There was something almost smug in the way he tilted his head, like he already knew exactly how much this was eating Jeff alive, how he could practically see right through his asshole demeanor.
He stared at Jeff long enough for the boy to sink back into himself a little, but not without rolling his eyes and crossing his arms as he broke the stare down to glare out the window.
But then Tim turned and walked straight past you, his boots thumping on the floorboards as he headed down the short hallway toward the closet like he had all the time in the world.
You stayed seated for a beat, your heart suddenly kicking harder than it should.
Nina wasn’t having it. She popped up behind you with a bright, mischievous laugh and hooked her arms under yours, hauling you to your feet.
“Nope! Don’t be a baby, babe. Go on!”
She gave you a firm shove toward the direction Tim just went. A couple of the others whistled and clapped as you stumbled forward, but as you looked back one final time in anxiousness, all you saw was Jeff’s wide eyes watching you fade around the corner. In amongst the distraction, Brian had moved from his spot and was now leaning against the wall nearest the hall towards the closet. As you approached, he rummaged into his jacket pocket and fished out a silver flip lighter, pushing it into your hands before you could pass.
You looked down at it, feeling the cold weight in your hand, before looking at him—only for the blond to give you a very confusing nod before he let you go. You shoved it into your back pocket.
Tim was already at the closet door. He yanked it open, reached up, and pulled the chain for the single bare bulb dangling inside. Weak yellow light spilled out over the hanging coats and junk boxes, flumes of dust floated out, and you had to wave the air in front of your face to keep from coughing. He stepped aside, one hand still holding the door, and tilted his head toward the inside.
You hesitated. “Tim, I can just—”
“Get over yourself,” he cut you off, keeping his face flat and unreadable. Before you could retort again, he stepped in close, using his body to herd you forward until you were inside the cramped space. The door pulled shut behind him with a final click.
The muffled music and laughter from the living room dulled instantly, only the floorboard thumps under your shoes to keep you company.
Tim reached down and fiddled with the dials on his wristwatch, setting the timer with a few soft clicks. Seven minutes. The little hands began ticking immediately.
You both stood awkwardly about a foot and a half apart, your backs pressed against opposite walls of the cramped closet. You kept your eyes glued to the floor, occasionally fiddling with the hem of your shirt or picking at your fingernails. Tim, on the other hand, didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was watching you. His gaze was steadily honed on you, occasionally flicking toward the closed door like he was listening for footsteps or somebody snooping outside. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, digging around until he found his trusty pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and slid it between his lips like he always did.
Then he started patting his other pockets.
“Shit,” he grunted under his breath. “Left my lighter with Brian.”
“Oh, wait.”
You hesitated for a second before reaching into your back pocket and pulling out the worn silver lighter Brian had given you moments ago. You held it out to him without a word.
Tim’s eyes flicked down to the lighter, then back up to your face. A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he took it from your fingers, his hand brushing yours.
He flicked it open, lit the cigarette, and took a long, deep drag. The tip glowed bright orange in the dim light. He exhaled a thick plume of smoke toward the ceiling, watching it curl and drift in the stale air, pockets of smog dancing like little ghosts around the lightbulb.
You raised an eyebrow. “You really think it’s smart to smoke in a closet this small?”
Tim shrugged one shoulder, completely unbothered. He took another drag, then lowered the cigarette, smoke pooling from between his lips as he spoke.
“Probably not.” His voice was gravelly. “But I've already decided to be in here with you. Might as well add this to the list of bad choices tonight.”
You laughed.
He leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes never really leaving you. The smoke continued to drift lazily between the two of you, filling the small space with the sharp scent of tobacco.
You shifted your weight against the wall under the intensity of his stare, your arms loosely crossed. The smoke was already starting to make the small space feel even stuffier.
“Do you think Jeff’s gonna retaliate at all?” you asked one-offedly, reaching for anything to conversate about.
Tim took another slow drag, then exhaled through his nose. “No.”
He sounded sure. Almost bored.
“Jeff’s emotional and jealous and got a nasty fucking temper,” he continued, flicking ash onto the floor. “But if he’s actually mad, he’ll turn that shit on somebody else. He’s too scared to come at me.”
You let out a laugh, nodding. “Yeah… that sounds about right.”
Tim tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Why’re you concerned?”
“No reason,” you said quickly, shrugging. “Just… you two seem like you’re in some kind of secret competition. It’s weird.”
Tim went quiet for a long moment. He brought the cigarette back to his lips, taking two slow puffs while he thought. Smoke curled up between you like a hazy curtain.
“Maybe we are,” he finally admitted.
You shook your head. “You’re not the type to do childish shit like that.”
Tim let out a short, rough laugh, almost like he was surprised by your response.
“For the right person?” he said, “I might.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than moments before. The muffled noise from the living room seemed to fade even further away, only the cadence of the speakers thumping enough to let you know the party was still happening. You were both just… looking at each other.
Then Tim pulled the cigarette from his mouth and held it out to you, offering it between two fingers.
You took it carefully. When you brought it to your lips, you could still feel the warmth from his mouth on the filter. You took a puff, the smoke filling your lungs with that familiar burn.
Tim’s gaze stayed locked on your mouth, watching the way your lips wrapped around the same spot his had just been. His head tilted slightly, something unreadable shifting in his face as he tracked the motion.
When you lowered the cigarette and exhaled, he was still staring. So you stared right back at him, no longer pretending to study the floor.
Tim looked… different tonight, even if only slightly. His clothes were his usual thick jacket and jeans, but they were cleaner than normal, no random gunpowder smudges, no dirt or dried blood. His hair was a little more put together, and that ever-present stern, gruff expression sat heavy on his face like it always did.
It was nice seeing him without his mask amongst so many people, but that also meant that he couldn’t hide behind it, that he had to face you and everyone else with his whole self—no Masky there to save him.
“You’re being tense,” he said bluntly, breaking the silence.
“Well, yeah,” you answered, letting out a short breath.
Tim shrugged one shoulder, reaching out to take the cigarette from you and promptly taking two deep drags. “We’ve been alone together plenty of times before. This isn’t any different.”
“It is different,” you countered. “This isn't a mission or some supply run or something. This is… this.” You gestured vaguely at the cramped space left between you.
“I didn’t know context mattered that much to our relationship.”
You let out an awkward little laugh, shifting against the wall. “It’s funny you’re even calling it a relationship.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
You just shook your head, laughing again under your breath, unsure how to answer. He was being so blunt tonight, more direct than usual, like the straightforwardness was a shield. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw kept flexing, but he wouldn’t relax. It was like he was ready to punch you and run at any moment, if he wasn’t going to yell at you first.
“…Are you nervous?” you asked quietly.
Tim didn’t answer right away. He glanced down at the watch on his wrist, studying the little ticking hands.
“Six minutes left,” he said instead, completely sidestepping the question.
You let out an awkward laugh and shook your head.
“It’s okay if you’re nervous, you know,” you told him. “This is weird, but it’s just a stupid game to embarrass everyone. It’s not serious.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed. “I know that.”
He passed the cigarette back. You brought it to your lips and inhaled, mostly just to give your hands something to do. The smoke filled your lungs, but it did nothing to ease the thick tension sitting between you, even if it did make you a little lightheaded.
The two of you kept staring at each other.
You finally spoke again. “Are you only playing because Jeff egged you on?”
Tim let out a dry laugh and looked down at his boots for a second before his gaze returned to yours.
“No,” he said simply. “I’m playing because I wanted to.”
“Why would you want to play something like this?”
“Why would you?” he asked, turning the question right back on you.
The air felt heavier. You swallowed. “I’m… not sure.”
Tim’s eyebrow lifted slightly.
“Really?” It seemed like he was almost teasing you.
You held his gaze for a long second, then let out a breath.
“No.”
He took the cigarette back when you offered it, but he didn’t bring it to his lips right away. He just kept watching you, smoke curling slowly from the tip.
The timer on his watch continued its quiet ticking. Five minutes left.
Tim finally spoke again. “Good. At least we’re being honest now.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“You think I’m not being honest?”
Tim shook his head slowly. “Not with yourself.”
You let out a short, disbelieving breath. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not being honest with what you want.”
“Oh, so you know what I want now?” you shot back, irritation rising fast. “You know what’s best for me?”
“Yeah,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
That irritated you more than it should have. You pushed off the wall slightly, glaring up at him.
“You’re just being rude now, man.”
“You’ve never had a problem with my rudeness before.”
“Context,” you muttered, reiterating the idea he couldn’t seem to grasp.
“Ah, yes,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Context.” He took one last drag before dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his boot. “Like the context of Jeff pretending he’s got some kind of claim over you… and you going along with it.”
Your stomach twisted. “Jeff does not have a claim over me.”
The words had barely left your mouth before Tim took a single, big step forward.
The already cramped closet shrank instantly. He loomed over you, his broad shoulders blocking out most of the weak light from the bulb overhead. The smell of smoke and pine and that familiar warm scent that always clung to him filled the air between you, almost overwhelming you. You pressed your back against the wall once again.
He stared down at you, almost looming.
“Then who does?”
His face was close now, close enough that you could see the thick stubble on his jaw and the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. He wasn’t touching you, but the sheer presence of him made your back press harder against the wall.
You glared up at him, your heart kicking against your ribs as the silence stretched, but after a long moment, you finally answered.
“Nobody.”
You caught it.
For just a split second, Tim’s dark eyes flicked down to your mouth as you said the word, watching the shape of it on your lips. He snapped them back up to yours almost immediately, probably hoping you didn’t catch it. But you did.
You swallowed, then added, “Not even Slenderman.”
Tim let out a short, rough laugh.
“He wouldn’t like hearing you say that too much.”
“Well…” you tilted your head slightly, still staring up at him, “he’s not here, is he?”
This time, Tim didn’t even try to hide it. His gaze dropped to your mouth again and stayed there longer. You watched his jaw flex, the muscle ticking under the skin as his eyes traced the curve of your lips.
It felt like it was getting harder to breathe.
When his eyes finally dragged back up to yours, they seemed darker than before.
“No,” he murmured. “He’s not.”
Before you could say anything more, Tim reached into his jacket pocket again, pulling out the same pack of cigarettes.
You huffed. “Seriously? It’s been, what, two minutes since your last one. Can you really not take a break?”
He didn’t answer. He just shook another cigarette out, lit it with the same silver lighter you’d handed him earlier, and took two puffs. The tip burned bright orange, and exhaled the smoke through his nose.
Then his hand moved.
He reached out and clasped your jaw firmly, his thick fingers pressing into your cheeks and smooshing them together until your lips puckered. Your hand flew up on instinct, grabbing his wrist and tugging down, but he didn’t budge an inch. His grip was strong.
“Tim—” your voice was a little muffled against the strain of his grip. For a second you wondered if you’d actually pissed him off.
“Open.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Open your mouth.”
You searched his face, looking for any sign that he was joking, but there was nothing playful there. You didn’t know if you could laugh out of caution of making him more mad, so… you did what you were told.
When he was satisfied, Tim leaned in and placed the lit cigarette between your puckered lips, then used his thumb to close your mouth around it.
“You know what to do,” he murmured.
He didn’t let go of your jaw.
You had no choice but to inhale. You took a normal, comfortable drag, the smoke filling your lungs before you exhaled it through your nose. You stared up at him, confused, waiting for some kind of explanation. Was this supposed to be degrading? Some weird power move? Or some weird one-off joke that you’ve never known him to make?
But his grip stayed firm on your cheeks, and his expression didn’t change. He didn’t look satisfied.
You started to squirm, pawing at his arm. “Tim—”
“More,” he said.
You tried to speak around the cigarette, fumbling the filter between your teeth. “What’s happening right now—”
He stepped even closer, one of his boots planting between your feet so your legs were forced to part slightly. His other hand came up to tilt your chin higher, making you look straight up into his face. The overhead light cast harsh shadows over his stern features.
“Keep going,” he grunted.
You furrowed your brows, but obeyed, taking another drag. Then another. He watched every inhale with utmost interest.
“C’mon,” he said quietly, almost coaxing you. “Don’t stop.”
You inhaled again, deeper this time, pulling harder on the cigarette. The smoke burned hotter going down. Your head started to feel light.
“Again,” he continued. “As much as you can.”
You kept going, breath after breath, the nicotine hitting harder with every pull. Your vision began to swim. A heavy, dizzy fog rolled over your mind as the rush flooded your system. Your knees felt weak. The hand you had on his arm tightened, trying to steady yourself as the world tilted slightly.
Tim’s grip on your jaw stayed iron-still, holding you in place while he watched your face closely, seeing every detail of your flushed cheeks and drooping eyes and your steadily relaxing muscles.
“That’s it,” he muttered, soothing, almost. “One more. Big one.”
You whimpered softly around the cigarette, head spinning badly now, but you did it anyway. You pulled long and deep until your lungs were burning and the dizziness crashed over you like a wave. The nicotine buzz was overwhelming and sharp and heady, and making everything feel floaty and too warm.
Tim finally pulled the cigarette from between your lips.
You immediately exhaled hard, right into his face—a thick cloud of smoke rushing out as you tried to empty your burning lungs. The motion triggered a coughing fit. Your eyes watered, your vision became blurry, and you felt completely dizzy and messy, probably looking a little disheveled.
But Tim kept his hand firmly on your jaw, holding your face in place. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched you struggle, not out of malice but he was clearly satisfied now.
Your head was still swimming badly. You tried to steady yourself, taking shaky, deep breaths of the thick, smoggy air in the tiny closet. The nicotine buzz was intense, making everything feel too floaty and too warm and too out of your body.
“Tim… I feel really dizzy,” you managed, a little breathless.
You heard him chuckle, “I know.”
His thumb slowly dragged across your bottom lip, wiping away the spit that had gathered there from coughing and your heavy breathing. His eyes followed the motion.
Then, without warning, he brought the cigarette back to his own mouth, took one long, final drag, and dropped it to the floor. He crushed it under his boot right next to the first one.
Before you could even catch your breath, Tim leaned down and kissed you.
He grabbed both sides of your face with his rough hands, holding you firmly as he brought your faces together. Your hands shot up and pressed against his chest, bracing yourself against the embarrassment that was breaking through your mental haze. This was ridiculous. It was some weird, controlling kink thing… but your brain wasn’t working well enough to care.
All you could focus on was how warm his hands felt against your cheeks and how good his mouth felt on yours.
Then his tongue pushed past your lips, and he breathed the smoke from his lungs into your mouth.
The sudden rush made your head spin all over again. You let out a muffled groan and gripped the front of his jacket tighter, your fingers twisting into the thick fabric. Tim responded by dropping his hands to your waist and yanking your body flush against his.
Oh.
He was hard. You could feel him clearly through his jeans, pressed against your lower stomach. For a split second, nervousness flared in your chest.
Should you be nervous? Probably.
But the thought dissolved almost as quickly as it came.
Fuck it.
You kissed him back harder, desperate to feel something solid amongst all of your dizziness. Tim groaned in his throat and tilted your head, kissing you like he was starving for it, like this was all he’d ever wanted.
It became too much.
The smoke, the nicotine, the heat of his body—you couldn’t breathe. You pushed against his chest with both hands. Tim pulled back just enough for you both to gasp for air.
Thick smoke wafted out of both of your mouths, curling between your faces and up into the muggy air. You noted how Tim’s face looked, how the smoke parted around his jaw and up above the dark hair in his head. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide as he stared down at you. His hands stayed locked on your waist, but his chest rose and fell rhythmically under your palms.
It was getting hard to tell if Tim had always looked this good, or if the overwhelming amount of nicotine in your bloodstream was making your brain go numb.
But after a minute of panting, you felt your senses returning—most notably, the loud pulse of the music from the living room vibrating through the walls and into your shaky bones. You slowly started regaining your steadiness, the dizzy fog beginning to lift. Tim slid a flat palm up your back.
“Deep breaths,” he hums.
You obeyed without thinking, too deep in whatever headspace he’d pushed you into to pretend it didn’t feel ridiculously good. Each inhale felt almost euphoric, your chest rising and falling as you breathed in the thick, smoky air. You gripped the shoulders of his jacket, and after a moment you noticed he was breathing in time with you, drinking down fresh air as you did.
You glanced up at his face. The usual stern mask he wears had fallen into something lazier, almost hazy. He looked a little lost just staring at you with his half-lidded eyes.
When you blinked long enough to reset your vision, you met his eyes again, and he began to lean in toward your lips, his eyes dropping to your mouth in time with his movement. You let him come to you, tilting your chin up to meet him—
His watch started beeping sharply under his sleeve, knocking the moment right off kilter.
You both jerked back, staring at each other like you’d completely forgotten why you were even in the closet in the first place. Whatever obnoxious spell you both were under vanished. From outside, the music in the living room suddenly cut off. You could hear laughter and the sound of people scrambling down the hallway toward you.
Tim stepped back, putting space between you again. He adjusted his jeans, and tried his best to smooth his jacket out. By the time the door flew open, you were both standing roughly where you started with your backs against opposite walls, trying (and failing) to look casual.
The closet door swung open and you were immediately hit with fresh air and very nosy faces.
Toby’s was the only one you registered, though. The thick cloud of smoke rolled out past them into the hallway. He wrinkled his nose dramatically, grimacing at you two.
“J-Jesus, man,” he laughed. “You’re really smm-smoking in h-here? In a fucking clo-closet?”
Tim just blew air through his nose, clearly unimpressed. He shoved Toby’s head to the side and stepped out, brushing past the group without another word. He didn’t even glance back at you before heading down the hall.
You tried to follow, but Toby’s eyes locked onto you and he let out a shrill laugh.
“Ho-ly shit. You don’t loo-look too hah-hot right now.”
“Shut up,” you groaned, brushing past him as he started firing off questions.
“What’d h-he do? D-Did he make yo-you cry? Why do you smell like an ahh-ashtray? Wait—did you guys actually do an-anything or—”
You ignored him and made a beeline for the kitchen, desperate for something cold to drink. Your head was still swimmy and light, the nicotine making everything feel slightly tilted as you stumbled through the still-trashed house.
You passed Tim on the way. He had already found his usual spot right next to Brian, the two of them leaning against the wall like they were physically incapable of being more than three feet apart for more than ten minutes. Tim’s eyes flicked to you as you walked by, but he didn’t say anything. Brian, however, didn’t take his eyes off of you as you passed, gathering all the information he needed just from the state of you.
You yanked open the fridge, grabbed the first beer you saw, and popped it open. You drank nearly half of it in one go, the cold yeasty liquid soothing your raw throat and helping ground you a little.
Unfortunately, you weren’t alone for long.
Toby wandered in after you, Natalie right beside him and EJ trailing quietly behind them. The three of them formed a little triangle, watching you like a very nosy, very abrasive little troupe of bastards.
Most of the party in the living room had devolved into loud chugging contests and some money-gambling version of Go Fish that involved way too many rules and even more yelling. You were grateful almost everyone else was too distracted to notice how obviously rattled you were—except for these dipshits.
Toby leaned on the island counter, grinning wide enough to make your blood boil a bit. “So… you guh-gonna tell us what hah-happened in there or do w-we have to guess?”
Natalie tilted her head. “You look like you just got punched in the face… but, like, not in a bad way.”
You opened your mouth, ready to snap something mean and defensive, but before you could get it out, Brian walked into the kitchen.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he waved a hand at the trio. “Move along. Go have your little orgy somewhere else and leave people alone.”
Jack let out a raspy little laugh, which was rare enough that it surprised you into laughing too. Toby whined dramatically but let Natalie tug him away. The three of them shuffled out, Toby still throwing questions over his shoulder until they disappeared back toward the living room and out of your field of vision.
Once they were gone, Brian opened the fridge, rummaged through the junk and pulled out a beer for himself, then popped the tab. He leaned against the counter across from you and took a sip as he studied your face, which you were trying very hard to make seem normal.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, sipping at your beer if only to give your hands something to do. “Yeah… just a little… shaken up.”
Brian gave an understanding nod. “Tim can be a little intense sometimes. He’s either completely honed in or not interested at all. Sometimes he forgets that not everybody is like that, too.”
Your face burned with embarrassment, but if there was anyone you could talk to about this, it was Brian. He knew Tim better than anyone.
You tapped the cold glass of the bottle in your hands for a second, then asked, “Do you think he only did it because he was pissed about Jeff?”
Brian shook his head immediately.
“Nah. Tim doesn’t work like that. Jeff’s just an annoying, loud mouth kid to him. He doesn’t lose his head over shit like that.”
You stared down at your beer, chewing on your lip. “Then… why?”
Brian took another sip, then jerked his chin toward the back door.
“He’s out on the porch right now. And—he’s not smoking.” Brian raised his eyebrows. “When Tim’s not smoking, it means he’s thinking. Thinking real hard.”
He pushed off the counter, nodding toward the fridge.
“Go take him a beer. That’ll ease him up.”
You watched Brian disappear back into the living room, then immediately pressed the cold beer bottle against your forehead and closed your eyes. The chill helped a little, but your stomach was still doing nervous flips. Not scared-of-Tim flips. Just stupid, schoolgirl-crush, heart-in-your-throat flips. Barf. It was embarrassing as hell.
“Get it together,” you muttered to yourself.
You popped open the fridge again, grabbed the last beer, and started heading for the back porch.
But the second you reached the kitchen doorway, you froze.
Jeff was standing there, leaning against the frame, and blocking your path. He didn’t say a word. Just stared at you. And it was so… unreadable. His eyes flicked over your face, your slightly messy hair, the flush still lingering on your cheeks.
You stared right back.
The silence stretched uncomfortably. For a moment it felt like neither of you would move, but for as much ruckus as Jeff had caused tonight, you were more-than-willing to be rid of him right now. You had bigger things on your plate.
You squared your shoulders and shoved past him, knocking his arm out of the way with your shoulder.
He didn’t try to stop you.
You moved quickly through the hallway, the noise of the party fading behind you as you pushed through the back door and stepped out onto the wrap-around back porch.
The night air was cooler out here compared to the thick mug of coffee alcohol and smoke inside, trading the damp smells for fresh pines and wet dirt. Most of the party had moved or stayed inside, so the porch was vacant for the most part. But at the far end, where the railing curved into shadows and no one could see if they didn’t come outside, stood Tim.
He was leaning forward on the railing, staring out into the dark tree line like he was looking for something. He didn’t turn when he heard the door open. He didn’t glance over as your shoes creaked across the wooden planks. But you knew that he knew it was you.
You walked up and stopped beside him, setting the unopened beer on the railing near his hand, little beads of condensation dripping onto the wood.
For a few seconds, there was only the sound of crickets and the low hum from inside. You looked out into the treeline too, seeing how the dark shadows gave way to a black void beyond where the porch lights could reach. There were so many creatures and monsters out there, but none of them even came close to shaking your nerves like the man standing right next to you.
“Hey.”
Tim finally turned his head, his eyes sliding over to meet yours.
Tim’s stare had always been like iron, so sharp and guarded and prickling with intensity that kept almost everyone at arm’s length. But right now it looked… weary? Tired in a way that seemed deeper than just the late hour and the shitty beer.
Then his gaze dropped to the bottle in your hand.
“What’s this?”
“Peace offering,” you said, pushing it toward him a little further. “You looked like you could use one.”
Tim looked at you again, then at the bottle, before taking it. He twisted the cap off and took a long pull. Almost immediately his face twisted and he huffed through his nose.
“Jesus Christ, that’s awful.”
You couldn’t help but smile as you took another drink from your own. For a while, the two of you just leaned against the railing side by side, listening to the crickets and the distant rustle of the woods. The party noises inside felt miles away.
Eventually Tim huffed again, almost like he was annoyed with himself.
“I’m sorry for overstepping in there,” he said quietly. “I got lost in the theatrics of it all.”
You shook your head. “I would’ve told you to stop if I didn’t like it.”
…
You both caught it at the same time—the admission, the way it lingered. Your eyes met again.
Tim turned his head fully toward you, that weary look sharpening into something more focused.
“Did you like it?” he asked, and it’s like the words turned to static as they reached your ears.
You looked down at your shoes for a minute.
It had thrown you off, sure. The tightness of the space, the weird dynamic between you two, even the sheer amount of embarrassment from having to play this game at all made your brain feel like mush. But you couldn’t deny it.
It felt good.
The dizziness. The way your head went fuzzy and floaty. The way he took control of you completely and didn’t let you hide from it. The way every thought in your brain is stamped out the moment oxygen is absent from you.
Yeah… it felt good. A lot better than you were ever going to admit.
You took a big drink to buy yourself time for something witty to say, only to realize you’d already finished the entire bottle and there were only droplets left. You sighed and met his stare again.
“It’s a weird question,” you grimaced with an awkward little laugh.
Tim didn’t laugh with you.
He pushed off of the railing and stepped closer, close enough that you were suddenly the same distance apart as you’d been in that stupid closet. And who would’ve thought, but the fresh air out here suddenly became thicker in your lungs too.
His free hand lifted slowly. You watched it rise, your heart kicking off its rapid thumps like shoes in a washing machine once again. His fingers brushed the side of your neck first, and he was sure to feel the goosebumps that were rising there, before they slid from their position to lace around either side of your throat. His palm rested just under your chin.
You stalled completely. Went stock-still.
Heat flooded your face so fast you were sure you looked ridiculous. That familiar, stupid nervousness rushed back over you like a wave, making your breath catch and the tips of your fingers feel numb.
“Do you know your answer now?” he grumbled.
You stared up at him, completely dumbfounded. The words wouldn’t come. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Before you could find your voice, Tim reached down with his free hand and pried the empty beer bottle you’d forgotten about from your fingers. He set it on the railing beside his own, then closed the last bit of distance between you until your noses almost bumped.
His fingers flexed against the sides of your neck, applying the easiest amount of pressure to your airway.
You gasped sharply and your hands flew up on instinct, grabbing his wrist tightly.
“Is this okay?” he murmured.
You didn’t answer right away. The pressure made your breath go shallow, a warm, heavy feeling blooming in your head. It wasn’t painful—just intense. Overwhelming. Your pulse hammered against his palm.
After a second, you gave him a small nod.
That was all he needed.
Tim leaned in and kissed you, his beer-tasting lips sliding to meet yours, while his hand squeezed a little harder around your throat. It pinpointed your senses onto him—onto how labored he was making your breaths, how fuzzy he was making you feel, how warm and mushy and light all at once.
You whimpered against his mouth, the sound embarrassingly whiny and needy as you squeezed your eyes shut. Your fingers tightened around his wrist, doing little to keep yourself afloat as your knees weakened.
Tim’s other hand slid down and grabbed your hip firmly, fingers digging in as he pulled you tighter against him.
You tilted your head up further, sliding your hands from his wrist all the way up to the collar of his jacket. You tugged at him, yanking his chest flush against yours. Tim grunted, growling into the kiss and pushing his tongue between your lips, invading your senses.
Things started to get muggy really quick.
His hand around your throat tightened just enough to make your airway feel suddenly shallow. Every breath came out smaller, sweeter, turning your little gasps and whines into something embarrassingly needy between kisses. The more you whimpered, the more Tim chuckled warmly against your mouth.
He finally pulled back just enough for you to gasp in a proper breath, but his hand stayed glued around your throat firmly. Spit glistened on your swollen lips. You were the picture of bliss right now with your hazy eyes and flushed cheeks and lightheaded demeanor. Tim studied your face for a second, then shook his head slightly, like he wasn’t satisfied.
“You’re still too coherent,” he grumbled.
His hand left your hip and rose to your mouth. His thumb traced slowly around your wet lips, smearing the spit across them until they shone. Then he pushed his thumb between your parted lips, sliding it over your tongue.
You tasted the salt of his skin and sighed.
He gently bobbed his thumb in and out of your mouth, teasing, his eyes locked on the sight. You wrapped your lips around it instinctively and started licking, swirling your tongue under the pad of his thumb like it wasn’t completely desperate and embarrassing.
The effect on Tim was immediate, though.
“Fuck…” He pressed his thumb deeper for a moment, then pulled it out slowly, dragging it across your bottom lip. His hand around your throat flexed again, applying that perfect amount of pressure that made your head swim even more and your blinking grow more rapid.
“You have no idea what you look like right now.” His hips pressed forward against you, letting you feel exactly how hard he was. “How good you look.”
Tim dipped his thumb back into your mouth, sliding it slowly over your tongue. Without thinking, you started bobbing your head, sucking on it with gently eager pulls.
“Good job,” his voice dripped with approval.
The words hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your stomach flipped, heat flooding low in your belly.
He pulled his thumb out, dragging it across your bottom lip and leaving your mouth open and wet. Then he latched his mouth back into yours, kissing you deeply while his hand squeezed tighter.
You moaned into his mouth, the sound snagged as your air began to dissipate.
The kiss turned heated, your tongues sliding hot and messy, teeth nipping each other's lips, both of you breathing hard through it. Tim growled against you, devouring every little sound you gave him.
He pulled back just enough to speak. “If you wanted this the whole time, you could’ve just asked, sweetheart.”
Then his grip on your throat tightened hard.
Your eyes widened. A sharp, shrill sound escaped you as your airflow suddenly cut off completely. Your hands flew back to his wrist, gripping tight. Your eyes fluttered with tears and rolled slightly as the pressure built fast in your head.
“That’s it,” he kept his voice steady. “Don’t be too loud now, can’t have anybody seeing what a mess you are, now can we?”
In your haze, everything felt overwhelming. The rush of blood making your face burn hot. The tight, rigid tension in your body. The floating sensation in your head. It was turning you on so badly you could barely think, could barely keep tabs on the rest of your body.
So, you gave in.
Your body went a little limp in his hold, trusting him, melting against his chest. Failed little breaths turned into choked, whimpering moans that rumbled against his palm. Your thighs pressed together as heat throbbed between them horribly. Tim groaned in time with your sounds, pressing his hard cock against your hip and grinding away, letting you feel how much this was affecting him too.
“Does it feel good?” his lips brushed your cheek as he kissed you almost tenderly. “You can let go. I’ve got you, doll.”
You were clawing at his wrist now, not to pull him off, but because the pressure in your head kept building at a staggering rate, a bright white heat spreading through your senses, numbing everything else. It felt so fucking good. So freeing. Like every nerve in your body was lit up and floating at the same time.
You felt warm lines of tears roll down your cheeks.
“Awh… poor thing,” he breathed. “Don’t you know anybody could walk around this porch right now and see you? Anyone can see what a… fuck… what a mess you are.”
He stilled up after he said that, like he realized something, like he just had the air punched out of him.
Then he finally let go.
The rush of air back into your lungs hit you like a truck. You coughed violently, your chest doing great swoops as you gasped and choked, desperately trying to pull oxygen back in and getting interrupted by your own coughs. Your legs buckled, but Tim caught you, his arms wrapping around your waist and holding you upright against his chest.
He grumbled his support through it, “There you go. Take it easy.”
When you finally felt steady enough, you lifted your head from its position of staring blearily down at your shoes. Your cheeks were wet with tears, and you could still feel the mess of spit on your swollen lips. The embarrassment tries to wash over you, but is ultimately overpowered by the thumping ache in your stomach and head.
Tim tilted your chin up with his thumb, studying your face carefully.
“You alright?” he asked, glancing from one eye to the other, registering how much wider your pupils had become.
You took a shaky second, then nodded. “…Yeah.”
It was silent for a moment, before you both spoke again:
“You satisfi—?”
“Can you do it again?”
Tim groaned. “Fuck.”
He grabbed your arm and tugged you backward along the porch, moving you both around the corner of the house where the wrap-around deck tucked against the wall. It was much more private here—someone would have to step fully outside and round the corner to see you.
The second you were hidden from view, Tim’s hands landed on your shoulders and pushed you down.
Your knees hit the wooden planks without any resistance. The dizziness was back full tilt, so you swayed a little as you settled, fighting the fog in your head to look up at him. Tim towered over you, broad and dark against the night sky, the porch light casting sharp shadows across his burly face.
Jesus Christ, he’s hot as fuck.
He stared down at you for a moment, breathing harder now, his chest rising and falling in big pulses. He brought both hands to either side of your face, cupping your cheeks and curling his fingers under your jaw. His thumbs brushed over your tear-streaked skin, wiping some of it away.
You broke eye contact and looked straight ahead, right at your eye level.
Fuck.
Tim’s bulge was obvious, straining hard against the front of his jeans, the thick outline pulsing slightly with his heartbeat. Your lips parted on a shaky gasp. Even with your vision still a little blurry from the lack of oxygen, it was so evident, you couldn’t look away. Your mouth watered.
You wanted it. Horribly.
Tim slid one hand to the back of your head, cupping it to keep your limp, oxygen-deprived body from tipping over. Your skin felt prickly all over, your nerves buzzing and firing off in little shivers.
You dragged your gaze back up to his face, swallowing hard.
“I want it,” you whispered, your voice so small you barely even heard it.
Tim’s lips curved into a grin, his eyebrows raising in mock question. The sight of it made your stomach flip.
“Yeah?” he murmured, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “You want it so bad… then you’re gonna have to take it for yourself.”
Your eyes dropped back down in front of you, then up to his belt. Your hands felt weak, but you raised them anyway and you worked at his belt buckle, the metal clinking as you pulled the leather through the clasps, fighting to get it open.
Tim didn’t help you. He just stood there, letting you struggle with the button and zipper, punctuating every step of the way with little sighs or grunts of approval.
“That’s it,” he said when you finally got the zipper down. “Go on, then. Show me what you want.”
Tim leaned his shoulders back against the side of the house, the wood creaking under his weight as he rolled his hips forward just slightly, like he was offering himself to you—or asking you to hurry up—you weren’t sure.
He was wearing dark navy boxers, and right at the tip of the very prominent bulge there was a small, damp spot where the fabric clung to him. Heart hammering, you shifted higher on your knees. Your hands were still shaky from the lack of oxygen earlier, but you reached up anyway, curling your fingers into the waistband of his boxers. His skin was warm, almost hot, under your fingertips. You noticed the dark trail of hair starting just below his navel, leading down and disappearing beneath the fabric.
You swallowed hard and tugged his boxers down.
The second you pulled them past his hips, his cock sprang free, so heavy, bobbing once right in front of your face.
Oh my god.
He was big. Not porn-star scumbag long, but thick like the rest of his body, girthy in a way that made your stomach tighten with nervous excitement. The flushed head was already glistening with pre-cum, a shiny bead forming at the slit and threatening to drip right there in front of your lips. He was thickest in the middle, the length curving a bit where a prominent vein snaked the underside, throbbing every few moments. You could see it twitch slightly in time with his pulse. All to lead to a dark, messy patch of hair at his pelvis.
Everything felt hazy. You were a little awestruck and more than a little intimidated.
Tim let out a relieved huff when his cock finally fell free, almost like he’d been holding his breath. You could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the musk of his skin and the air from the night. Your thighs pressed together instinctively as another wave of dizzy heat washed through you.
Tim’s voice groveled from above you, “You gonna just stare at it all night?”
There was a punch of amusement in his tone, but mostly it was strained, like he was trying very hard to stay patient while you knelt before him, wide-eyed and visibly overwhelmed.
His cock gave another twitch right in front of you, another bead of pre-cum forming at the tip.
“I… I’ve never… I mean—”
Tim chuckled. “Use your words.”
You swallowed over the lump in your throat, your cheeks burning hotter. “I’m nervous,” you mumbled. “I’ve never done… this before.”
Tim raised an eyebrow, tilting his head so he was looking down the bridge of his nose at you. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Nobody’s used this mouth before?” he asked, almost disbelieving.
He slid his hand from the back of your head to cup under your chin, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip before tugging it down and parting your lips for him. His brows furrowed as he stared at your open mouth.
You licked your lips nervously. “Will you… be easy?”
Tim let out a chuckle, the sound warm in his chest.
“As much as I can be,” he grinned.
Then both of his hands moved to either side of your head, cupping your jaw and cheeks. You placed your hands over his, clutching his fingers tightly as he guided your head forward. Your heartbeat was so violent in your chest you thought he’d be able to hear it.
“Open up.”
You parted your lips wider, your eyes fixed on his tip as it disappeared under your nose and he eased the head past them. The tip bumped your tongue, the salty taste of his pre-cum spreading across your mouth. You let out a shaky breath through your nose, squeezing his hands harder.
The thick head of his cock slid over your tongue as he pushed in slowly. You opened your mouth wider on instinct, trying to make room for him. He tasted warm and a little gritty, exactly like how he always smelled naturally. Your eyes fluttered closed as you tried to relax your jaw, breathing quickly through your nose.
Tim let out a groan above you, “Fuck… so wet,” his voice tight with restraint.
He angled your head a little more with both hands and pushed forward again. The tip bumped against the roof of your mouth, making you jerk slightly. Tim hissed through his teeth.
“Watch your teeth, sweetheart.”
He adjusted the angle and pushed a little deeper. You felt your lips stretch around him as roughly the first third of his length filled your mouth. It was a lot and heavy on your tongue, stretching your jaw in a way that made your head spin even more.
You ran your tongue slowly along the sensitive underside of the head, licking at the leaking slit.
“Shit—” Tim cursed sharply, his hips twitching forward on their own.
He shifted his weight, steadying himself against the wall, then tugged your head back and forth, bobbing you along the first few inches of his cock. The motion was slow, letting you get used to the size and weight of him.
“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just like that. Relax your jaw… good. Suck a little harder when I pull you forward—mmh—yeah, fuck, just like that.”
He guided your head forward and back, daring to pull you a little deeper on his length every time.
“Easy now,” he instructed, stroking your cheek. “Don’t try to take too much yet. Just focus on relaxing—good. Yeah. You’re doing good.”
You could feel his hesitance in how he grabbed you, how he was holding himself stiff to not jar you too roughly. But you asked for this, so he shouldn’t hold back for your sake.
So when he pulled your head back, you scrunched your brows and pushed forward instead, taking more of him into your mouth. Tim groaned, his thumbs pressing harder into your cheeks as you stretched your lips wider around his size. Nearly halfway now.
You coughed around him, your eyes watering as he filled your mouth so completely. The stretch burned pleasantly at the corners of your lips and your jaw ached from the awkward stretch, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let go of his wrists. One hand braced against his pelvis, feeling the tense muscle straining there, while the other wrapped around the thick base of his cock and gave a tentative squeeze.
Tim cursed sharply under his breath, his thumbs digging harder into your cheeks. “There you go,” he grunted.
You leaned in and took him deeper, sucking on the first half of his length as best you could. The hand wrapped around his base made it easier to angle him, letting you slide your lips further down his shaft. You bobbed your head slowly, trying to find a rhythm, your tongue pressing and sliding along the underside as you worked him.
Tim's hips tried to buck forward before he caught himself.
“Shit… you sure you’ve never done this before?” he breathed, staring down at you. “You’re a fucking natural.”
He slid one hand into your hair, gripping just tight enough to guide you, and started pulling your head back and forth rhythmically. You let him set it, relaxing your jaw as much as you could while your hand continued stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach. Your spit was already coating him, making everything slick and messy, dripping down his shaft as your tongue ran over every inch you could reach.
Tim’s breathing grew ragged, broken up by low grunts and curses every time you sucked harder or swirled your tongue around the sensitive head.
“That’s it… ahh—fuck,” he murmured when you choked a little. “Who would’ve thought you’d be this good.”
He rocked his hips in time with the movement of your head, fucking shallowly into your mouth while his fingers stayed tangled in your hair. The obscene wet sounds coming from your mouth were the only noise rivaling the crickets and bugs in the woods, besides Tim’s heavy breathing and the mumbled jump of music from inside. Please let it be loud enough so nobody can hear, you thought.
You tried to take more of him, pushing forward eagerly, but the thick head of his cock nudged against the entrance of your throat and you immediately choked, coughing hard around him. You had to pull back, gasping with watery eyes.
Frustration burned in your chest. You wanted this—wanted him—so you tried again, forcing yourself deeper. Same result. Your throat closed up, and you gagged, pulling back with a wet, embarrassing sound.
One more try. You opened wider, shoved your face forward, and immediately choked again. Lewd, messy noises spilled from your throat as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.
Tim’s hands tightened on the sides of your head.
“Easy,” he cooed. “Slow down, doll. You’re pushing too hard.”
He guided you back until just the swollen tip rested on your tongue. You sucked on it obediently, apologetically, swirling your tongue over the leaking slit, tasting the salty pre-cum that kept dribbling out. Tim let out a moan, gritting his teeth as he watched.
You tried again anyway, your jaw aching in protest as you shoved forward, furrowing your brows in concentration. The wet sounds that came out of you were filthy. Tim groaned again, but this time he pulled you off completely, his cock slipping from your lips with a slick pop.
You gasped for air, spit and tears smeared across your chin and cheeks as you recollected your senses. Tim wiped at your face with his thumb, smearing the mess even more as he looked down at you.
“You’re doing perfectly,” he strained. “What’s the matter?”
You swallowed, still catching your breath, staring at his throbbing, spit-slick cock hovering in front of you—which you wanted so desperately.
“I want you to go harder,” you choked over a hoarse voice.
“You’ve barely started. You need to get comfortable first—”
“I don’t care,” you cut in, looking up at him with watery eyes. “I want you to use me. Like how you choked me earlier… I want to feel that. I want you to make me feel that way.”
Tim stalled, staring down at you. His cock gave a big twitch right in front of your face, drooling another thick bead of pre-cum that slowly dripped down the shaft. You could see the conflict in his eyes—the careful, controlled part of him warring with raw want.
Then something in his expression shifted.
He reached down and planted his hand firmly on the crown of your head, his fingers curling tight into your hair. He jerked your head back so you were looking straight up at him. His face was dark now, eyes laden with lust.
“I’ll tell you what to do,” he gripped. “But you listen to me. You fight me and you’ll hurt yourself. Understand?”
You nodded quickly, your heart racing.
Tim gripped the base of his cock with his other hand and pulled your head forward. He tapped the glistening tip against your bottom lip a few times, teasing the spit that gleamed there.
“Open.”
You parted your lips obediently, slipping your tongue out to meet him. He slid the head into your mouth, letting you close your lips around it. Then his hand moved to the back of your head, planting a base there.
“Relax,” he ordered. “Don’t fight it.”
Before you could even nod, he pushed forward, sliding deep in one smooth thrust until the head bumped the back of your mouth and pressed against the entrance of your throat. You gagged instantly, but he pulled back just as fast, only to push in again, setting a relentless rhythm.
“Oh, there we go,” he grumbled through his pleasure. “Good fucking girl. Just let me use this pretty mouth.”
Tim didn’t hold back anymore.
He tightened his grip in your hair and started fucking your mouth with punctuated thrusts, his hips snapping forward to push deeper into the wet heat of your mouth with deep grunts and growls. You grabbed onto his jean-clad thighs for balance, digging your fingers into the rough fabric as you squeezed your eyes shut, trying your best not to fight the constant intrusion despite how your body wanted to.
Every forward snap of his hips made his belt buckle jingle beside your ear. Lewd gags and choked little noises escaping you with every thrust as the thick head of his cock battered the back of your mouth.
“Fuck…” Tim hissed through gritted teeth, tugging your hair. “That’s it—just take it. Christ, your mouth feels so goddamn good.”
He moaned when you gagged harder around him, his hips stuttering for a second before he pushed in again, a little deeper this time.
“Shit—easy, sweetheart, easy,” he panted, even as he kept thrusting. “I know it’s a lot—mmh—but your choking is so pretty. C’mon, try again.”
You grunted around him with every deep push, spit dripping down your chin as your throat convulsed. Tears slipped freely down your cheeks now, but you didn’t pull away. You held onto his thighs tighter, trying to take deep breaths of air through your nose whenever he pulled back.
Tim cursed under his breath, half at you, half at himself.
“Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this to you… not like this—ah, shit—” He groaned loudly as you swallowed around him. “But you feel too fucking good. This greedy little mouth… sucking me like you were made for it.”
Tim slowed his hips, easing you forward until just the thick middle of his cock rested between your lips. He let you suck him slowly, dragging your wrapped lips from the middle of his shaft all the way up to the swollen, leaking tip.
“Relax,” he sighed. “Don’t fight it. You’re gonna take all of me.”
A sharp jolt of nervousness shot through you like electricity, but it only made the heat between your legs throb harder. You blinked slowly with glassy eyes, and nodded around him.
He cupped the back of your head firmer. “Lean your head back a little… yeah, just like that. Open wider for me, doll. Relax your throat. Let me give you what you want.”
You did as he said, tilting your head back and opening your mouth as wide as you could, sucking gently on the tip while your tongue swirled around it.
Tim started pushing in again. This time he didn’t stop where he had before.
You felt the prominent vein along his shaft slide over your tongue as he fed more of his thick cock into your mouth. Your jaw ached from the stretch, especially when he reached the widest part of him. You coughed around his length as the head pressed firmly against the tight entrance of your throat.
“Easy… easy,” Tim breathed, holding you still. “Just breathe through your nose.”
He abused that spot, shallowly fucking the head of his cock against the beginning of your throat with small, insistent nudges that made you gag and choke wetly around him. Spit dripped down your chin in messy strings.
“Relax your throat,” he grit out. “Let me in. Come on, sweetheart, open up for me. I know you can take it.”
You whimpered around his cock, tears slipping down your cheeks again, but you tried—focusing on his voice, on relaxing your throat even as your body instinctively fought the intrusion, on every buzzing nerve in your head.
He pushed forward again, feeding more of his thick cock past the uncooperative ring of muscle at the back of your throat. The stretch burned, and you choked around him, again and again, but Tim didn’t pull back.
“C’mon,” he growled. “Let it happen.”
You tried. God, you tried. But the deeper he went, the harder it became. It was like he was pushing into your brain. You couldn’t tell if you were more frustrated that you weren’t being choked on his cock, or that him choking you like this wasn’t working.
“Look at me.”
You forced your watery eyes to peel open and up to his. The intensity in his stare was almost too much—you had nowhere else to look. Only his tan skin, dark hair, and everything you never knew you wanted so badly.
“Just focus here,” he muttered. “Keep lookin’ at me.”
He kept pushing, inch by inch, until the widest part of his cock forced its way past that tight ring. Your throat spasmed violently around him. You coughed and gagged, your body jerking and trying to pull away, but Tim held your head firmly in place, refusing to let you pull away.
“Shh. Relax… just relax,” he growled, trying to be soothing even as his own breathing grew ragged. “You’re doin’… so good. Takin’ me so deep. Fuck, I can feel your throat squeezin’ me…”
Finally, with one last slow push, he bottomed out.
Your nose pressed flush against his pelvis, buried in the coarse patch of dark hair. His length throbbed deep down your throat, completely cutting off your air. The fullness was overwhelming to an alarming rate.
Tim let out a long groan, his hips jerking and settling as he held you there.
“Jesus Christ… all the way. You got every fuckin’ inch.” His voice was hoarse, something you’d never really heard before. “Good. Such a good fucking job for me.”
You were getting lightheaded fast.
The world blurred at the edges, a warm, floaty haze settling over everything. Your throat fluttered and squeezed around the thick length of Tim’s cock, every tiny twitch and throb pulling another noise from him. But underneath the strain, the ache, the burning stretch… you felt nothing but bliss.
He’d bottomed out completely. The heavy head of his cock nestled deep in your throat like it belonged there. It felt like a bell had rung somewhere inside your skull—a deep, resonant thrum. The pressure, the fullness, the way your body fought and then haphazardly surrendered… it was overwhelming in the best way. You couldn’t breathe. You were gagging softly around him, tears streaming down your face, but none of it mattered. It felt too good. Like being choked from the inside out. Like something filthy touching a part of you no one else had ever reached.
Tim’s hand slid tenderly over your wet cheek, his thumb brushing away some of the tears as he looked down at you.
“So pretty,” he rasped. “So warm.”
His hand drifted lower, cupping under your jaw for a moment, petting you almost sweetly. Then it kept going.
You felt his palm settle over the front of your throat.
Your dazed eyes blinked into focus.
Tim’s fingers curled around your neck, squeezing with a good amount of pressure while his cock stayed buried. Your hand flew up and gripped his forearm where you felt it. A muffled whine vibrated around his length as your vision began to tunnel, black creeping in at the edges. Your head felt like it was floating, pulsing with white-hot heat, but the lack of air made everything sharper and softer at the same time. Everything was contradictory.
“Settle down… I’ve got you,” Tim murmured. “Look at you. You’re doing great.”
He kept the pressure steady, not crushing, but firm enough that every shallow, failed attempt at breath turned into a weak, pathetic gag that made your head strain further. Your body trembled. You felt like you were burning alive—every nerve lit up, body aching, head spinning so badly you thought you might actually pass out.
And you didn’t care.
It felt too good. The numbness, the heat, the overwhelming fullness, how Tim was looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world… it was addictive.
Tim’s thumb stroked over the front of your throat, feeling the way his own cock bulged there as he held you pinned.
You gazed up at him through puffy, tear-blurred eyes, barely separating where his face began and the porch lights ended. But what you could see was flushed raw, his stern mask cracked open to leave nothing but visceral need.
He gave one involuntary bump of his hips, nudging just a little deeper, and cursed sharply under his breath.
“Shit… I’m not gonna last like this,” he growled.
Then something shifted in him. Anxious, restless energy took over, and his hands moved to either side of your head, his fingers threading into your hair as he carefully dragged his cock back. You felt every thick inch sliding out of your throat—the sudden rush of air, the wet, obscene pull, the way your throat shuttered and clenched around nothing once he was almost all the way out.
You barely had time to breathe before he thrust back in.
Fuck.
The stretch burned as he pushed deep again and bottomed out. Then he did it again. And again.
Tim started fucking your throat in earnest.
He was growly now, almost animalistic with deep, frustrated grunts escaping him with every rough snap of his hips. He’d pull back halfway, just enough for you to feel the head drag across your tongue, before slamming back in, forcing himself past that tight ring and burying his cock to the hilt.
“Fuck—that’s it,” he rasped, voice breaking. “Take it. Just fuckin’ take it all.”
Your jaw had gone completely slack, your lips stretched wide around the base of him as he used your mouth. Every thrust punched a wet, choked gag out of you. Spit poured down your chin in messy strings, dripping onto your chest and the wooden porch below. Your hands stayed clenched tight on his thighs, holding on for dear life while he fucked your throat with growing urgency. Your body fought desperately for air that never came, but your brain couldn’t be more happy.
Tim’s hand slid from your hair to your cheek, his rough palm surprisingly gentle as he brushed away some of the tears still rolling down your skin. Then his thumb slipped into the corner of your mouth, hooking inside and pulling your lips open even wider, exposing your tongue for him buried under the weight of his length.
You blinked slowly and let your head go completely lax in his hold. You wanted him to use you exactly how he needed.
“I’m close,” he rasped, groaning as his thrusts turned sharp and frantic. “Fuck… I’m gonna cum.”
You looked up at him through wet lashes. His usually neat hair had fallen forward, dark strands messy and sticking to his forehead, hanging into his eyes. He looked completely undone.
“Shit—fuck,” Tim cursed sharply.
He pulled his cock out of your throat in one smooth motion. You gasped in wet, raw breaths, your chest heaving as fresh air finally rushed back into your lungs. Before you could even steady yourself, his thumb tugged your bottom lip down, holding your mouth wide open for him.
He pressed the swollen, leaking tip of his cock right against your tongue and started stroking himself in fast, frantic strokes. His body shook with how close he was.
You whined loudly around him, the desperate sound vibrating against his tip as you looked up at him with teary, needy eyes, silently begging the best you could.
That did it.
Tim practically growled when he came.
Thick, hot ropes of cum spilled across your tongue and flooded your open mouth. He kept stroking himself through it, gritting his teeth hard to stay quiet, his shoulders shaking as pulse after heavy pulse poured over your tongue. You moaned, the taste so satisfying and evidence of your hard work.
“Ah, God… swallow it all,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Swallow what I give you.”
Even as he came, he kept his thumb hooked in the bottom of your mouth, holding you open so he could watch every rope land on your tongue. His whole body trembled with the force of it, his hips twitching as the last few weak spurts dribbled onto your lips.
“Christ.”
When the last of his release had spilled across your tongue, you closed your lips around the sensitive head of his cock and gently sucked.
Tim’s hips twitching at the overstimulation. “Mmnh… you’re gonna kill me.”
You pulled off, then swallowed, feeling the warmth of him slide down your throat. The taste of him lingered on your tongue, so salty and warm.
Exhausted, you slumped down, your chest heaving as you dragged in deep, full breaths. Your head was still spinning, and you could feel the mess of yourself, all the spit and tears drying on your face. You lifted a hand to wipe at your chin, but Tim caught your wrist and swatted it away.
“I got it,” he muttered.
He slid down the wall, his back pressed to the wood as he tucked himself back into his boxers and jeans, quickly fixing his belt. Then he leaned forward, using his rough hands to haphazardly clean the mess from your cheeks and chin. When he was satisfied, he wrapped his hand around your arm and tugged you forward to turn your back against the wall too, your shoulders leaned against the other’s. The warmth of his body grounded you amongst all the haze.
For the first time you could hear it over the rush in your head, the party was still kicking inside, random yelling and loud music still evident against the quiet out here now.
“You okay?”
You looked over at Tim, whose face was the picture of exhaustion, mental and physical. You nodded, bumping your shoulder against his playfully.
He watched you for another second, then turned his head to stare out through the porch rails into the dark woods. The crickets kept chirping like nothing had happened.
“I shouldn’t have done that to you,” he muttered. “Not out here.”
You let out a tired laugh, leaning your head back against the wall.
“You’re dumb if you couldn’t tell how badly I wanted it,” you said, your voice a lot more hoarse than it had started. “I’m more disappointed you didn’t pull something like that sooner. You clearly wanted it, too.”
Tim quietly chuckled, a bit of light breaking through that dark stormcloud that always hovered above his head. For a moment the two of you just sat there, catching your breath and relaxing again. Then you both turned at the same time, your eyes meeting together. You leaned in slowly, and he did the same, faces drawing closer until your lips were barely a breath apart—
“Whoops.”
You both snapped your heads toward the voice.
Brian stood a few feet away, looking mildly awkward but mostly amused, three open beers clutched between his fingers. He was trying and failing to hide the smirk on his face.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked, tone far too innocent.
Tim let out a long, exhausted sigh and dragged a hand down his face. “C’mon, man.”
Brian stepped closer anyway and handed over two of the beers. Tim took them, passing one straight to you without a word. You accepted it gratefully and took a big, long drink. The cold, bitter liquid felt like heaven on your raw throat.
“Toby had a whole stash under his bed,” Brian explained, leaning against the railing across from you. “Party’s kinda revived itself since you two disappeared. People are doing chugging contests again.”
He took a sip of his own beer, eyes flicking between the two of you with barely-hidden amusement.
“So… had a good time mingling?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Tim shot him a flat look. “How much did you hear?”
Brian shrugged, the picture of innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just guarding the door like a responsible friend looking out for his pals.”
You nearly choked on your beer. Tim just shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he took a long drink from his own bottle.
The three of you sat there for a moment in surprisingly comfortable silence, the distant chaos of the party drifting through the walls while the cool night air brushed over your heated skin and wore off the strain. Brian’s smirk never quite went away, but he didn’t push it.
Tim’s shoulder, however, stayed pressed right against yours.
Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!
๑ prologue
๑ back to my masterlists
── .✦ rainrot4me2026, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ
I’m ovulating, it’s your problem now.
oh adam stanheight ive fallen for your tboy charm.....
also the paper I'm drawing on (in my BRAND NEW michael myers notebook is actually SHIT paper. GOD.)
Manifesting a butch with huge arms rn
Just something random cuz I'm so unmotivated to draw but yuh
Yesterday’s Model
Kirsh x Fem!Reader - for Kirshtober
summary: you’re three weeks into working under Kirsh, Prodigy’s second-best and most impossible man. then you deck a guard, and things get… complicated. word count: 3,2K warnings: minor injury, awful flirting, suggestive themes a/n: “i won’t make reader get hurt this time.” also me, five minutes later: 🤕 “kirsh, help.”
You learn Neverland’s weather long before you learn its politics. Morning is a vitrified fog that slides down the concrete like breath on glass; noon is a white disc laid straight onto water; afternoon is a wind that smells like salt and circuitry. The facility is all clean angles and careful shadows, a spread of low buildings pretending to be modest. Inside, everything hums with money and intent. Outside, the gardens do their best to pretend the island is a place.
The island wears the noon like a fever. Heat slicks the concrete bones of the facility; palm shadows carve zebra stripes across the walkways. Beyond the wall, jungle breathes in damp, dense syllables—salt wind, wet earth, the endless insect choir. Boy Kavalier named the place Neverland, and sometimes you believe him: an island determined to stay a story.
Inside the grounds, the garden pretends the story has manners. Clean raked gravel. A ribboning pond the color of polished jade. Plumeria, hibiscus, heliconia—bruised, brilliant. A gazebo crouches among cycads like a small white crown. Somewhere, water slips through a rill and says, hush.
Three weeks and change at Prodigy, assigned to the lab of the man everyone calls the second-best. They say it like a riddle with a knife in it. Kavalier is the face. Kirsh is the spine.
On paper: Chief Scientist Assistant (Systems & Somatics). Series designation: proprietary. Your ID badge lists your name and title—Assistant (Provisional)—and nothing about the speed with which others have been reassigned from his orbit. The rumor is he burns through human help the way the old servers used to burn through fans: one wrong tick, one error, and you’re on a different floor before the coffee cools.
You haven’t been reassigned.
You suspect luck. You suspect terror. You suspect competence dressed as both.
The lab itself is a well-behaved storm. Everything gleams. The bench is a calm rectangle. The walls remember your handprint. On your first day, you watched him identify a malfunctioning spectrometer by the way its fan stuttered half a note off pitch. On your second, he reached around your shoulder to adjust the angle of a pipette and said, without looking at you, “Economy of motion is an ethic.” On your third, he gave you a login that works on doors you have never touched before.
This morning you ran a sequence, logged it, cross-checked once, twice. He read your notes in a single sweep, head canted, like sound.
“Mm.” he said. You have learned that mm can mean: good, better, acceptable, proceed. He signed something. He signed several somethings. The lab pulled you forward, and you kept being pulled, the way clean work builds its own gravity.
Now it’s lunch time, your least favourite part of the day. You need light, air, something not the color of glass and steel.
The garden is a compromise between an architect with a conscience and a budget stressed by surveillance. Concrete bones. Green skin. Ponds the size of careful mirrors. A gazebo that looks like an apology. Vines taught not to reach too far. A sign that says NO SMOKING / SANCTIONABLE OFFENSE in polite font.
You sit on the gazebo’s bench with a bento stolen from the canteen and a schema sprawled in your head. You eat without looking at the food much. The sunlight is a filtered thing, sailing down through beams. Dragonflies stitch the air between lily pads. You pretend this is what lunch always looks like: you, alone, absorbing warmth and not thinking about Show-Cause emails.
Then the smell hits. Acrid. Hot. A makeshift campfire of someone’s bad choice.
You glance over your shoulder and there they are: three guards in the pocket of shade near the koi pond, uniforms half unbuttoned, posture in that loose shape people have when they think the world will make room for them. Cigarettes glow at their fingers. The wind carries sparks toward the mulch. A little burn-circle pocks the gravel like a punctuation mark the island never asked for.
It’s not your job. You tell yourself that for exactly one breath. On the next, you stand.
“Hey.” you say, walking toward them, badge visible because you’ve learned a hundred small ways to announce legitimacy in a place that lets hierarchy do the heavy lifting. “No smoking in the gardens.”
They look at you like you’ve said something quaint. The youngest one—twitch in the jaw, cheek still soft with the kind of baby fat that doesn’t know it’s on borrowed time—takes the cigarette out of his mouth and laughs through his nose.
“Relax, baby.” he says and you fight the urge to gag at the nickname. “It’s a camera-free zone.”
“That doesn’t change fire.” you say, and point at the sign because you were raised by rules and since then have chosen to keep some of them. “Put them out. There’s oxygen lines under here. You know that.”
There’s a silence in which the koi make the only movement anyone can claim. Then the one in the middle—the one with the leadership stance, the practiced slouch—steps forward with a smile he thinks is charming.
“Who are you again?” he asks in a condescending tone, expecting an answer that won't frighten him into submission.
“I'm the new assistant.” you say. “In the lab, for the Chief Scientist.”
“Ah.” he says. “The lab. The Chief. New girl, right?” He glances at his friends, performs a knowing grin. “How long do they last, boys? Week? Two?”
“Depends on what she’s good at.” the young one says.
You feel heat uncoil in your chest. You do not feed it. “Put them out.” you repeat, and point at the mulch.
The third one—older, smarter, the type who watches the game and decides whether to join—tilts his cigarette, taps ash carefully into a plastic bottle full of water. Responsible rebellion. His friends don’t follow suit. The middle one lifts the cigarette to his mouth, inhales, makes a performance of exhale.
“Why don’t you run back to your boss, new girl?” he asks, eyes slitting against the sun as if he’s doing you a favor by squinting. “But before you go, I was always curious... What does it feel like?” You make a face and against your better judgement ask: “What do you mean?” His grin meets you, sharp and ugly as if you've just given him his own punchline: “Sucking yesterday’s model’s dick?”
Sometimes the body chooses for you.
You don’t think about HR. You don’t think about your badge or your three-week seniority stack or your careful record. You don’t think about how the phrase yesterday's model's dick sounds in a mouth that doesn’t deserve syllables. You turn, you plant, you throw the punch you learned two apartments ago when a landlord forgot the boundaries of proximity.
Your knuckles connect with his nose. It’s not elegant, but it’s decisive. You feel it: cartilage, surprise. You hear it: a sound like a switch being thrown. He staggers, the cigarette falling, sparking. Blood begins as a question and becomes an answer immediately.
His friends laugh, which isn’t the loyalty he was hoping for. The world goes very sharp. The koi pond’s surface shivers like a lie. Your hand throbs hot.
He looks up, furious, and steps forward with his fist square and dumb. You set your feet. You run the calculus of whether you can avoid his knuckles and keep your job.
You wonder if HR will accept “oxygen lines” as a love letter.
A shadow pours over the gravel and you know—without seeing—that physics just made room.
Kirsh arrives like the light chooses him. Not fast. Not slow. An inevitability carrying its own weather. He stops at your shoulder and the space calibrates around him: the loose heat snaps taut, the laughter vacates, the pond’s surface holds itself very still.
He doesn’t look at you. He looks through the three men, the way scanners see bone. Authority sits on him like a well-cut suit.
“Gentlemen.” he says. No volume, no heat—just a word that makes it obvious he doubts either one qualifies for the title. It's the exact same tone he uses in the lab when a machine is out of tolerance and pretending not to be.
The leader’s fist detonates into an awkward open hand. Blood glistens at the seam of his nostrils. He swallows. The young one shifts a boot against gravel. The older one already looks at the ground.
Kirsh tips his head a fraction. The hibiscus leans as if to listen. “Your schedule —” he says, mild as a weather report. “— 12:30 grounds patrol. This is neither patrol nor groundskeeping.”
“Break.” the leader mutters, trying to rescue himself with only one word.
Kirsh’s eyes tick to the cigarette scorch at your feet, then to the bottle with drowned ash, then back to three faces that don’t deserve the time they’ve borrowed. “Your break concluded four minutes ago.” A beat. “Unless your unit lead has updated doctrine to include open flames in landscaped areas above research oxygen lines. Shall I confirm with Kavalier?”
Kavalier’s name lands with the weight of payroll. A bird shrieks once from the trees beyond the fence, the jungle throwing in its commentary. Sweat tugs at the collar of your shirt. You keep your face neutral, because you’ve learned that his power often arrives disguised as courtesy.
Kirsh angles his attention to the leader’s half-raised hand. No threat in his stance. All of the consequences. “I suggest you to put your hand down.”
He does, almost automatically.
“And pick up your trash.” Kirsh adds, softer, but holding authority. “Now.”
They do. The older one moves first. The young one scuffs out a coal with the side of his boot like a child. The leader dabs at his nose with the back of his wrist and blinks when it comes away red. He starts to speak—She hit me is halfway to air—then realizes that declaration would not help.
“Here are the choices.” Kirsh says after an unnecessary inhale. “You resume your assigned patrol and we collectively forget the last five minutes, or I notify your unit lead that you’ve been smoking, burning mulch, and harassing a member of my staff. If that happens, by this evening you are either unemployed or on the next shuttle to New Siam.”
New Siam folds the three of them in half. Even the jungle seems to suck its teeth at the name. The leader’s throat works around a word he doesn’t say.
“Patrol.” the older one says quickly. “Patrol’s good.”
They scatter. Not a scrap of ash left, not a footprint if they can help it. In seconds the pond is a pond again, lily pads pretending they never watched.
Kirsh watches them go without turning his head, like the island keeps him updated piece by piece. Then—only then—he shifts attention to you.
His eyes go directly to your hand as if he remembered it before he arrived. He doesn’t ask what happened. He already knows, he's heard and seen enough.
Kirsh steps closer, and that’s when your pulse misbehaves: the heat of him, the way his presence feels like somebody pulled shade over the noon.
“Let me see.” he says, and holds out his hand.
You give him yours. Your knuckles are bright and split, already swelling. He turns your wrist with a careful grip, thumbs bracing bone, and studies damage with a concentration that always feels more intimate than it should. You catch a detail—he smells faintly of lab solvent and plumeria, the island having stuck to him on the walk over.
“You punch well.” he says, assessing. “Poor target selection for the knuckles. We’ll fix that.”
“We?” you say, trying not to sound like your blood just went louder.
“We.” he says, as if there’s no other pronoun available.
He pulls a compact first-aid kit from inside his coat—of course he has one—and guides you toward the gazebo without touching your back, just walking close enough that the air between you thinks about blushing. You sit. He crouches, opens gauze and antiseptic with neat hands.
“Am I about to be written up?” you ask, because if you don’t talk, you might do something stupid like stare at his rolled sleeves and his perfectly detailed forearm.
“For arson prevention?” he says, dry. “No.”
“For battery.” you reply.
“On a man who asked for it and then borrowed a second he couldn’t afford?” He glances up, and the corner of his mouth has the smallest, nearly private curve. “No.”
He takes your hand again. The antiseptic bites; you focus on the line of his jaw rather than the sting. In the near distance, the jungle hisses and clicks, alive with birds that refuse to be cataloged. A dragonfly threads a figure eight in the sun between your shoulders and the hibiscus bloom.
“I’m not in the habit of punching people during lunchbreak.” you say, breathing through it.
“I’m in the habit of stopping fires.” he says. “Both kinds.”
Your brain hiccups, trips over itself, and dies a little. “Excuse me?”
“The implication.” he says, tone maddeningly bland. “That you’ve kept your position through… suggestive methods.” The word suggestive leaves his mouth like a small, private sin. “Is that your strategy here?”
It’s a joke. It has to be. You huff out a laugh that sounds too thin to be convincing. “Have I—” you start, then stop, then barrel through anyway, “—have I sucked your dick so far?”
Silence. The kind that blooms, humid and heavy, before sound finds a way to crawl back in. You curse yourself, your mouth, every neuron that chose violence.
Kirsh raises an eyebrow, the picture of calm amusement. He’s still half crouched in front of you, tending your bruised hand with meticulous precision. From this angle, his eyes look almost human—dark brown, not the faint amber the overhead lab lights give him. You forget to breathe. The air between you feels charged, like it’s trying to decide whether to spark or collapse.
He glances up again, catching the rhythm of your pulse just from the way you hold your breath. You exhale slowly, hoping it goes unnoticed. It doesn’t.
“Interesting choice of words.” he murmurs. “So far implies future intent.”
If there’s a god, he’s laughing. You stare at the garden floorboards, wondering if spontaneous combustion is an option.
“I didn’t— I wasn’t— that’s not—” You can hear the flustered mess leaving your mouth and can’t stop it.
He makes a soft sound—mm—but it isn’t his usual tone of approval. This one hums somewhere between entertained and curious, like he’s watching data take an unexpected turn.
“So.” he says, not looking up this time, his focus still on your hand, the pad of his thumb tracing the edge of the bandage. “You corrected their theory, but didn’t quite deny the ambition behind it?”
Your head snaps up. “That’s not—”
He looks at you then, properly looks, and the smallest curve ghosts across his lips. It’s almost a smile. Almost.
You’d rather face the guards again.
You blink at him, heat clawing up your neck. “That’s not what I said.”
“No.” Kirsh agrees, voice too mild. “It’s what you implied.”
“I— implied nothing.”
“Then your tone was… misleading.” He looks far too calm for someone making you seriously consider death by embarrassment.
“Do you usually interrogate all your assistants like this?”
“Only the ones who punch better than they lie.”
You blink again. “Is that— supposed to be a compliment?”
He finishes wrapping your hand, smooths the gauze once with his thumb. “If you have to ask, then no.” he says, but there’s a flicker—tiny, treacherous—at the edge of his mouth. The same flicker that’s been toying with you since the first week you met him.
The silence that follows isn’t comfortable, but it’s alive. The cicadas outside are screaming into the humidity; water trickles somewhere near the koi pond. You can smell rain building over the jungle, thick and close. Kirsh is still crouched in front of you, still too near, and the air feels thinner for it.
“Next time —” he says finally, tone lighter, as if offering advice instead of temptation, “— aim lower. The jaw, not the nose. Less chance of breaking skin.”
“I’ll add that to my professional development plan.” you mutter.
He stands, graceful, efficient. His coat catches the light, that soft white shimmer of Neverland’s heat bouncing off fabric engineered to stay clean even when people don’t.
“Good.” he says. “We wouldn’t want your... extracurriculars interfering with your lab work.”
You look up, startled as you choke out, your voice almost squeaking at the end. “Excuse me?”
“Fighting security staff.” he says evenly, as if it were obvious, but then he adds with the same casual tone. “And flirting with supervisors. A busy schedule.”
“That was not flirting.” you can feel your ears heat up.
His brow arches, and the motion is subtle enough that you almost miss it. “Ah. My mistake.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m observing.” he says, deadpan. “Your reactions are… instructive.”
“Glad to be your research subject.” you shoot back, but it comes out too quick, too thin.
He hums again—another one of those infuriating noncommittal sounds that somehow feels like a smirk you can hear. Then: “You’re free for the rest of your break. I suggest hydration, and restraint.”
“Restraint?” you echo.
“In violence.” he says. Then, after a pause long enough to feel deliberate. “For now.”
You stare at him, unsure if you want to laugh, kick him, or both. He’s already stepping away, sliding the first-aid kit back into his coat pocket like he’s just solved a minor equation, not detonated your nervous system.
At the edge of the gazebo, he stops, turns just slightly—enough for you to catch the faintest curve at his mouth again. “Fourteen hundred. Bay Seven.” he says. “Don’t be late. I’d hate to assume you were busy… pursuing alternative methods of job security.”
You gape. “Kirsh.”
“Yes?” He looks over his shoulder, expression infuriatingly polite.
“Go to hell.” you huff out a laugh, unsure if you're angry, nervous or aroused.
“I’d need clearance from our boss.” he says, and walks off into the bright white heat, unbothered, leaving you in the shade with your heart doing backflips and your lunch completely forgotten.
The garden hums. The koi make slow circles in the water, their mouths opening and closing like they’re trying not to laugh. You stare after him until he disappears through the glass doors of the facility.
Then, quietly, mostly to yourself: “I really need to stop talking.”
The jungle answers with a single, distant roll of thunder.
By the time you stand, your pulse has calmed enough to pass as normal. Almost. You flex your bandaged hand once, twice—it stings, a reminder. The sunlight bites at your skin, and the world feels tilted, just slightly, as if something has shifted in its axis and decided not to tell you.
You grab your half-eaten lunch and head back toward the lab.
You don’t look over your shoulder. You do, however, start rethinking every life choice that led to being on this island, in this garden, with that man and how, somehow, you already know you’ll be five minutes early to Bay Seven.
ꜱᴀᴛᴜʀᴀᴛᴇ
david powers (the lost boys) x reader
mix of movie version and broadway musical
warnings: blood/mild gore (mentioned/implied)
word count: 2.8k
synopsis: david is supposed to belong to the night, but at two in the morning, he's taking up all the space in your apartment.
You got home shortly after one in the morning and nearly tripped over David’s boot.
It sat directly inside the front door, wet from the rain and abandoned on its side. The other had made it several feet farther into the apartment before meeting a similar fate beside the couch, where his leather jacket now hung across the back cushion.
You stood there for a moment, keys still in hand. David had a key. Technically. You had never given him one, but that distinction had stopped mattering several weeks ago. At least there wasn’t blood on the carpet this time.
You locked the door behind you and dropped your bag onto the kitchen table.
“David?”
No answer. Water shifted somewhere down the hall.
You followed the trail of clothing toward the bathroom. A studded glove sat on the kitchen counter. His shirt was outside the bathroom door, half-soaked and stained crimson around the collar, one of the sleeves torn completely off.
“...David?”
“I heard you the first time.” His voice came from behind the door. You pushed it open.
David was in your bathtub.
For several seconds, neither of you said anything. The bathroom mirror had completely fogged over. Steam crowded the small room, and nearly every inch of the bath had disappeared beneath an unreasonable amount of white foam. The bottle of lavender bubble bath you had bought two days ago floated empty beside his arm.
You crossed your arms, staring down at him.
David leaned his head back against the porcelain. “Relax, sweetheart. It’s not holy water.”
“You used all of it,” you stated, pointing at the bottle.
David glanced toward the plastic bottle as though he had no idea how it had gotten there. “There wasn’t much left.”
“It was brand new!”
“Then you bought a very small bottle.”
“It cost twelve dollars.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You paid twelve dollars for soap?”
“It’s not soap.”
“It made bubbles.”
“That doesn’t make it soap.”
David considered this before sinking lower into the water. “You got ripped off.”
You stared at him. He smiled—that sharp, effortless smirk that meant he’d won. His hair had been pushed back from his face, though several wet strands had already fallen loose again. A thick line of blood ran from behind his ear and disappeared beneath the bubbles.
“Whose is that?” you asked.
The smile remained. “Hello to you, too.”
“David.”
“It’s not mine.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“I know.”
You stepped inside, picking his shirt up from the ground before shutting the door. The steam immediately pressed against your skin.
You held up the shirt; the fabric was ruined, the sleeve torn nearly in half. “What happened?”
“Somebody grabbed me.”
“So you tore your own sleeve off?”
“He grabbed the jacket, I gave him some of the shirt.” David shrugged, a few bubbles sliding down his pale shoulder. “He wanted a piece of me. I let him have one.”
“Did he survive taking it?”
David’s eyes drifted toward the ceiling, unbothered, as if the question was beneath him. His smile came slow. “Look at you,” he dropped his voice, dragging the moment out, “so many questions for someone who hasn’t earned the answers.“
You dropped the shirt beside the sink, lifting a hand to rub your temple. “Great.”
“He was alive when I left,” David offered. “Mostly.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
“You broke in here covered in blood.”
“I didn’t break in. You should stop leaving your key in obvious places.”
“It was under my mattress.”
“Exactly,” he scoffed, his smile widening as he looked back at you. “And besides, it’s only blood. It washes out. See?” He gestured to the faint pink tint in the water. “Good as new.”
You walked over and sat on the porcelain edge of the tub, your hip only a few inches from his shoulder. The sight of David surrounded by lavender bubbles was still difficult to process. Most nights, he came straight from the boardwalk in leather and stage makeup, carrying himself like the crowd had followed him all the way home. Tonight, he smelled like a luxury spa and looked almost harmless.
Almost.
“You had a show tonight,” you began.
“We have a show every night.”
“How did it go?”
“Fine.” The answer came too fast.
You looked at the torn shirt again. “Looks like it.”
“The shirt had nothing to do with the show.”
“So something happened afterward.”
He dragged one hand through the water, sending bubbles sliding up the side of the tub. You waited. Silence usually annoyed him enough to start talking on his own. Tonight was no different.
“Max thinks I’m wasting my time,” David eventually muttered, his eyes landing on your face before tracking down your neck. “The band. Michael. All of it.”
“And what does Max want you to do instead?”
“What he always wants.” David looked up, his gaze heavy and dark. “Do you really want to spend your night talking about Max, baby?”
You rolled your eyes, though his words still managed to catch you off guard, a sudden spike of heat tracing down your spine.
“No,” you said.
“Good.”
You shook your head, leaning forward to dip two fingers into the water near his shoulder.
The heat made you jerk your hand back immediately.
“Holy shit, David!” you hissed. You shook out your fingers, staring at the bath in disbelief. The skin across your knuckles had already started turning red.
“How are you sitting in that? It’s practically boiling.”
David glanced down at the water.
“It’s fine.”
“It is absolutely not fine.”
Before you could move away, David’s wet, bare hand shot out of the water. His fingers wrapped around your thigh, pinning you to the edge of the tub.
You gasped. The contrast was a violent shock—the water on his skin was near boiling, but his actual hand, his flesh, was freezing cold against your bare leg. It felt like dry ice pressing into your skin.
His gaze dropped to watch your skin flush under his touch. “You’re dramatic,” he murmured, drawing a slow line up your thigh. “Get in.”
The invitation sounded much more like an order.
“I’m not getting into a boiling bath,” you said, your voice a little breathier than you wanted it to be. You reached down, twisting the faucet to take the edge off. David watched the water level rise slightly before you turned it off. “Turn around so I can change.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I’m changing.”
“I know.”
“Turn around.”
Reluctantly, David listened, releasing your leg and presenting you with his back. You stripped quickly, leaving your clothes in a pile on the counter before stepping over the edge into the mountain of foam.
But the second your foot broke the surface, you stopped dead.
“What the hell?”
David frowned, looking back over his shoulder. “What?”
The water wasn't hot anymore. In the short time his hand had been on your thigh, David’s icy, unliving mass had completely leached the heat out of the water. It was freezing.
“David! You refrigerated the entire bath!”
David’s eyes narrowed as he turned back around. “Don’t.”
“You’ve been sitting here so long you turned it into an ice box!”
“You don’t have to get in,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching as his eyes tracked the line of your collarbone. “But I know you’re going to.”
You ignored his comment and put your foot in again before you could change your mind, shivering as you lowered yourself into the opposite end of the tub. The tub was small; your foot pressed against his thigh while his knee rested beside your hip. His skin felt colder than the water.
"You can't stay away from me," he teased, and you felt the words more than heard them, low against your ear. Angered by his smug expression, you gathered a handful of bubbles and threw them directly at his face. They landed across his cheek and nose.
David slowly blinked. The teasing dropped out of his face entirely.
“Come here.”
“I think I’m fine.”
“You have three seconds.”
You went to throw another handful, but David caught your ankle beneath the water. With a sudden, powerful jerk, he pulled you forward. A wave of water crashed over the side of the tub. You shrieked, sliding across the slick porcelain until you collided hard against his chest.
David’s hand moved from your ankle to your wrist, pinning it against the edge of the tub. His other hand came up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. His thumb rested directly over your racing pulse; the steady, frantic beat thudded against his cold palm.
“You’re shivering,” he murmured, his face inches from yours.
“Because you stole all the heat,” you whispered, your pulse jumping hard enough that you were sure he could feel it under his palm.
“Let me give some back.”
David leaned in, his lips brushing against yours first—a freezing contrast to the warmth of your skin. You gasped at the cold shock of it, and he used the moment to deepen the kiss. He released your wrist, his hand sliding down to grip your waist and pull you completely into his lap, his solid chest pressing unyieldingly against yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as he bit your lower lip just enough to make you sigh into his mouth. The kiss grew slower, heavier, melting the chill between you until your skin tingled. He tasted of rainwater and the sharp, copper sting of iron—faint, but unmistakable beneath the sweet mask of the lavender.
When he finally pulled back, his breaths were shallow. A faint, unnatural flush of life had actually risen to his cheeks from the sheer heat of your skin. He returned his grip to your wrist, thumb tracing your pulse point again.
It was then that the pieces finally clicked in your head: the scalding hot water, the bath over the ocean. Why he had stayed here instead of choosing to bring you back to the cave.
“You were trying to warm yourself up,” you whispered gently, “before I got home. That’s why the water was so hot.”
His thumb paused against your wrist. “I was covered in blood.”
“You could’ve cleaned off anywhere.”
“I wanted a bath.”
“You don’t take baths.”
David released your waist, deflating just enough that you knew you'd hit the mark. “You complain when I’m cold.”
You blinked, your brows pulling together. “I do not.”
“You move away.” David leaned back against the tub, looking somewhere over your shoulder.
You thought about the mornings you woke up on the opposite side of the bed. It happened almost every time he stayed over: you always fell asleep close to him, but sometime during the night, your body would subconsciously drift toward the warmer side of the mattress. David had never said anything. Apparently, he had still noticed.
“You took a bath so I wouldn’t push you away.”
He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice had gone flat. "I took a bath because I had blood in my hair."
“You used lavender bubble bath to make yourself warm enough to cuddle.”
David’s eyes snapped back to yours. “Choose your next words carefully, angel.”
You reached up, brushing a wet strand of hair away from his face. “I love that you wanted me close.” Before he could respond, you leaned forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to his jawline, right over the faint trace of dried blood. “Turn around. Let me wash your hair before we both freeze to death.”
David hesitated, then sighed, shifting so his back faced you again. You picked up the plastic cup by the faucet, filling it with water and pouring it carefully over his head. The first stream ran pink down his neck.
“Was it Max?” you asked, working your fingers through the damp strands.
“No.”
“...But you argued with him?”
You worked through another section of hair. For a while, David said nothing. Then he sighed.
“He thinks I’m taking too long with Michael. That the band’s making me careless.” David’s mouth tightened. “He thinks the boys need discipline.”
“He likes that word.”
David glanced over his shoulder. “Exactly. And he’s…fixated on you.”
Your fingers stilled in his hair for a fraction of a second. “Fixated how?”
David went quiet for a second too long. “He’s been watching us. He likes how you take care of things. He thinks you're soft…loving.” David let out a low, rough hiss of a laugh, though there was zero humor in it. “He thinks a savage house like ours needs a heart. He told me you’d make the perfect baby of the family, once we fix that pulse of yours.”
The baby of the family.
The words hung heavily in the steam, and your arms prickled with goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold bathwater. You had met Max at the video store months ago. He had approached you with a warm smile and introduced himself as David’s adoptive father, sounding more like an exhausted suburban parent than anything remotely dangerous. According to him, David was a good kid going through a rebellious phase. The cave, the band, the leather—none of it was supposed to last forever.
After that came the dinners.
Max always insisted on hosting. He remembered things you mentioned once, bought you gifts you never asked for, and asked about your future as though he expected to be part of it. Sometimes, one of the boys would appear outside your work or follow you home and claim they had simply been nearby. Max called it looking out for you.
He had never had a daughter before.
Apparently, he liked the idea.
You worked the last of the blood from David's hair. "And what do you think?" you asked, voice soft.
David’s shoulders tensed beneath your hands. “I think he needs to stay out of it.” He glanced back at you, voice dropping. “He doesn’t get to decide what happens to you.”
You poured another cup of water, rinsing the last of the blood away until the water ran completely clear, and pulled the plug. “You could’ve called,” you said.
“And said what?”
“That you didn’t want to go back to the cave.”
“I can go wherever I want.”
“You know what I mean. The boys would’ve asked questions.”
“They know better.”
“They still would’ve noticed.”
He turned enough to glance at you over his shoulder. “And you didn’t?”
“I always notice.”
Your fingers remained against his shoulder, tracing absentmindedly over the cold skin at the base of his neck. David’s head tipped back against the edge of the tub. His attention dropped toward your hand.
“Good,” he mumbled. His hand closed around your wrist before you could pull away. “Let me know when you’re done playing with the soap.” His thumb moved once against your pulse. “Then we can do this properly.”
You didn’t really know what to say to that. David turned back around before you could figure it out.
By the time you finally drained the tub, the water had become unbearable. You climbed out first and wrapped yourself in a towel. David stayed where he was until most of the water had disappeared, staring down as the last of the bubbles circled the drain. His plan had failed completely. Any warmth the bath had given him was already gone.
You dried off and changed in the bedroom, eventually convincing him to finally get up and track down a spare pair of black pants he’d left behind weeks ago.
When you climbed into bed, David was still standing beside the window, watching the rain run down the glass.
“Aren’t you coming?”
He looked back. “I don't want to freeze you out of your own bed.”
You lifted the heavy comforter in response. The mattress dipped as he slid in beside you. Neither of you said anything. But as sleep finally began to pull at you, you didn't drift away to the warm side of the mattress.
Instead, you reached across the gap, caught his cold wrist, and pulled his arm around your waist. You backed up until your spine was pressed against his chest, absorbing the chill of him without a second thought.
David went completely still. Then, his arm tightened around you, pulling you securely against him. His mouth brushed the warm skin at the back of your neck.
“Go to sleep, baby,” he whispered.
When you woke the next morning, David was gone.
His clothing had disappeared from the bathroom floor. The water had been cleaned up, though one of your towels was missing. So was your spare key.
None of that surprised you. The brand-new, twelve-dollar bottle of bubble bath sitting on the bathroom counter did.
Vanilla.
A small piece of paper was tucked underneath it. In messy, jagged handwriting, it read:
Lavender was terrible.
You turned it over. A second line had been written on the back.
Keep the water hot tonight.
a/n: apologies for the delay friends! honestly, i've been super drained recently and haven't felt like i've been producing my best work, so i wanted to wait until i was satisfied with at least this to share with you all. i have a couple of other fics in the works, but honestly, i've just been super overwhelmed recently. i decided to step away from my inbox for this one, to right something just for me. and what's more self-indulgent than a david fic, a bubble bath, and a steamy makeout scene? (get it, steamy? because it's steamy? ok im going to shut up now) thanks for reading, feel free to send in a request! there is no human way for me to directly write every single one, but i do read them all for inspiration. i love hearing ideas! spit them out! p.s. if there's any stranger things fans that made it this far....send in some billy requests!
also salem nation please be aware i will be posting art commission info sometime next week! so if you’re interested in purchasing some self ship art or fanart or anything i offer stay tuned…
OH MY GOD SEVEREN X READER FICS COME BACK TO ME I YEARN I YEARNNN FOR THAT TOOTH GAP PLEASE I BEG OF YOU WRITERS PLEASEEEE THIS IS TORTURE IM ON MY KNEES GIVE ME BACK MY GUARD DOG PLEASEEE
ᰔ fem!eddie who’s flat chested with broad shoulders and a teensy waist. avid bra hater.
ᰔ fem!eddie who hides a childhood princess stuffy under her pillow because it sticks out like a sore thumb in her bedroom and she’s a smidge embarrassed by it.
ᰔ fem!eddie who’s a strict girl kisser. no matter how you see og eddie, i can’t see edith as anything but a lesbian.
ᰔ fem!eddie who has symmetrical hipbone tattoos yum.
ᰔ fem!eddie who invokes jealousy in people with just how long and pretty her dark lashes are despite not wearing makeup. she only does messy liner for shows which she ends up sleeping in most nights.
ᰔ fem!eddie who basically never shaves her body hair other than a monthly go of her pits. you love the peaks of happy trail you get when her shirt lifts (from a one time mistake of shaving it as a tween).
ᰔ fem!eddie who flexes being intolerant to the heat and cold only to be the most dramatic about it a half hour into a hangout.
ᰔ fem!eddie whose black polish barely lasts because of how much she either picks or chews at her nails. she keeps them short for guitar playing… and other reasons.
ᰔ fem!eddie who’s a slight alcoholic. she simply enjoys having a good time at the hideout when her gigs are over. the owner has pinned up a handful of polaroids from when she’s gotten blackout.
ᰔ fem!eddie who cuts her own hair. you have to teach her an actual routine to maintain her frizzy mess of waves.
ᰔ fem!eddie who always gets reminded of how much she resembles her late mom. it chips at her heart each time.
I’m my head Eddie Munsons a Butch, and no I will not explain further
Do u like butches, mascs or femmes?
more Lost Boys stuff but the movie version this time
beautiful
finally getting back in the groove of drawing again slowly but surely (post-art college graduation burnout style)….hoping to open commissions if anyone would be open and interested in purchasing some. hoping to post more artwork here alongside my shitposting. probably will post more fandom based art here as opposed to my insta, since i wanna make that more focused towards career aspects/goals.
Dyke Knights ⚔️
Sweet effing jesus Kirsh🤍🙂↕️
(the cranial port on full display as well omg)
