Summary: Your Pa buys an old slaughter house, intent on using philanthropy to bring the ghost town of Fuller back to life. However that's where his kindness ends. When you have a nasty run in with some travellers, and your father pays no mind, the youngest of the Hewitt family rescues you. (wc.6.3k)
Warnings: MDNI 18+ (minors/ageless blogs DNI, you'll be BLOCKED). Illusions to domestic assault. Implied 'off screen' assault + rape. Canon-typical violence + gore. Blood. Cannibalism. Character death/murder. Implied reader's mum is dead. Reader is fem-body coded (referred to as she/her + called 'girl' + 'daughter') + is looked down on by Thomas (he's over 6'6, he's gonna be looking down on you probably).
Listening to: 'NFWMB' by Hozier - "If I was born as a blackthorn tree I'd wanna be felled by you, held by you, fuel the pyre of your enemies."
Masterlist || AO3 link
Fuller was nothing like Houston. That being said, you couldn’t say you hated it in this small run down town.
Sure, being so far away from literally everything had its downsides, but it was also so peaceful. The fact your father wanted to bring life back into the town almost made you sad. Not that you liked ghost towns, they unnerved you a little bit, it’s just Fuller had a way about it which you thought would be ruined by bringing people back in. For a ghost town, it didn’t seem so bad.
Something about how abandoned it was called to you, made you want to keep it as it was. What was wrong with wanting to keep Fuller how it was? Why did your father feel such a need to bring the city life so far out into the country?
When you moved in, there were only a handful of people still living here. In the last few weeks you’d gone slightly out of your way to try and meet them - some were more receptive to your moving in than others.
The first person you met was Mrs Luda Mae Hewitt, and very soon afterward was her son, Thomas.
There weren’t any working grocery stores in Fuller - there weren’t any working ‘anything’ in town, actually. The only place to go for anything was the gas station on the main road that by-passed the town.
You had a craving for chocolate - a contraband item in your home, thanks to daddy dearest - but the household had also run out of meat. With dinnertime approaching, you offered to do an errand run. Less than fifteen minutes later, you’d walked through the station’s front door.
An older woman sat behind the counter smoking a cigarette. She looked at you over the rim of her glasses, and you saw the tattered magazine she read shifted down. She was giving you attention.
“Afternoon,” you said, putting to practise the manners your mother had taught you all those years ago. You wanted to make a good impression, maybe make a friend, especially since your father had decided to give a negative preceding reputation. “Keeping cool?”
“Electricity circuited out. So no.” she said. You fought back the urge to cringe and wring your hands on your dress.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” you said softly.
“‘prolly be back up in a few,” she suddenly added. Her eyes looked at you like you were something to study. You probably should’ve felt on edge, but instead you just felt like you wanted to meet her standards. “My son’s having at it. He usually fixes it fast.”
“He sounds handy.” you replied, perking up and taking a tentative step toward the counter, eager to keep the conversation going.
“He has good timing.” She said, “He was bringing some meat up right before it shut off.”
“That’s right, I came for some of that,” you said, a reminder going off in your head as you turned on your heel to take in the display fridge you’d spotted on your way in. “Is it all pork? My Pa was hoping for beef.”
‘Hoping’ was a much softer word, in reality it was more like ‘demanded’.
“Tommy was bringing some beef in,” she started, then yelled “Thomas!” - the sudden yell startled you so that your heart started racing. By the time you calmed down enough to turn around and comment, there was a figure lumbering through the back door into the shop.
The sight of him stopped you in your tracks. He was huge. You’d never seen anyone like him in your life. He barely fit in the doorframe, effortlessly holding a box that was almost overflowing with packed meat, and he was looking at you like you weren’t supposed to be there. Like you were a deer in the store rather than a human.
You probably did look out of place.
“Tommy put that down and give the girl some beef.” The woman said. “We grow it special, nothing else like it in the county.” You looked over at her to find she was giving you the same study as before - but more intently.
Thomas made his way behind the display fridge, letting the box go with a loud thump, and then dropped a medium sized parcel from the box on the top of the glass.
You reached over and grabbed the package with both hands, smoothing your fingers over the cool paper, and then smiled as you looked up at him. Now he was standing by the window, you could see his eyes were a lighter brown than you expected.
“Thank you, Thomas.” His head ducked almost shyly, and let out a small gruff grunt before starting to unpack the rest of the box. You almost mimicked him, refraining from also looking away and instead turned back around to the woman.
You fished some money out of your pocket and placed it on the counter, watching as she counted the change.
“It’s nice to meet you by the way,” you said, quickly adding your introduction afterward.
“Luda Mae,” she said in reply, then looked up at you with a smile - it was the friendliest she looked since you walked in. “Everyone calls me Mama. You met Tommy.” She nodded to the man behind you.
“Yeah,” you said, breathy. Then you shifted on your feet, eyes searching around the counter but unfinding. “Um, did you have any candy bars too?”
“We only have one kind right now, delivery comes in tomorrow.” Luda Mae, Mama, said. “You could come back.” You sighed. No, you could not come back tomorrow.
“I don’t mind, whatever you have will be perfect.” you said. Then almost before you could think, a large hand slid a wrapped up chocolate bar across the counter next to the packaged meat. Thomas.
You didn’t even hear him come over.
“Thank you. Again.” After you spoke, it looked like he wanted to do something else. He didn’t. You could already guess he wasn’t much of a talker. You didn’t mind.
When you went to pull out more money, Luda Mae tutted at you.
“Don’t worry about that.” She said, “Enjoy your sweets.” You looked over at her, a smile slowly creeping onto your face.
“Thank you,” you said, stepping away and making to leave. “I’ll see you around. I’ll have to have you over for afternoon tea sometime.”
Luda Mae just nodded at you. You caught Thomas’ eye before you left.
“Bye Thomas.”
Thomas watched from the edge of the window as your car drove away. He didn’t really want you to leave, you were very pretty, and you were nice. Nicer than any other girl he’d ever known.
You smiled at him. He loved how he felt when you smiled at him, as foreign as it was.
He was glad Mama knew not to make you pay for the chocolate. He’d have given you the meat for free too if he could’ve. Maybe he’ll try to next time you came in.
“You liked her, didn’t you?” Mama said. Thomas turned to her, looking past the greasy dark hair that fell over his eyes to find her stubbing her cigarette out. “You know her daddy owns the meat factory now. It’d be nice if you could get work back there again.”
Thomas knew Mama didn’t like what they did to the people who stuck around Fuller too long. The nosey ones, the ones in trouble. He still remembered how she looked when it first happened. Thomas didn’t mind the killing and the butchering though, it kept his family safe and fed. It was keeping you fed too, you’d taken some just now - so the factory wasn’t helping you yet anyway.
Until it was working again, he’d have to keep killing to look after you too.
“If you still like her, you should have her over. She’s nice.”
Nice - and pretty. Don’t forget the pretty part. He almost reached out and touched you from how pretty he thought you were, but he didn’t want to scare you away. You didn’t seem scared of him though, people never smiled at him and they were all always afraid.
You were different.
“Better get back to the house Tommy, get the rest of your chores done.”
He grabbed the empty box, then walked out the back of the store. The road was quiet, as usual. His thoughts weren’t though. They were full of you. Maybe he might go for a wander up near the old factory soon. He might run into you there.
Thomas hoped to run into you there.
The second person - or third person really, second time meeting someone new though - was Doreen.
She was a large woman, with a kind round face, and lovely eyes - did everyone in Fuller have eyes that called to your heart, or was it just her and Thomas? In her basket she carried a small tin of tea leaves, and when you opened the door to her gentle knocking, she almost let herself in.
“I brought them so we could sit down for a cup of tea,” she’d said, petting the top of the tin, “They’re the nice kind.” Whatever she meant by that went over your head. Nevertheless you guided her toward the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove.
Your father was out, not that him being home for a first time visitor would’ve been a problem, you just preferred it if he wasn’t around. It was better that way.
“Do you have scones?” you asked, reaching for the tray you’d conveniently pulled from the oven a few minutes ago. “I’m meant to walk some over to my Pa at the old factory, but I can spare some. They’d go well with tea.”
“That sounds just peachy dear,” Doreen said, falling into a chair at the breakfast table. Then after a beat, “I heard you met that sweet boy Thomas.”
‘Sweet’ was a nice word for him, one you agreed with - ‘boy’ felt like a stretch though, there looked to be enough of him to be considered a man three times over.
“I did, he was very kind to me.” You thought back to the chocolate you ate on the drive back home, how it made the roof of your mouth smooth, and how the kindness of the service station employee’s made you feel warm inside. “So was his Mama.”
“Oh yes, they’re both lovely. Luda Mae raised Tommy to be a right gentleman. He looks out for all of us. He likes you, he’ll look out for you too now you know.”
“He likes me?” you asked, almost too quickly. You turned back to the scones, feeling flustered as you heard Doreen giggle to herself.
Daydreaming about Thomas helping you out because he liked you - apparently - was going to go into your day-to-day rotation of wishing for a different life, that was for sure.
As you started halving scones and spreading jam across them, and fluttering about after making the tea, Doreen kept talking. In fact she talked most of the rest of the time she was visiting you. You barely spoke besides the occasional confirmation or denial of the rumours she’d heard about you and your father previously.
By the time she was gone you felt worn out, even though you barely did a thing after making up the scones and tea - but it was a good kind of worn out. The kind that left you feeling like your cup was full.
Then you walked back into the kitchen to see the cooled leftover scones on the stove and the reminder of your father had that content feeling disappear.
Thomas hadn’t been brave enough to approach you - he knew that the days the factory looked like it was running meant your Pa was there, and that you’d come visit him there twice a day to deliver lunch and afternoon tea.
He hadn’t interrupted your walks home yet though, he planned to. When he felt brave enough.
Doreen came over one morning when he was in the basement. Often he paid those visits no mind - ignoring her was less awkward than sitting down and drinking tea with her and Mama - he didn’t fit in that picture very well. But like a trained hound he heard your name, and he slowly creeped to the top of the stairs. Eavesdropping was rude, his Mama said, but he couldn’t help it.
He wanted to know what Doreen said.
She said you liked him.
Thomas’ hands almost flew to the front of his apron, clutching the leathery fabric like a lifeline over his thumping heart. Was she right? Was he hearing things? Did she really say you could like him like he liked you?
It was hard to believe, and Thomas had given up long ago looking for hope that someone might like him. Often there wasn’t a sign of it. But for the first time in years there it was, a light of hope. He grabbed hold of it, and he’d never let it go now.
Lunchtime would be too early to try and run into you - he didn’t want to put you behind on your chores, he didn’t want to make you late for your second errand in the afternoon - so he couldn’t go find you now. Besides, he had chores too.
Yes. He turned and went back down the stairs, determined. He’d finish with his chores here, clean up a little - scrub his hands at least, just in case he got the chance to touch you, or would it be too soon to hold hands? - and then time it to run into you on your way home for the day.
It was the perfect plan.
Your ankle hurt so bad.
Each step along the hot asphalt sent a hot wave of pain up your leg. Were you even going to make it home? You hoped so. Who knows what would happen if you passed out on the road. Heaven forbid they find you again - you didn’t think you’d handle anymore of what those men did to you outside the factory.
There was some god awful throbbing in the back of your head too. You reached back, touching your hair. It was wet, a bit warm. Pulling it back, you looked down to see red blood shining on your fingers. Great. Prefect. More mess to clean up when you get home.
This day couldn’t get worse.
Then a pain shot up from between your legs. It came so sudden that you stumbled on your feet, clutching your skirt as it cramped worse and worse. A yelp broke past your lips, and the basket you were barely holding on to slipped from your fingers, rolling across the road.
What did you do to deserve this? Nothing at all - which was the worst part. You did nothing wrong except being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and those men found you. Cornered you. Used you. They broke you apart and made you bleed, and walked away laughing as if they weren’t monsters.
To hell with them.
Despite it though, the hate you felt in that moment, you started to cry. Quietly tears ran down your cheeks, mixing with the blood from your nose and cracked lip. Slowly you started limping back toward home. But you stopped as soon as you started. Swaying on weak legs, you realized you didn’t want to go home. You’d find no help there, no sympathy either if the dismissal after your father saw you earlier was anything to go by.
You didn’t want to go home.
Thomas stopped in his tracks. It was you walking on the road towards him. Walking in the wrong direction, towards his home and not yours.
Was this a sign? Were you coming to see him like he was going to see you? No, that wasn’t it. He could tell. Something was wrong.
You had to have been confused, and as you limped toward him - unnoticing of him standing on the side of the road - he didn’t need to be told why. You looked like you’d been attacked by wild animals.
It made white hot rage bubble up inside his chest and seep from between his clenched fists, but as you bumbled closer it was soon replaced with a distinct feeling of dread, which settled in his stomach. He was the first thing anyone noticed in any room, yet you still hadn’t looked at him even though you were only a few feet away now.
God, there was blood dripping onto the road. Your blood.
He decided that he would reach out and try and get your attention, try and muster all the gentleness you deserved when he did it. When his hand landed on your shoulder, you stopped walking. You winced, stepping back and almost reaching up to swat away his arm, but you looked up at him.
Your eyes told him you were scared, but then you took him in and for the first time in his life someone’s look changed from fear to relief. You were happy, not scared? To see him, of all people?
“Thomas,” you said, voice hoarse and tired.
Then, almost faster than he could react, your eyes rolled into the back of your skull and your legs gave way. He just managed to catch you, falling to the ground and putting his softer body between you and the hard road. You were limp in his hold. He wasn’t sure what to do. You were hurt, obviously, but he didn’t have much experience in the healing department.
Thomas wanted to help you. Taking you home would be the best thing - but then again you weren’t walking home. Did you not want to go home? He wouldn’t take you back to your home then. You’d go to his home. Mama would look after you, from personal experience he knew Mama was good at helping him feel better, she could help you too. He could even keep you safe from whoever did this to you.
He stood, effortlessly lifting you with an arm under your knees and around your shoulders. Your head lolled on top of his shoulder, and your shallow, warm breaths caressed his neck. He liked it, having you close. He decided then too that he would keep you, have you as his. Maybe it’d take you a while to settle into the idea, he didn’t mind. Even if you had to go home a few times before you felt the same, he’d wait. He was yours too.
So Thomas was going to keep you safe, and he’d kill whoever dared do this to you.
It was hot. Stuffy was probably a better word for it, like you were in a room with bad air circulation. When your eyes fluttered open, you realised it was a room - the stuffiness of the air made more sense then.
Something wet dabbed on your forehead, then slowly moved down from there to under your nose, then your chin. Someone was shushing you, cooing gently, blabbing about how everything was going to be alright now. It made a pang of hurt and longing go through your heart.
“Mama,” your voice was quiet, tired, a murmur in the dim bedroom. If you weren’t aware of your own voice, even you would’ve missed it.
“It’s okay, Mama’s here,” but that wasn’t your Ma’s voice, it was someone else. “You’re safe now. Poor thing.”
Safe? From what? Then, slowly, as you blinked away the blurriness in your eyes everything came back to you. That’s right. The factory, the men, and what they did to you. Even now, in a strange place but a place that felt safer than your own bedroom, the feelings of what happened to you crept up your spine. The fear, the disgust. The anger.
“Hey,” the woman said, grabbing your chin with the bloodied rag. You could focus now, it was Luda Mae. Did she find you somewhere? Decide to take you in and care for you?
That was nice of her.
“None of this frowning now. My boy is dealing with those monsters.” she said. “You don’t need to be upset. Your Tommy will be back soon.”
‘Your Tommy’? Thomas from the gas station? God, the thought of him being yours made your cheeks feel warm. Wait, why were you feeling all fuzzy inside over a man when you were just furiously angry at a group of them? You must’ve hit your head harder than you thought.
Luda Mae started dabbing at your face again, and you looked across at her from where you laid on the bed. Something about this was strange. Off-putting. You’re sure once you found out how you got here that the feeling would subside, but whatever it was was hard to shake.
Or perhaps the feeling, like the ache in your jaw and between your legs and over your hips, was just lingering from earlier. Oh yeah. Earlier. Your mind felt like a pinball machine, bouncing between the horror from before and the strangeness of now. You felt like you’d had a big day.
You settled back into the mattress, head resting back against the pillow, and Luda Mae hummed in approval. Eventually she set the cloth aside. Standing, she took the porcelain bowl she’d been using to clean you up, and looked down at you.
“Rest. I’ll come back up with some supper later.” She said, “Tommy will probably come see you when he comes home.”
“Where is he?” You asked before you could stop yourself. Why did it matter that he wasn’t here, home? Who knows, but you felt like it would be better if he was with you. Not nicer, but safer. Better.
Luda Mae just smiled.
“He’ll be home soon.” she said.
The first thing Thomas did when he came home was go and see you.
Well it was actually the second thing - but as soon as his hands were free that’s what he did. He didn’t care that he had blood all over his apron and up to his elbows, nor did he care that his left temple was hurting badly enough to make his eye squint. He just wanted to see you.
Thomas wanted to see that you were okay.
When he made it upstairs - ignoring any and all comments from Hoyt - he went straight to his room. It was the only place he could bear to put you down after he first brought you home. It felt like the right place to leave you too. He didn’t mind if it meant he gave up his room, he had a spot in the basement he could sleep in the meantime, for all he cared the room was all yours. As long as you stayed.
Pushing the door open to see you up against the headboard, alert and eating, made his chest swell with happiness.
Your lip was still swollen, and you looked uncomfortable where you sat, but when you looked up at him your eyes looked like they had when you saw him in the store. You weren’t scared of him. Even as he watched you take in his appearance from where he stood in the doorway, bloodied and half out of breath, you still didn’t look afraid. He didn’t know what to do.
So Thomas turned and left.
He spent hours trying to ignore it - the feeling - hacking at limbs and flesh, tearing skin from muscle, and hanging carcasses of men who’d rotted before they even died up to bleed out. He tried very hard to ignore that you were upstairs in his bed and unafraid while he was in the basement. He wondered if you’d be impressed at how easily he hauled around what remained of the men that treated you so foully.
They got what they deserved. If you didn’t understand that now, you would one day.
You guessed it was the next day, based on the amount of meals Luda Mae had brought up to you. During that time you hadn’t seen Thomas again, even though you did sort of want to.
You wanted to thank him, although you weren’t completely sure of the reason why - you just knew you wouldn’t have made it anywhere if he hadn’t brought you here, to his home. If he didn’t, you’d probably be in a ditch somewhere.
Thomas’ brother - Uncle? - Hoyt, had visited you between a toasted breakfast and a sandwich lunch. He didn’t venture further than the doorway - maybe Luda Mae had put a ban on entering the room? - and spoke at you for a while as he picked his teeth with a bone. His eyes unnerved you, but he didn’t seem less harmless than Thomas did, and to you Thomas was harmless.
Then dinner came.
The clock by your bedside read ten to six, and you really wanted to get out of your room, so you made your way downstairs. It was a slow process, painful too, but you were quiet and made your way to the kitchen without being noticed.
When Luda Mae turned around, she almost dropped her potato masher.
“Heavens above child. Make some noise next time.” she said. Then, “You’re feeling well then.” You noticed that it wasn’t a question.
“Still… sore.” you said warily, unsure of how much she knew.
“You will be until you heal up properly.” she said. Turning, you saw she now had a bowl of mashed potato in her hands, and she held it out to you. “Put that on the table in the dining room, won't you dear?”
Wordlessly you took it, but lingered near the doorway.
“You’re a quiet one,” she said, noticing your unsureness and eyeing you from where she moved a pot off the stove and onto a wooden chopping board. “Something wrong?”
“Where’s Thomas?” You asked. She smiled as if being let in on some secret.
“Tommy,” she said his name forcefully, as if you ought to call him by the nickname instead, “Is downstairs. He’ll be up in a minute for dinner. Now go.”
Downstairs, you thought as you turned and walked towards the dining room, like the basement? Maybe there was a cellar down there. Turning into the dining room, your steps faltered in the doorway.
“There she is,” Hoyt said, already sitting at the set table with the wheelchair bound, and presumably named Uncle Monty, sitting to his right. “Wobbly legs and all. The boy’s gonna be happy.”
You didn’t know how long passed as you stood there and took in the room, but you know it was a while because Hoyt’s smile changed. It was more forced now, as if his patience was running out. He was being patient though, which was more than you were used to at home.
“Sit down girl.” So, as if by muscle memory you slid the bowl of mash onto the table and sat.
Hoyt hummed at you, his smile changing back to hungry. He didn’t say anything more, just looked at you. Monty did much the same, except his stare was underlaid with traces of irritation. The air started to go thick until Luda Mae came in with a large pot.
“Oh good, y’all are ready,” she said. She sat down on your right, between you and Hoyt, then called for Thomas in such a way that it had your heart racing again just like the first time she did it in the gas station.
There was a loud grating noise from the back of the house, heavy footfalls followed after. The sound made your heart stutter, like it was something to be afraid of. You knew there was nothing to be afraid of though, not if it was Thomas. And of course it was Thomas.
You remembered seeing him earlier, yesterday maybe. He looked horrible, but he made no move toward where you rested in bed so you didn’t panic about it. It seemed like he just wanted to see you. Now he looked better. His hair was still greasy, there were still some suspicious stains on his shirt, and his apron was still shining with some kind of liquid, but in the slowly dimming Texan evening light his eyes were soft and kind.
“Sit boy,” Hoyt said. Thomas sat down across from you, next to Monty. The chair creaked beneath him, and his hands folded on the edge of the table as if waiting for a prayer.
“Say grace,” Luda Mae said, pointedly looking at you - your hands flew into the same clasped position, something about being downstairs in this room had you feeling on edge. As Luda Mae rattled off grace, you decided that no matter what happened you’d play along.
A little learnt voice inside your head told you it was safest for you if you played along.
Luda Mae finished her prayer, and the table got moving. Mash was dished out, and the pot opened to reveal a stew - the ladleful that made it to your plate looked bland, but it’s smell still made your stomach grumble. You hadn’t eaten since lunch, you didn’t realize how hungry you’d gotten.
For a while you ate and mostly kept your head down, only taking moments to look across at Thomas as he ate from his plate like a dog. You felt your head tilting in curiosity - his place had no fork, you realised he didn’t have any other way to eat. Why didn’t his family give him a fork when he was so nice?
A loud bang on the table had you jumping in your seat, dropping your fork onto the plate. You watched Thomas look up at you then look over at Hoyt. You looked toward him too, and found him smiling at you like a wolf.
“Too distracted looking at your man to hear me, girl?” he said, “He did save you I guess. Like that fairy-tale shit huh?”
“No cursing at the table.” Luda Mae hissed.
“I’m sorry?” you said, voice quiet, and unsure about what exactly he was meaning.
“We had lotsa fun chasing those guys down for you.” Hoyt said, eyes tracking over your every feature. Your blood felt like it ran cold. Why would he bring this up now? You didn’t feel like eating anymore. “You’re a quiet one huh. Didn’t scream or nothing?”
You didn’t know how you made it into this situation, or how this topic came up, but you were feeling like you wanted, no, needed to run away. Fuck playing along, it wasn’t safe here.
Before you were able to work up the courage to stand and hide back in your room, Thomas sat up. The action coming from such a large man drew attention, and no one was looking at you anymore. He wasn’t looking at you either - he was looking at Hoyt, and his eyes weren’t soft or kind anymore.
“Alright, damn.”
“Hoyt, no cursing!”
“I’ll let her be.” Hoyt’s hands went up in play surrender, but you could tell he wasn’t done with you yet. Soon he was leaning back on the table and picking at your brain again. “And your daddy?”
“Didn’t help.” you mumbled, swallowing thickly, “Never does.”
“Can’t have that now, can we? Not to little Tommy’s girl.”
“That’s right,” Luda Mae said, quietly nodding in agreement.
“Don’t gotta mind those men, not even your daddy. You’re family now, see.” He then said, smiling proudly. “We know what to do with the people who mess with family.” His fork lingered around the stew. As you looked between him and the meat, you could see him watching you figure it out.
Those men were dead. You’d been eating them.
“Oh God…” you mumbled. Then chaos.
“The lord provides dear,” said Luda Mae.
“Helps those who help themselves,” Hoyt chuckled.
“No, no.” you said, head shaking back and forth.
“Girl’s freaking out,” Monty grumbled, “Tommy do something.”
“You worked her up Hoyt,” Luda Mae started, “You gotta be nicer to the poor thing!”
“Don’t blame me for her being so skittish, blame the sonsabitches who fucked her up yesterday!”
That was it.
You pushed your chair back and bolted out the door, behind you chairs scraped against the wood floor but you paid it no mind. You ran through the hallway and out the front door. Your legs barely got you down the stairs for the porch, weakly you stumbled to your knees, but pushed up from your palms to spot the driveway.
You had to get out of here.
Barely halfway down the dirt driveway you started slowing. You weren’t tired, and you weren’t regretting running. A car was coming your way, and you knew that car. It was your Pa’s silver BMW. You couldn’t do a thing except stand and watch as he pulled up to a harsh stop in front of where you stood barefoot in your nightgown.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he yelled, stepping out of the car enough to poke his head out. “You know I needed you at home, why are you here with these inbred redneck bastards?”
You didn’t know what came over you, but after you spent one last moment frozen to the spot, you snapped.
Your feet scrambled on the gravel below, and your hands thrust out ahead of you. Most notable was your scream - high pitched and banshee-like, full of rage. Your father barely had time to close the car door back on himself before you were beside him trying to open it again.
The back of your head was throbbing as you screamed insults at him, and yanked at the door handle over and over.
“I’ll kill you! You selfish asshole, I’ll kill you!”
Thomas knew how to get through the fields of wheat and maize without running into any of the tripwires or bear traps. He did set them.
He’d hoped that when you ran outside that you didn’t run though the fields like many before you had. He’d known you’d have to have been smart, and he was right. You ran up the driveway instead. That was good - you wouldn’t get hurt again, but also he could cut through the fields and catch up to you.
When he finally did, he was glad he went and grabbed his favourite toy before going after you.
You were so quiet, so kind. He’d loved you from the second he saw you because of how sweet you were. This version of you was nothing like the version that was sitting at the dinner table minutes ago.
This version of you was angry, flailing about against the strangers car so hard you’d reopened your split lip. And you were yelling. He learnt a few things from taking some seconds to listen - your vocabulary was less polite than he’d ever imagined, and this car had your daddy in it.
The man who made you walk home was in that car.
Thomas pulled at the cord of the chainsaw once, twice, then it revved to life. It was enough to make you turn and face him as he walked onto the driveway. He clocked the blood that dribbled from your mouth, and the tears down your cheeks, it was enough to make him slam the chainsaw blade down hard on the drivers side roof.
He hadn’t managed to cut through a car on the first try, too much resistance normally, but this was the closest he’d ever gotten. He kept at the door, watching as the man scrambled to the other side of the car. The chainsaw made it through the car though, and there was a sizable enough hole for Thomas to stick it and his arms through to keep chasing him.
He almost managed to get the man's arm before he burst through the passenger side door. He made to run away into the field, but you’d made it around the car and had picked up a nearby discarded fence post. You swung it at his head, and knocked the man to the ground.
Thomas was ready to finish the job when he rounded the car, but just as he was about to rev the chainsaw again you raised the stake. Though the man weakly raised his hands to protest, to beg for mercy, you drove the pointed end though his eye. The man screamed, he wasn’t dead yet.
Thomas set down the quiet chainsaw, and came up behind you. With a quiet but sure and strong arm, he lifted his fist up past your shoulder and head, and landed it on the top of the fence post. With a squelch and pop, the stake went all the way through and into the ground.
Now he was dead.
You looked up along his arm, over your shoulder and up at him. The rage and pain slowly left your face and eyes, and their softness came back as the sun started to set for real.
Slowly, as if worried that he’d run away - he never would run from you - you turned and wrapped your arms around his large middle. His hand that wasn’t on the stake came to your back, pressing you closer through the thin material of your nightdress. It was nice to have you close, this time on purpose - nicer circumstance than last time, even if this occasion did now have a corpse.
He felt you mumbled something against his apron, too quiet and muffled from him to hear. His hand shifted from your back to your shoulder, then neck, finally your jaw. He tilted it up so you could speak again more freely.
“Take me back,” you said, lip quivering with emotion, “Take me back home Tommy.”
He just nodded, grunting softly as he guided you away from the scene. He’d come back and clean it up later. After all, that was his job - you’d never have anything to do with this side of the family business ever again, Thomas would make sure of it.
Then you smiled up at him with blood stained teeth, reaching for his hand and squeezing tight when you wrapped your fingers around his thick ones. You couldn’t tell, but he was smiling behind his mask. You’d be okay here.
── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI
✦ . Summary: From breaking and entering, to scaring you half to death, the proxies have never been conventional lovers. So why would relaxing with you after a hard day at work be any different?
✦ . Characters: {Separate} Jeff the Killer x Female Reader, Ticci Toby x Female Reader, Masky x Female Reader, Hoodie x Female Reader
✦ . Note: Is this a little self indulgent? Absolutely. But work has been kicking my ass and a good fingering down from the proxies would set me straight, so I come bearing gifts. Thank you again to my lovely lovely friend Angie for her beautiful art!!!! Words cannot describe my love.
Art by @z0l0fft.
────────────────────────────────────────────
You’re tired.
Not just tired—drained. The kind of tired that settles into the marrow of your bones and makes you feel like even blinking is too much effort.
You stand on the front steps of your house for a second longer than necessary, keys in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, and try to summon the energy to go inside. Your muscles ache. Your neck hurts. Every part of your body begs for the sweet mercy of a hot shower and soft clothes. It’s cold out here, the nighttime air unforgiving. It’s all you can do not to collapse on the stairs outside.
The keys rattle in your hand as you finally slide one into the lock, twisting it until the door unlatches with a muted click. You shove the door open with your shoulder, stepping into the dark. The familiar scent of home greets you—laundry detergent, the faint trace of that candle you lit last night, something faintly musky that’s just… you.
You sigh, shoulders slumping with relief as you kick your shoes off one at a time. Your bag hits the floor with a muted thud, but you could care less to remember if there was anything valuable inside. You shrug your jacket off, tossing it haphazardly onto the hook. It’s your sanctuary, your space to finally breathe, not having to perform for your dumbass coworkers any longer.
Work sucks. Everyone knows that, especially you.
There’s just something about a 2pm to 12am job that makes you want to rip everyone’s throat out, including your own. The money is nice, but some days you wonder if it’s worth your sanity and the constant back pain.
You start walking toward the kitchen, already reaching to loosen the tension from your neck, mentally checking off what leftovers might be in the fridge. Are you even hungry? You round the corner,
And stop cold.
The back door is wide open.
The long glass pane stares back at you like an eye, wind pushing it gently so it sways on its hinges, creaking faintly. The night air curls around your ankles, carrying the sharp, damp scent of wet leaves and earth. It raises goosebumps on your arms.
You blink, stunned for a moment, almost unsure you’re really seeing what you’re seeing. You never forget to lock that door. Ever. It's a habit, muscle memory, you could lock that thing in your sleep. There’s one too many home invasion cases on the news for you to just be comfortable with an easily accessible back door.
“…No,” you whisper under your breath. “No, I didn’t leave that open.”
Your heart gives a small jolt in your chest.
Immediately your mind reaches for something rational, something safe. Him. Maybe he came by. Maybe he used his key. Maybe he forgot to shut the door all the way. But even as you grasp for the thought, it doesn’t settle. He doesn’t forget things like that. He’s careful—always has been, he has to be.
“Hello?” you call out, voice already tense. “Anyone here?”
No answer. You mentally punch yourself, you’re no better than the stupid girls who you make fun of in horror movies.
Your house is still. The silence feels unnatural, forced, like it’s trying to hide something from you.
A pinprick of unease worms its way into your spine. You move quickly to the opposite side of the kitchen, flipping on every light switch available and illuminating the entire dining/living area. It doesn’t ease the pit in your stomach, but at least nothing can sneak up on you. You rummage through your broom closet in the laundry room, grabbing the wooden broom leaning against the doorframe. It’s not much, but at least there’s something for you to protect yourself with. You will not be as dumb as those horror movie chicks.
Your voice rises, more firm this time. “Seriously, if this is a joke, it’s not funny.”
Still no reply.
Your breath catches in your throat. You start moving from room to room, switching on lights as you go. The living room? Empty. Bathroom? Empty. Guest room? Nothing. You scan every corner, every shadow, peek behind every door with broom gripped tightly in hand.
The tension grows with every room you clear. The open doors groan behind you, the breeze from outside trailing in like fingers sliding across your back. The feeling of being watched is as strong as ever, and now you feel like you could throw up.
Your bedroom is the last place left.
You step in and flick the light on. The room is empty. Neat. Undisturbed.
And yet… your heart won’t stop racing. The hairs on your arms are standing straight up, and there’s a pit forming in your gut again, deep and cold.
You take a step back into the hall, gripping the flashlight tighter, half-waiting for something, anything, to jump out.
“Okay,” you whisper, trying to convince yourself. “Okay, it’s fine. I’m just tired. I’m overthinking this. He probably—he probably just stopped by, right? Left in a hurry. Right?”
You want to believe it. God, you want to believe it.
But then, just as your breathing starts to slow, just as you start to think maybe it really is nothing—
Arms wrap around you from behind.
A strong grip, smooth and steady, sliding across your waist, locking tight before you can even scream. You freeze. Your body goes stiff, lungs seizing as hot breath ghosts over your neck, close, too close.
You can’t move. You can’t even think. The broomstick is rendered useless in your hands.
Until you hear that all-too-familiar chuckle humming into your ear…
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ JEFF THE KILLER
“Miss me, baby?”
You shoved the blunt end of the broomstick back with everything you had. It didn’t land hard, but it startled him enough that he stepped back with a laugh.
You whipped around, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum, and there he was.
Jeffrey.
His grin was still spread wide across that pale face, lips too stretched, eyes too sharp, the darkness under them as deep as ever. His hoodie hung off his frame like always, smudged with god-knows-what, hair falling wild around his face. He looked like something from a nightmare.
But he was your nightmare. And right now, he was standing in your hallway with his hands up in mock surrender and a cocky smirk like he hadn’t just scared the absolute hell out of you.
“God—Jeff!” you snapped, pressing a hand to your chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Too much to list, babe,” he said smoothly, taking a step toward you. “You looked so serious. I had to mess with you a little.”
“You left the door wide open.”
“I left it ajar.”
“Wide. Open.” You glared at him, storming past him toward the back door to slam it shut. “I thought someone broke in. I was about to call the cops.”
Jeff snorted, following you lazily. “Yeah? That would’ve gone well.”
You stopped and looked at him. “What if it wasn’t you?”
“It was,” he shrugged. “I got here first.”
“That’s not the point!”
Your voice cracked under the weight of the day. Between exhaustion, stress, and now this emotional whiplash, your eyes burned with unshed tears. You turned away, biting down on the frustration. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him, not now, not ever.
“…Hey,” Jeff said softly after a moment, voice losing that teasing edge. “C’mon. Don’t be mad.”
You didn’t respond, just walked toward the kitchen to start your evening routine, collecting your abandoned bag from the ground and dumping your keys and phone on the counter. You opened the fridge, stared inside, then closed it again.
Jeff padded in behind you, quieter now. The change in mood was subtle, but real. He watched you for a second, then leaned his weight against the counter beside you.
“Rough day?” he asked, voice quieter this time.
You shrugged. “Same shit. You know how it is.”
“I don’t,” he smirked. “My day involved a guy’s trachea and a folding knife.”
You rolled your eyes. “Of course it did.”
“I brought you something,” he offered.
You looked over at him warily. “Is it a severed finger again?”
“…No.”
“Because last time you said you brought me something, it was in a ziplock bag and I still have nightmares.”
Jeff chuckled. “Okay, this time, it’s better.” He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a single gas station chocolate bar, a little squished. He offered it to you like a peace treaty.
Your lips twitched despite yourself. “You stole this, didn’t you?”
“Obviously.”
You took it from him with a sigh and opened it. “Fine. You’re lucky I’m too tired to stay mad.”
He grinned and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You always say that.” His lips were cold and he smelled like outside, meaning he had definitely walked here from the mansion. Also meaning he probably intended on staying the night. You didn’t mind, him being here made you feel safe.
You munched on the chocolate and walked toward the couch, flipping off all the lights you had turned on in your panic, and shedding your outer layer again as you sat with a deep exhale. “You’re not even supposed to be here tonight. You’re still on call, aren’t you?”
“I ditched early,” he said, dropping beside you like a cat, legs sprawled, arms resting behind his head. “Told Masky I had important business. And I do.”
“Oh yeah?” you asked, kicking your feet up. “What business is that?”
He tilted his head toward you, eyes hooded. “You.”
You shook your head with a soft, helpless laugh. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”
“And you love it.”
His hand found your thigh, fingers tracing patterns there while you chewed the last bite of chocolate. The warmth of his palm soothed more than it should have.
“…Missed you,” you admitted finally, softer now. “Even if you’re the worst.”
Jeff turned his face toward you, smile a little smaller now, but more real.
“Missed you too.”
You leaned your head back and closed your eyes, feeling the weight of the day finally start to lift. He didn’t leave your side. Just stayed there, content, his presence strange and comforting all at once.
Jeff’s hands were warm and steady, his touch deliberate as he pulled you closer onto his lap. The weight of your body against his felt grounding, like an anchor to the calm you hadn’t realized you’d been craving all day. His fingers curled lightly around your waist, easing the tension that had curled tight inside you since morning.
His breath brushed softly against your ear, low and rough in a way that sent a comforting shiver down your spine.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice thick with something softer than you expected. “You don’t gotta be so tense.”
His lips traced a lazy path down your neck, featherlight kisses that felt like a balm on skin that had been cold and raw for hours. You could feel the slow unwinding beginning deep inside your chest, the tight coil of exhaustion loosening with each gentle touch.
One hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingertips ghosting along your ribs, memorizing the curves and the way your breath hitched when he found the tender spots. You closed your eyes, letting his touch carry you away from the harsh buzz of the day—the deadlines, the weight of responsibilities, the pressure that never seemed to ease.
Jeff’s other hand traveled lower, trailing along your thigh, fingertips tracing delicate circles that sent warmth blooming through your skin.
“My girl is so stressed,” he whispered against your skin, voice a soft promise. “We gotta fix that, right?”
You leaned into him, back to chest, letting yourself breathe him in—the faint scent of smoke and earth and something darker, something utterly Jeff. His hands moved with slow certainty, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, skin pressing against skin, grounding you in a way no words could. His fingertips were cold, but it wasn’t a terrible sensation.
His lips pressed firmly against yours, coaxing, teasing. The kiss was patient, undemanding, the kind that made your whole body still except for the slow burn growing inside your chest. His hands explored without hurry, mapping every line, every shiver, every breath you let slip.
They roamed down, fingers pushing past the waistband of your pants and slipping them down slowly, as if you wouldn’t be able to notice if he did it easy enough.
“Jeff,” you sighed, lying your head back onto his shoulder.
The tightness in your jaw eased as he pressed his chin atop your shoulder, his eyes half-lidded with something raw and hungry. “Just relax,” Jeff breathed, his thumb tracing small, lazy patterns along your skin. “I’ve gotcha.”
You could feel tears prickling at the edges of your eyes—not from sadness, but relief. Relief that someone saw you, that someone wanted to take this burden away from you, even if only for a little while—even if that person used these same hands to end lives.
“You don’t have to fight it,” Jeff whispered, voice low and steady, coaxing you into surrender. “Let me help my baby out.”
He pushed the fabric of your pants down past your knees, the garment pooling onto your ankles as your thighs fell apart, kicking them off onto the carpet beneath.
The fabric of your panties was already damp, Jeff’s arm reaching around your hips to press his palm atop the fabric. He hummed in your ear, planting one wet kiss after another against the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe that he knew made chills run up your back.
You sighed, hands falling down beside you to grip the fabric of his jeans underneath, his arms wrapping around you tightly as you let your body relax into him.
“What so ever could they be doin’ to you at work to make you this tightly wound?”
“Jeffrey, do not talk to me about my job right now,” you huffed, gripping the side of his leg when he began to rub his thumb in tiny circles against your clothed clit. “You’re so mean.”
He chuckled, pressing his thumb down firmly. “That so?”
Jeff’s fingers were now rubbing against your folds through your panties, causing you to moan at the friction. He playfully nipped at your neck before looking at you with eyes that look like he wanted to eat you alive.
You were close to nagging at him for teasing so bad, until he’s moving both hands away from your cunt and up under the fabric of your shirt, sliding it up your stomach and over your bra, letting it bunch up on your chest under your chin.
“Jesus, I love you,” he groaned, palming your tits through your bra, squeezing them enough to make you whine, then letting them go. You could feel his bulge hardening against your back, the length pressing against your tailbone as Jeff slid his hands back down your stomach to the hem of your panties.
You reached your hands behind you, blindly searching for Jeff’s belt, before his hand snatched your arms forward.
“Nuh uh,” he warned, moving both of your hands back to your front and readjusting the two of you so you weren’t sitting directly on his bulge. “I’m takin’ care of you, baby.”
“You’re telling me the Jeffrey Woods doesn’t want to get off? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”
“Enough,” he groans, slipping his fingers under the hem of your panties and dragging them down your thighs. You lift your hips, helping him get them down your knees and off your ankles. He cups his left hand under your knee, pulling your thighs apart as you place your right foot on the couch next to his leg. You gasp when the cold air hits your damp folds, but Jeff’s hand quickly comes to remedy that.
“Now shut up,” he grumbles, licking lewd little circles on your neck, thumbing open your puffy folds to watch in amazement at the way you glisten and clamp around nothing.
You sigh, letting your head fall limp against his shoulder as you watch his face, his brows knotted and concentrated as he runs his fingers through your slick, easing you more.
He pressed the pads of his fingers against your clit, swiping slowly back and forth, sending the nerves in your legs and stomach jerking, legs nearly closing if it weren’t for his hand tugging them back apart.
You tilted your hips up, trying to get his fingers to push down further to where your cunt was weeping and clamping around, sadly, nothing. You’re soaked, pussy lips practically glistening in the glow of your table-side lamp. Your whines were enough to make Jeff chuckle, the vibration of it against your back. “So impatient.”
“I don’t like to be teased, you kno—oh…”
You can’t even finish your sentence before his two middle fingers are pushing against your entrance, the first inches of them slotting in and out, loosening you up. You huff a gasp, stomach clenching as your walls immediately clamp tight around the thick digits, sucking them in greedily. Jeff watches over your shoulder with hungry amusement.
“This all for me? Shit, baby, I’m gonna have to ruin you.”
Jeff never has and never will be a patient man, no matter how breathy your moans are when his two middle fingers begin to pump deeper and deeper into your cunt with each jerk of his wrist. He doesn’t stop until he gets knuckle-deep, letting your filthy hole clamp and flutter around him, before massaging his fingertips against your walls.
“Ah, yeah—right there-” you groan, letting your knees fall limp apart as you reach behind your head to grip into the back of Jeff’s hair. The veins running up his forearm are bulging, muscles tensing as he begins to pump his fingers in and out, dragging the hilt of his palm against your clit with every jerk.
There’s no room to catch your breath, no time to readjust your body as it slips down his chest and further into his lap, only relying on Jeff’s hold on you to keep yourself upright. You grab and tug at his hair, searching for anything grounding as his knuckles bulge in and out of the first tight ring of muscle, cunt stretching across his fingers when he begins to scissor into you slowly.
You didn’t get to dwell in the feeling for too long before his fingers were slipping out of you, fingers soaked all the way to the knuckles as he dragged them back up to your clit and began massaging, faster this time. Harder.
“Oh shit—okay-” you whine, thighs instinctively trying to close back together, but Jeff’s grip holding tight as always. You tried to sit back up, to give your body some relief, but Jeff just pressed his fingers down harder.
“You’ve got it, babe. Don’t go runnin’ from it.” He growled, plunging them back into your cunt and starting to fuck them inside of you quickly. He gave you no time to adjust, curling and crooking his fingers to snag against every sensitive spot he knew all-too-well, his thumb rubbing circles into your clit.
“Jeff—hah—hold on-”
“No can do. Gotta finish what we started, right?”
Pulling back to tease your folds with your own slick, he plunges into your swollen pussy once more, easily hitting that spot over and over.
“Hngh- Jeff, more!” You grind your hips to meet his merciless rhythm, clenching around his fingers.
You feel as if you’re losing your sanity when he adds in another finger, walls burning as your cunt stretches around his thick digits, rhythmically curling upward. The noises are so lewd, wet squelching and skin slapping filling up the quiet noises of your house.
It’s halted when he’s dragging his fingers out again, moving to swipe against your twitching clit as he had before, but this time with a faster pace. More focused on making your lips fall open and whines of sensitivity slip from you. “Ah—hah, Jeff, c’mon-”
“Now now…not yet,” he tuts mockingly.
“Please, Jeff. Please let me cum.”
“Begging? Really?” He chides, pushing three fingers back into your sloppy with no resistance anymore, your cunt open and weeping around the stretch. “You really must be tired, huh?”
You feel his cock twitch against your back, jeans stretching over the bulge that reminds you he’s enjoying this just as much as you are. Well, you’d be enjoying this a lot more if you could fucking cum. Every time you get that familiar feeling, his fingers are slipping back and forth between hole and clit, ruining any build-up you had.
It took you jerking his hair and turning your face into the side of his neck with pitiful whines before he finally nestled his fingers deep inside again, sheathing them to the knuckle. Increasing his pace, abusing your g-spot relentlessly, Jeff knew by your breathy moans of his name that you were getting close.
His left hand moves from under your knee, letting it drop atop his leg and dangle with all the exhaustion you held. His now-free hand wanders the expanse of your body—groping your breasts, gripping your hips back, forcing your ass to grind back into his clothed length. All the while your soft mewls making him grin.
Jeff’s hand, blister riddled and fingers calloused from years of weaponry, finally rest on your face. He pushes your cheeks together, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth and forcing you to look at him. Your dazed eyes meet his darkened ones, a smug grin as he rubs his thumb hard against your clit.
“Look at me when you cum,” he murmurs raspily into your neck, teeth ghosting over your rapid pulse. You couldn’t look away if you tried, his lips ghosting up your jaw and across your cheek until they planted firm on your puffed ones.
He tugs his fingers out, before slamming them just right inside of you. All you know is you’re cumming all over Jeff’s fingers, hands clutching into his hair and eyes rolling just enough to make your head feel light. Jeff watches the entire time, wide eyes trained on the way your lips fall open.
“Fuck! Jeff- Jeffrey!” You whimper.
“Yeah, there you go. There you go.”
He keeps his palm pressed flat against your cunt, fingers clamped together by your constricting walls, letting you ride out every rippling wave of your orgasm. His hand is soaked, your juices dripping from your cunt and down the roundness of your ass, down onto his jeans. You’ve made a mess.
As your climax bates, he buries his face in your neck, kissing softly over your slowing pulse. “Did so good, baby. You did perfectly,” he breathes out, hugging you closer as if to hide this vulnerable moment. But you feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin. You also still feel his cock pressing into your ass.
Lifting your head, you admire Jeff’s hardened features. Face flushed, lips swollen, dark eyes half-lidded as he stares down at you in admiration.
“You’re merciless. Ruthless, even.” You huff out a low laugh.
“No doubt about it.” He finally slips his fingers from inside you, your teeth gritting as your walls try their best to hold him in place.
His fingers are soaked, tips nearly pruning from the wetness. More juices pool from your cunt, sending a shudder down your skin, goosebumps rising on your legs from the cold. But even with all the uncomfortableness of it, you can’t help but notice your head has quit hurting, body isn’t as sore, overall attitude less fogged from the day you’ve had.
“I need a shower. And food. And to sleep for the rest of my life.”
“I’m pretty good at making people sleep for the rest of their lives.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, Jeff’s arms wrapping under your back and twisting you sideways, his one arm scooping up your legs and lifting you up as he stands off the couch. He carries you towards your bedroom, holding you close to his chest.
“You take a shower, I’ll make you food.”
“Your cooking sucks.”
“You’ll get over it.”
He set you down on the bathroom counter, the cold tile making you hiss as he sauntered over to start the water in the shower.
You couldn’t help but notice the obvious stain on his thighs, dark wetness soaking into the thick fabric. You smiled, glancing up just enough to see that he was still very-much sporting a boner.
“Are you still hard?” You smile, teasing him as the water begins to warm, steam rolling over the glass. Jeff doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and walks over to help you off the counter, pushing you towards the shower.
You think for a moment before stepping in, turning to run a hand down his chest, heart thudding against his ribs.
“If you make me a grilled cheese, I’ll suck your dick before we go to bed.”
Jeff doesn’t need to be convinced any further. With a kiss against your cheek and a helping hand to get the rest of your clothes off, he’s disappearing back toward the kitchen with a jittery laugh.
“Deal. But don’t get mad if it’s burnt, alright?”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ MASKY
You froze.
A rush of cold spilled down your spine as two arms wrapped around your waist from behind, tight. But before panic could reach your throat or your hands could react with the broomstick, you heard a familiar breath—low, steady, a little tired.
“Hey,” came the voice, muffled against your shoulder. “It’s just me.”
Masky.
You let your tensed shoulders sag, releasing a sharp breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, and nearly dropping the broom on the ground.
He pulled you back a step, chest against your back, hands smoothing over your sides like he was trying to melt the stress out of your skin. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said quietly. “The door, I didn’t have time to close it before you were unlocking the front. My bad.”
You twisted in his arms enough to look up at him. Even with the mask still on, his body said everything—guilt in the way he ducked his head slightly, gentleness in the way he held you like something he didn’t want to break. Still, you glared with all the anger and fear burning in your body.
“You think?” you grit, voice shaky but slowly recovering. “I thought I was about to get murdered.”
“Evidently.” He eyed the broomstick squeezed in-between the two of you. You nudged him, and he gave a slow exhale, cupping your face like he was handling porcelain. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Really.”
And you believed him.
“I should have grabbed a knife. Maybe getting stabbed will teach you to not to sneak up on people.”
“I promise you, it wouldn’t.”
You leaned into his touch just a little. “You always sneak around like a damn ghost. You ever think of just knocking?”
He chuckled under his breath. “Wouldn’t be me if I did.”
You rolled your eyes, but the tension was already ebbing. You wanted to be upset with him, but the constant hardened look in Masky’s eyes always rolled unease off your shoulders. He kissed your forehead through the mask, then nodded toward the kitchen.
“Sit. You’re gonna tell me about your day, and I’m gonna make you something before you start melting into the floor. You look beat.”
You didn’t argue. You dragged your feet to the living room, switching off all the lights you had flipped in your panic, throwing the broom back into the closet, dropped into the couch, and watched him bustle around like someone who had done this a dozen times before. He made sure to shut the back door, too. Coffee brewed, a pastry from your cupboard was plated, and all the while, his eyes flicked back to you with that quiet protectiveness he wore like a second skin.
When he returned, he gently nudged your legs to drape over his lap as he sat next to you. You crossed your legs, calves lying atop his thighs, back pressed into the arm of the couch, as he handed over his gifts.
“Eat first,” he muttered. “Talk later.”
You sighed at the first touch of his hands kneading into your calves, thumbs pressing into the tight spots just right. It was maddening how good he was at this. The kind of man who knew the exact angle to dig into the muscle, the exact pressure to make it all unravel.
You ate what he had made you, sipping on the steaming coffee that Masky just always seemed to know how to brew just right no matter what brand you bought. When finished, you laid it on the table next to your couch.
“Long day?” he asked, his voice quieter now, slower. He ran a hand up to your knee, not asking for more than you were willing to give.
“The worst,” you murmured, letting your head fall back. “You ever feel like no matter how much you do, it’s never enough?”
“All the time,” he said simply.
He worked his way up your legs, then, shifting until your knees bent and he could pull you into his lap without resistance. You settled into him with a quiet sigh, your cheek against his shoulder, cradling you. He smelled like cold air and pine needles, something earthy that grounded you instantly.
He tilted your chin gently, mask still on, but his mouth pressed atop your head, chin resting there. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But I’ll listen if you do.”
You hesitated. Then nodded.
And for a while, you just… talked. About the manager who wouldn’t leave you alone. About the customer who screamed over nothing. About how tired you were of pretending to be okay when really you just wanted the world to stop spinning for five minutes.
Masky didn’t say much—but his hands did. One arm around your waist, the other slowly brushing up and down your spine. Reassuring. Real. His mask shifted up his face while you spoke. First, above his mouth so you could see the dark facial hair across his jaw, then above his nose, then completely off, left on the table next to your dirty dishes. You tried not to make a show of seeing his face, but it always made you a little giddy when he removed his mask on his own.
And then—quietly, like he was asking permission—he lifted you just enough to shift you deeper into his lap. His other hand skimmed up your side, drawing idle circles as he began to press kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.
“Forget the rest of it,” he murmured. “Right now, it’s just me and you.”
The heat of him, the slow way his fingers ghosted over your ribs, the softness in his voice—it was everything you needed and nothing you deserved.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he whispered. “Not with me.”
“Sam can be said about you, tough guy.”
He chuckled, but didn’t respond, so you continued.
“How was your day?”
He waited, thinking over his answer. “Had worse. But still not good. Left after everyone went to sleep ‘cause I decided I wanted to see you.” He paused for a second, glancing between you and the window outside. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”
“Don’t. Stay as long as you want. Anything to get you out of that mansion for a bit, yeah?”
“If you insist,” he chuckled.
You melted then, entirely, your fingers curling in the front of his shirt. Letting him kiss your worries away, one soft press at a time. Every nerve in your body quieted. Every fear, every sharp edge the day left behind, dulled under the warmth of his touch.
You didn’t need anything else.
Until his hand dipped in-between your thighs.
It wasn’t rushing or assuming, but just a flat palm slid between the warmth of your legs and resting against the apex of your body. The touch was lightening, tired body shifting to life when the hilt of his hand pressed firm against your center.
”Masky…” you breathed between kisses, half a question and half a sigh of want. He didn’t make any movement, but he didn’t pull away either, just continued kissing.
“Tell me to stop if you wish. Just want to help you relax a lil’.” He hummed against your temple, his facial hair tickling against your cheek.
“No— Uh, no.” You hesitated, evaluating your own body and tiredness, then accepting the fact that now you would be too stirred to relax anymore after the move he had just made. “Want you. Need you.”
“Easy now, don’t get worked up.”
“Hypocrite,” you shoved his shoulder, twisting off of his lap and planting your feet on the ground. You stood in front of him, facing away, and began to unbutton your pants. Your cheeks burned, no doubt Masky being able to see the deep red on the tips of your ears as you shimmied your pants down your thighs and off your legs.
You heard the unstrapping of laces behind you, boots being kicked off of feet and jacket being thrown to the other side of the couch before hands were planting on your hips and turning you around.
You placed your hands on Masky’s shoulders, his fingertips tracing the stitching of your panties as he leaned forward to place slow, breathy kisses against your stomach through your shirt. He hooked your panties around his thumbs, then slowly slid them down your thighs and off with your pants behind you.
Masky lifted the hem of your shirt, placing another kiss just below your belly button before he was sitting back to look up at you, eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks a dark shade of red. You ran your fingers through the short hairs at the back of his head, but before you could make a move to remove any more clothes—his or yours—Masky was grabbing your arms, turning you, and pulling you down onto his lap.
He shuffled you both back, laying long-ways on the couch with his back sitting up against the armrest. He laid your back against his chest, planting his feet into the cushion so your legs hard to spread around them, cold air hitting your center with a chill.
“Wha- You’re not even taking your shirt off?” You question, readjusting and making yourself comfortable on top of him, entire body laying against his. Masky just chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist and planting kiss after kiss against your neck.
“No need,” he hummed, running his hands down your waist and over the tops of your thighs, dipping under them to tug your legs back, pulling them apart. You planted your feet against each of his knees, socked feet slipping against the material of his jeans. “I scared you, so I have to make up for it somehow.”
“Ah, don’t say that,” you mumbled, hands tugging up the hem of your shirt as Masky’s rubbed further and further down. “I already forgave you.”
“Mhm. But I don’t see you stopping me.” You could feel his smirk against your jaw as he spoke, the deep baritone of his voice vibrating against your back. You would have given a retort back, but Masky was suddenly sitting up and hissing in pain.
“Wha-”
He reaches behind him, a click of something being unsnapped, and the rustling of metal. You’re jarred, until Masky pulls out his pistol that usually stays strapped to the holster on the back of his belt. He grimaced, setting the gun back on the nightstand next to the dishes.
“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes.
“Whoops,” he chuckled, lying back down and dragging you back with him.
It was a blur of hands and lips next—Masky’s arm came to wrap around your middle, while his free hand grabbed your jaw and turned your head to kiss him fully. You smiled into the kiss, but found yourself being cut of when two fingers pressed between you, fingertips pressing against your lips.
You happily obliged, parting your lips as Masky sunk his thick middle fingers into your mouth, your hand wrapping around his wrist when he tried to push back further, slightly coughing on the digits.
“Nice and wet. There we go…” he hummed, feeling your tongue slip around his fingers and groan at the salty taste of them. Only when your drool began to coat your own lips and shine on his knuckles did he draw them out, leaving you breathless and flushed.
One arm still gripped around your middle, he let his spit-glistened fingers trail down between your legs. He found your clit immediately, wasting no time in pushing his fingers through your folds and spreading you open, fingertips pressed firm against your sensitive nub and drawing small circles.
“Ah, hah- Masky-” you huffed, planting your hands on his forearms and digging your nails into his sun-kissed skin. Thick veins ran up his arms, strong muscles from countless missions toning his body in all the right ways. It was mouthwatering, really. The only downfall? Every part of him was thick, fingers especially.
“Let it out, there you go.”
If there was one thing about Masky you knew for certain, he knew what he wanted and he always knew how to get it. Whether that be your noises, a specific body reaction, or just your pleasure all over his fingers—he was going to have it, and it was going to be now.
Another circle on your clit before Masky was pressing downwards, scissoring his fingers to spread your pussy lips apart and hum at the glisten that shone in the lamp light. You were dripping, and he hadn’t even done anything yet.
Your nails dug into the skin of his forearm when he began to prod his middle finger against your entrance, swiping up and down the slit but never fully pressing in. You whined, shifting your hips with each movement and praying that he would just finger-fuck you already.
“C’mon-”
“Shhh, don’t be whining,” he smiled, planting an open-mouth kiss against your neck, sucking the skin lightly and sending shock after shock through your body. “Need’a just let me take care of you, sweetheart.”
He tightens his grip on your waist, and you release a spell of air, giving Masky the chance to slip the first knuckle of his middle finger into the warmth of your cunt. You mewl, head lying back on his shoulder, eyes blinking slowly as he works the digit slowly in and out. It’s thick, and Masky can’t help but groan to himself at the way your folds stretch around it.
His bulge pressed against your back, the subtle shift and grind of his hips against you making you reel.
“More…” You huff, pushing his arm down and angling your hips up, whining for the entirety of his finger, not just the first knuckle.
“Greedy, greedy girl…” He purrs, popping off of your neck and moving up to your jaw, continuing his abuse there. Your neck is shining with his spit, little flowering bruises slowly fading in with each minute.
Masky obliges, curling his middle finger and pressing it deeper, warming his finger in your wetness and feeling the fluttering of your walls just begging for more, more.
You grovel, tilting your hips back and forth in time with his wrist, his one finger pumping in and out of you quickly, stirring your stomach with shocks of pleasure. It’s still not enough, you decide, turning your face into the side of Masky’s neck and whining there.
“Oh, what? C’mon, tell me what you want,” he slows his finger, teasing it in and out, the digit soaked with your arousal. “Don’t get all shy.”
“Another…”
“Another what, sweet girl?”
You huff, digging your nails into his arm just to prove a point, “Your fucking finger, Masky. Please.”
“Atta girl.”
Masky free arm unwraps from your waist, hand snaking down to press finger pads against your clit, hard—enough to make you flinch. You feel a second finger begin to stretch against your entrance, the tight ring of muscle sucking in the thick digits like they belonged there.
“Yeah—yeah—yeah-” You chant against his neck, tilting your gaze down to watch as one knuckle after another dips inside of you, just to tug back out again. He begins to slowly pump his two middle fingers in, your hips jerking to meet every pass.
His other hand does wonders, swiping lewdly across your clit, sounds of wet skin and arousal overtaking the silence of your home. You brace your hands on his forearms still, fingers clenching in time with his.
“Tell me what you’re feelin’, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your ear, biting at the carriage and sending goosebumps shooting across your skin. It’s accompanied with the repetitive massaging of that sweet spot deep inside that only he can reach, fingers pumping and knocking against every sensitive nerve on their way out. Masky knows your body like the back of his hand, and it’s proven here and now. “Let me hear that sweet voice.”
“Good—hah-” You gasp, gritting your teeth when he curls his fingers upwards, scissoring your cunt wider. “Jus-hngh-Just keep going.”
He gives a heavy circle onto your clit, fingers tugging at the nub, before his hand is retreating. You nearly whine, exasperated that he did exactly what you told him not to do, until his hand is wrapping around your wrist.
He maneuvers your hand down, pressing his fingers atop yours directly onto your clit, showing you how to rub yourself. When you slowly start doing the motion on your own, he lets your hand go.
You want to question, but he’s wrapping his hand around your jaw and tilting your face up, pressing a firm but wet kiss against your swollen lips. Then his fingers are slipping down, until his fist is wrapping around your throat and—
Oh.
The lightheaded sensation is instant, brain growing fuzzy with the little oxygen that you’re not getting to your head. He places the pressure on either side of your neck, right under your jaw, and squeezes until your lips are parting and you’re gasping.
Your fingers stall their movements on your clit, his two still pumping mercilessly into your sopping cunt, and a low rumble erupts from his chest.
Then his fingers inside of you come to a dead stop.
You whine, sucking in a rattled breath against the pressure constricting you, and try rocking your hips. Masky stays still.
“Move them fingers, sweetheart.”
You immediately light up, your hand getting to work at rubbing your cunt until tears prick the corners of your eyes, thighs jerking to close with every circle. Masky catches up immediately, the palm of his hand hitting against your fingertips every time he fucks his fingers into your wilting hole, his digits glistening.
His grip on your throat tightens, your eyes rolling back as your mouth creates an ‘oh’ shape, gasping for air. The air swimming in your brain makes your vision hazy, but it also heightens the sensations of every nerve lighting up in your cunt, every curl and jerk of fingers against yourself.
“You’re gettin’ close, pretty girl,” Masky hums, pressing his lips directly against your ear, gritting his teeth when your free hand comes up to wrap around his wrist. “Let it all out. Come all over me, sweetheart.”
His fist tightens one final time, your airway completely shuts out, and that’s what does you in. Your orgasm hits you like a train, hard and fast, and with barely any warning. Your nails are tearing into his arm, fingers rubbing your clit so hard you see stars, and his fingers—they’re slamming into your g-spot, legs shaking so hard they slip off his knees and fall wide.
You cum into his palm, your arousal soaking his fingers and dripping down his wrist, absolutely covering your inner thighs and plush lips. Masky growls, deep and low, nipping at the corner of your ear while your cunt convulses and grips his fingers impossibly tighter.
He lets his grip off your throat, a crying gasp for air that has your stomach tightening and eyes shooting wide. He shushes you, rubbing methodical circles against your cheek as your head falls back limp against his shoulder. You’re shaking all over, body absolutely wrecked.
It took more effort than you care to admit for Masky to slowly tug his fingers out of you, muscles clamping down against the digits like they were begging him to stay.
The couch creaked softly beneath you both as you lay draped over him, cheek pressed against the side of his neck, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat in his pulse.
Masky’s arms slung lazily around you, one hand tracing slow circles onto your chest, the wiping against his pant-leg. His chest rose and fell beneath you, and you felt his lips brush your temple.
“You did so good, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick and gravel-warm, like it had melted under the weight of contentment. “So damn good for me.”
Your tired body softened further at the praise, sinking against him with a faint sigh. He could feel your heartbeat syncing with his, slower now, soothed. There was no residual work-related emotion left in your body, no room when now all you could think about was how good you felt, how full.
His fingers ghosted along your jaw again, dragging a quiet shiver from you despite the warmth still lingering between your bodies. “You’re so pretty,” he added, quieter this time, like it wasn’t meant to be said aloud—but he said it anyway. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You nuzzled against him, and he chuckled — low and affectionate. Then, gently, he shifted beneath you.
“C’mon,” he whispered, sitting up with you still loosely wrapped in his arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
You wanted to protest, say you were fine, but your legs felt like jelly and your brain wasn’t quite caught up to your body yet. He carried you effortlessly, strong arms cradling you to his chest, his jacket and your pants abandoned on the floor behind him.
He carried you to your bedroom, sitting you on the bed while he disappeared to the bathroom. You could’ve fallen asleep right there, if the chilly air was lighting your body with goosebumps.
The bathroom lights were low and the tub was already half-full, steam curling upward like fog in the amber light when he gathered you back up and guided you to the bathroom, helping you remove the rest of your clothes.
Masky sat on the edge of the tub with you still in his lap, his skin warm where it met yours, holding you like you were something fragile and precious. The water lapped gently at the porcelain.
He ran his hand along your arm, soothing, grounding. “I got you,” he said. “Always.”
Once he eased you into the water, you sank with a small moan, the heat cradling you like a second set of arms. You leaned back against the edge of the tub, head falling to the side where Masky sat on a folded towel beside it, one arm slung along the rim, fingers trailing in the water next to yours.
You blinked up at him through the haze. There was this softness in his eyes he never showed anyone else. Not even the others. Just you.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
“Yeah…” you breathed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Just… floaty.”
He smiled, barely there. “That’s the idea.”
Silence stretched comfortably between you, the kind that doesn’t need filling. Just the sound of the water sloshing quietly as he washed your legs, gentle and unhurried.
“I’ll be gone in the morning,” he said suddenly, not looking at you. “Long mission coming up, some out of town stuff.”
You opened your eyes at that, meeting his gaze.
He reached forward to brush wet strands of hair from your face, thumb trailing down your cheek. “I promise not to sneak up on you when I get back. Keep yourself safe until then.”
Your hand found his, fingers curling around his wrist, and you smiled—soft, tired, but real.
“Will you wake me up?” you whispered. “Just so I can kiss you bye.”
His lips quirked, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.
“Of course.”
You knew he wouldn’t, knew that he would get too sentimental about letting you sleep, but that was for tomorrow.
Tonight, you just couldn’t wait to kiss his face and tell him your every thought before slipping off to sleep.
And maybe repaying the favor, too.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ TICCI TOBY
You heard the fast cadence of feet moving behind you before you ever saw who it was, so obviously, you swung around broom-handle first.
You felt the CRACK of wood against something hard, then turned the rest of your body around to see—
Toby?
His shoulder slumped against the wall, hands up in defense, and a sheepish grin on his now-red face. You knew he didn’t feel the pain of the hit, but he definitely felt the way it shook his brain for a second.
“Toby—!” you snapped, whirling towards him and swatting at his chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He was already grinning—goggles askew in his messy brown hair, hoodie half unzipped like he’d just walked in from a tornado. He ducked your halfhearted hits with an exaggerated lean, still giggling.
“You should’ve se-seen your face,” he said, wheezing through his grin. “I was gonna jump out from the closet but figured you might act-actually kill me.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t just now,” you muttered, heart still racing.
Toby tilted his head. “Yeah, but then you’d be stuck all alone again. Didn’t y-you miss me?” He stepped closer, hands slipping around your waist.
Your lips pressed into a line, still too wound-up from the fear to melt into his teasing right away. “Maybe. A little. But not enough to forgive you sneaking in through the back door like a horror movie villain.”
He leaned in, rubbing his nose gently against the side of your face. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Just… couldn’t help it. You’re so fun to surp-surprise.”
You sighed, the weight of the day still pressing down on your shoulders. He felt it too—because his smile dimmed, his hand reaching up to trace the curve of your spine over your shirt, slowly and carefully.
“Tough day?”
You nodded. “Always is.”
“Then let me fix that.”
Before you could argue, Toby grabbed your hand and gently tugged you toward the couch, taking the broom from your hands and throwing it back into the hall closet. “C’mon. Si-Sit down. You can yell at me later—right now you need to unwind.”
Toby’s hand was warm, his grip light as he tugged you toward the living room. You didn’t resist, not this time. After the day you’d had—and the scare he gave you—you didn’t have the energy to argue. Not when your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts were foggy from pushing too hard for too long.
The two of you flipped off every light you had anxiously flipped on on the way back, and made sure to shut the back door tight.
He plopped onto the couch first, legs spreading carelessly as he sank into the cushions with a groan that sounded far too satisfied, kicking his boots off. Then, without waiting, he grabbed your arm and pulled you down with him—until your body was tucked into his side, your head resting against his hoodie-covered chest, the rhythm of his breathing loud in your ear.
“That’s better,” he mumbled, shifting slightly so he could wrap both arms around you, folding you into his warmth like a blanket he’d been missing for days. “You always smell like… I dunno. Like so-soap. And work.”
You chuckled weakly, your body already starting to sink against him. “That’s probably accurate.”
He made a content little noise in the back of his throat, the sound vibrating in his chest under your cheek. Then one hand came up—calloused fingers brushing your hair back, again and again in soft, soothing strokes. He played with the strands absently, combing them through with care, sometimes curling a few around his finger and letting them slide loose.
You didn’t realize how much you needed this until you felt yourself beginning to melt.
No pressure. No noise. Just the low hum of his breathing, the sound of the wind against the house, and his fingertips skimming over your scalp like he was drawing patterns only he could see.
He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to.
Toby was always better at this than you expected. For someone who buzzed with chaos and laughter and unpredictable energy, he could be surprisingly… still. When it counted. And right now, he knew better than to fill the space with words.
You closed your eyes.
“Want me to get you anything?” he murmured after a while, quieter now. “Water? Snacks? I saw a bag of chi-chips in the pantry that looked lonely.”
You shook your head. “Just this.”
“That’s easy,” he whispered, a soft smile curling against your temple. “I can do this all night.”
He pulled the blanket off the back of the couch with one arm, dragging it around both of you with a lazy flourish, then curled tighter around you. His chin rested gently on top of your head, and his thumb traced a lazy, slow circle on your side. Over and over. Repeating the motion like it meant something. Like maybe he was grounding himself too.
You didn’t have to talk. You didn’t have to think. He made sure of that—kissing your forehead now and then, humming softly under his breath, keeping his arms steady and his presence warm and close and real.
“You’re good now,” he said, so quiet you barely heard him. “I’m here, okay? I’m here.”
And for the first time that day—hell, maybe the first time that week—you believed it.
And in the lull of your stress fading and his fingers gently massaging behind your ear, it finally clicked: no matter how weird or chaotic or infuriating Toby could be, he always came back to you like this—like home.
But every home has its cracks, and every crack is a breach at the foundation. And sure as hell, you both had your cracks.
You tried and tried to get comfortable, but after a little bit, your body was just too sore, mind too hazy with work. But, like the adult you were, gritted your teeth and scrunched your brow. Toby, however, wasn’t going to let you get off so easy.
“‘Just this’ my ass,” he laughed, pulling your hips back against his when you turn off of his body and onto your side, back flush against his front. “You’re still sw-swimmin’ in stress.”
Even though he can’t see you, you roll your eyes at his dramatics. It’s hardly the first time you’ve forced yourself to sleep through a muddy brain, and usually by yourself. If anything, Toby’s pestering is making it more of an impossible task.
And yet, here he is wrapping his arms around your middle and pressing his face into your hair. His body shifts closer, the two of you laid out against the other, trying your best to play sleepy, knowing full well the other was wide awake.
You can’t help it.
You peel yourself from his body, sitting up and planting your feet off the ground. Toby groans, hands trying to grip at your shirt, but you’re already moving to the kitchen by the time he’s up.
“Whe-Where’re you going?
The kettle’s old, a little too loud when it clicks onto the burner. You reach for the tea tin, fingers trembling slightly from the built-up static in your bones. You didn’t even realize how deep the tension ran until you peeled yourself away from the couch. Every joint ached like your body was still clocked in.
Toby isn’t far behind, of course.
You hear the soft pad pad pad of his mismatched gait, socks barely making a sound on the floor. He doesn’t say anything right away—just leans his shoulder against the doorway, watching. You feel his stare like a heat across your back.
“…You didn’t answer me,” he says after a beat, voice thick and scratchy, like it’s caught somewhere between sleep and screaming.
“I needed something warm,” you mumble. “Can’t settle.”
“Couldn’t se-settle with me,” he teases, pushing off the doorframe. “Ouch.”
“It’s not you,” you say with a soft huff, grabbing two mugs out of the cabinet. “It’s just work. Manager’s still refusing to hire more help.”
He hums, unconvinced, and steps closer. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his hands find your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, just enough to touch skin. The contact makes you shiver. Not cold—never with him around.
“I said you were st-still swimmin’ in stress.” His voice is closer now, the warmth of his breath skimming the curve of your shoulder. “Bet your head’s still full’a ema-email chains and shit.”
“It is,” you admit, biting back a sigh, scooping loose tea leaves into the strainer with slow, practiced fingers. “And tomorrow’s gonna be worse. I should be in bed.”
“So let me help,” he murmurs, all faux-innocent as his hands start to travel. “Didn’t I alrea-already do such a good job loosening you up earlier?”
“Toby,” you say warningly, but there’s no bite in it.
He grins into your shoulder.
The kettle isn’t even halfway to boiling when you feel him really close the distance — chest to your back, hips pinning you lightly to the counter, the twitchy energy in him turning molten. His lips brush your neck, first a feather-light graze, then a drag, then a kiss, slow and open-mouthed, right at the base of your throat.
Your breath catches in your lungs.
“Tobes…”
“You smell like me now,” he says into your skin, nose nuzzling behind your ear. “You got no idea how hard it is not to wanna crawl here after every day, just to see you, touch you, feel you.”
His hands spread wide across your stomach, palms flattening to keep you close. The gentle motion of his thumbs stroking absent patterns is a stark contrast to the heat coiling behind his kisses.
You let your head tip slightly, involuntarily—the smallest invitation.
“Still stressed?” He murmurs, one hand skimming undernesth your shirt and up to your ribs, not quite groping—just holding, grounding. “Or do I fi-finally feel you easin’ up?”
Your body is softening against him despite yourself. “You’re cheating.”
“You’re too uptight,” he counters, tone half-mockery, half-concern. “I’m just multitasking. Bein’ g-good for you and selfish at the same time.”
The kettle starts to whisper with pressure.
You could push him off. You should, maybe—wait for the tea, try to rest like an adult. But he feels safe against your back, fingers warm, breath warmer. Your thoughts slow a little under his touch, each kiss tugging you further from the work-stained haze you’d been drowning in.
“You’re not gonna let me drink that tea in peace, are you?”
Toby chuckles, the sound dark and fond and unmistakably turned on. His lips graze lower, teeth barely grazing where your shoulder meets your neck.
“…Nope.”
And then he bites, hard—enough to make you groan.
You grip the counter harder, bracing yourself as he presses fully into you from behind. You can feel him—hard, twitching, needy, through the thin fabric of both your clothes, and it makes your breath hitch again.
“I thought this was about helping me relax,” you say shakily, lips tugging into a grin despite the heat pooling between your legs.
He laughs, husky and low. “Oh, I am helpin’,” he mutters, biting gently at your earlobe. “You’ll be too tire-tired to think by the time I’m done.”
Toby watches over your shoulder as he unbuttons your pants, tugging them open as he dips his hand in and under the front of your panties, barely giving you time to gasp before his fingers are pushing through the growing wetness at your center.
Your hips buck against the counter as he drags two fingers over your folds, slow, testing. You’re already out of breath.
“Well fuck, sweetheart,” he growls, voice suddenly wrecked with want. “I haven’t even gotten st-started yet.”
“Your fault,” you whisper back, trembling, eyes fluttering shut as he teases his fingers through your folds, swiping slick against your puffy lips. “You started it.”
“And I’m gonna finish it,” he promises darkly, licking up your neck again. “Right here.”
Your eyes almost roll into the back of your head as he crooks one evil finger through your folds, gathering your slick to aid the taunting circles he begins to draw over your clit. He doesn’t care to drag your pants down any further, perfectly content with shoving your front against the counter and pressing his bulge against the roundness of your ass.
“Aha—Toby-” You whine, his fingertips rubbing merciless circles against your clit, your knees resisting the urge to buckle and crash you into the floor. Toby, all the while, is littering your neck with bites and kisses, disregarding exactly how much whiplash this is giving you. “Slow, agh—slow down.”
He lets off your neck, his free hand coming up to grip your jaw with wincing force, twitchy fingers dragging your deeply flushed face to turn and look at him.
He bores wide eyes at you down the length of his nose. He looks gloriously smug as he eases his middle finger inside you, but his mouth curling upwards at the wanton moan that spills from your lips as you clench around him.
“Naughty girl,” he murmurs, as he curls it just so. You nod fervidly and capture his lips in a desperate kiss, as though eager to prove his point. You whimper against his mouth when he repeats the movement, and he swallows the sound of your pleasure; opening up to you and delving in with his tongue.
His finger is quick, edgy jerks of his wrist lighting your cunt up with shock after sensitive shock as your thighs shake under you. His tongue explores your mouth, spit coating each other’s lips with each hungry kiss Toby plants upon you.
Pressure builds against the kettle's spout, air growing louder.
“Think I can make my sweet girl cum before your pre-precious tea is ready?” He grits, popping off of your mouth with a satisfied grin and spit-glistened lips. You go to shake your head, go to tell him to take it easy, but he’s already bullying another finger into your sopping cunt, panties soaked nearly through your work pants.
“Jesus, Toby—yeah, yeah okay-” you spread your legs a little wider, leaning just a little further against the counter as Toby’s palm nudges ruthlessly against your sensitive clit.
He smiles wide, pressing his hips harder against your ass, grinding himself in time with his curling fingers as his free hand snakes up the front of your shirt, groping your tits. He’s becoming frantic, and you can only hope to keep up.
You bite down on your tongue to cut short your whiny moan as Toby presses the pad of his fingers into your g-spot. The depths of his eyes glitter dark with malevolent glee as you writhe between him and the counter—your body caught in a battle between wanting to chase what his fingers are doing and needing him to stop for two damn seconds so you can focus on not buckling under both his and your weight.
“Let it all out, c’mon sw-sweet girl, let me hear you,” he growls against your jaw, nipping against the skin there. Your hips jerk in time with his hand, body following the rub of his palm on your clit, feeling the ever-closer tightness in your gut.
He pulls out of you and begins to circle your clit once more.
Your frustration materialises in a noise that’s partway between a whine and a growl, and you throw your head back against his shoulder—dishevelled breathing nearly overshadowing the faint whistle building on the kettle.
There’s no controlling the way your hips roll to compliment his movements, even though you’re trapped against the counter thoroughly enough that your own movements are limited by Toby’s arm.
“Please,” you beg.
“Please what?”
Your hips buck when he catches on a particularly sensitive spot, a desperate attempt to have his fingers press into your entrance again. But he moves with you, continuing only to draw stuttering patterns.
“Let me hear you, sweet girl,” he repeats.
Your breaths have increased to a heavy pant, broken only by the small gasps and mewls at each movement he makes—all at once too much and not nearly enough.
Maybe it’s the stance, or the overstimulation, or the fact that you’re about the cry if Toby doesn’t put his fucking fingers in your fucking pussy. But you’re slipping one hand off the counter and reaching back to tangle into his hair, dragging his gaze to meet yours.
“Please, Toby,” you pant. “I don’t care how fast you go, I do—hah—don’t care what you do. I just need to cum, right now. I need you to make me cum, Toby.”
Each word from your rambling mouth makes Toby’s eyes widen, grin growing wider and wider. He doesn’t need to be convinced any longer.
You mewl as he curls his fingers inside you, dragging against your walls as he begins a rapid, tear-jerking rhythm. He kisses and sucks at your ear, tugging on the lobe with a sharpness that has your eyes clamping shut and moans shrieking from your lips.
His free hand slithers from under your shirt to snag a bruising grip on your hips, encouraging you to grind your hips down onto his hand, his own hips rutting against you like a dog.
“Yeah, Toby—Yeah.”
You moan as he scissors his fingers inside you. You’ve been so overwhelmed by sensations until now that you’re only just realising the kettle is nearly ready, faint whistle growing louder—as Toby’s fingers grew faster.
“C’mon, baby, almost there—al-almost there.”
He adds a third finger, and begins to pump into you with much more intention than before, the hilt of his palm purposefully rutting against your clit, cunt absolutely sloppy with your arousal in your panties.
“I’m close—Toby, ‘m so close, c’mon-”
“Let me feel it, sweetheart.”
His fingers hit a particularly sweet spot, and you gasp in approval as he begins to pick up speed, hitting that spot again and again, coaxing and curling and grinding his palm relentlessly against your clit.
Toby pays rapt attention to your face as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. His eyes dart between yours, and his lips curl upwards with every desperate sound that spills from you. He supports your weight while your legs tremble beneath you, and you cling to him for dear life as your stomach muscles shake, and coil ever tighter until everything inside you is pulled taut and—
The tension snaps. Your spine arches against him, his hips plowing against yours, and you cry out as the first relentless waves of your orgasm crash over you. Toby guides you through each pitiful swell with deep strokes that have you seeing stars. He doesn’t dare to let a single ripple of pleasure pass you by.
You’re still gasping for breath, knuckles white against the counter, thighs twitching where they press together, trying to regain some sense of control—but your body is spent, trembling, soaked through.
Toby’s palm is warm and steady where it rests between your legs, the heel of his hand applying just enough pressure to keep the mess contained while you come down from the high. His fingers slowly slip from you, careful not to overstimulate, though the ghost of them lingers, making you shudder in place.
Then—
The kettle screeches, high whistle filling the air.
Toby snorts through his nose, resting his forehead against your shoulder with a groan.
“Well, looks like I win,” he mutters, sounding slightly dazed himself.
You’re still catching your breath, legs barely cooperating. “I can’t move.”
He doesn’t hesitate—just guides you easily by the waist and back towards your bathroom, minding your still-sensitive body. He keeps one hand on your hip while grabbing a rag with the other, wetting it with warm tap water.
“Stay put,” he murmurs. “Lemme clean you up.”
You hum softly, dazed and grateful as he shimmies your pants and panties off of your hips and down your legs, this time not with lust, but with care. He eyes your soaked panties.
“Ruined ’em,” he comments, not unkindly. He gives you a cocky little smirk. “Might fra-frame ’em.”
“Gross,” you whisper, but there’s a sleepy smile on your face now.
His hands are gentle now—soft wipes between your thighs, slow dabs where the fabric is soaked. The wet heat of your panties clings uncomfortably, and without asking, he hooks his fingers into the waistband and peels them down.
Once he’s done wiping you clean, he presses a lingering kiss to your cheek—reverent this time—and tugs your shirt down to cover you back up before standing. He moves with less twitch now, more grounded, like something has calmed the buzzing in his own nerves.
He wipes you gently, but when he shifts to toss the rag into the sink behind him, the movement presses his hoodie up just enough for you to see.
A dark, unmistakable patch soaks through the front of his jeans.
Your brows lift slowly, a smile creeping across your face. “Toby.”
He freezes, mid-reach. “…Yeah?”
You lean forward, tapping a finger against the wet spot on his pants. “Did you seriously come in your pants?”
He jerks slightly at the touch, groaning as if you’d just caught him doing something far worse. “Fu-Fuck, don’t say it like that,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears flush red through his messy hair. “You were… God, you were makin’ noises, s-squeezin’ my fingers, it felt so good grinding against you… I wasn’t exact-exactly in control.”
You snort, amused and charmed all at once. “Didn’t even get your dick touched, and you still—”
“Don’t,” he whines, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You laugh again, light and warm, and slide to stand in front of him. His hands instinctively land on your hips to steady you, but he avoids your eyes, embarrassed even though he’s the one who just made you come undone with his fingers alone.
“Hey,” you say gently, hands smoothing up under his hoodie, resting at his waist. “Let me take care of you now.”
His eyes open at that—cautious, a little wide. “You d-don’t have to—”
“I know,” you cut in, smiling softly. “But I want to.”
He swallows hard as you pull him toward the sink where the rag lies, damp and forgotten. You grab a clean one instead and dampen it with warm water, testing the temperature before turning back to him. “Pants down, killer.”
He stares at you like you just said the most blasphemous thing imaginable. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” you counter.
Toby groans in defeat, tugging open his jeans and boxers with minimal ceremony, wincing at the sticky mess inside them. You don’t laugh—not this time. Instead, you step between his legs, towel in hand, and meet his gaze with soft, adoring mischief.
“You really did make a mess,” you murmur, crouching slightly as you press the towel gently against him. You wipe him down with care, the same way he did for you—slow, soothing, careful not to tease too much, though it’s hard when you hear the little breathy sounds he makes.
He grips the edge of the counter behind him, watching you like you’re some kind of religious experience. “Fuckin’ hell, watch your hands.”
“I just like seeing you flustered,” you tease, brushing the inside of his thigh lightly.
He hisses softly. “You’re mean.”
“I’m sweet,” you correct, finally finishing your gentle cleanup and tossing the towel into the sink behind you. “You’re just really easy to get riled.”
He grabs your waist again and pulls you up against him, nose brushing yours. “You keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna make us both miss tea and bedtime.”
You press a kiss to his jaw, light as a feather. “Tempting. But I think I’ve earned my tea.”
You both fix your clothes, you slipping on a fresh pair of bottoms, and shuffling back to the kitchen.
The kettle is still whistling softly, having clicked off on its own. He moves to pour the water, and you slide to grab the mugs, still a little wobbly in the knees.
He steadies you with ease, eyes flicking down to check on you.
“You okay?”
You nod, curling into his side. “Yeah. Sleepy, now.”
“Good.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “My duty has been fulfi-fulfilled.”
He hands you your mug first—your favorite one, the one he always pretends not to use but definitely steals when you’re not home. He hands you a steaming cup of tea steeped to perfection, then takes his own and nudges you toward the couch.
You settle in against him, tucked under his arm, legs draped across his lap. He presses a palm to your thigh, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you sip.
There’s still tension in your muscles, yes—but it’s softer now. Quiet. Manageable.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say quietly.
He hums, resting his head against yours. “Yeah, I did. You weren’t gon-gonna stop. You never do.”
“Hypocrite,” you snide, but he looks down at you with that rare, unfiltered softness.
“I want you tak-taken care of,” he says simply. “I beat too many randos up everyday. Sometimes I just wanna take care of somebody.”
Your heart swells. The tea in your hand warms your palms, but it’s nothing compared to the heat that fills your chest.
You lean into him, nose tucked into his hoodie, your body finally able to melt against something solid. He holds you there in silence, kissing the top of your head every so often.
The night is quiet now—no stress, no thoughts of work.
Just tea, Toby, and the steady, rhythmic beat of a heart that’s completely and totally in sync with yours.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ HOODIE
Arms wrap around you from behind. Firm. Familiar. Gloved hands press against your stomach, steadying you as you flinch and try to spin around, broom handle gripped tight.
“No need to scream,” his voice is low, calm, muffled slightly by the fabric of his mask. “It’s just me.”
You tense. “Jesus, Hoodie!”
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You turn in his arms to face him—not able to see his expression beneath the worn fabric of his hood, but it doesn’t matter. The tension bleeding from his shoulders says enough. He’s tired, like you. But he’s here.
“You left the door wide open,” you mutter, pushing against his chest with a huff, his hand leaving your waist to remove the broom from your hands. “You know I’ve had the worst week. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I thought something happened.”
He nods, quiet, and doesn’t let you pull away too far. “I got the weekend off. I was going to surprise you. Thought I’d beat you home.”
You raise a brow. “So you decided to break in?”
“Technically, I have a key,” he mumbles under his breath.
You cross your arms, unimpressed.
“Okay,” he concedes with a sigh. “I messed up.”
Despite your irritation, a little huff of laughter escapes. He always does this—makes you want to stay mad just a little longer than you can actually hold it. Still, the adrenaline is slowly leaving your system now, and your body remembers how exhausted you are.
He watches you for a moment. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
He doesn’t press you. Instead, he steps out of your space and heads to the kitchen like he owns the place—and honestly, after all this time, maybe he kind of does. You hear the sounds of a mug being pulled down, the soft trickle of water filling the kettle. Cabinets opening. The scrape of a plate. It’s methodical. Gentle. Like he’s trying to undo the jolt he gave you.
You follow him, arms still crossed, trying not to let your annoyance outweigh your relief. On your way back, you flip off every light you had turned on in your frenzy, and make sure to shut the back door firmly.
Hoodie sets a steaming cup of tea in front of you a few minutes later and tugs the kitchen island chair back. “Sit.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not the boss of me.”
“I’m the one who scared you half to death. Let me make it up to you.”
You blink at him. That’s as close to a romantic apology as you’re probably going to get. So… you sigh, scoop up the tea, and scoot into the stool.
The mug’s warmth sinks into your palms. You lift it to your lips, take a slow sip—earthy, floral, a little sweet—and let out a sigh. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t disappear, but it dulls a bit, enough to make you realize how tightly you’ve been holding everything inside.
Across the island, Hoodie leans against the counter, his own mug cradled loosely in one gloved hand. His head is tilted slightly, watching you in that quiet, patient way of his — like he’s giving you time to unwind, wordlessly encouraging you to talk without pushing.
You glance up at him through tired lashes. “Long week,” you murmur.
He nods. “Figured.”
“You?”
A grunt of acknowledgement. “We were out on rotation. Recon, mostly.” He shifts a bit, pulling his hood down with one hand and sliding the mask up above his nose just enough to drink. “Nothing exciting, but… exhausting.”
You frown a little. “You’re back early. That usually means something went wrong.”
He shrugs. “Not wrong. Just… tense.” A pause. “Tim’s been on edge.”
“More than usual?”
“Mhm.”
You blow softly on your tea, letting the heat curl against your lips. “Work’s been hell. My boss is a micromanaging narcissist and I’ve had two people quit in the last ten days. One of them cried in the break room before they left.”
Hoodie hums, like he’s picturing that too vividly. “You quit yet?”
You let out a dry little laugh. “I fantasize about it. Daily.”
“Do it,” he says simply. “I’ll hide the body.”
You roll your eyes, but the grin sneaks in anyway. “Not every problem can be solved by murder.”
“That’s where we differ.”
Another beat of silence passes, but it’s not awkward. Just shared weariness between two people who trust each other to hold the quiet without needing to fill it.
Then Hoodie lifts the front of his sweatshirt to his nose, sniffs himself, and grimaces.
You raise an eyebrow. “Charming.”
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. “We really are disgusting.”
You smirk into your cup. “I didn’t want to say anything, but you do smell like old sweat and outside.”
He glares at you over the rim of his mug. “You smell like stress and three-day-old coffee.”
“Fair.”
He finishes the last of his drink, sets it down with a soft clink, then pushes away from the counter. “Come on. Shower.”
You blink, surprised. “Together?”
He pauses. His body language doesn’t change, but you can feel the way his attention snaps to you—heavy and focused like a shift in air pressure.
You weren’t trying to sound suggestive, not really. But the way his eyes darken just slightly beneath the mask, the subtle way he squares his shoulders—it hits you low in your stomach.
“…That an invitation?” he asks, voice lower now. Rougher.
You stare at him for a long moment. Then nod. “Yeah. It is.”
The tension that follows is thick—not awkward, but heavy with something slow-burning, simmering beneath the exhaustion. Craving contact and comfort in the most stripped-down way.
He doesn’t move quickly. Just steps around the island and stops in front of you, gloved fingers brushing yours where they rest against the mug. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to.
Because when his hand slides into yours and you let him lead you down the hallway, it’s not about rushing or undoing the tension with heat—it’s about scrubbing off the week, the weight, the grime, together.
The bathroom is quiet, lit only by the small bulb over the mirror and the faint orange glow bleeding in from the hallway. You pad in behind him, feet soft against the tile, while Hoodie reaches for the knobs on the shower.
The pipes groan as hot water spills from the head, steam rising slowly. His gloves come off first, dropped beside the sink in a damp little thud. You reach out without a word, your hands brushing his as you move to help—first with his sweatshirt, tugging the hem up, his arms lifting in silent permission.
He watches you the entire time. You can’t see his eyes fully behind the fabric, but you feel them. Heavy. Focused. You pull the hoodie up over his head and it catches briefly on his mask—the cloth tight over his jaw—and you freeze. One hand lifts gently, thumb brushing the edge of the mask just above his cheekbone.
His body tenses.
“I don’t have to,” you whisper.
But he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t speak. He just watches.
So slowly, carefully, you slide the mask up and off—exposing his mouth, his knotted brows, the quiet twitch of nerves along his throat as he swallows. His blond hair is messy, but you don’t care to fix it. You don’t stare. You just fold the fabric and set it aside, stepping close enough to press a kiss just beneath his chin. He exhales—long and low—and his hands settle on your hips, grounding himself.
Then it’s your turn.
You tug your own shirt over your head, his hands slipping around your back as soon as it’s gone. You feel him press a kiss to your collarbone, soft and unhurried, while you make quick work of the rest—pants, socks, underwear. He follows suit, until the only thing between you is warmth and anticipation.
The shower is fogged by the time you step in.
The hot spray hits your shoulders first, drawing a sigh from you both. You lean back against him as he closes the curtain behind you, his body flush against yours, his arms slowly wrapping around your waist. The water beads down your skin, over your back, between your bodies.
Neither of you speak.
His hands start slow—washing, soothing, mapping the lines of your body like he’s grounding himself in the shape of you. You do the same, fingers sliding across the plane of his chest, up to his shoulders. You trace the curve of his neck, the muscles tense beneath your fingertips, and he lets out a low hum that vibrates against your back.
His hands wander lower, over your stomach, hips, the inside of your thighs. Not demanding—just feeling. Exploring without pressure.
You tilt your head back against his shoulder. “Still feel gross?” you murmur.
His lips brush your ear. “Not even a little.”
You laugh, breathless, and twist in his arms so you’re facing him. The spray catches you both in the face, so he shifts slightly, shielding you with his body. One hand cups your jaw, the other smoothing over your lower back, pulling you closer.
Your chest presses to his, slick and warm under the water.
He doesn’t kiss you yet—just watches, eyes roaming your features like he’s trying to memorize every expression. One of your hands comes up to brush his damp hair back from his forehead. He’s so much more real like this. Human. Not the shadow you’ve grown used to meeting in alleyways or at your back door.
You lean in. Your lips touch his.
It’s slow. Not rushed or hungry—just hot, steady, present. He kisses you like he means it, like it matters. Like being here, with you, is the only thing that’s made his week feel real.
His hand slides down again, fingers brushing the swell of your ass, pulling you in. Your thighs meet his hips. Your body melts against him.
And it’s not just comfort anymore. It’s hunger in disguise.
The spray from the shower rolls heat around you, hot and soothing—but the real heat is pressed against you. He turns you, Hoodie’s chest flush to your back, his hands skimming up your sides, palms calloused but purposeful. Every touch is unhurried, deliberate, like he’s tracing your nerves from memory.
One hand finds your jaw, turning your face slightly so he can kiss you again—slow, deep, his lips dragging across yours like he’s trying to sink into you. The other dips lower, brushing your stomach, your hip, until he’s between your thighs.
You gasp, fingers gripping his wrist.
His palm flattens across your mound, his fingertips dipping between your thighs with featherlight pressure—teasing, exploring. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches your face tilt slightly toward his, breath quickening when his fingers stroke along your slit.
“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. “Just relax for me.”
Your body leans into his, already giving in.
You’re already wet. Not just from the water—him.
A low, satisfied hum escapes his throat. “You’re soaked.”
You whimper as he drags his middle finger up slowly, parting you, brushing right over your clit. His fingers are big, his entire palm covering your cunt and making you squirm.
“Sensitive?” he murmurs against your temple.
“God—yes…”
You feel his smirk more than you see it. His lips graze your ear, breath hot, teasing.
“I haven’t even started yet.”
His hand moves with a firmer purpose now. His middle finger dips between your folds, gliding down to your entrance, and slowly—so fucking slowly—he pushes the first knuckle in. Your back arches against him as his finger sinks deep, curling slightly, testing the way your walls squeeze around him.
“Fuck,” he hisses, the sound husky, almost reverent. “So tight…”
You whine, eyes fluttering shut. His other hand comes up to brace your chest, sliding across your ribs, then down again—holding you still as he starts to move his finger, curling it gently with each pump. The water pours down over both of you, but all you feel is him—every slow press, every filthy grind of his palm against your clit.
You’ve barely had time to adjust when he’s pushing another finger.
Your legs nearly give out.
“Easy,” he murmurs, shifting his body behind yours to support your weight. “I’ve got you.”
The stretch of his fingers—thick, deep, perfect—has your mouth falling open in a gasp. He keeps them pumping in a steady rhythm, thumb circling your clit now with increasing pressure, drawing tight little spirals that make your stomach flutter.
“You feel that?” His voice is in your ear again, ragged and dark. “How wet you are for me? How fucking hard you’re squeezing?”
You nod helplessly, body tensing with every thrust of his fingers.
“Say it,” he demands softly.
“I—fuck—I’m so wet for you,” you breathe, barely able to form the words. “Feels so good, Brian—”
“That’s it,” he growls, voice cracked with restraint. “Let me make you cum. Let me feel you lose it.”
His fingers drive deeper, faster now—fingers still curled, stroking that sweet spot inside you over and over, his thumb unrelenting on your clit. Your knees start to shake. One of your hands flies up to brace the slick tile while the other scrambles to grip his wrist, holding on for dear life.
Your body is falling apart under him.
Every drag of Hoodie’s fingers has you writhing—hips rocking, thighs twitching, your hands scrambling to grip the slick wall for leverage as your orgasm builds fast and hard. The water from the shower pelts your chest and stomach, but all you can feel is him—his broad chest flush to your back, his breath hot and steady in your ear, and those thick, relentless fingers stroking deeper inside you with every second.
But your body’s fighting it.
Too much pleasure. Too intense. Your hips twitch forward, your spine arches, your whole body bucks instinctively to escape the overwhelming stimulation—
He doesn’t let you go.
Suddenly his chest is pressing harder into your back, and both your wrists are yanked behind you, caught in his grip. His free hand locks around them tight, pulling your arms behind you in a rough, controlled hold that drags a breathless cry from your lips.
“Stay still,” he growls into your ear, voice low, commanding, not up for argument.
Your gasp is punched out of you as the new position throws your balance off—spine arched, chest pushed forward, legs shaking as you try not to collapse under the weight of your own pleasure. You’re pinned now. Arms locked behind your back, completely open to him, vulnerable, dripping wet, and aching.
The fingers inside you don’t slow down. If anything—they get rougher.
“Don’t stop—don’t stop—” you gasp, hips grinding into his hand, chasing the release that’s almost too much too fast.
“Not gonna,” he grits. “Wanna feel you break for me. Right here. Right now.”
He plunges deep with every stroke, knuckle-deep, curling his fingers in a punishing rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. His palm grinds against your clit now, adding even more pressure—building you to a fever pitch, pushing you over that edge harder than you were ready for.
“F-Fuck, Brian—!” you cry out, voice shaking.
“You wanted to cum so bad,” he hisses into your hair. “Then cum for me. Right here. Let me feel it.”
Your whole body goes tense—knees buckling, thighs squeezing shut around his hand as your orgasm hits like a lightning strike. Your scream tears from your throat, raw and high and completely involuntary.
“That’s it… good girl… fuck, that’s so hot. You’re so good for me.”
Your walls clench around his fingers like a vice, pulsing so violently it almost hurts. He groans low against your ear, gripping your wrists tighter behind you, holding you steady while you thrash against him, shaking and twitching through it.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice reverent. “Look at you…”
You’re panting, trembling, your body sagging against him as your orgasm crests and crashes. Your knees start to give, and Hoodie finally releases your wrists, catching you before you can drop. His arms wrap around you, one hand slipping to your front again to gently cup between your thighs, rubbing softly as the aftershocks leave you whimpering.
“Shhh… easy now,” he whispers. “I got you. It’s over. You did so good.”
His nose nuzzles against your temple. His other hand lifts to brush the hair back from your face as you catch your breath.
You melt back into him, boneless and flushed and soaking wet—in more ways than one.
“You okay?” he asks again, quieter this time.
You nod weakly, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Jesus.”
He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Let’s get you clean. Then I’ll carry you to bed.”
His fingers leave you slowly, the tight ring of muscle clamping as you gush around him, and you can feel your body flutter around the absence, still sensitive, still twitching. But now it’s gentle again—his touches soft, calming. And the steady weight of him holding you upright, even when you can’t stand.
The water runs warm over your skin, steam curling lazily around your shoulders as you lean your back into Hoodie’s chest, heart still hammering beneath your ribs. Your thighs twitch now and then with the aftershocks, but his arms are steady around you—one curled low around your waist, the other reaching for the washcloth.
You don’t even flinch when he starts cleaning you up.
He does it slowly, gently—as if he’s smoothing away every trembling breath you let out. Between your thighs, the soft cloth catches the slick remnants of your release, and he’s careful. Tender. Like it’s important to him you know you’re not just some frayed thing he unraveled for fun.
He tilts your chin up with two fingers and kisses you once, slow and warm, then returns to washing you, rinsing off the sweat and tension like he can scrub away everything that made your week hard.
“You good?” he asks quietly after a while.
You nod, leaning your head back on his shoulder. “Yeah. I think I just melted a little.”
He chuckles low. “That was the goal.”
You roll your eyes, smile soft. “You’re smug.”
“Only when I earn it.”
You hum in response, watching the water swirl around your feet. It’s quiet for a few seconds. The kind of silence that feels like the weight has been lifted from your chest. You take a long breath in—and for the first time in days, your muscles don’t resist.
Your voice comes softer now. “I don’t feel as tense anymore.”
“Because I fucked the stress out of you?” he deadpans against your ear, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.
You reach behind you and swat his hip.
“No,” you say, turning your head slightly. “Because you’re here.”
That gets him.
You can see his face, but Hoodie has always been more of a body language guy—the way his arms tighten around you, the way his chin dips slightly to rest on your shoulder—yeah, you got him.
“I missed you,” you add. “Even your dumb sarcasm.”
“I missed you more,” he says without hesitation. “And I hate everything, so that’s saying a lot.”
You huff out a laugh and press a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “Come on. Let’s rinse off so we don’t turn into raisins.”
He grumbles but helps you finish washing the rest of your body, then lets you return the favor—dragging the cloth over his chest, down his arms, across the curve of his hipbone. You take your time, watching the way his muscles twitch beneath your touch, the way he bites back little groans when your fingers wander too low for too long.
“Careful,” he warns under his breath as you rake your nails over his abdomen. “You’re gonna restart something you just recovered from.”
You give him a slow smirk. “I’m just learning the terrain, soldier.”
He stares at you for a long second, then turns off the water without a word—stepping out first, grabbing two towels and handing you one. You both dry off, sharing lazy touches and lingering glances in the soft bathroom light.
You glance at him in the reflection.
Still bare, hair damp, mask long gone—Hoodie looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your spine, the way your expression softens when you catch him staring.
“What?” you ask, toweling off your arms.
He just shrugs, eyes warm. “You look like you again.”
Your hands slow. “Was I looking like someone else?”
“No,” he says, stepping closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Just… you look lighter.”
You smile, small and sincere.
It doesn’t take long for the two of you to pad into the bedroom, bodies warm and lazy from the shower. You throw on one of his old black shirts, oversized and soft, and he tosses on some sweatpants he left here last time, towel-drying his hair half-heartedly before flopping onto the mattress.
You climb in beside him, crawling over his chest until you’re straddling his hips.
He raises a brow. “Starting round two?”
You grin and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Not yet. Just getting in position for when I do.”
He groans, palm dragging over his face. “Jesus. You were just screaming five minutes ago.”
“And now I’m thriving.” You dip down and murmur against his ear, “Next time, I’m gonna make you squirm.”
His hands find your thighs, squeezing once. “Promises, promises.”
You settle in beside him, curling against his side, the both of you tangled under the covers, body to body and nothing between. It’s the kind of peace that only comes after wreckage—the kind that settles in your bones and refuses to let go.
And as you close your eyes, cheek pressed to his chest, you realize something.
You’re not thinking about work. You’re not thinking about deadlines. You’re not thinking about anything but the weight of his hand on your hip and the sound of his breathing. You’re not just less stressed.
You’re home, and falling asleep easily for the first time in days.
This was an anonymous request!
Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!
THIS GAME MAKES MY HEART ACHE (positively) AAAAAAAAA sorry for the 2nd pic being so blurry my hands are shaky :((((( i also didnt crop it lol BLALJGHASK LLALALALLALALALALALALA
turnnoffyourmind
jacobvanloon
dededos
andulkaphoto
theartofmadeline
