🖤☠️

pathetic men hotline 😔

[citri-ismylemonad3]

|| "Not in My Truck." ||

Ticci Toby x Fem!Reader SMUT Drabble

Genuinely I don't know what I'm doing anymore, anyways, Ticci Toby smut!

Basically Tim and Brian brought you and Toby alongside them on a mission. Except they expect you two to watch over the truck and stay there. But you both get bored and well...

WARNINGS: Smut, fucking in a vehicle, p in v, headlock, biting, oral fem receiving, description of genitalia, mentions of breeding, fingering, nipple play, mating press, doggy style, Toby being a needy little perv.

Toby's hands gripped your plush thighs, using them for leverage as his tongue dove into your wet folds. He was hungry.

He slobbered all over your cunt like a desperate puppy, saliva leaked from his cheek gash and you only encourage him by gripping his brown locks desperately.

"F-Fuck...." He groaned and lapped with a strong need, he needed you. His bulge was already pressing up against the floor of the truck bed and precum leaked in his pants.

He looked up at you, his cute tired eyes stared at you with such love and desperation.

His fingers were shoved into your throbbing hot cunt, insistently curling to get you off. He fingers were so invasive.

The dual stimulation of his mouth and fingers really built up your orgasm, until your release came crashing down.

Toby latched his needy mouth around your plush mound and swallowed everything, his eyes rolled back and he groaned deeply.

Once he finished eating, he pulled back and licked his lips before diving down onto you to kiss your lips. It was more like he was eating your face.

You could feel his bulge throbbing against you, and he started really rubbing himself on you. Letting you feel just how horny he was for you, reduced to a needy mindless dog.

He panted and began undoing his jeans, pulling them down and his underwear was tented. A wet sticky spot had formed around his tip.

You reached out and palmed his cock, he moaned and rutted his cock against your hand.

You pulled it out of his underwear and it stood eagerly.

His tip was broad and mushroom shaped, glistening with precum and throbbing hot.

"P-Please...I need to...." He didn't even finish speaking before he recklessly pushed you back and lined his tip up with your wet hole.

His hips stuttered in and frantically fucked deeper into you.

"T-Toby~" he held you down in a mating press, most convenient for him to fuck both of you mindless.

He had a strong grip on your hips, and he just wouldn't stop ramming into you.

His cock fully nested inside of you, the only time he even paused was to press down on your soft tummy to make you feel every inch.

Toby then used his strength to manhandle you to lay face down and he hitched your ass up. He was gonna fully mount you

He slammed his cock back into you, he penetrated deeper in this new angle, and his arm went around your neck to keep you in a headlock.

He kept you underneath him, mounted like he was trying to breed you and keep you all to himself.

His mouth found your shoulder and munched down. His cock insistently slammed into you, causing these delicious moans to come from your lips.

Toby was a bit reckless but oh how he fucked...

His other arm that wasn't keeping you in a headlock went to go grasp your tits. He playfully squeezed them and salivated once he touched your nipples through your bra. He palmed them until they hardened, every thrust and movement caused your bra to shift and add even more friction.

This was so...so...so-

The truck started and drove quickly. Tim and Brian had returned, didn't even want to look at the disgusting scene going on in the truck bed. Tim was so fucking pissed off, he didn't want to be considerate.

He just started driving off, even rapidly turning left and right to make the truck shake. Driving recklessly just to throw the two of you around.

You and Toby panicked, you were both so utterly fucked when Tim gets his hands on you both.

Worth it.

~~~~~~~~~

Hey it's Cami, I don't have much to say. Sorry if this sucked, but I hope you all enjoyed this maybe kinda not really!

[rainrot4me]

I Hate That Boy

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

─────────────────────────────────── ego - romy mars

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: You hate Toby Rogers. Hate. He’s immature, and whiny, and gets in your way more often than not. Proxies are meant to work together, but you two just don’t. Fights are prone to happen, but when your hands accidentally find his throat, Toby accidentally finds out that he likes it. You hate him. And he hates you. So why can he suddenly not jerk off without thinking about your hands on his neck? Why does he want you to do it again??

✦ . Characters: Ticci Toby x Female Reader, Proxies

✦ . Warning: Enemies to Fuck Buddies, fighting, arguing, physical violence, violent arguments, blood, punching, slapping, choking, strangulation kink, choking kink, masturbation, pervert Toby, submissive Toby, teasing, hate fucking, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, spanking, creampie, mention of corpses, murder, graphic depictions of violence, hair pulling, bruises

✦ . Words: 21k

✦ . Note: Suprise fic! Please please please mind the tags, there’s a whole lot going on in this story. Yes, this was supposed to be the German Toby fic, but I decided I was too lazy to follow through, so white-boy Toby it is 💔 Nonetheless, please enjoy whiny Toby! I’ve been wanting to make a reader-dominant fic for a while, and I finally got around to it! Happy reading!!

────────────────────────────────────────────

You hated Tobias Rogers. Hated. Even now.

The lake was so still. The kind of stillness that made the air heavy, as if even the water held its breath in anticipation. Moonlight fractured across the surface in sharp, silver shards, illuminating the awkward shapes of two figures dragging something heavy across the moss-slick ground.

You and Toby.

The corpse hung between you like an anchor, its weight making your arms ache with each step. The smell of damp earth and decay was thick in your nose. Every time Toby shifted his grip, the body smacked against the ground with a dull thud.

“Careful,” you hissed, slipping on a wet root. “It’s not going to sink if you—”

“Maybe if you d-didn’t drop your end every t-two seconds,” Toby grunted, voice muffled under his bulky muzzle, “we’d be done a-al-already.”

You glared, tugging on your end. “Excuse me for not wanting to ruin my boots in swamp water.”

“Oh, right,” he shot back, sarcasm dripping, “because t-this job is about fashion.”

The two of you stumbled to the edge of the shore, shadows from the Slenderwoods curling around you. The trees loomed like sentinels, tall and skeletal, their branches swaying with a sound that was almost a whisper. You hated this place at night—the way the silence seemed alive, watching, waiting. Toby, of course, didn’t seem to care. He didn’t care about anything, as far as you were concerned.

You heaved the body once, twice, then shoved it into the water with a final grunt. It splashed hard, ripples spreading outward until the lake swallowed them whole. You didn’t know the man, didn’t even really care to, it was just another job from the Operator. For a moment, you both just stood there, catching your breath, staring at the dark water as the final inches of the body sunk into the abyss.

“Happy now?” you muttered.

“Real p-pro-professional,” he replied flatly.

Your teeth ground together. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re a pain in the ass,” he shot back without hesitation.

The exchange was so familiar it almost felt rehearsed. Every mission ended like this: harsh words, rolled eyes, and the tension of two people forced into each other’s orbit who simply didn’t fit. The only difference is Masky wasn’t here to break it up.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried.

When Slender first made you both proxies, you’d done what Masky and Hoodie told you: learn each other’s strengths, cover each other’s weaknesses, trust is mandatory. And you tried. You really did. But from the very first mission, something had been off.

Maybe it was his immaturity—the way he cracked jokes in the middle of grim work, or the way he blew off orders to do things his own reckless way. Maybe it was your frustration—your need for control clashing violently against his chaos. Every step he took felt like it undermined yours. Every word out of his mouth made your patience snap just a little thinner. 

You weren’t blind, though. You saw how efficient he was, how quickly his hatchets moved, how easily he carried violence without hesitation. He was good—annoyingly good. Which made it worse. Because you should have worked well together. You were both proxies, bound to the same faceless master, trapped in the same mansion and forest. On paper, it made sense. In practice? You were oil and water.

Some people just weren’t meant to click.

“Guess we’re d-done here,” Toby muttered, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He lit it, the brief flare of orange glow painting his face in harsh lines as he unstrapped his muzzle to take a drag. “W-We’ll never get a-along, will we?”

You gave a humorless laugh, wiping splatters of mud from your jeans. “Not a chance.”

He exhaled smoke into the night, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “Fine by me.”

The lake was silent again, just as still as if there wasn’t a body sinking to the bottom now. You turned, hauling back toward the direction of the mansion and away from him, but the walk back was worse than the mission itself. The Slenderwoods closed in on all sides, branches scraping like claws, owls hooting too low, too human. Every shadow moved if you stared too long, but none of that was as grating as the boy trudging a few feet beside you.

“You could’ve at least waited before stabbing him like that,” you grumbled, pulling your jacket tighter against the chill. “The plan was to corner him—”

“The p-plan was slow,” Toby interrupted, his voice sharp and smug. “He was running. I stopped h-him. Problem solved.”

“Problem solved?” you scoffed. “You nearly blew our cover, dipshit. He screamed loud enough to wake the entire county.”

Toby snorted, kicking a stone off the path. “Still got h-him in the end, didn’t we? He’s f-fish food now. You’re welcome.”

You threw him a glare sharp enough to cut. “I didn’t ask you to play hero. There’s a difference between efficiency and being reckless, and you wouldn’t know it if it hit you in the face.”

He tilted his head, grinning as he puffed a dark cloud of cigarette smoke towards you. “Guess t-that makes me reckless, then.”

The banter didn’t stop until the looming silhouette of the mansion swallowed you both in its shadow. The Slendermansion sat hunched at the edge of the woods, its black windows like hollow eyes. The air grew heavier the closer you got, as if the walls themselves were listening, feeding.

Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you tossed your gear onto the table in the main hall. The familiar smell of stale smoke, mildew, and faint copper clung to the air, but it was the home you knew. Masky was already there, arms crossed, watching the two of you like a teacher sick of breaking up the same fight between the same students.

“You two done?” Masky asked flatly, eyes narrowing.

“Ask him,” you said at once.

“Ask her,” Toby fired back.

Masky groaned, dragging a hand down his mask. “Every damn time…”

From the couch, Hoodie let out a quiet snicker without looking up from his notebook he was sketching in. He never interfered much, but the slight shake of his shoulders told you he found your constant arguments entertaining. Infuriatingly entertaining.

Kate was sprawled in one of the armchairs, cleaning one of her knives with a rag. She raised her eyes just long enough to catch the tail end of your glare-and-growl routine. “You both need to grow up,” she said bluntly.

You opened your mouth to protest, but Toby beat you to it. “I a-am grown up,” he said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, flicking the final ashes from his cigarette onto the grimy floor before tossing it.

Kate arched a brow. “Mhm.”

You smirked at that, but it only lasted a second before Toby turned his mockery back on you. “D-D-Don’t get too fuckin’ cheeky—you’re not e-exactly winning any maturity awards e-either.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Says the guy who nearly fucked up tonight’s mission by charging in like a bulldozer.”

“And you would’ve l-let him get away while you m-made a speech ab-about ‘proper execution,’” Toby countered, mimicking your voice in a whiny falsetto that made Hoodie snort louder.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, throwing yourself into the opposite armchair with a huff.

Masky’s sigh was sharp, final. “I don’t care how you got it done. The point is, it’s done. Next time, don’t cause such a fuss and just get the damn thing over with.”

The words settled between you like a warning. But even warnings didn’t last long in this house. The air was too thick, the walls too close. You felt Toby’s eyes on you from across the room, smug, as if he’d won something.

You looked away first.

And that was the problem. Around Masky, Hoodie, and Kate, you could breathe. The dynamic worked. Missions went smoothly enough. The mansion felt tolerable, almost like a twisted version of family. But with Toby? It was always barbed words, tense silences, and the gnawing thought that you’d never, ever get along.

And yet… you were stuck together, whether you liked it or not.

── .✦

Life in the mansion was cramped, but not in the physical sense. The house itself stretched wide and tall, with too many rooms, too many halls that seemed to change direction when you weren’t looking. Space wasn’t the problem. People were. Or more specifically—Toby.

Morning started with a fight more often than breakfast.

You were standing in the kitchen, half-awake, nursing a chipped mug of bitter coffee when Toby barreled in, raiding the cabinet like a raccoon.

“Did you ta-take the last of t-the cereal?” he asked, voice scratchy from sleep.

“No,” you said, sipping slowly. “Kate did yesterday.”

Toby pulled the box down anyway, stared at the empty bottom, and turned on you. “So you k-knew and didn’t say an-anything?”

“Not my job to babysit your stomach,” you said dryly, turning your back on him.

By the time he stomped off, Hoodie was already leaning against the doorway, watching the exchange like it was a morning sitcom rerun. He muttered something about “placing bets next time” before pouring his own coffee and disappearing.

Later, it was weapons.

You had your knives laid out on the coffee table, sharpening them methodically, when Toby came over and plucked one up without asking.

“Don’t touch my stuff.”

“Relax,” he said, flipping the blade in his palm. “I was j-just looking.”

“Looking with your fingerprints all over it,” you snapped, snatching it back.

Masky’s sigh from the couch was loud enough to shake the windows. “I swear, it’s like living with children.”

Kate didn’t even look up from the book in her lap. “That’s because it is.”

Toby threw his hands up. “What, so s-she can throw a fit but I’m the p-problem?”

“Yes,” Kate and Masky said in unison. You couldn’t help smirking at that.

Dinner was the worst. 

The table was long enough for space, but somehow you and Toby always ended up across from each other. Tonight it was stew—Masky’s attempt at “normalcy,” though the meat was questionable at best. You didn’t eat together often, but it was a joint effort when you did.

“Don’t hog the b-bread,” Toby said, reaching across the table.

“I’ve had one piece,” you shot back, yanking the plate closer.

He lunged, you pulled away, and in the struggle the whole loaf toppled onto Hoodie’s lap. He froze, staring down at the mess, then at both of you with the slow, simmering irritation of a man two seconds from throwing something heavy. Kate snorted. Masky pinched the bridge of his nose.

Slender wasn’t around much, but you sometimes wondered if he kept you two paired just for his own amusement. Because every day, it was something. The fights were never big enough to break anything, never serious enough to leave bruises. But they stacked. They simmered. They filled the halls like static, humming between every word and every glare. And yet, for all the irritation, all the arguments, neither of you ever walked away for long. Missions still got done. The mansion still ran. Somehow, despite it all, the two of you stayed orbiting each other—gravitational pull you couldn’t escape, even if you wanted to.

── .✦

It was one of those heavy, still evenings where the Slenderwoods felt closer than usual. The air smelled like damp pine and smoke, a thick fog mist rolling over the dense grass underfoot. You and the others sat out on the creaking porch, ashtrays cluttered between boots and half-empty bottles of water. Masky smoked slow and deep, his mask balancing on the top of his thigh as he leaned back onto the wooden seat. Kate leaned back against the railing, picking at the chipping paint on the wood, eyes sharp but distant. Toby sat a little too close to you, tapping his leg like a drumbeat you couldn’t ignore.

You lit your own, trying not to acknowledge him, exhaling a sharp cloud into the humid night.

“So…” Toby finally said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Anyone e-else notice she always steals the li-lighter first?”

You shot him a look. “I do not.”

“Shut up, boy.” Masky started.

“Yeah, you do,” he said, grinning beneath the thick goggles that he had pushed up into his hairline. “It’s l-like a compulsion or something.”

“Or maybe you’re just too slow to keep track of your things,” you fired back.

Masky groaned low under his breath, muttering something that sounded like not this again. Before the argument could spiral, Hoodie pushed open the porch door and stepped outside, tucking his notebook into his jacket. His voice cut through the quiet with the weight of a dumbbell on your chest. “New mission,” he said simply.

Everyone straightened.

“All of us?” Masky asked.

Hoodie nodded. “Yeah. Orders came down. Tonight.”

The group exchanged looks. Missions that required everyone weren’t common—they usually split duties to keep the mansion covered. When all five were pulled, it meant something bigger, something messier.

“Guess family outing it is,” Kate said dryly, dumping her ashtray onto the gravel siding below.

── .✦

When darkness settled fully, the mansion stirred alive. Boots thudded against wood floors, gear clinked against belts, and weapons gleamed under dim light. Everyone had their rituals: Masky checked his sidearm three times at least, Hoodie adjusted straps across his chest, Kate wiped down her blade a final time. Toby spun his hatchets between his fingers like a magician showing off. You rolled your eyes and double-checked the knives at your thigh. The air was thick with anticipation. 

The pickup truck waited outside, dark paint faded from the sun, battered, and smelling faintly of gasoline and smoke. Masky slid into the driver’s seat without a word, Hoodie riding shotgun as he pulled up the map on his cracked cellphone. 

That left the back.

You climbed in, immediately pressed against the left side. Toby hopped up on the right, his knee bouncing instantly like he was vibrating with restless energy. Kate sighed and planted herself squarely between the two of you, arms crossed, glaring dead ahead through the windshield.  The truck dipped and squeaked on its hinges are you all settled in, then rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the black woods.

It only took a few minutes before Toby started.

“You’re sitting t-too close,” he muttered.

“I’m not even near you,” you said flatly.

“You do-don’t need that m-much space.”

“You don’t need to breathe, but here we are,” you shot back.

Kate’s elbows shot out, hitting both of your ribs at once. “Shut up. Both of you.”

You winced, rubbing your side. “Ow—”

“Don’t tempt me to hit harder,” Kate warned, eyes forward.

Masky’s voice floated back from the front seat, dripping with amusement despite himself. “This is going to be a long drive. Quit fighting and occupy yourselves.”

Hoodie didn’t even look up from the map. “Longest one yet.”

The engine hummed, the woods blurred past, and the truck rolled deeper into the dark. Despite Kate’s solid wall between you, you could still feel Toby’s presence—like static in the air, buzzing just out of reach. And you hated how much you noticed it.

── .✦

The truck rattled down the backroads for nearly an hour before Hoodie finally spoke.

“Target’s in the clearing past Miller’s Gorge,” he said, tapping the map image across his phone screen. “Couple of locals have been sniffing around the woods, talking about setting up cameras, trying to ‘catch something.’ Boss wants them gone one way or another.”

Kate exhaled a sharp breath. “So like, wannabe monster hunters.”

“Exactly.” Hoodie’s voice was calm but clipped. “They’ve already posted online. If they get anything solid, Slender won’t be happy. This isn’t one we can take half-measures with. We need it erased.”

Masky grunted. “So we wipe the whole camp.”

“Why all of us?” you asked, leaning forward from the back.

“Because there’s at least five of them,” Hoodie replied. “Armed. And cautious. Not idiots out for ghost stories—people who want proof. People who will fight back. They apparently realize that the stuff they’re hunting is more than just ghosts.”

The weight of his words settled in the truck. Everyone went quiet, the only sound the hum of the engine and Toby’s restless knee bouncing against the truck bed.

“Should b-be fun,” Toby muttered.

── .✦

When the truck finally rolled to a stop, the woods were suffocatingly dark, thick with crickets and the distant sound of running water. Masky killed the headlights, and everyone piled out, boots crunching softly against dead leaves.

The air was tense but focused. The group fanned out at the tree line, eyes scanning the faint glow of campfire in the distance. Voices drifted—male, confident, laughing, the kind of laugh people made when they didn’t know what waited for them.

Masky handed out orders quietly. “Pairs. Hoodie with Kate. I’ll take her. Toby—” He paused, as if even he hated saying it. “You circle wide and cut off any stragglers.”

Toby scoffed. “Solo? Figures.”

“No one wants to deal with your noise,” Kate said bluntly, earning a sharp laugh from Hoodie.

Toby shot her a look, but Masky had already moved, tilting his head toward you. “Stay sharp.”

You fell in beside him easily. Working with Masky was… natural. His movements were measured, precise, and he didn’t waste time on unnecessary words. You mirrored his pace without thinking, both of you flowing silently through the trees like you’d trained together for years. Every signal he gave, you read instantly. Every shift you made, he accounted for. It was seamless.

Behind you, faintly, you heard the sound of Toby muttering curses under his breath as he hacked through brush on his solo path. You didn’t have to see him to know he was irritated.

Masky glanced your way briefly, as if he could read your thoughts. “Ignore him.”

You smirked faintly. “That’s the plan.”

Together, you and Masky reached the edge of the camp without a sound. You crouched low, watching the five men move lazily around the fire, rifles slung across the backs of their folding chairs, a camera rig propped against a log. Beer cans were littered everywhere, dozens of containers of eaten food and trash on the forest floor between their tents. They were unprepared.

Masky leaned close, voice low. “On my signal, we take the two closest. Hoodie and Kate will flank right. Toby will cut off anyone who runs.”

You nodded, knives already loose in your grip. The firelight flickered across the blades, and the thrill of the hunt tingled in your chest.

For the first time all night, you felt steady. Focused. Like the tension from the mansion and the truck ride had melted away into clarity. This—this was what you were good at.

Masky snapped his fingers, the unspoken signal.

The campfire crackled, throwing lazy sparks into the night. The men didn’t know they were being watched. Didn’t know that five shadows had slipped into their circle of light like wolves closing in.

Masky moved first. His pistol coughed quietly through the silencer, a muted pop, and the man nearest the fire slumped forward without a sound. At the same time, Hoodie slipped behind the next, arm locking around his throat, blade pressing in until the man’s gurgle faded. Kate was quicksilver, gliding from shadow to shadow before sinking her knife between ribs and twisting, her target crumpling into the dirt while her hand held tight over his gaping mouth. You were already in motion, your knives flashing as you closed the distance. Your target barely had time to look up before you drove steel across his throat. Hot blood spilled, spraying across the fire, sizzling as it hit the flames. You let him drop, pulse steady, breathing smooth.

It was clean. Precise. The four of you moved like clockwork.

Then a shout split the clearing.

You spun, heart lurching, eyes scanning. One of them had bolted—no, not bolted. He’d seen and decided to fight back. Toby’s voice rang out through the trees, strained, guttural. “Got one!”

Through the smoke, you saw him—locked in a brutal struggle with the biggest of the group. Broad-shouldered, stronger than the others, swinging wild fists that clipped Toby’s jaw and nearly sent him sprawling. Toby snarled, teeth bared beneath the thick muzzle, trying to drag the fight into control, but the man was too strong, too desperate. Toby couldn’t feel the punches that were thrown, but they still jarred him nonetheless.

Without thinking, you darted forward. You grabbed the hunter by the collar and yanked him backward off Toby, the two of you wrestling him to the ground. Your knee pressed into his chest, pinning him just long enough to shout—

“Get up! Now!”

Toby staggered to his feet, hatchet already in his grip. His chest heaved, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes wild and bright. He didn’t hesitate.

The hatchet swung.

It sank into the man’s skull with a sickening crunch, the force so hard it sprayed hot blood across your face, soaking into your shirt, spattering down your arms. The warmth hit before the shock did.

You gasped, jerking back in disgust. “Toby!”

He yanked the hatchet free, crimson dripping down the blade, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm. For a second, he looked almost proud of himself.

“You—you just—” You swiped at your face, smearing blood across your cheek. “Are you serious?!”

“What?” he said, shrugging like he hadn’t just drenched you. “I-It worked.”

You stared at him, mouth open, hands sticky with blood. “You could’ve aimed! You could’ve waited until I—”

“There wasn’t time!” he shot back, bristling. “He was go-gonna throw you off. I finished i-it!”

“Finished it? You fuckin’ soaked me with it!” Your voice cracked, frustration boiling over. Blood dripped down your face, sticky, hot, stinking of iron. And Toby just stood there, smug behind his mouth guard, hatchet still wet, staring you up and down.

That was it. You lunged at him.

“HEY—” he barked, staggering back as you grabbed a fistful of his hoodie and slammed him into the dirt. You smeared bloody hands across his face, dragging thick crimson streaks down and across his eyes.

“There!” you spat, shoving harder. “How do you like it?”

Toby snarled and shoved back, the two of you tumbling into a heap of thrashing limbs. He rolled, trying to pin you, but you twisted, fist snapping across his jaw. The crack of impact echoed, sharp in the clearing.

“You’re insane!” he growled, throwing a hand that glanced off your shoulder.

“I’m insane?” you shouted, driving your elbow into his ribs. “You’re the one who—”

The words cut off when you shoved your hands to his throat, pinning him to the ground as he tried to sit up. Your fingers locked tight, squeezing hard. His body bucked beneath you, hatchet clattering out of his grip as he clawed at your wrists.

“Get—off—” he choked, his voice rough, broken. His head thrashed in the dirt, but your grip only tightened. The blood smeared across both of you now, sticky and warm, the world narrowing to the sound of his ragged gasps and the hammering of your pulse.

“Dammit!” Masky barked from somewhere beyond. “Enough!”

Kate’s voice cut sharper. “You’re gonna kill each other!”

But you didn’t stop. Not yet. Not until you felt his pulse falter beneath your palms, until his eyes widened—not with anger, not with panic—but something else.

Something strange.

Toby’s body trembled, his breath stuttering under your hands, but instead of pure desperation, there was… heat. A rush. A dizzying flood through his veins that wasn’t entirely fear. He should have been furious, terrified, clawing harder. But as your fingernails dug into his skin and the world blurred at the edges of his vision, something dark curled inside him. Something you could physically see stirring in him.

“You’re…crazy…” he rasped, the grip of your wrists faltering as his eyelids began to flutter. You felt your heart skip, but it wasn’t enough to register, not when Masky and Kate were on you in a second.

“Enough!” Masky barked, grabbing you by the shoulders and hauling you backward with a force that made your chest wrench from Toby’s throat. Kate shoved between the two of you, her knife still tight in her hand, eyes blazing.

“Are you out of your mind?” she snapped at you. “You’re both fucking children.”

You jerked in Masky’s grip, still seething, still tasting the heat of rage in your mouth. “He’s a fucking idiot!”

Toby rolled onto his side, coughing, ragged gasps rattling out of him. One hand clutched at his throat, the other dug into the dirt, nails carving furrows. Blood was smeared across his face, his hoodie, everywhere—but he wasn’t looking at you, only at the ground beneath him.

For the first time since you’d known him, Toby was silent.

No muttering. No insults. No half-crazed laughter at your expense. Just… silence. He sat up slow, pulling the mouth guard back into place, eyes fixed somewhere past you all. When he stood, it was without a word. He brushed dirt off his hoodie, hatchet hanging limp in his hand, and started toward the edge of the clearing.

“Toby,” Hoodie called after him, tone sharp, warning. But Toby didn’t answer. Didn’t even look back.

The rest of the night crawled like rot under the skin.

You all worked the scene in tense, heavy silence—dragging bodies, dousing blood with gasoline, scattering ash into the brush. Every now and then you caught a glimpse of Toby through the smoke, his shoulders hunched as he hacked the bodies into smaller pieces to fit into the bonfire you were throwing them into, his jaw clenched tight. No jokes. No muttered complaints. Just methodical, mechanical movements.

When you stripped out of your bloodied shirt near the stream nearby, scrubbing your arms raw in the freezing water, you could feel his eyes burning into your back from across the bank. Not glaring. Not mocking. Just… watching. Quiet.

By the time you trudged back to the truck, smelling of iron and smoke and death, Masky was rolling his eyes, muttering about “immaturity.” Kate looked like she wanted to strangle the both of you herself. Hoodie, as usual, said nothing—just kept his cigarette glowing, eyes narrowed.

But Toby? He climbed into the bed of the truck without a sound, hatchet propped against his knee, gaze fixed on the passing trees.

The silence pressed down heavier than the arguing ever had. And the longer it stretched, the more you hated it.

── .✦

The week that followed felt… off.

Toby didn’t pick fights. Not even little ones. Not the tiny jabs that had been part of your daily rhythm—the back-and-forth you’d grown used to, the words that always bounced off walls like sparks. He moved through the mansion like a ghost, quiet, methodical, focused only on smoking, weapons, and missions.

When he did speak, it was clipped, necessary. Orders, reports, directions—never aimed at you. His eyes flicked past, not meeting yours. You caught him glancing at you once or twice when he thought you weren’t looking, but it was fleeting, and every time the sight made your stomach tighten with a strange mix of satisfaction and unease.

The bruises on his throat were obvious even if you didn’t look close. Dark purple and angry against the pale skin, fading slowly but leaving deep, persistent marks. You’d caught him passing in the hallway once and remembered the weight of your hands around him, the raw heat of adrenaline and anger. A pang of guilt twisted in your gut—you’d let him get to you—but alongside it, a sharper, quieter thrill: for the first time, you had one-upped him. You had won.

At first, that smugness warmed you. You told yourself you’d earned it. You replayed the moment in your head, felt the power, the control. Toby hadn’t laughed at you. Toby hadn’t mocked you. He hadn’t even argued. For once, the scales had tipped.

But the relief didn’t last.

Toby didn’t bounce back. Not like every time before. The chaos that had defined him—the relentless teasing, the petty fights, the fire in his voice—was gone. He didn’t sneak into the kitchen and steal your lighter just to rile you. He didn’t flick ash onto your boots and smirk. He didn’t mutter under his breath or make jokes you’d spend the day wanting to punch him for.

The absence was strange. Hollow.

By the third day, it felt almost wrong. The mansion, which had been loud and infuriating, was quieter than it had ever been with him there. You realized you had grown used to his presence—not the violence, not the chaos itself, but the rhythm of it. The constant tension that had made your skin crawl was now a kind of anchor, a pulse you hadn’t realized you relied on.

And now? It was gone.

Every time you passed him in the halls, your chest tightened. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. He wouldn’t speak. He didn’t react to your snide comments or half-hearted insults. You felt a creeping, uncomfortable feeling settle over you. Part guilt. Part frustration. Part… longing? The tension, the conflict, the constant sparring—it had been exhausting, yes. But now, without it, you were left staring at a quiet, withdrawn version of the boy who had once been the most unpredictable part of your day.

The deeper the week stretched on, the more you realized that what you’d thought was triumph had turned into something else entirely: a slow, gnawing emptiness.

You had won the fight. But you might have lost him.

But you should be happy… right?

── .✦

Another mission order came in from Slender. You were checking your gear in the corner of the mansion’s main hall when Hoodie appeared, silently sliding a small pack over his shoulder.

“You’re with me on this one,” he said, voice low, precise, as always.

You nodded, hefting your own weapons, already going through mental checklists. This was routine. Simple. Easy. Comfortable.

Then the door creaked, and Toby stepped in. You froze—just a little. The mansion felt a little smaller with him there. He moved quietly, deliberately, but there was an edge to his posture you hadn’t seen since… that fight.

“I should g-go,” he said.

Your hands stopped mid-adjustment, eyes darting to Hoodie.

“You?” Hoodie asked, brow raised, tone careful. “Like… you two?”

Toby didn’t answer at first. He just leaned against the doorway, faint shadows under his eyes, arms crossed. Then he met Hoodie’s gaze, and there was… determination there. A quiet insistence.

“I’ll handle it,” Toby said. “I need t-to go. Need to get o-out of the house.”

You blinked. Dumbfounded. Alone… with me? Your chest fluttered with a mix of nerves, disbelief, and something else you didn’t want to name yet. You stared at him, really stared, and realized the bruises on his throat were almost gone—just faint traces of pink fading into pale skin.

You exhaled slowly, running a hand through your hair. “It’s alright,” you said, finally. “I can go with him.”

Hoodie’s eyes shifted between the two of you, expression unreadable. Then he let out a long, resigned sigh. “Fine,” he muttered. “But try not to kill each other before you even get there.”

Toby didn’t say anything to you immediately. He just stepped aside, giving you a narrow space to move past him. And then—your eyes met his for the first time all week. No words. No sarcasm. No fights. Just a look that was sharp, quiet, heavy. There was something in it—curiosity, tension, and maybe the barest trace of acknowledgment

You swallowed. He didn’t look like the Toby who laughed at your every irritation or goaded you endlessly. He looked… different. Still the same chaotic energy under the surface, but tempered. Careful. Watching. Waiting.

You nodded once, almost imperceptibly. He nodded back, then stepped out together into the night. The mansion grew smaller behind you, the faint glow of lights fading, and suddenly, the woods felt wider, quieter, trapping the two of you together.

After the mansion had long disappeared behind the two of you, you tried to break the silence first. “So… you actually decided to acknowledge me. Must be a full moon or something.”

Toby glanced at you briefly. A slow, measured nod. “Yep.”

You frowned, adjusting your grip on your pack slung over your shoulder. “And… you’re not going to pick a fight, bark something sarcastic, or pretend you’re better than me this time?”

Another nod. Short, clipped. “Nope.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Wow. Silent Toby. Real terrifying.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance your way. Just kept moving as you followed behind. The tension built like static. Every step you took felt heavier, filled with the weight of all the words unsaid between you. The heat of your own irritation grew, but it was tangled with something else—something that made your stomach twist and pulse.

Time passed, and you knew you were close to your destination when the scent of musk travelled around you.

“You know,” you muttered, testing the waters again, “we could at least plan this out before running in there and—”

But he didn’t wait for a reply. Not really. He veered slightly off the path, silent and purposeful, already moving ahead toward the dark silhouette of the warehouse you were assigned.

Your jaw tightened. “Seriously?” you snapped under your breath, jogging to catch up. “Do not pull this shit, Toby.”

He didn’t look back. Just a brief flick of the head, a nod toward the structure. No words. No argument.

The warehouse loomed as you reached the clearing—old, corrugated metal walls rusted, shadows pooling in every corner. Faint light spilled from windows shattered long ago, revealing crates stacked in uneven towers. The smell of damp wood, oil, and smoke drifted out to meet you. Someone had set up shop here, smugglers taking advantage of the abandoned structure, thinking no one would come. Unluckily, it was stirring commotion in the Slenderwoods, so they had to be rid of.

You stopped just outside, lowering your weapons slightly. “Okay. So—”

Toby was already moving. Hatchets swinging low in his grip, steps silent as he circled the side entrance, scanning, analyzing, slipping into shadows like he owned the place.

Your irritation flared. “I said we should plan—”

No response.

You ground your teeth. He didn’t even acknowledge your words beyond a brief nod to indicate he’d seen you. The careful, silent Toby—the one who had stopped fighting with you, stopped talking to you altogether—was moving without you, ignoring every attempt at control, ignoring the chaotic rhythm you had always relied on when paired.

And somehow, that made you feel even tenser than a shouting match ever could.

The warehouse groaned under its own weight as you slipped inside, shadows thick and stale air heavy with oil and dust. Somewhere deeper in the building, muffled voices echoed—low, muttering, careless. The smugglers thought they were safe.

You crouched low, pressing into the dark, and flicked a look toward Toby, ready to signal how to split. But he didn’t wait. He was already moving, sliding between stacks of crates and disappearing from your sights.

Your jaw clenched. Fine. You’d adapt.

The first smuggler came into view around the corner, cigarette ember glowing as he leaned against a crate. You tightened your grip on your knife and slid closer, focusing on quieting your movements, heart syncing with your breath—

—but Toby slipped in from the opposite side faster than you could realize. His hatchet rose and fell before you could reach striking distance, and the man dropped in silence, cigarette rolling across the floor as blood sputtered from his throat. He couldn’t even scream.

You froze, teeth grinding.

Really?

Shoving down the irritation, you darted toward the next shadow—another guard, pacing near the stairwell. You timed it, waited for him to turn, and lunged—

—but Toby’s arm shot out, shoving you back against a crate. You caught yourself with a hand before you made noise, eyes blazing as you turned on him—only to see him already driving into the man’s spine. The smuggler collapsed at his feet, blood seeping into the concrete. Toby held his mouth to keep him quiet, but the wretched coughing still echoed slightly.

Your pulse spiked hot. “What the fuck—” you hissed low.

Toby only gave a short glance, then moved on. No words. You stalked after him, every nerve on fire. This wasn’t an accident. He was cutting you off, stealing every strike, sliding into your space just a second before you could land it.

Another smuggler. Another opportunity. You adjusted your grip, prepared to move.

And then your foot hooked on something.

You stumbled, catching yourself on a crate with a dull thud. Looking down, you saw it—Toby’s boot had slid out at the last second, tripping you. He didn’t even look back, just stepped in and slit the throat of the smuggler you’d been aiming for.

Hot rage seared through you.

This wasn’t clumsy overlap. This wasn’t the two of you failing to mesh. No. This was intentional. Toby wasn’t just ignoring you anymore—he was playing with you. Undermining you. Pushing you, tripping you, cutting you off, every move designed to make you burn hotter, to make you snap.

The warehouse was a graveyard of broken bodies by the time you and Toby pushed deeper inside. Crates stood like crooked tombstones, the smell of blood thick and metallic in the air. Your knife hand ached from clutching tightly for too long, but not from use—because every time you moved in, Toby was there first. Every time you breathed, he was already cutting the air ahead of you.

You were shaking with it now. Rage crawling under your skin like fire ants.

It wasn’t just that he was faster. It wasn’t just skill. No—he was watching you. Waiting for you. Moving not around you, but through you. Blocking, tripping, shoving. Every chance you reached for a kill, his hatchet stole it from your grip at the very last second. And he knew. God, he knew.

The bastard was doing it on purpose. You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw hurt. Your breath sawed in and out, shallow, furious, your chest tight with the effort of holding yourself back. If you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if words or a scream would come out.

Then you reached the last room.

The final smuggler was cornered near a busted loading dock door, fumbling with a pistol in shaking hands. His eyes went wide at the sight of you both, the whites bright in the dim light. Your grip tightened on your knife. Yours. This one is yours.

But Toby moved. Of course he did. He strode forward with that same unnerving calm, hatchet gleaming, as if this was just another tally mark to add to his collection. He didn’t even look at you as he raised his arm, claiming the kill before you could take a step.

Something inside you snapped. Before he could swing, you hurled your knife.

The blade hissed through the air, so close you heard the whisper of it graze Toby’s hoodie as it buried itself in the smuggler’s torso. The man crumpled with a strangled gasp, blood pooling as your knife jutted from his ribs. He was already dead by the time he hit the floor.

Silence rang out for a heartbeat. Then Toby turned. Slowly.

His head cocked, hair falling into his face, eyes burning from behind his goggles. His voice came low, rasping, edged like broken glass. “You almost h-hit me.”

“Good!” you exploded, stomping forward, your voice shaking as it poured out of you. “I should’ve aimed for you instead!”

His chest rose and fell, ragged. “What t-the fuck is yo-your problem?”

“You’re my problem!” you spat, closing the distance until you were nearly nose-to-nose. Your finger jabbed hard against his chest, smearing blood into the fabric. “You won’t stop. You cut me off, you trip me, you push me out of the way like I don’t matter!”

He shoved your hand away, heat sparking in his tone. “You don’t g-get it, do you? You ne-never fucking get it.”

“Oh, enlighten me then!” You threw your arms out, voice bouncing off the metal walls. “What exactly am I missing? That you’re such a big man because you can steal kills out from under me? That you think you’re the only one who knows what the hell they’re doing?”

Toby’s hands curled into fists, shoulders tense, body vibrating with contained rage. “You think t-this is about y-you?”

You laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “It’s always about me when you make it this way!”

His chest heaved as he stepped closer, hatchet still gripped in his hand though lowered, his voice raising to match yours now. “Maybe if y-you weren’t so busy proving yo-yourself every goddamn second, I-I wouldn’t have to clean u-up your me-messes!”

You shoved him hard, your palms slamming against his chest. He staggered a step but didn’t fall, coming back twice as hot, his own shove rattling your teeth as you stumbled back against a crate.

“Mess?!” Your voice cracked, raw with fury. “You’ve been sabotaging me since the second we stepped in here, and I’m the mess? You think I can’t see what you’re doing?”

Toby’s laughter broke then—sharp, ragged, almost unhinged, though there was no humor in it. He dragged a hand across his face, shaking his head. “You’re s-so goddamn blind.”

“Oh, screw you—” You lunged, shoving him again, and this time he grabbed your wrist, yanking you forward until your faces nearly collided. You could feel his breath hot against your cheek, could see every drop of blood spattered across his muzzle.

The room buzzed with it—your rage, his heat, the echo of all that pent-up chaos finally unleashed. The fight wasn’t about the smugglers, wasn’t about the mission. It was about the two of you, about everything that had burned too long without a spark to ignite it. And now, you were both on fire.

Toby’s grip on your wrist tightened, and before you could wrench free, you shoved him hard into another crate. The metal screeched as it shifted under his weight. He snarled and came back at you, tackling you full-force. You both went down hard, the concrete jarring every bone in your body. His hatchet skittered away with a clatter, forgotten in the heat of the struggle. You clawed at his hoodie, slamming your knee up to catch his ribs, and he grunted, twisting to roll you beneath him.

“Why now?!” you shouted, your voice tearing raw through your throat as you shoved at him. “Why the fuck this week, Toby?!”

His laugh came cracked, bitter, his breath hot against your face as he pressed you down. “Why do y-you care? You liked it better w-when I shut the hell u-up, right?!”

You twisted, bucking your hips, flipping the both of you onto your sides, rolling across the dirt-stained floor. Broken glass scraped your palm, but you didn’t let go. “You didn’t speak to me for days—nothing! Then suddenly you just have to come with me? Just so you can trip me and screw me over?”

He gritted his teeth, voice rough, guttural. “M-Maybe I wanted t-to see how you’d h-handle it. Maybe I w-wa-wanted to see you squirm for once.”

Rage spiked through you, sharp and white-hot. You slammed your elbow into his chest, forcing him onto his back. He gasped, coughing, but his hands were still at your arms, nails biting.

“Is this payback?” you snarled, your breath coming ragged. “For me choking you out? You sick little shit—you couldn’t just say something, you had to do this? Are you fucking five years old?”

He bucked up, trying to roll you again, and the two of you smashed into a half-rotted crate, splinters bursting. The smell of mold and dust coated your tongue, acrid and foul. You shoved harder, knee digging into his ribs until finally—you broke free of his grip and pinned him flat against the concrete. You straddled his waist, your hands pressed hard against his shoulders, forcing him down. Both of you were panting, sweat and blood smeared across your skin, breaths shallow with fury.

And then—something shifted.

Toby’s head tilted back, baring the flushed stretch of his throat. His pulse throbbed there, fast and strong. And he was looking right at you, eyes wide and unblinking behind the streaks of dirt and blood.

Not fighting. Not mocking. Just… giving. Exposing his throat, silent, his gaze locked on yours as if daring you to finish what you’d started last week.

You froze. The world narrowed to the hollow of his throat, to the heat rolling off his body beneath you, to the fact that he wasn’t pushing you away. He was waiting.

Your heart lurched, fury colliding with confusion. You ripped your hands off him and stumbled up, standing over him. “What the fuck are you doing?” you demanded, voice sharp, trembling.

Toby stayed on the floor, chest rising and falling, throat still exposed. Slowly, his familiar grin returned—thin, crooked, unsettling. But he didn’t answer. He just chuckled under his breath. It wasn’t steady. It cracked halfway out, like he couldn’t quite hold it together.

“Go on,” he rasped, voice roughened by the fight—and maybe something else. “Do it a-again. Thought y-you liked shutting m-me up.”

Your stomach flipped. Heat curled low in your spine, but rage fought its way back to the surface, blinding the confusion you felt. “You’ve been fucking with me all night,” you hissed. “Cutting me off, tripping me, stealing every kill. And this—” your eyes hovered over his throat, his pulse hammering beneath skin still faintly stained with last week’s bruises “—this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

His grin faltered, but his eyes never left yours. Nervous. Hungry.

You almost laughed, disbelief bubbling sharp in your chest. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered. “You’ve been trying to piss me off so I’d choke you again?”

The silence was answer enough. His jaw worked, his breath shallow, silently chasing the contact he wasn’t brave enough to ask for.

Something ugly and electric knotted in your chest.

“You’re fucking sick,” you spat, standing to put space between you. “All this—what—just to get your little fix? You’re pathetic.”

He sat up slowly, tearing at the strap of his muzzle and shoving the piece off his face—the metal clattering against the cold floor, and finally let out a low laugh—broken, ragged. “Maybe. But you w-were gonna do it, weren’t y-you?”

You turned away, disgust coiling hot in your chest, but Toby’s voice followed—low and sharp, like a knife slipped between ribs. “Guess I w-was right. You only e-e-ever look good wh-when you’re on top o-of me.”

That was it.

You spun, fury surging bright and blinding, and launched yourself at him. You couldn’t care anymore if this was some perverted goade, he would get what he asked for now. He hit the floor hard, head bouncing off concrete with a dull thump, and before he could so much as blink, your hand was clamped around his throat.

“Oh, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” you snarled, leaning close, your words dripping venom. There wasn’t a muzzle to block you anymore, so your noses were practically inches from each other. “Poor little Toby, can’t get off unless he’s gasping like a fish. Pathetic.”

His grin widened even as your grip tightened, lips split and cracking, teeth flashing. His laugh jerked and stuttered, turning to wheezes under your palm, but he didn’t fight you off. Not this time. Instead, his hands slid down, fumbling and quick, finding your thighs where you straddled his abdomen. He gripped tight, fingers digging into your pants hard enough to bruise, like he was holding onto an anchor while you cut the air out of him.

You squeezed harder, your mockery coming in ragged bursts. “What, you like this? Huh? You want everyone to see those bruises again—so they’ll know exactly what I did to you?”

His laugh dissolved into a groan, his eyes glassy, unfocused, lips parted on shallow, rattling gasps. And then—his hips jerked up against you. Once. Twice. You lurched forward with the movement, your full weight pressing down onto his throat as his body bucked beneath yours, desperate, uncontrolled. Your palm bore down harder, your thighs pinning him in place, and his grip on you tightened until it hurt.

It was obscene. Violent. Maddening.

Your grip faltered when his hands crept higher on your thighs, rough palms sliding toward dangerous ground. You ripped your hand from his throat, throwing your weight back to keep yourself steady before you toppled forward.

The second you let go, Toby’s laugh cracked open, wild and desperate, spilling into something frantic. He shot upright against your weight, grabbing for your wrists, his voice ragged with need.

“No—don’t fu-fucking s-s-stop—” His words broke into a choked rasp as his chest heaved. “Do i-it again—p-pl-please—”

You shoved him down hard, eyes blazing. “You’re insane—!”

“Yeah?” he spat, his voice catching, body twisting under yours. “Then fucking b-be insane with me, h-huh? Don’t just s-sit there acting li-like you don’t get o-off on t-this shit too!”

Your rage spiked, white-hot. “Are you serious right now? I nearly killed you last time, and this is what you want?”

“Yes!” His shout tore from his throat, cracking halfway through, echoing off the warehouse walls. “Yes, fuck—goddamn i-it, you don’t g-get it—I need it!”

The words hit like a brick to the chest, and you froze just long enough for him to ramble on, his voice rising, frantic, like the dam had burst and he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. He was panting for God’s sake.

“E-Ever since that night—when you h-had your hands on me—” His eyes flashed wild, glassy with something more than anger. “I-I couldn’t fucking s-stop thinking about it. I’d lay th-there staring at t-the bruises—every g-go-goddamn night—touching mm-myself to the thought of you choking me out, and it w-was the only thing that worked—”

You reeled back, disgust curling sharp in your gut. “You’re disgusting.”

He grinned—broken, shameful, desperate. “Yeah. Y-Yeah, I know. But when t-they faded—when the bruises were gone—” His voice cracked again, lower now, almost pleading. “I couldn’t finish an-anymore. Nothing worked. I’ve been going o-out of my fucking m-mi-mind—”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. “So you pulled this stunt tonight? Just to piss me off enough to do it again?”

“Yes! Jesus fuck! Yes!” he barked, eyes blazing with a feverish light. “I had to! I don’t c-care if you hate m-me, I don’t care if you th-think I’m pathetic, I just—fuck—” His hands clawed at his own throat now, red scratches blooming under his nails. “I need y-your hands here. No o-one else’s. Yours.”

You stared down at him, chest heaving, every nerve screaming between fury, disbelief, and something darker curling beneath. “You’re seriously telling me you’ve been choking your dick every night to the thought of me almost killing you?”

His grin faltered, teeth bared like he was half-laughing, half-breaking apart. “I wanted i-it. I still want it. I-I need you to finish me off, or I’m go-gonna lose my fucking mind.”

The words hung between you—hot, filthy, and raw. And for the first time since you’d known him, Toby wasn’t hiding behind his immaturity or his smirk. He was laid bare, trembling under you, begging with every cracked word.

“I hate you, Toby.” Your breath hissed out between your teeth, sharp and electric, as you slammed your hand back around his throat. His body jolted like you’d lit a match to it.

Toby’s moan tore out of him, shameless and guttural, the sound vibrating against your palm. His eyes rolled halfway back, lids fluttering, and he arched up into your grip like a starving man finally fed. “Fuck—yes—” His voice rasped high and broken, and the sheer relief in it made your stomach twist. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

You leaned down, sneering inches from his flushed face. “Look at you. Pathetic little freak. Can’t even look at me without getting hard.”

His laugh cracked, feral, desperate, his mouth curling wide even as his breath stuttered in ragged gasps under your pressure. He coughed once, then sneered closer into your grip, gritting his teeth. “Say it a-again—fuck—say it—”

“Pathetic,” you hissed, tightening your grip, your thumb pressing against the thick veins running up his throat. “Sick little bitch.”

His hips bucked up violently, knocking you forward again, and this time he didn’t hold back. His hands shot past your thighs, fumbling frantically at his belt behind you. The buckle clattered against the concrete, his jeans yanked open with a clumsy desperation that made your blood thrum. You couldn’t see, but you could hear the moment Toby’s hand shot into his boxers and began jerking his cock wildly, moaning through labored chokes.

“Jesus Christ,” you spat, half a laugh, half a curse. “You’re actually jerking yourself while I choke you?”

“Not—j-jerking,” he wheezed, his grin splitting wider even as his face flushed red under your grip. “Just—getting ready—” His laugh broke into a cough, then another moan. “Fuck—I don’t care i-if you hate me, just k-keep squeezing—”

Your stomach knotted, fury clashing with something darker as you pressed down harder, feeling the frantic pulse hammer beneath your hand. You should have pulled away. Should’ve shoved him off and ended this disgusting display. But the way his voice cracked when you snapped at him, the way his body writhed beneath yours, hands trembling as he shoved his jeans lower—it sparked something hot and unsettling in your chest.

“I can’t stand you,” you breathed, voice low, sharp, and shaking with something you didn’t want to name. “You’re nothing without me.”

His moan bled into a laugh, high and frantic. “I k-know. I fucking know. That’s w-why I need you.” And god help you—your lips curled, the power surging through you like fire. You were enjoying it, too.

Your palm pressed harder against his throat, pinning him flat, your thighs tight against his ribs. Toby’s grin broke into something wrecked, lips trembling as his groans spilled shamelessly between shallow gasps.

“That’s it,” you hissed, leaning close, breath hot against his ear. “Choke on it. That’s all you’re good for.”

His hips jerked up violently, jeans shoved halfway down his thighs now, his cock straining free into the cool air. His hand wrapped tight around the base, already slick, already trembling. You could hear the sound of skin-on-skin, his fist moving insanely fast and brutal.

“F-Fuck—yes—” he choked, voice torn to ribbons under your grip. “Keep talking—don’t s-stop—please—”

You sneered, pressing your weight down harder, and he let out a strangled cry that almost tipped into a sob. “Look at yourself,” you spat, mocking, eyes blazing as you looked back to see him rut up into his own fist like a man possessed. “Wheezing like a dying dog. You’re disgusting.”

“Uh—hnn—f-fuck—yeah,” he rasped, grin stretching bloody and wild. “Say it a-again—call me that—”

“Disgusting. Pathetic. Useless little freak.”

His eyes rolled, breath rattling, hips pumping faster. You heard his boots scuff and slip on the ground below, kicking dust with every jerk of his body. His free hand clawed at your thigh, nails biting hard into your skin, grounding himself in your weight, in your hold on his throat.

“Harder,” he begged, voice splintering, a desperate whine breaking loose. “Please—please, don’t let g-go—don’t stop—fuck, I’m so c-close—”

And God help you—you squeezed tighter. You felt the pulse stuttering beneath your palm, his throat straining, his moans breaking into guttural wheezes as his body arched up beneath yours.

“You need me for this,” you hissed, lips curling in something that was no longer just anger. “You can’t even come without me choking the life out of you. Need me to make your little dick come.”

His hand blurred on his cock, hips bucking helplessly now, eyes glassy and unfocused as drool slicked the corner of his mouth. “Y-yesmmn—fuck, yehmmn—need you—need your hand—don’t let go—hnn—hah—”

And then he broke.

His whole body jolted beneath you, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as his hips bucked up hard. Hot release spilled across his abdomen and into his fist as he writhed, every vein straining under your hand while you squeezed him through it. His cock twitched violently in his grasp, his moans pitching higher, wetter, delirious. “Fuckfuckfuck—yes—” he gasped, trembling, his grip on your thigh bruising as he rode the high, every thrust messy, erratic, desperate.

You held firm until he sagged under you, chest heaving, throat raw and flushed purple where your hand pressed. Only then did you release him, wiping your palm against your jeans with a sharp sneer. “Fucking hell,” you muttered again, though your heart was hammering just as hard as his.

Toby lay there, grinning up at you with glassy, wrecked eyes, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He coughed once, rough and raw, then laughed—a cracked, unhinged sound. “Worth it.”

The warehouse smelled like iron and smoke, the floor sticky with blood, bodies slumped where they fell scattered throughout the halls. Normally you’d have cleaned—burned the place down or dragged the corpses to the woods. That was protocol.

But not tonight.

You shoved yourself off Toby’s chest, breath ragged, disgust curling sharp and hot in your gut. You wiped your palm against your pants until the skin burned, as if you could scrub off the memory of his throat thrumming beneath your grip, the moans spilling out of him, the mess he made of himself under you.

“Fuck,” you spat, turning on your heel. “Fuck this.”

Toby scrambled upright behind you, fumbling with his belt buckle, tugging his jeans back up with clumsy, shaking hands. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, his hoodie damp with it too.

“W-Wait—hey—” he stammered, voice still rough, strained. He grabbed his hatchet and muzzle from the floor and scurried after you, footsteps uneven on the concrete. “Don’t—don’t make i-it a thing, okay? Just—forget it h-ha-happened.”

“Forget it?” you snapped, not slowing. “You’re sick, Toby.”

He laughed nervously, breath catching on the sound. “Yeah, well—you al-already knew that.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your stomach twisted too tight, too hot, your chest buzzing with something you didn’t want to settle on. You shoved through the broken door, the night air slapping cold against your damp skin, and started the trek back to the mansion. Behind you, Toby’s boots scuffed the dirt, never too far, dogging your steps like a shadow.

“C’mon,” he tried again, voice softer this time, more nervous. “Don’t g-go all weird on m-me. It doesn’t have to mean an-anything.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. “Shut up.”

Silence stretched between you after that, broken only by the crunch of leaves, the distant cry of some night creature in the woods. You didn’t look back, not once. But no matter how far you tried to walk ahead, he stayed just behind you—close enough to feel his presence crawling against your skin. Your chest heaved, every breath tight. Anger, shame, disgust—all of it roiled inside you, twisting lower until your stomach was burning, your thighs aching where his hands had dug into you.

Warm. You felt too warm. And you hated yourself for it.

By the time the mansion lights came into view through the trees, your jaw ached from clenching it so hard. You’d marched fast, hard, like if you moved quick enough, you could outrun the heat coiling in your gut, the way your pulse jumped at the memory of Toby’s voice breaking under your hand, at his eyes watering so easily.

But when you reached the porch steps, he was still there. Still trailing you. And no matter how you tried to bury it—your body still hummed with the echo of his moans.

“J-Just don’t say anything to t-them—”

“Shut up, Toby.”

The mansion’s door creaked open, hinges groaning into the quiet of the hour. You stepped in first, blood dried on your clothes, boots heavy with dust. The air inside smelled faintly of woodsmoke and old leather, warmth clinging to the walls after the chill of the forest outside.

Masky looked up from the couch where he sat sipping from a steaming mug. Hoodie was leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, while Kate perched on the armrest, picking at her fingers.

Three sets of eyes landed on you and Toby at once.

You kept yours on the floor, brushing past with a muttered, “It’s done.” Your voice was flat, clipped, nothing like the normal back-and-forth bickering they were used to hearing spill through the door after missions. Toby hovered behind you, shifting from foot to foot. His hatchet dangled loose at his side, his hoodie wrinkled, belt crooked like he’d thrown it back together in a rush. His mouth opened once, twice, but no words came.

Masky’s eyes narrowed. Hoodie straightened. Kate blew a huff of air through her nose, brows furrowing as her gaze bounced between you both. You didn’t wait for questions. You strode past them, your chest tight, your pulse hammering, Toby’s nervous fidgeting prickling against the back of your skull like static. Your boots echoed faint up the stairs, and when you reached your room, you shut the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

Finally—silence.

You pressed your back against the wood, chest rising and falling, staring blankly into the shadows of your room. Your knees felt weak, like the fight had dragged out hours longer than it really had.

“What the fuck,” you whispered into the stillness. Your mind replayed it whether you wanted it to or not: his face slack with need, his body bucking beneath you, his voice breaking when you called him pathetic. The sound of him moaning your name. The way he’d begged you not to let go.

Your pulse jumped hard, traitorous, and you wrapped your arms around yourself as though that could cage it. How? How had this boy—the one who needled you, cursed you, fought you at every corner—made your stomach twist and your core ache with just his wrecked voice and shameless grin?

You growled under your breath, shoving off the door, moving on autopilot. Stripping out of bloodied clothes. Cleaning the grime from your skin in the dim light of the bathroom mirror. Your reflection looked wrong—flushed, unsettled, eyes too wide.

You tried to ignore it.

Back in your room, you tugged a shirt over your head and crawled beneath the covers, pulling them tight around yourself. The sheets were cool against your skin, the house humming faint and low in the background. You shut your eyes, forcing yourself to think of anything else.

But your mind betrayed you.

Every blink brought back Toby—the heat of him, the frantic way he’d clawed at your thighs, the rasp of his moans under your palm. You could almost feel his throat again, the thrum of his pulse weakening against your grip, the desperate way he’d pushed into your hand as if he couldn’t live without it. The way he insisted only you could do this for him—only you.

Your breath caught. Your thighs pressed together beneath the sheets. “Goddamn it,” you muttered, low, ashamed.

But your hands moved anyway. Sliding down, curling over your stomach, lower, until your fingers pressed against the ache that had been building since you walked away from him on that filthy warehouse floor.

Toby’s voice played in your head, raw and broken—Harder. Please. Don’t stop.

The sheets were stifling, heat curling in every inch of your body, but you burrowed deeper under them anyway, cocooning yourself as if that could keep the shame in. Your breath was uneven, pulse climbing higher the longer you tried to resist. Your hand slipped lower, into the waistband of your shorts, finding the slick heat between your thighs. You were already wet, embarrassingly so, and the realization made your stomach flip.

“Fuck…” you hissed under your breath.

But your fingers moved anyway. Slow at first, just circling, teasing, trying to convince yourself you weren’t really doing this. Except the moment you closed your eyes, you saw him again—Toby’s head tilted back, throat bare to you, his lips parted in a desperate grin as you squeezed down harder.

The memory made your hips twitch, your hand quicken. Your breathing grew rougher, sharper, filling the stillness of your room. The friction wasn’t enough—you needed more. You slid two fingers against your entrance, pressing inside and gasping at the sudden stretch, your body clenching tight.

And your mind betrayed you again.

You imagined it was his hands, not yours—rough, calloused palms pushing inside, desperate and greedy. You imagined the way he’d been bucking against you, hips jerking, like he was trying to fuck the air just to get relief. What if you had fucked him then? Would it have been as fast and desperate as his fist was?

A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it. Your free hand clutched the sheets by your head, knuckles whitening as your pace picked up. Each press, each thrust of your fingers had your body curling tighter, chasing something you didn’t want to admit you wanted. Your thighs trembled. Sweat dampened your temples.

And then Toby’s voice flooded your skull, unbidden: Harder. Please. Don’t stop. I need you.

Your body jerked. A moan tore from your throat. You slammed your fingers deeper, grinding your palm against your clit until the ache sharpened into something blinding. Your orgasm ripped through you like fire, your body arching off the bed, breath caught, the sound of his pleading still ringing in your ears.

You stayed there, quivering, your hand still buried between your thighs as the aftershocks trembled through you. The sheets were tangled, your skin slick with sweat, your chest heaving. And when your mind finally cleared, disgust hit you like a wave.

You ripped your hand away, burying your face into the pillow, your body still thrumming with unwanted pleasure.

“What the fuck is wrong with me,” you whispered to the dark, voice breaking. But no matter how tightly you curled into yourself, no matter how hard you tried to will it away, the memory of his moans and the feel of his throat under your palm stayed burned into you.

“I hate that boy.”

── .✦

The mansion was never quiet, not really. Floorboards creaked, the woods whispered, doors groaned when opened. But between you and Toby? Silence had become the loudest thing of all.

You ignored him. Flat-out, stone-faced ignored him.

When he leaned against the doorway of the training room, flicking his pocket knife open and shut, waiting for you to snap? You kept punching the heavy weight bag, not giving him so much as a glance.

When he dropped some smartass remark during meals, fishing for the rise he always used to get? You chewed slowly, eyes fixed on your plate, not even flinching.

When he “accidentally” bumped your shoulder in the hall? You walked on, didn’t miss a beat.

It drove him mad—you could see it in the twitch of his jaw, the way his tics flared sharper, faster when you didn’t bite back. But it drove you mad too, in a way you didn’t want to admit.

Because the bruises were back. 

Dark, blooming fingerprints circling his throat like a necklace only you could’ve left. They were darker than last time, more intense. They peeked from under his collar when he tilted his head back, caught the light when he twisted just so. And every time you saw them, your stomach clenched.

You couldn’t help imagining him again, in that messy sprawl on the warehouse floor—eyes glazed, lips split, gasping for air under your hand. The memory tangled with the fact you knew he was jerking off to it every night, chasing that high you’d given him like some addict.

And then came the shame.

Shame because you’d done the same. Shame because your own fingers had dug into yourself with his voice in your ears, his body pressed against yours in your mind. Shame because it made you warm now, just thinking about it in broad daylight. You hated yourself for it.

The others noticed.

Masky groaned and rolled his eyes whenever the silence stretched too long in the room, muttering about “finally shutting the both of you up.” Hoodie, quiet as ever, glanced between you two with something unreadable in his gaze, like he was tracking pieces to a puzzle he didn’t want to put together. And Kate? She smirked. She didn’t say anything—yet—but her eyes lit up with amusement every time Toby walked in, bruises stark and ugly, your gaze flickering before you could stop it.

The mansion wasn’t built for subtlety. Everyone could feel the tension brewing.

And Toby? Toby basked in it. Even when you ignored him, even when your face burned with shame, you could see it in the edge of his grin, in the way he let his collar hang just a little lower. He liked that you saw the bruises. He wanted you thinking about them. Thinking about him.

── .✦

The porch was cold, even with the smoke curling warm in your lungs. You leaned against the railing, staring into the stretch of black trees. The woods whispered with wind and crickets, an endless, empty hum that should’ve eased your head but didn’t.

You were halfway through your cigarette when the door creaked behind you. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. His uneven footsteps, the scrape of his hoodie against the doorframe—Toby.

You stiffened immediately, flicking ash into the night, already crushing the half-finished cigarette against the rail. The second he stepped outside, you pushed off the porch, muttering, “Nope.” But before you could make it to the door, his hand shot out and grabbed your arm.

You spun on instinct, your fist colliding with his chest, hard enough that it would’ve left anyone else wincing. He didn’t even flinch. His head just tilted, eyes flicking from your hand to your face.

“You probably liked that too, didn’t you?” you spat, ripping your arm from his grip. “Bet you’ll jerk off to that later too.”

For a moment, the corner of his mouth curled up into a grin like he was about to shoot something smart back. But then it faltered. He swallowed, shifting his weight. “You can’t k-keep being mad at m-me,” he said, quieter than you expected.

You barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, that’s rich. What’s this—gaslighting me now? Pretending I imagined all your bullshit? You baited me into it, Toby. You made me—”

“I’m not saying th-that.” His voice cut through, sharper this time. He stepped closer, shoulders tense, hands fidgeting. “I’m saying… you d-did it too. You wanted it. D-Don’t dump all the blame o-on me like I’m the only fucked up o-o-one here.”

You blinked at him, the words burning hotter than the smoke simmering in your lungs. The laugh that came out of you was dry, ugly. “Wow. That’s your angle? Turn it around on me so you don’t feel like a creep?”

He shook his head quickly, stammering, “No. That’s not—fuck—” He scrubbed a hand through his messy curls, his tics pulling his shoulders tight. Then his voice dropped, raw and stripped. “I just… I hate i-it when you’re quiet.”

That stopped you.

His eyes flicked up to yours, no grin this time, no mask. Just something bare. “I can handle y-you being pissed at me. You c-can scream, throw punches, call me every name in the book—I don-don’t care. I’ll give it right back. That’s what we do.” He took a step closer, the porch creaking under his boots. “But this? Y-You ignoring me? Acting like I don’t exist? That’s wo-worse than any fight we’ve ever h-had.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse suddenly pounding in your ears.

“You always bounce b-back,” he went on, voice rough with an edge of desperation. “No matter h-how ugly it gets, you always come back a-at me w-with something. And now you’re just—gone. Silent. And it fe-feels like I’m fucking… nothing t-to you. And I can’t stand that.”

The words hung between you, heavy as the smoke drifting in the night air. You clenched your fists, struggling to breathe steady. Your chest felt too tight. His words were still in your ears, rattling around, refusing to leave. You dragged a hand through your hair, then crossed your arms hard, locking yourself in. Your gaze flicked down—just for a heartbeat—to his throat, where the bruises were stark against pale skin, then to his hands fidgeting at his sides. A sigh slipped out before you could swallow it down.

“God, you’re annoying,” you bit out, venom dripping. “You stand here begging for scraps of my attention like some whipped fucking dog.”

Toby’s lips twitched, but he didn’t fight back. He just nodded once, sharp, almost eager. “Y-Yeah. I am.”

You blinked at him, taken aback. Then the anger surged hotter. Even still, even as you tried to push him away, he was still enjoying it.

“You don’t even try to deny it? That’s how low you are? That’s how little self-respect you have?”

“Mmhm.” Another nod. His boots creaked closer against the porch boards.

Your arms tightened across your chest. “You’re disgusting, Toby. You make me sick.”

“Yeah.” Another step closer. His grin was small now, faint, but his eyes were locked on you like he was drinking it all in. Your nails bit crescents into your arms. You should’ve walked away—you knew you should’ve walked away—but the way he was letting you tear into him only made your pulse race faster.

“Say it,” you snapped, stepping forward yourself. “Say you’re a fucking disgusting waste of space.”

“I’m di-disgusting,” he echoed, nodding. “Waste of space. All o-of it. Go on.” He was right there now, only inches away, and still coming closer.

“You’re nothing,” you spat, your voice trembling with how hard you forced the words out. “I hate you.”

He nodded again, eyes bright, voice low. “Then hate me.”

And then he leaned forward. Not quick, not sharp—slow, steady, like he was giving you all the time in the world to stop him. His breath brushed your lips, his bruised throat bare and tempting, his whole body a dare.

Something snapped in you. Your hand shot up and clamped over his mouth. Hard.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you growled, glaring into his eyes.

For a heartbeat, the night was silent, only your ragged breathing between you. His lips moved against your palm, hot breath searing your skin, but he didn’t try to pull away. He just looked at you, wide-eyed and unblinking, as if you’d given him exactly what he wanted.

Then his arms came up.

Before you could react, he wrapped them around you, hauling you flush against him. Your body collided with his, hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs, and that’s when you felt it—his bulge thick and insistent against your hip.

Your heart jumped. You recoiled, but he only crushed you tighter, his muffled voice spilling hot against your palm. “Can’t—fuck—can’t help i-it,” he mumbled under your hand, words slurring but frantic. His eyes were wild, pleading and burning all at once. “You don’t understand how good i-it sounds. The way you talk to me—how mean you a-are—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped, pressing harder against his mouth, like you could shove the words back down his throat. And then—warm, wet, obscene—his tongue dragged across your palm. You jerked your hand back instantly, grimacing. “Motherfucker—”

The slap cracked sharp across his face before you even thought about it, your palm stinging from the impact. He didn’t even blink, face jerking to the side for only a moment. His laugh tore out, jagged and breathless, like it was the best gift you’d ever given him. “More,” he goaded, his voice breaking with a tic as his grin split wide. “C’mon—hit me again—”

Something boiled inside you. Rage. Heat. Hunger. You couldn’t name it, couldn’t separate it. You fisted his collar instead, yanking him down hard enough his head snapped forward. Your lips crashed into his in a violent, messy collision—more teeth than anything else, half-kiss, half-bite.

He made a noise deep in his chest, caught between a moan and a growl, and bit back. Your teeth scraped his lip, tearing it raw, copper flooding between your tongues as you devoured each other like a fight you couldn’t win. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was violent, greedy, your mouths clashing, biting, swallowing each other’s breath until you were dizzy. His hands gripped your waist, bruising, desperate, dragging you closer still.

The porch boards creaked under your stumbling steps as you shoved him back, and he only laughed against your mouth, teeth clacking yours, his breath ragged and burning hot as he kissed you like you were both still trying to draw blood.

Your teeth clashed again, the taste of copper thick on your tongue, and Toby groaned like it was ecstasy. His hands roamed rough, not searching but taking—fingers digging into your hips hard enough you swore he’d leave bruises through your clothes. You shoved at his chest, trying to push him back, but he turned you violently, pinning you against the porch railing. The wood bit into your spine. His mouth crashed against yours, sloppy and biting, like he was trying to consume you whole.

“Fucking—” you gasped between kisses, your nails clawing into his shoulders. “I hate you.”

“F-Fuck yeah you do,” he growled, teeth dragging along your jaw before sinking in just hard enough to sting. His hips ground forward, rough, shameless. His bulge pressed against your hip so hard you could feel every inch. “Show me just h-how much, baby.”

Your laugh broke into a moan, guttural and unwilling, as he rocked against you. That only pissed you off more. You tangled a hand in his curls and yanked his head back hard, exposing his throat. “Pathetic little pervert,” you spat, glaring at the bruises you’d already put there. Your free hand wrapped around his throat again, squeezing until his breath stuttered, and his eyes rolled for just a second.

He moaned just as loud and whiny as he had the other night. The sound made heat coil tight in your stomach. You pressed harder, relishing the way his pulse hammered under your fingers. He choked out a laugh, lips swollen and red, trying to lunge forward again—but you held him just out of reach.

“Say it,” you hissed. “Say you’re nothing. Say you’re mine to break.”

His grin split wide, voice raw and ragged as he rasped, “I’m nothing. I’m—fuck—I’m y-yours to break.”

That was all it took for you to slam your mouth back onto his, devouring him. Your bodies ground together in a messy, furious rhythm, every movement as much a fight as it was a touch.

Toby’s hand slid down, gripping the back of your thigh, hauling your leg up around his hip. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound greedily, bucking into you. Your nails raked down his chest, and he shuddered, growling against your lips. He bit at your bottom one hard enough to make you taste blood again.

The porch creaked, your breath echoed, and for a moment, the whole world was just this: violent mouths, grasping hands, and the line between hate and want blurring until there was no difference. You tried to shove him off, but he anchored himself against you with his hands—one gripping your waist, the other sliding lower, hot and slick, brushing over the waistband of your shorts.

You stiffened immediately, pressing back, but he didn’t stop. He shoved his hand down past the hem, his warm palm pressing flat against your fluttering cunt. You hissed, digging your nails into his shoulders. The pad of his thumb traced along your slick folds, the subtle heat radiating from your body under his touch making him groan low and uneven.

“Right—so defensive, but you’re soaked—” he panted against your jaw, dragging his fingers through your slick and probing against your entrance. You wanted to curse him, but your hips were too busy chasing after his hand, mind too muddled with want. “Y-You’re not very good a-at playing pretend.”

And then—careful, deliberate—he slipped a finger inside. The movement was slow at first, testing, curling just enough to brush the spot that made you gasp, hips bucking despite your effort to stay rigid. Your breath hitched, caught in your throat as your hands clamped over his shoulders, nails digging in hard, and yet your stomach tensed, core aching in unwanted, feral need.

“Goddamn it, Toby—get the fuck—” you tried to snap, but the words came out a whimper as his fingers moved in perfect rhythm with the heat coiling between your legs.

“Can’t stop,” he rasped, teeth grazing your jaw. “Your hands—your words—f-fucking kill me. I can’t help it.”

You clawed at him, nails digging into skin. He moved another finger in, slick and warm, curling expertly, pressing, rubbing, and suddenly the fire coiling low in your belly blazed out. You arched up, fighting, hissing at him through your teeth, but the sound only seemed to make him smirk against your jaw.

“You piss me off,” you spat, pressing back harder, rocking your hips against his hand in a mix of resistance and desperate need. Every nerve in your body screamed, every pulse of blood seemed to thrum straight down into the ache he was cultivating with each careful, greedy curl of his thick fingers. “You’re so fucking gross.”

“Yeah,” he moaned, the word rattling through him. “Gonna make you cum. I h-have to. Ne-Need to.” The sound—raw, desperate, unashamed—made arousal coil tighter in your belly. Your free hand tangled in his hair, yanking his face to yours again. Teeth clashed, lips smacked, and he grunted as you bit him, tasting yourself on him, smelling the deep earthy tones of him.

He bucked into you, nails digging into your hip, sliding his fingers faster, curling them deep, teasing you, testing you, making you gasp and growl your frustration into the night air. You tried to glare, tried to snap insults, but your body betrayed you, trembling, hips pressing against him, sliding back onto his fingers despite the growl of anger and disgust still catching in your throat.

“Told you,” he rasped, voice ragged, “I l-like it better when you’re pissy.”

You hit him on the chest, hard enough to make him grunt, and he chuckled, throat choked and vibrating under your hand. The contrast—his rough, hungry laugh and the slick heat of him inside you—sent fire lashing in your veins, spreading down and low, making your nails dig deeper, your chest rise faster, your body tremble like you were breaking apart. You tried to pull away, tried to scream insults, tried to shove him off, but every movement only made him grip harder, curling fingers deeper, his thumb rubbing against your clit as he held you flush against him.

“Fuck—Toby…” you gasped, teeth clenching, nails digging into the fabric of his hoodie as heat roared through your body. His hand moved faster, rolling you expertly against him, pressing and curling until every nerve in your belly lit up. You clenched, tight, shivering, and suddenly the wave hit—sharp, overwhelming, and completely consuming. Your body quaked as your orgasm ripped through you, muffled gasps caught in your throat. Toby didn’t falter; instead, he held you steady, rolling you just enough to ride it out, keeping you flush against him, your arousal spilling all over his palm.

Your chest heaved, and you grabbed his jaw with both hands, pulling him down roughly into a kiss that was desperate and messy. His mouth moved against yours, hot and slick, teeth nipping as tongues tangled, groans muffled and raw. And then, just slightly, the feral edge simmered into something slower, almost tired—your bodies still flush, hearts hammering, lips pressed together as you clung to him, fingers gripping his shoulders and chest. Your legs threaded around him, your nails dragging along his back, and you shivered against the warmth of him, still trembling from release and the cold air outside.

Finally, he pulled his fingers out, slick and glistening, and tilted his head back just slightly. His eyes locked onto yours, dark in the dim porch light, and he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking and sucking them clean with a low hum that made your heart stutter.

“Fuck,” you panted.

You don’t let him think. You take his wrist like it’s a leash and pull, hard, the way you used to when dragging him out of some stupid accident—only this time your grip is charged, hungry. Toby stumbles after you, mouth parted, eyes bright and unsteady, like he’s both surprised and exactly where he wants to be. He tries to say something—stammer a protest, some jagged joke—but you yank him faster and his words die in the cut of your stride. You pull him through the mansion’s doors and into the warmth of the house, dragging him up the stairs like a toy.

Upstairs creaks under your boots; the house is quiet but for the ragged sound of his breathing close behind. When you shove the door to your room shut, it slams. The sound is satisfying, final. You press back against it, feel the cheap paint bite into your back through your clothes, and the world narrows until it’s only you and him and the hungry strain between your bodies pressed tight.

He drops to his knees without being told. You haven’t even made a sound and he’s already obeying—fast, focused, hands fumbling as he works the waistband of your shorts. He tugs them down slow, reverent, as though he’s unwrapping something sacred and volatile. The fabric slips over your hips and slides to your knees, and you can feel the cool air lick at your skin. Toby’s head dips, lips brushing the inside of your thigh first like it’s a courtesy, then moving with increasing boldness.

You’re in control. You know it. You feel it in the slick press of your bodies, the steady drum of your pulse at the back of your throat. You lean forward, hands braced on his shoulders, and you start to talk down to him.

“Look at you,” you say, each word deliberate. You’re quieter now inside, trying your best not to disturb Masky and Hoodie only a few doors down. “On your knees for me. So ready.” Your fingers rake through his hair, rough enough that he gasps, chin lifting to give you access. He nods, desperate and grateful, eyes glossy. The motion is small, but it’s permission, and it makes something molten shift deeper inside you.

Toby’s face is close, warmth and breath and that wild laugh caught somewhere between fear and worship. He’s trembling—hands shaking as they find your hips, thumbs stroking, mapping, sliding up and under your shirt. He lifts his mouth and your name slips off his lips like a prayer. The sound is intoxicating. He’s pathetic on purpose: he knows that’s exactly what you want to see, and he gives it fully.

“You like the way you look when you beg?” you murmur, leaning down to press your forehead to his. “Like how it feels?.”

He swallows. His voice is a thin thing when it comes. “I—please. I like—hnngh, I like w-when you—” He breaks, breath hitching. “I like when you make me—when y-you choke me—when you sa-say those things.” His fingers curl into your hips like anchors, digging into your flesh.

You grin, and it’s all teeth. You like that he admits it. You like that he’s helpless to stop himself from wanting more, and you take your time making that want work for you. Hell, he couldn’t even cum without your help a week ago. One hand slides down his scalp, tilting his head, the other ghosts lower until the pad of your thumb brushes the tint in his jeans. He pants, a sharp, eager noise, and when you press that thumb—just a tease—he moans and jerks, hips lifting on their own.

“Good boy,” you whisper, the title slipping out like a command. “Work for me.”

He obeys like he breathes—fast. His hands grip your thighs, pull you closer, and he uses his mouth this time—not gentle, not careful, but greedy. When his lips close around your clit, and your back immediately hits the door, rattling the frame. He’s competent; his mouth knows how to coax sounds from you, how to lap his tongue through your folds, how to curl it in the right place. He sucks, he sucks hard, and you can feel it all rolling through you—the tug and the release, the heat pooling and then building again.

You press a palm flat to the crown of his head and drive him harder, encouraging, demanding, not letting him take the easy route. You want him raw, you want him ragged; you want him making up for every single ache he’s caused you. You lean your weight into him, hips rocking as his mouth works miracles, and you start to bark orders—softly but stiff.

“Faster.”

“Mhmn—” he hums, wrapping his hands behind your thighs, pulling you closer.

“Keep your eyes up, Toby.”

He answers by sinking his tongue into your cunt, forcing the muscle into the sticky sweet slick of your last arousal. His eyes flutter and roll, his nose pressing against your clit as he swallows every taste of you.

He’s shameless now, hands slamming up your thighs, hauling you closer until the pads of his fingers dig into the soft of your waist. He crushes his face between your legs, breath hot and urgent, tongue darting, exploring. When his fingers slide from your leg to between them, worming their way to your entrance with his tongue, you clench, eyes rolling with the stretch. He moans against you, the sound vibrating right up into your pelvis, and the crude, honest worship of it makes heat flare up into your throat.

You keep talking, degrading in that perfect, stinging way that makes him whine harder, do more. Each insult you throw is an instruction, each barb a route to deeper compliance.

“You want this,” you tell him, voice low and hard. “You want to be thrown around. Admit it.”

He lifts his head, face flushed, lips slick. He meets your eyes and says it plain, breathy and broken, “I wa-want you to hate me. I want you to hit me and h-hurt me.” He nods, like a man confirming the one truth he lives for.

“You don’t even—hah—even feel pain.”

“Let’s play pretend.”

That’s all you need. You press him back with a casual force, pressing down on his shoulders and forcing him flat to the floor. His back hit the wood, hoodie riding up, and you didn’t give him the chance to keep talking. You climbed over him, straddling his chest, knees planted on either side of his shoulders, the weight of you pinning him like prey.

“Shut up,” you spat, leaning forward just enough that your shadow swallowed his face. “You want to fuck me so bad? You’re gonna fucking earn it.”

Toby’s grin only widened. His hands went to your thighs automatically, not pushing, not resisting—just holding, squeezing like he was anchoring himself to you. His eyes, those wild, fractured things, were locked on your cunt hovering above him. His mouth fell open on instinct, tongue flashing out in a shaky, eager swipe across his lips.

“Fuck—look at you,” you muttered, rolling your hips forward until you sat fully on his face. His nose pressed firm against your clit, his tongue sliding up and tasting you with a hunger that sent shocks all the way down your spine. “On the floor, exactly where you belong.”

The sound he made against you was half-moan, half-chuckle, and the vibration shot straight through you. You fisted his messy curls, forcing his head back into the wood, rocking yourself harder against his mouth.

“Open wider,” you ordered, voice sharp, breath catching. “You’re gonna take every bit of me.”

He obeyed instantly, mouth parting, tongue flattening and dragging in long, desperate licks. He was sloppy, unashamed, drowning himself in you. Every time your hips rolled down, he groaned like he was savoring it, like he’d starve if you moved away. You ground against him harder, chasing the rhythm, riding his face with purpose. The slick sounds of his tongue working you filled the room, obscene and perfect. Toby’s hands clamped tight on your thighs, pulling you down harder, like he wanted to suffocate under you.

“Stupid weirdo,” you hissed between gasps, yanking his head tighter into your heat. “This is what you’ve been begging for, isn’t it? My pussy—fuck—my fucking hands on you.”

His answer was a muffled, ecstatic noise, hips bucking up from the floor uselessly. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t joke, couldn’t bite back. He could only take it—your weight, your rhythm, your degradation. He moaned into you again, and you felt the sound rip through your core.

You leaned back slightly, fingers twisted cruelly in his hair, your thighs trembling as his tongue curled just right, hitting that spot over and over. You threw your head back, breath breaking into ragged gasps, staring up at your ceiling just like you had a couple of nights ago—imagining how he would feel against you. It made your heart burn.

“God—fuck, Toby—don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. His mouth latched tighter, tongue flicking, sucking, devouring like it was oxygen. You rode him through it, thighs squeezing against his head, grinding down until the pleasure crested sharp and overwhelming.

When it hit again, it was violent. You clamped down around his tongue, body shuddering, a cry tearing itself from your throat as you came hard, grinding his face through the waves. Toby moaned with you, greedy for every second, every twitch, every slick pulse. The overstimulation was already building, your body growing so tried. You slumped forward on shaking thighs, chest heaving, still tugging his hair, forcing him to lap at you while aftershocks rolled through. Only when your muscles gave did you finally lift off, dragging your heat from his face and watching as he gasped for air, lips and chin wet, eyes glazed and wide.

You smirked down at him, breathless but still sharp. “Look at you. So pitiful.”

Toby laughed—hoarse, shaky, half-mad—licking his lips like he couldn’t bear to waste a single taste. “Do it again,” he begged, voice raw. “Please—ride m-me again.”

“Nah.”

Your thighs trembled as you rose off of him, knees shaky, breath uneven. Toby’s hands pawed uselessly at the floor, still reaching, still begging—but you ignored him. You staggered to your bed, hips heavy with the ache he left behind, and collapsed face-first onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against your burning skin, and you stretched out, lazy and languid, your feet still dangling over the edge, your back arching with the natural curl of exhaustion and satisfaction.

Behind you, you heard him scramble up—the shuffle of knees, palms on the floor, the frantic sound of him scurrying like a dog chasing its master.

“Stay.” The single command cracked through the quiet like a whip. He froze. “Don’t you fucking move.”

You didn’t need to see him to know he was obeying—you could feel the tension rolling off him, could almost taste the way he wanted to lunge forward, to drag his mouth back where it belonged. You felt his eyes bore between your legs, onto the mess he had created now cooling on your skin.

“P-Please…” Toby’s voice was a rasp, thick with need. “Please, let me—let m-me touch you—”

“I said no.” 

Your words were final, and they cut. You heard him groan, guttural, muffling it into his fist. A second later, the sound of teeth scraping against knuckles filled the air—he was biting down hard just to keep himself quiet. You turned your head slightly, gaze dragging to where he stood, and what you saw made a laugh roll out of you, low and cruel.

Toby was doubled over, one hand fisting in his hoodie, the other clawing at the waistband of his jeans. The bulge strained hard and obscene against the denim, and he rocked into it like he could grind the ache away. He looked half feral, pupils blown, mouth wet, hair hanging in his face. Pathetic. Perfect.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” you teased, voice lazy with amusement. You knew it didn’t really hurt him, but he wanted to play pretend, didn’t he? “Can’t even move without thinking about me, huh?”

He groaned again, louder, his body jolting with the effort of restraint. His knuckles were slick with spit where his teeth dug in, and his free hand gripped his jeans like he could tear them open. You laughed again, sharper this time, and rolled onto your back. Your legs hung off the edge of the bed, feet brushing the floor, and you spread your knees wide, lazy and taunting. The motion was deliberate—an invitation, a cruelty, a display he couldn’t resist. It didn’t matter if he had already made you cum twice, you needed him to fuck you right now just to prove a point.

You were going to make this boy cum all by yourself. Not the idea of you, not his imagination—yourself.

“Go on, Toby,” you murmured, voice dripping with control. “Come here.”

Toby nearly tripped over himself getting to you, stepping between your dangling legs like he belonged there—like he had been waiting his whole life for it.

You leaned up onto your elbows, reaching a hand out to the edge of his waistband. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling in jagged heaves as your fingers toyed with his belt, tugging it open with a cruel kind of patience. The metallic clink of the buckle rang loud in the quiet room, and Toby’s hands twitched at his sides, useless, trembling, aching to reach for you.

“Keep them there,” you warned without looking up. “If you touch me without permission, you’re done.”

He whimpered softly—pathetic and desperate—and forced his arms straight at his sides, fingers flexing, curling into fists as though nailing himself to the spot.

You unzipped his jeans with a sharp tug, knuckles brushing the hard swell pressing against the fabric. Toby hissed through clenched teeth, head falling back, the veins in his throat standing out under the dim light. You smirked, tugging the thick fabric apart, and then slid your hand under his waistband, under the last barrier.

The heat of him hit you first—feverish and pulsing. You pulled him free, and your breath caught despite yourself.

Toby’s cock was flushed, angry red, the skin tight and stretched, a bead of slick shining at the tip. His breath came out in a stutter when the cool air touched him, his thighs trembling under your gaze. He was thick in your hand, twitching, the veins standing out like cords beneath your grip. His pubic hair was just as messy and unkempt as the rest of his hair, running up in a smattered patch to his belly button, coaxing your eyes to the mouthwatering crease of his v-line.

You let go of him, rubbing that hand between your legs, wetting your hand with your own slick. Toby’s teeth practically chattered as he thrummed, watching you.

And you didn’t give him mercy. Not even a second. You dragged the same hand you’d just rubbed against your soaked core up his shaft, coating him in your slick before your fist wrapped around him fully. Toby nearly folded in half, a broken noise tearing from his throat as his knees buckled.

“Fuck—” his voice cracked.

You stroked him hard. Fast. Cruel. Your hand pumped with purpose, each stroke wet, obscene, loud in the heavy silence. His cock twitched violently in your grip, swollen and desperate, precum smearing across your knuckles as you worked him like you were wringing every ounce of need out of his body.

Toby ripped his hoodie off like it was strangling him, yanking it over his head and tossing it blindly aside. His chest was pale, scarred in streaks that caught the dim light of your room, his stomach taut and flexing with every jerk of your hand. His hair clung wild to his forehead, his lips slick, swollen, parted in ragged gasps. He looked ruined—an animal panting, feigning for you.

And fuck, you hated him. You’d always hated him. Hated the way he laughed, the way he berated you, the way he made everything harder than it had to be. But now—seeing him above you, trembling, literally begging for the mercy of your hand—something deep and feral cracked open inside you.

You tightened your grip and stroked faster.

Toby’s whole body jerked. His hands shot forward instinctively, clamping around your wrist, not to stop you, but to slow you down. His face was wrecked, eyes glassy and pleading, mouth falling open around broken words. “Please—please slow d-down—fuck, I—” He groaned, panting above you, chest heaving with every groan. “You’re—you’re gonna make me—fuck—too fast—”

Your grip went iron-tight for a moment, jerking him so hard his hips jolted forward—then you stopped. Let go.

Toby gasped, his body shuddering as the sudden loss ripped through him. His cock bobbed helplessly in the air between you, slick and flushed, veins throbbing as if the blood inside him had nowhere else to go. His chest heaved, mouth open, eyes wide with disbelief.

You stared up at him, pure venom in your gaze, lips curling into a cruel little smile. “What did I say, Toby?”

His gaze shot down to where his hand still gripped yours.

“I told you not to touch me,” you hissed, shaking off his hand like it disgusted you. “But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? Can’t listen to anything.”

The mockery in your voice carved him open. He whined, stepping back an inch as if it physically stung, his cock twitching painfully in the air between you. Then, without warning, you sat up. Toby’s eyes darted down, confused, hopeful, but then widened when your hands went to the hem of your shirt. You peeled it off in one slow, deliberate motion, baring yourself, and tossed it carelessly aside.

His breath stuttered. He looked like you’d punched him in the gut. You leaned forward again, close enough that your breath fanned against his chest, eyes locked on his ruined face. You didn’t touch him. Not a single brush of your hand. You just sat back a little and watched. Watched as his hips twitched, as he tried to will himself not to reach for you again, as his cock leaked and throbbed helplessly, straining toward the heat of your body.

He writhed in it like it was killing him. His hands fisted at his sides so hard his knuckles cracked, his chest heaving with harsh, uneven gasps. His jaw clenched, a vein pulsing in his temple. The desperation turned sharp, ragged.

“F-Fuck you,” he spat, the words rough, guttural. “You—you fucking t-t-tease—you think you’re—gah-goddamn better than me?”

You tilted your head, smirking cruelly. “I don’t have to think it.”

His huff came out half a snarl, half a whimper. He shifted on his feet, cock jerking violently, his whole body tight with the strain of keeping his hands off you.

“Don’t—don’t fucking d-do this,” he begged through gritted teeth, but even his curses broke into something needy. “Goddamn bitch—you can’t—fuck—you can’t just stop—”

“Oh, I can,” you murmured sweetly, leaning back on your elbows so your chest arched and his eyes dropped helplessly. “I told you not to touch me. You broke the rules. Now you get nothing.”

He actually growled, low in his throat, head dropping forward as he cursed again. His words were broken, a tangle of hatred and begging, teeth grinding as though if he didn’t use them to form insults, he’d cry out something weaker. “Fuck you—fuck—you’re s-so goddamn—” He groaned, thighs trembling. “Please, please—I’m begging you—don’t l-leave me like this—I’ll d-do anything—you h-hear me?”

The sound of his voice like that—shattered, strung out, caught between curses and pleas—shot straight through you. It stirred something low and hungry in your gut, made your skin prickle with heat. You smirked lazily, stretching your legs a little wider, making sure he saw everything. “You hate me so much, Toby,” you taunted, voice low, sultry. “So why are you begging me like a dog?”

He stared at you, jaw twitching with irritation. You tilted your head at him, lips curling into something cruel. His chest was heaving, his cock red and leaking, his fists trembling at his sides, and you knew he was about to break.

You dragged the knife in deeper.

“Aww,” you cooed, sliding off the edge of the mattress and rolling over onto your stomach. You crawled forward a little, your hips swaying as you moved further up the bed. Toby’s eyes followed every inch, wide and wild, his whole body shaking like an animal straining against its leash.

Then you stopped, sank down onto your elbows, your chest pressing to the sheets. You arched your back so hard it burned, your ass high in the air, cunt fluttering in time with your heartbeat. You glanced back at him over your shoulder, your voice low.

“Then come here, puppy.”

The word cracked him in half.

Toby didn’t hesitate. He scrambled up onto the bed so fast it shook under his weight, knees digging into the mattress as his hands clamped down hard on your hips. His boots scuffed the sheets, twisting them under his knees as he pressed behind you. His grip was bruising, frantic, like he thought you might slip away if he didn’t anchor you. 

He slammed into you without hesitation, the force brutal and reckless. His cock drove deep, fast, urgent, and you gasped from the sharp, animalistic impact. He was panting, growling, releasing all the frustration, all the rage he’d been holding back, smashing into you like he’d intended on tearing you open.

“God—fuck!” he hissed, voice ragged, teeth clenched. “You—you’ve ruined me—stupid—fucking—”

You gritted your teeth, holding the bedspread tight, letting him feel your every shiver and thrum, every gasp and muffled cry. You pressed back against him just enough to meet each brutal thrust, riding his anger as much as he rode you. His hands clenched your hips tighter, dragging you back onto him with each slam. His motions were messy, desperate—no care for rhythm, only a need to fuck, to bury himself inside you, to release everything pent up in the past week. The bed creaked and groaned under the weight of you both, sheets twisting, skin slapping against skin.

“You—fuck—you f-feel so—God!” he cursed again, voice breaking. “So good—stupid b-bitch, you’re mine—”

“Yours?” you spat back, tone sharp and mocking. “You’re the one—hah—the one begging to fuck m-me—”

That stoked something further in him. His thrusts became harder, faster, reckless, as though trying to drive every ounce of need into you and make you feel his desperation. His growls turned to raw moans, voice trembling as he ground into you without restraint. One hand pressed against your back, the other gripping tight into the sheets beneath.

You could feel the stretch of him, hot and hard, sliding inside you in short, punishing jolts. Your stomach twisted, thighs pressed tight together, arching deeper with every slam, taking his animalistic pace.

The bed rocked under you, nails clawed into the sheets, every movement messy, filthy, primal. He was broken, panting, utterly at your mercy, and you turned your head to watch, smirking as he cursed and groaned, burying his face in your neck for support.

His lips found purchase, dragging wet, sloppy kisses along the sensitive skin there. A shiver ran through you, and a low, involuntary moan escaped your throat. Your hands shot up, tangling in his hair, yanking him closer to you, forcing his mouth against your skin as you pressed back against him, matching each thrust, each grind, each slick slide with your own desperate, hungry movements.

He groaned against you, teeth grazing your neck, and you bit back—literally—snapping your teeth down on his lower lip as he kissed you, mouth opening against yours in a collision of teeth and tongues. The kiss was violent, messy, consuming—an echo of the chaos that had always defined your dynamic. You shoved your body flush against him, hips rocking, back arching, dragging him as close as you could manage, fingers twisting in his hair like you were trying to tether him to you entirely.

“Fuck, I’m—” Toby rasped against your lips, breath rough, voice trembling. “I-I’m about to—shit, don’t stop—”

But you weren’t having it. Not yet. Not when you had the power, not when you could control him fully. With a sudden, deliberate push of your hips, you shoved him off of you, rolling the two of you until he landed on his back with a soft thump, sheets twisting beneath the force.

You straddled him immediately, knees planted on either side of his hips, pressing down with calculated weight. The shift of power was instant—Toby’s hands went to your hips instinctively, trying to find purchase, but you leaned back slightly, letting gravity work for you as you sank down onto him, his eyes watching as your cunt sheathed him.

“Mine,” you murmured, voice low, sharp, and all teeth and heat as you began to rock, rolling your hips forward and back with controlled, measured force. “This is mine from now on.” 

He gasped, gripping your thighs, still trying to reclaim some sense of command, but you moved faster, harder, hips pushing down and pulling back like a pendulum. Toby’s head fell back against the mattress, hair tousled, lips parted in ragged moans, eyes glazed and desperate. Every thrust from you hit him with a sharp, relentless rhythm that had him gasping, shivering under your control. His hands gripped your hips, nails digging into your skin, begging, pleading, but you were merciless. You refused to move up and down, only dragging your hips back and forth, catching your clit on the tone of his pelvis.

“You like this?” you spat, leaning forward, pressing your chest against his, teeth brushing along his collarbone. “You like being mine, don’t you? Finally listening.”

“Yes! Fuck—yes!” he rasped, voice breaking, hands clinging to you. “You’re—fuck—you’re killing me—god, I’m y-yours—please—”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a wild, consuming kiss, tongue slipping inside to tangle with his as your hips rolled again, faster now, driving him closer to the edge. 

“You whine too much, puppy.”

You leaned up slightly, pressing your palms flat against his chest, letting your fingers wander over the taut planes of his abs. The heat radiating from him was insane, skin burning, muscles tight under your touch. Slowly, you dragged your hands higher until your fingers latched onto the familiar groove of his throat—the place where all of this had started, where this little game had started between you.

Toby’s breath hitched immediately. His hands shot to your waist, fingers digging in, anchoring you as he thrust upward into your cunt. You gasped at the sharp, thrilling impact, the way his body forced yours down, bouncing you against him. He didn’t even hesitate—he wanted it, craved it, and he wasn’t holding back.

“Did you jerk off like this—hnngh—the first time I choked you? This fast?” you spat, voice low and sharp, watching his eyes begin to water.

“I—fuck—yes!” he rasped, tilting his head back, mouth open in ragged gasps. His hands slid higher, cupping your tits roughly, thumbs teasing, squeezing, forcing your movements to match his rhythm of jerking his hips up into you.

You grinned, biting down on your bottom lip as the chaos of it hit you. He was giving, he was taking, every motion messy, raw, and beautiful in its recklessness. You bounced down onto him, hard, each bounce of your hips shoving his cock deep, his hands clawing and forcing your body to meet his own.

“I hate you,” you hissed, brushing teeth over his collarbone, letting your grip tighten around his throat. “I hate you. I hate—hah—hate you. Fuck—don’t stop.”

Toby choked, face flushing against the grip on his neck, his breathing becoming labored. “Fu-Fuck—Fuck you bitch. Feels s-so—mmmnh—so good—” His hand reached around and slapped across your ass, grabbing the flesh in his palm and forcing your hips faster, forcing your pace to match his desperate thrusts.

You responded in kind, hitting his face with your palm once, twice, letting the sharp sting mix with the slick, hot heat between your bodies. He didn’t care. He couldn’t feel the pain, the slap, the rough hands on his chest, and it made him buck harder, moaning and growling in pure, unfiltered need. You slapped him again.

Toby’s growls turned sharp at that, low and dangerous, cutting through the thick, humid heat of the room. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, nails digging into your flesh as he thrust up against you. “You feel too fu-fucking good,” he spat, voice rough, teasingly cruel. “I’m gonna m-make you cum fi-first, bitch.”

“Oh, are you kidding?” you shot back, slamming down hard on him, hands wrapping tighter around his throat, eyes wild. “You’re gonna cum like the pathetic little pervert you are.”

His laugh was harsh, raw, vibrating against your hands. “You always h-have to—fuck—have to have a comeback—can’t j-just be quiet—”

You cut him off with another slap, your nail cutting his cheek where you hit him. A thin line of blood welled, and Toby stared at you through wide, frantic eyes. He grabbed harder, leaving dark purples across your hips and waist where his nails dug deep, tracing patterns only he could leave, marking you as his even as you marked him.

The room was chaos: skin slapping against skin, groans and curses tearing from both of you, bodies slick with sweat, hair wild and tangled, breaths ragged. Each thrust, each grind, each sharp slap or bite escalated the tension between you, a dangerous dance of dominance and pain and raw, primal need.

“C-Cum” he growled, tilting his hips, driving into you with bruising force, knocking the head of his cock against your cervix.

“Not before you,” you shot back, grinning fiercely, rolling your hips to match his pace, nails digging into the taut plane of his stomach as you leaned down to bite at his jaw, licking up his cheek to the spot you nicked him. Blood and sweat mixed, hot and sharp on your tongue, and it only pushed you both harder.

His hands dug into your thighs and waist, leaving angry red marks, dragging you down, forcing you to ride him with every ounce of strength and ferocity. You matched him blow for blow, bite for bite, scratch for scratch, until the two of you were a mess of raw, gleaming skin, bruises and blood painting the chaos of your struggle.

“I’m—fuck, Toby—fuck I’m coming—” you cried, digging your nails into his chest.

He whined, staring at the heavy way your eyes looked, his beginning to flutter shut. “Mhm—I c-can’t—hnn, I can’t stop—I’m gonna—”

Teeth sank, nails scraped, hips slammed, and finally the tension broke in a violent, shuddering peak. You both came together, voices strangled, wet, raw, bodies shaking, muscles trembling, bruised and marked and utterly wrecked. He snapped his hips one final time, and your cunt clenched against him so hard you felt the way he pulsed inside you. Every rope of hot cum filling you, claiming you. You milked every drop from him.

You collapsed against him, chest pressed to his, hearts pounding in furious synchrony. His breath came in ragged gasps, head tilted to the side, lips red, eyes glazed. You looked at him, smirk twisting across your lips even through the haze of post-climax heat.

“You’re disgusting,” you murmured, voice low, laced with satisfaction.

“And you’re worse,” he shot back, voice hoarse, smiling anyway despite the blood and mess.

For a moment, the fire between you softened just enough to let something else creep in. Your lips met his, sharp at first, teeth grazing, tasting the sweat and salt—but then, slower, gentler. The anger and frustration that had fueled you for the past two weeks melted, just for a second, into something almost tender. You kissed him, ignoring the slick heat still clinging to your thighs, the marks you’d left on each other, the bruises that would ache for days.

When you finally pulled back, your chest heaving, you allowed yourself a smirk, wet and satisfied. Slowly, achingly slow, you sat up, straddling him for one last lingering moment. He watched as your hips rose, his hands brushing your knees as you pulled him out, hissing at the tug before the final pop.

You felt the warmth slipping down your thighs immediately, his cum and your arousal making your cunt uncomfortably warm and sticky. You groaned.

“Fuck you,” you hissed, hitting his chest, Toby’s eyes nearly damn sparkling at the sight of his cum dripping out of you.. “You really are a damn dog.”

You collapsed onto the bed next to him, letting your arms fall across your chest. Your foot connected sharply with his side in a lazy, spiteful push. “Go away,” you muttered, tone sharp but breathless, still buzzing from the aftermath.

Toby groaned softly, but he didn’t move. Instead, he kicked his boots off with a quick, clumsy motion, then tugged the remnants of his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down, surprised how they had managed to still stay on at all. He tossed them onto your floor. His eyes flicked to yours—but there was no pleading, no frantic edge this time. 

Without a word, he crawled up next to you, chest brushing yours, arm draping loosely over your waist. You flinched slightly at the contact, the lingering warmth between you both still slick and potent, but the anger had faded into something heavy, intimate. Tense. The air was thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and the raw, unspoken agreement that had finally, messily, solidified between you.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. You could feel him, warm and pressed against your side, heartbeat rattling in sync with your own. Your hands twitched, itching to push him away or move out of his reach—but instead, you let the silence settle, letting his arm lay limp across your waist.

Toby shifted slightly beside you, his fingers rubbing against your skin absentmindedly, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You know,” he muttered, voice low and tired, “I re-really don’t like being c-called a dog.”

You arched an eyebrow, smirking, reaching for your pillows and placing one under your head. “Then maybe you shouldn’t beg me like one.”

He rolled his eyes, but his gaze stayed locked on yours, sharp and intense, and you felt a flutter in your stomach you hadn’t expected. “Stop staring at me like that,” you said quickly, voice catching slightly. “You’re being weird. Go back to your own room already befo—”

He cut you off with a soft chuckle, leaning a little closer. “Can I k-kiss you again?” His tone was cautious, different from the heated demands of earlier, almost vulnerable.

Your heart thumped, and you stared at him, eyes flicking between his and his mouth, searching for something you couldn’t quite name. The air between you thickened, tense and electric.

Finally, you shook your head slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. “I hate you, Toby. That’s not going to change,” you said, flat but not cruel, voice almost a whisper.

Toby’s smile widened, slow and knowing, as if he’d been waiting for that. “Then hate me,” he murmured softly, leaning in.

And then he kissed you. Not hot, not frantic, not messy and angry like before—just a kiss. Soft, slow, a quiet brush of lips, a grounding anchor in the aftermath of a hurricane. It was a moment of connection, a fleeting affirmation that despite the violence, the teasing, and the mess of the past weeks, there was… something between you. Affection, of a sort neither of you had admitted until now. A weird type of longing.

When you pulled back, your foreheads brushed together for a second, eyes flicking to one another with something like understanding. No words were needed—just the weight of what had passed, and the subtle promise that, messy and complicated as it was, this was far from over.

But then you palmed his face, pushing his head away from you with a grin. He smiled against your hand, kissing it, too. His arm around your hip pulled you closer, and if you leaned into it, that’s nobody’s business but your own.

── .✦

The mission site was scattered with debris, slick blood, and the lingering metallic tang that you knew you’d have to clean up. The proxies moved efficiently, hauling bodies, wiping down surfaces, and gathering evidence, but you and Toby, as usual, couldn’t go five minutes without trading insults.

“God, you’re useless at this,” you snapped, throwing a wet rag at him that stunk of bleach and vinegar.

“I’m sorry Ms. Fucking Perfect, d-do it your damn self,” he shot back, voice sharp. You both glared at each other, daring the other to keep going.

Masky groaned behind you, rubbing his temples. “Are we still on about this? Just clean the goddamn blood.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stood and grabbed Toby by the arm mid-retort and yanked him up, dragging him with you. Masky shouted something, but you were already climbing the stairs and dragging him to the first storage closet you saw. His eyes widened in surprise, but before he could react further, you shoved the door closed behind him.

He barely had a moment to process before his hands were on you, lips crashing against yours in a fast, rough kiss. His tongue darted in, claiming, and your hands tangled up into his hair as he slid one hand down the front of your pants, fingers immediately finding their mark and pressing against your aching clit.

You gasped into the kiss, teeth clashing against his in a way that was half challenge, half need. His other hand clutched at your waist, pulling you flush against him, and for a moment, the chaos of the mission, the others, the world outside that small, cramped closet, ceased to exist.

And in that moment, you realized just how much had shifted between the two of you.

The bickering, the arguing, the constant pushing each other’s buttons—it was all still there. You still drove him insane, and he still managed to get under your skin in ways no one else could. But instead of letting it spill over, instead of making everyone else deal with the fallout, you’d found a… solution.

You snuck off during missions, hearts racing, to bite, lick, and fuck the tension out of each other. After dinner, when the others were distracted, one of you would find the other and drag them to some quiet area of the mansion and use their hands on the other, letting the frustration and irritation turn into heat that left you both gasping and sticky. At night, sneaking into each other’s rooms to whisper insults, spurring the other on just so they’d grab you and fuck you through the mattress. During missions, your trips taking longer because you’d have to stop and fight over who was going to give the other head first.

It was messy. It was reckless. It was everything the two of you had always been—and now, for the first time, it was satisfying. The anger became fuel, the hate became lust, and the fights that had once been a thorn in everyone else’s side became an intimate, electric game of control, dominance, and pure, unfiltered need.

And even as you found yourself pressed against him in this closet, hands gripping, hips sliding together, teeth clashing, gasps mingling with curses, you couldn’t help but smile.

Eventually, the door clicked open, and you both staggered out, breath still ragged, hands sticky, hair wild, but the world had resumed its usual pace. Toby followed a step behind, straightening his hoodie, adjusting his belt, hands now conspicuously idle. You fixed your hair, wiping the slick from your lips, tugging your shirt back down.

Without a word, the two of you fell back into your roles, hauling gear, wiping surfaces, and cleaning up the aftermath like the chaos of a few minutes ago had never existed. You moved in tandem with him only because necessity demanded it, but there was a subtle electricity in the air, just enough that you both noticed—but neither spoke of it.

Masky and Hoodie exchanged a look across the room, each raising an eyebrow. Hoodie whispered something inaudible, and Masky shook his head, muttering, “I don’t care. They’re quiet.” They were confused, but grateful that the usual bickering had been replaced by quiet efficiency. They didn’t care how it got to that point.

Kate leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a knowing look in her eyes. She watched as you and Toby moved through the cleanup with the barest hint of coordination, eyes occasionally flicking toward each other in a way that suggested familiarity… maybe even fondness, if one squinted.

Sliding closer to you as you scrubbed a particularly messy patch of floor, she whispered, teasing, “What’s changed? I didn’t know you started liking him.”

You froze mid-swipe, wiping at the surface with one hand, and let your gaze drift lazily toward Toby. He was kneeling a few feet away, straightening a chair, annoyed and fidgeting as usual, completely oblivious to Kate’s question.

A slow, amused smirk curved your lips. “Nah,” you said, voice light as you stared at him. “I hate that boy.”

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[se7entyrell]

another man's jeans masterlist

a frank langdon exes to roommates to lovers fic

this fic is COMPLETED.

It's been a long ten months for Frank Langdon. Rehab, endless meetings to prove he's fit for his job, and losing you.

It's his own fault. He knows that. He couldn't handle the pressure of his entire life going to shit, and combusted, destroying your life in the process. If things had gone to plan, the two of you would've been married by now. Instead, you're near strangers, and Frank doesn't know how long he can watch you date a guy that absolutely doesn't deserve you.

Until you turn up on his doorstep, with nowhere else to go after being kicked out by your ex.

And so, Frank Langdon's second chance begins.

warnings: 18+, mdni! this fic will feature medical gore, a little bit of violence, and explicit sex. more detailed warnings on each chapter individually

prologue

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

[delavegaaaaa]

“You can’t fix him” I don’t wanna fix him! I wanna FUCK him! I’m a pervert not a psychologist!

[byersbootyshorts]

Hot Mess - S.H.

Summary: Steve's Scoops Ahoy uniform has really affected his self esteem. Add that to the list of girls who don't want him and ex-friends who bully him and you get yourself a man who really needs to be shown some love.

Word Count: 3,280

Content: smut 18+, insecure!sub!Steve, Scoops Ahoy!Steve, afab!dom!reader, handjob, p in v, unprotected sex, praise, mirror sex, self esteem issues, bullying, swearing, set during s3

A/N: I wrote this like two years ago but I realised I’ve never posted it here so please do enjoy. Scoops Ahoy Steve you will forever be missed.

It was just after four when you entered the bright, neon lit mall. Walking home from work with Steve had become a tradition for the two of you since his summer job began. You worked in the grocery store down the street and, since you two were neighbours, you waited around so you could walk home with him. Steve’s shift ended at five but you had a few stores you needed to go to before you went to meet him. First, you went to the Gap to return a shirt that didn’t fit, then you picked up two pastries from the bakery. One for you and one for Steve (although Steve usually ended up eating yours too. Oh well, what did you care? He gave you free ice cream). At 4:50 you approached Scoops Ahoy. Despite it being so close to closing time the place was still bustling. Before you even spotted Steve, Robin caught your eye cleaning a table in the corner of the store. She waved you over.

“Hey,” you said as you walked over. “What is going on in here today?”

Robin pointed at a sign on the window that read BUY ONE CONE, GET THE NEXT ONE FREE. “You give the people free ice cream and they come in hoards.”

Robin made small talk with you as she finished cleaning the table and you looked towards the counter. There Steve stood, a frantic look on his face as he served the never ending line of customers. Robin followed your gaze.

“This has not been a good day for Dingus,” she commented. “On a good day his flirting is subpar, but his stressed flirting is so much worse.”

“Yeah, and you’re really helping him, aren’t you?” you replied, shaking your head at Robin as she stood there idly holding a tray of dirty dishes.

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Robin quickly remarked before rushing behind the counter to help Steve.

After a few minutes the crowd had dwindled and Steve was finally able to look up from the plethora of ice cream below him. He waved tiredly at you and you gave him a sympathetic smile and held up the bag of pastries. The sight of them seemed to give him some energy.

When the last customer had been served Steve ran into the back to change out of his sailor uniform. You decided to start nibbling on your pastry. Better to eat it now when Steve wasn’t looming over you with his little puppy dog eyes, begging for a bite.

But you had only taken two bites when Steve reappeared, still dressed in red, white and blue.

“Robin, where’s my bag?” he asked, a worried expression on his face.

“I don’t know. I didn’t touch it.” Robin said uncaringly.

“Well, it’s not in there,” he retorted.

“Let’s have a look,” you said, tucking your pastry back in the bag.

You went through the door behind the counter and searched for the bag. The small bag room was lined with coat hooks and benches, kind of like a school locker room, you thought. But Steve was right. There was no bag. It was gone.

“What am I gonna do?” Steve whined.

“What was in the bag?” you asked.

“Just my clothes and my wallet. But there was only like five dollars in it so it’s not a big deal,” he sighed.

“Wait, mine’s not here either,” Robin declared.

“How did they even go missing. I thought no one was allowed back here,” you wondered.

Steve and Robin stood in thought for a moment before Robin whispered, “Oh, God.”

“What?” Steve said sharply.

“Remember earlier when you were out the back getting more cones?” Robin began.

“Yeah…”

“Well, there was no one at the counter and I really had to pee so I ran to the bathroom…” she trailed off.

“And?” Steve pushed.

“And I may or may not have accidently left the keys to that door on the counter.”

“Oh my God, Robin,” Steve put his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Robin pleaded. “When I got back they were in the same place I left them so I assumed no one had touched them.”

Steve sank down on one of the benches.

“Hey, its ok,” you said, trying to keep them both calm. “It’s not like someone stole money from the register. It was an honest mistake.” You smiled at Robin. “Now let’s go home, Sailor,” you said, pulling Steve up.

“No, I can’t walk home dressed like this,” he complained.

“Well, you’re going to have to,” you said bluntly.

Steve let out an overdramatic sigh before walking out of the room.

When Steve and Robin had the store locked up, you walked to the entrance of Starcourt where you parted ways with Robin and began the walk home with Steve. He looked around self-consciously, wrapping his arms around his body as if it would make him invisible.

“Steve, stop that. No one’s going to care,” you said.

“Yeah, well, I care,” he replied.

You wanted to try to distract him so you started asking him about his day. It did not help.

“It was awful,” he began. “Why can I not get girls anymore? When I was in high school I could’ve had anyone I wanted.”

“Yeah but when you were in high school you were an asshole,” you reminded him. “And besides, most of the girls you flirt with are probably bitches.”

You opened the bag of pastries and offered him one. He took it eagerly.

“Yeah, I guess,” he mumbled, spitting crumbs on the sidewalk. “It has to be this stupid uniform,” he continued. “How come you get to wear whatever you want to work and I have to wear this Halloween costume.”

“Because I don’t work at Scoops Ahoy. The best ice cream in all of Hawkins, matey,” you laughed, putting on a fake pirate accent.

The corner of Steve’s mouth turned up slightly. However, as if on cue, a loud, obnoxious truck rounded the corner. As it neared closer to you it began to slow down. You heard wolf whistles as the front window rolled down.

“Wow, Steve, you have never looked better,” Tommy yelled out the window.

“Yeah, I bet Nancy’s sorry she let you go,” another one of Steve’s old friends joked.

You grabbed Steve’s arm and started walking faster, mumbling at him to ignore them.

“Aww, Stevey Weevey needs a girl to save him,” Tommy jeered. “Go on and run home to mommy, you big pussy!”

And with that the truck let out a mighty rev, picking up speed. You held up your middle finger towards the truck as it sped away.

You walked in silence for a minute, unsure of what to say.

“You okay?” you finally asked.

“Yeah, I’m peachy,” Steve said sarcastically. “I’ve never been better. I’ve got a dead end job, no girlfriend, no money, my parents don’t give a shit about me and I’m dressed like a fucking sailor. So, of course, Y/N, I’m okay!”

“Steve, stop putting yourself down,” you said as you neared Steve’s house. “This is only a summer job. And those girls you flirt with are crazy. Who wouldn’t want you when you’re dressed like that.”

“Well, today at least five different girls almost choked trying not to laugh in my face, so obviously a lot of people don’t want me,” Steve spat, reaching into his pocket for his keys.

“Yes they do!” you reassured him.

“Who? Please, if you’re so sure that people want me, please enlighten me as to who those people may be.”

Steve fumbled with the keys in the lock of his front door. By the time he finally opened it you still hadn’t said anything.

“See, you can’t even think of anyo-,”

“Me!” you shouted, a little too loudly.

Steve looked at you, a baffled expression on his face. “What?” he asked.

“Me,” you sighed. “I want you. I don’t understand how no one else does.”

Steve froze in the doorway and you immediately regretted saying anything.

After a few seconds he said, “Are you serious?”

“Yes, Steve,” you sighed, exasperated. “Is it really that hard to believe that someone likes you?”

Steve shrugged and couldn’t quite meet your gaze.

“Come with me,” you ordered, grabbing his hand and pulling him into his house. You quickly climbed the stairs and headed straight for his bedroom. Planting him in front of the floor length mirror you said, “Look at yourself. Do you not realise how attractive you are?”

“Not with this stupid hat on,” Steve replied, his cheeks blushing red.

“Then gimme.” You whipped the hat off his head and placed it on your own. “Now I’m the stupid one wearing the hat.”

“You don’t look stupid,” Steve said quietly.

“And neither do you,” you said, annoyed at his lack of confidence. “My God, Steve, that’s what I’m trying to show you. The only people who think you look stupid are assholes who you’re not even friends with, and yourself.”

“You don’t think I look stupid?” Steve asked shyly.

“I actually think you look adorable,” you smiled.

Steve turned back towards the mirror and surveyed himself for a moment. “I guess… if you’re into… sailors.”

“Well, just one sailor in particular,” you smirked, placing your hand on Steve’s arm. He turned to face you so there was only inches between your lips.

Steve exhaled a shaky breath before you closed the gap between the two of you. Immediately your hands found his hair and you ran your hands through the brown strands.

After a moment Steve pulled away, his cheeks flushed.

“I guess now would be a good time to tell you that I like you too,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I gathered that,” you replied.

“I just didn’t think you liked me. I mean, I’m-.”

“No, don’t you dare start that again,” you interjected. “You are so pretty and funny and, I know it’s stupid, but every time I see you dressed like that all I want to do is rip those little shorts off you,” you rambled without thinking.

“Do it then,” Steve mumbled.

You raised your brow at him, unsure if he was serious.

“Do it,” he repeated before kissing you again. The sailor hat that you forgot was on your head slipped back and Steve tossed it on the ground before running his hands through your hair.

Your heart rate increased as Steve breathed into your mouth. Your tongues were intertwining before you remembered Steve’s request.

Your hands, which had somehow found their way inside the back of Steve’s shirt, now moved to the front of his shorts and you unbuttoned them hastily. Your breath caught in your throat and you pulled away from the kiss as your hand rubbed up against the bulge in Steve’s underwear.

“Hello, Sailor,” you smirked.

Steve blushed and began pulling you towards his bed.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you said, not moving from your position. “We’re gonna do it right here.”

Steve looked at you like a lost puppy. “What? You mean…”

“I mean, we’re gonna have sex right here in front of this mirror so you can see how pretty you look when you’re fucked out,” you explained bluntly.

Steve gulped nervously so you placed your hand on his cheek and whispered, “You’re so beautiful.”

You practically felt Steve’s dick twitch in his boxers at the praise you’d given him.

“Ok, take off your shirt,” you instructed, beginning to take off your own. By the time Steve had pulled the blue sailor shirt over his head you had already removed your shirt and pants.

“You wanna take your underwear off for me?” you asked as Steve gawked at you. He nodded and, not taking his eyes off your body, pulled down his boxers, leaving him fully naked in front of you.

“Now, turn around,” you said, grabbing him by the shoulders and moving him so he faced the mirror.

You could tell he wasn’t looking at himself, his eyes transfixed on the corner of the mirror.

“Steve, look,” you ordered, not moving from behind him. “Look at yourself and tell me why you think no one wants you.”

Steve’s eyes slowly scanned his body in the mirror. He frowned at a bruise on his stomach. He’d sustained it when Billy had beat him up and it never quite healed. You reached around and lightly ran your fingers over it. Steve’s stomach tensed as your delicate touch sent shivers through him.

“I think it makes you look badass,” you whispered in his ear.

A small smile grew across Steve’s lips.

“Anything else?” you asked.

Steve stayed silent, his eyes continuing to examine his body. After a few moments he still hadn’t said anything.

“There is nothing wrong with you, Steve,” you said. “Even you can’t find anything wrong with you.”

Steve looked into the reflection of your eyes in the mirror, a tense look on his face.

“Now, tell me you think you’re pretty,” you said, moving your hand from where it was resting on his stomach down to stroke his dick with one finger.

Steve let out a desperate sigh but didn’t say a word.

Again, you ran your finger along his erect cock, just once, painfully slowly.

“Come on, Steve, I’m not going any further until you tell me you’re pretty.”

Steve gave you a pleading look. It hurt you that he couldn’t even bring himself to say the words.

You brought your lips right up to his ear, your heavy breath blowing his hair.

“Tell me,” you whispered, placing a kiss on his neck.

“I’m pretty.” His mumble was barely audible.

“What was that?” you asked, hovering your hand over his dick in anticipation.

“I’m pretty,” he said, louder than last time but lacking the enthusiasm you were looking for.

“Come on, Steve,” you urged, your hand wrapping around the base of his dick, your other caught in his hair.

“I’m pretty!” Steve practically moaned as he thrust his hips in your hand.

“That’s a good boy,” you praised, beginning to move your hand along his dick.

Steve let out a high pitched whine and exhaled hard. You continued kissing his neck from behind, causing his head to roll back. You pulled away and noticed his eyes were closed.

“Now, now, Steve,” you tutted. “Open your eyes. You need to see how beautiful you look when I fuck you,” you said.

Steve couldn’t help but jut his hips harder into your hand. His eyes were filled with desperation when he opened them again.

“See, you’re gorgeous,” you said, tugging on his hair lightly.

“Mmh” Steve hummed, his dick jerking, precum seeping from the tip.

Then, his mouth fell open, a quiet whimper escaping his lips.

You could tell he was about to finish. But you weren’t giving in that easily. You pulled your hand away from his dick. Steve gave you a pleading look in the mirror. He was about to speak but you interrupted him by kissing him roughly. You removed your underwear with one hand and pulled Steve down onto the floor. You got on top of him, hovering just above his dick, which was throbbing from the loss of contact.

“Please,” Steve begged, gripping your thighs and giving you an aching look.

“No, don’t look at me,” you reminded him, and turned his head to the side so he was once again facing the mirror. “I want you to see the look on your face.”

Steve moaned loudly as you lowered yourself onto his dick, but he didn’t look away. He kept staring at his own reflection.

“Good boy,” you said, beginning to grind slowly up and down. Then you turned his head back around to face you. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” you asked.

Steve nodded his head. “Yes it was,” he said breathily. “You have no idea how badly I wanted to be looking at you instead.”

“Well, as a reward, I’ll allow you to do that for a while.”

Steve let out quiet whimpers in time with your grinding. But he didn’t take his eyes off you. He didn’t close his eyes or roll his head back. His gaze was fixed on your every move. He was in awe of you. And you were going to take advantage of that.

Your hand was still covered in his precum so you began to slowly lick it off, smearing it around your mouth. Steve’s eyes looked as though they’d glazed over.

“You like that?” you asked.

“Yeah,” Steve sighed.

You slowed your movements and leaned down, kissing Steve messily. The precum on your face transferred onto his and the taste of it mixed in your mouths. You pulled away and wiped the remainder of it from your face with your thumb.

Steve stared at you in shock. He couldn’t even articulate words anymore.

When you were sat upright again you picked up your pace, bouncing harder up and down, taking in every inch of his dick.

Steve’s fingers clawed at your thighs, his nails leaving half-moons where they dug into your skin. You noticed his eyes lingering on you covered chest so you asked, “You want me to take it off?”

Steve’s only response was a breathy whine so you took that as a yes. You unclasped your bra and slipped it off. Immediately Steve’s hands shifted from their position on your thighs. He slid them up either side of your abdomen but paused just under your chest. Your tits bounced as you rode him faster. Steve stared at them in a daze before moving his hands up further, squeezing your tits gently.

The noises that were coming from Steve’s mouth were non-stop now. And he was getting louder with every thrust of your hips.

“Ok, that’s enough of me,” you said, turning his head towards the mirror again. Steve whined, annoyedly.

“Please,” he whispered. “You’re so-,”

“Ah, ah,” you interrupted, grinding harder than before as you felt a heat arise in your crotch. “You’re supposed to be saying that sort of stuff to yourself, not me.”

But Steve wasn’t listening to a word you were saying anymore. You couldn’t stop him from rolling his eyes back in pleasure.

“Fuu…” he whined as the heat within you spread. You felt a sensation between your legs as Steve let go.

You rode him until his moans started to recede. His hands fell on his stomach and he tried to catch his breath. His eyes fluttered open and he looked at your reflection first, saying nothing as he took in the image of you on top of him.

And then Steve looked at himself properly for the first time. His mouth, smothered with his own cum. His hair, sticking up in all directions on his sweaty head. His neck, bruised from your kisses.

“Oh my God, I’m a mess,” he breathed.

“No, Steve, you look-,”

“I look hot,” Steve said unexpectedly. He chuckled at the look of shock on your face.

“I’m a hot mess,” he smiled.

You leaned down and kissed him again, overcome with pride that he’d finally said something nice about himself. You could feel the smile on his lips as he kissed you back.

“Now do you see that all the girls that don’t want you are just insane?” you asked, moving a strand of hair out of his eye.

“It doesn’t matter what they think anymore,” Steve replied. “There’s only one girl I want. And I think she wants me too.”

“Yeah, I think she does,” you giggled, kissing him again, happy he could finally see what you saw in him.

That he was a hot mess.

If you enjoyed this please leave a request here <3

[pinkolve]

How do u feel knowing that some people be flickin they bean to ur writing??

(I am some people...)

I’m gonna be so honest with you, that’s the main goal here. I pray that my fics are good enough to jerk off to, fr. When I post smut, I always post it with the intention of helping my readers jork it!! (I flick my bean to my own writing sometimes, I’m gonna be real with you…) ANYWAYS, happy flicking!! 💅💅😛😛✊💖

[h3ll0kitty-6988]

Queen behavior

[coquettepascal]

loveable

part iv of my your roommate clark series

summary: clark has a lot of explaining to do. he only does a little.

tags: fluff, roommate!clark, established friendship, f!reader, clark is older than reader (non-specific,) reader doesn't know clark is superman, slight angst, lots of feelings, seriously tooth rotting sweetness, loverboy!clark, commitment issues, no use of y/n

a/n: short chapter no smut we die like men.

wc: 1900 (on the dot!!)

my masterlist - my askbox

Metropolis does not stop when Clark disappears on you. The world keeps moving, and it doesn’t wait for you either. 

A week has gone by and you’ve just had to keep moving. The first few times you came home from work you held your breath and prayed he’d be behind the door, waiting with his arms open and telling you why he was gone and what he meant by what he said. But he’s never there. 

You’re not giving up on him coming back obviously. He’s probably fine, but it’s just a weird disappearance. Leaving a note but not taking anything with him? No phone to call and no glasses to see. It isn’t like him, but he wasn’t kidnapped. He said he’ll be back and you’re trying to trust that. Even if it’s driving you crazy.

—

The job you have right now is not the job you want. Clark is very lucky that he gets to roll out of bed and hustle off to his lovely job with lovely people. You are not so lucky. 

You do have a degree, it’s just that the job market doesn’t really care whether you do or not right now. It’s sucky, but it’s just for now. You work at a frozen yogurt bar, which means free frozen yogurt! But it also means that the autumn and winter months are slower than the summer months. There aren’t any cute kids coming around and begging for sprinkles on top of their million other candies, and there are no old ladies coming in with their friends to be “bad” for the day. It’s usually weird people. Frankly if you didn’t work at Froyoo-hoo! you wouldn’t even think about frozen yogurt once October hit. 

So it’s been slow. And you’ve been stressed.

Whatever. Clean the machinery, make sure things are refrigerated, check the temperatures, do your duties, watch the time pass, think of Clark– no don’t do that. Stop thinking about Clark, he's fine and you’re fine too. He wouldn’t want you to worry. Your anxiety about him fluctuates hourly though. Sometimes you know he’s fine and you’re rational, other times you’re terrified he’s been dead in a ditch for days, and occasionally you let yourself ponder the implications of his note.

“Love you.” Like it was nothing at all to him. No “I” in front of it to make it the first official “I love you,” but instead casually tacked on to the end of a note as if he’d already said it to himself a hundred times. He probably has and he definitely means it. You’re only stumped on how he means it. Romantically? Platonically? Does it really matter? The two of you are fucking around and you don’t usually do “I love you” when you’re fucking around with someone. 

The jingle of the bell on the door interrupts your spiral of thoughts, jolting you back to your service-worker-smile that makes your cheeks feel like wax. 

“Hi there,” you chirp as brightly as you can, “what can I get for yoo-hoo today?”

It’s like a humiliation ritual. Had you gone to this place before getting a job here you’d definitely not apply because what the hell was corporate thinking making their employees greet everyone like that? The couple that just walked in look at you like you’re crazy. You keep smiling. 

And keep smiling, and keep smiling, until it’s finally the last 10 minutes of your shift. A frozen yogurt place being open until 10pm in December is actually stupid. Closing duties are not your job tonight, thank god, but your bum of a manager jangles the keys at you from his office. 

“Can you lock it for me? I’m uh.. Doin’ emails.” 

He is not doing emails. When you grab the keys from him you can faintly hear the video he’s playing off his computer. Typical. He’ll probably do a shitty close and you’ll have to fix it when you clock in tomorrow morning but that really doesn’t matter to you right now because you just want to get home.

You use your hip to bump open the door from the back room, just in time to hear that godforsaken jingle. What idiot is coming in here at 9:58pm when you guys close at 10? You don’t even look up, it isn’t worth it. 

“Sorry but we’re closed for the evening,” you say, hoping the person gets the hint and leaves. Your dumbass manager keeps all the keys, which look identical, on the same lanyard, and you’re picking through them instead of looking at the person. 

“Not really here for that,” they reply. 

It has been like a week since you’ve heard his voice. You hadn’t forgotten it, but you weren’t expecting it either. When it finally registers in your anxiety riddled mind, you freeze in disbelief. 

Clark’s never even been to your work before, but there he is. He looks normal, and he must have gone home and grabbed his glasses and gotten changed. He’s wearing his winter coat that’s faded from all the years of use, the once dark blue melting into a deep green. The jacket is unzipped and you can see that he’s just wearing an old tee that you’ve definitely slept in before.

Your feet are moving before the keys you dropped even hit the floor. 

“Oh my god,” you say right before finding your place back between his arms. “Oh my god, oh my god, don’t do that ever again,” you muffle into his chest. 

Deprivation is a bitch and you did not realize how deprived you were of Clark until now. It suddenly does not matter that your manager is literally in the backroom right now and could walk out at any minute to see you rubbing your face against this “customer’s” chest. He’s so soft, his shirt, his chest, his voice as he says “I’m sorry,” over and over. Clark’s hand is rubbing circles on the lower part of your back, blocked by the stupid apron you have to wear. You’re still nuzzling him like a stray cat at a fisherman’s feet when he starts explaining. 

“I didn’t think I’d be long, but I also can’t really explain,” he says. 

Who effing cares? Not you right now, not when he’s back and he’s safe and he’s sweet and he’s here, here, here. Your arms fall from being around him and instead snake through the open front of his jacket so you can wrap your arms around him beneath it. It’s like you can’t get close enough. 

“Doesn’t matter,” you decide. “Just glad you’re okay.”

His chest fills with air, pushing into your cheek as you hold on to him, and you can hear his heart beating. Clark sighs in relief as he squeezes you once more. 

“Are you off now?” he asks. You nod, pulling back a little now since you’re calming down, but his hands catch yours before they fall to your side. 

“Then let’s get home.” 

—

You’re right back where you were just over a week ago. 

The two of you are basically doing skin-to-skin. Not quite naked, not quite dressed. You’re in your pajama shirt, but no pants, and Clark is just in his boxers. He sleeps warm anyways so it’s beneficial for both of you. His chest rises and falls against your back as he tries to pull you closer again, just as needy as before he left (if not more.)

His disappearance feels less important now that he’s back and alive. Your anxiety about that has been soothed. But the way that he explained his absence, saying that he didn’t think he would be long but also that he can’t talk about it. It’s discomforting at the least. Clark feels like someone you know through and through because he’s so openly loving, but sometimes it feels like you only know half of him.

“You found the note, right?” He asks. 

The pace of your heart hikes up immediately. You didn’t really want to bring it up first, but figured that you’d have to eventually. Confronting Clark with anything is always embarrassing for you anyways. Feelings are harder than fucking around for some stupid reason, even though they clearly come easily to him. 

You decide to reply in a very chill way so as not to alarm him or give away how you feel about the note. 

“Mhm,” you say non-chalantly as your heart pounds in your chest and probably into his arm that’s wrapped around you. 

You don’t say anything more than that. Even though he leaves space for you to use your voice and it feels awkward, you don’t elaborate. Every time you’re near him you’re only reminded of how much you need to sort your feelings for him out. By no means are you wanting to complicate things more than this because it’s so fun. Whatever the two of you are is so fun and feels so right, like you’re in a sweet spot together. You don’t want to risk it.

Clark shifts so his face is half buried in the pillow. You can’t see it, but that’s how he always sleeps. When you aren’t in his bed he ends up sleeping on his belly like a splooted out cat. His arm loosens a little around you as he relaxes. 

“Good,” he says gently, “cause I mean it.”

Nausea grips you. You can’t spend much longer anxious and in the dark about how he’s feeling. 

“Like as a friend?” 

This is not a fair question, and potentially a very hurtful one. You still don’t know what your feelings are and yet here you are questioning him. 

Clark doesn’t flinch or push you away or tell you to get out of his bed. He’s perfectly still, just as comfortable as he was before you asked that question. 

“Like as everything. I love all of you.” Clark says. He manages to turn his head enough that he can kiss the back of your head clumsily. “Like I love you as a person. I look forward to every moment I have with you.” 

So it was not love placed in one of the two very rigid categories you had made up in your head. Clark wasn’t confessing his love or being completely platonic, he was just letting you know. Genuinely just telling you that he loves you. It’s a love as true and kind as he is, lingering between the space of friend and lover. There isn’t a silent expectation in his voice, Clark isn’t looking for anything in specific except to be near to you. 

It’s wholly comforting. A pleasant feeling thrums through your body as you let the words he’s spoken simmer in your brain. He sees you as a person first, before the attraction and the sex. He looks forward to every moment. That being the definition of love is so soothing and something you can adapt to. So you say it back.

“Then I love you too.” 

You can tell that he’s smiling, can feel it against the back of your head where his mouth hasn’t really moved since he kissed you there earlier. It feels good to say it, even if those words are scary. Love has a different definition with Clark and it’s something you can have without risking loss or committing to anything entirely serious. You’re just two people that love one another.

-<3-

thank you for reading ! please leave your thoughts in the replies or tags of your reblog, or leave them anonymously in my askbox !! want notifs? follow @coquettepascal-updates with notifs on so you know when i post fics!

[strangelure]

If i don’t pin jonathan down and ride him to overstimulation i think I’ll go insane

fuck!! this made me insane, you fucking get it. i want him crying and helpless!!!!! as always lmk if you like, comments and reblogs are super appreciated xoxo <3

needy, high, almost crazed

jonathan byers x reader cw: overstimulation, SMUT. content is 18+ MINORS DNI

His whimpers are too pretty, his voice too shattered. You can't stop even if you tried at this point.

Specially not when it's Jonathan, your infuriatingly selfless boyfriend who always gives and gives and never so much as thinks about taking.

But now- you have his hands locked beneath yours on each side of his head, trapped, riding him well and far beyond his release.

"Jesus- baby, f- fuck!" his voice is shaky and airy against your mouth, watery eyes fighting to stay open so he can look at you with a mildly panicked yet still scorching stare.

Jonathan seeks out your lips with his so he can try and stifle all the sweet and pathetic noises that are uncontrollably escaping from his throat in response to your relentless rhythm.

You don't give him the grace of that kiss.

You're too in love with how he's losing control of his reactions, too entranced with how his entire body shakes, how his hair is sticking to his forehead, his brows furrowing with the effort it takes to process the almost painful pleasure you're mercilessly giving him.

You keep yourself half upright.

You need to see how his mouth goes slack with a silent cry when you speed up and show no sign of letting up any time soon. And you wont. Not until he spills inside once more.

"You're so pretty- so so good- you feel so good Jonathan-" you babble, tone needy and high, almost crazed. They are thoughts you hadn't meant to voice out loud.

It's all the same to Jonathan though, who hears the praise and it immediately makes him choke on a whine.

His eyes scrunch shut, his head drops backwards, giving you a full view of his neck, like he's trying to escape your attention and your words.

Jonathan absolutely loves it when you compliment (in every context), but in that moment, when hes overstimulated far beyond belief, its too much for him.

"Don't! not- not right now- I can't take it-" His voice is pained, like hes trying to regain his breath from a hard punch to his stomach.

"But you are-" You smile, eyes rolling to the back of your head, the red hot pleasure he's giving you makes you evil. "You're so good, you're gonna make me cum again baby-" you whine, and its the truth. He will.

But- thats all it takes for him.

Jonathan twitches and writhes beneath you, his back arches off the bed.

He spills inside, so much of it, for the second time. He does it before you do. He cums before you get to make eye contact with his pretty and teary brown eyes again.

It's why you don't stop moving on top of him.

As happy as it makes you that he was selfish for once, you're already too riled up to not chase after your second release too.

And well- Jonathans nearly sobbing by then.

[h3ll0kitty-6988]

I need him BAD

[ast4tarion]

todays unhinged thought: dry humping. making a boy cum his pants from your grinding alone. Maybe he’s inexperienced or just very sensitive, maybe it’s his first time, but you’ve got that pretty bulge in his pants trapped right up against your hips when you sit in his lap facing him. Maybe it started off as just innocent kissing, but you brushed up against his bulge trying to readjust your position and suddenly he’s grabbing you and pulling you close enough to grind on it. You’re humping messy, no coordination as the two of you desperately stroke and grind and bump against each other. You feel his cock twitching from inside his pants, begging to be jacked off and get some proper release. You’re just teasing him, figuring rubbing fabric will just get him riled up, that’s it. His grasp on your hips gets tighter and tighter and his little whines and moans slip faster and faster into your mouth when you kiss and suddenly he very abruptly stops. He lets out a low whine and his entire face is flushed bright red and it takes you a couple seconds to put together what happened until you see the dark patch forming on the front of his pants. He came a fat sticky load in his boxers from just you grinding on him alone. You coo at him, teasing him as he hides his face in embarrassment. The best part is when you unzip his pants and pull him out of his boxers he’s still rock hard and covered in his own sticky seed, even more sensitive to each and every one of your touches.

[h3ll0kitty-6988]

I need this bad 😔

[ohwowimlonley]

DAY FOUR

Johnathan Byers + mommy kink

[warnings - sub!johnathan, fem!reader, riding, unprotected penetrative sex, praise, mommy kink]

[word count - 641]

[kinktober list]

“You are what, baby?” You loved this part; when his cheeks would warm with embarrassment when you made him repeat your words, “c’mon, babyboy, say it,”

“You are what, baby?” You loved this part; when his cheeks would warm with embarrassment when you made him repeat your words, “c’mon, babyboy, say it,”

“You are what, baby?” You loved this part; when his cheeks would warm with embarrassment when you made him repeat your words, “c’mon, babyboy, say it,”

“I- I’m mommy’s good boy,” he finally admits, almost sobbing in delight when you speed up, fingers tightening around your hardened nipples and leaving them aching for your mouth, “mommy’s good boy!”

“S’it, good boy,” you praise, sneaking a hand down, just behind where you’re connected to him and palming at his balls. He let out a strangled whimper at the shock of stimulation, letting his head rock forwards and rest on your heaving sternum. His lips hovered just over your left nipple, plump skin smacking into it with every movement until he eventually closed his lips around the pert areola, tongue flicking lazily over the hardened bud.

You could feel your release pooling at the base of your stomach, and, from the way you felt Johnathan’s cock twitching against your pulsating walls, he was nearing his end too. He had his teeth scraping against your nipple, both hands migrating down to your hips and assisting you bounce up and down. The building pace made both of you cry out, Jonathan pulling away from your tit and looking up at you with begging eyes.

“P- please can I cum?” He begged, leaving short, sweet open mouthed kisses all over your tits and up to your neck. You rolled his balls in your palm, smirking at his whimpers and clenching down on him just to hear more of his high pitched cries.

“Ask nicely, bubba,”you encourage, speeding up and safe in the knowledge that he’d never cum without your permission. He sobbed, mumbled something incoherent into the supple skin of your breasts that you could barely understand, “c’mon, use your big boy words,”

He struggled for a long moment, battling back his growing high in favour of choking out a small mumble of, “please can I cum, mommy? I- I’m a good boy! I’m your good boy!”

“Go on, pretty boy, gimmie that sweet cum,” you relent, giving his balls a gentle squeeze as you spoke. He went completely boneless at your words, hot cum spurting from his tip and painting your delicate walls within seconds. The sensation made you shudder, gripping one of his hands and guiding it round to thrum at your aching clit. He circled it almost furiously, riding out his high as your cunt clamped down on him, “s’it, baby, good boy, good boy, good boy,”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou,” he babbled, tears spilling over his waterline and falling in fat droplets onto your tits. You couldn’t hold back your orgasm any more, allowing it to wash over you in waves and gush all over his length.

It took a good few minutes for you to both calm down, panting into the humid night air of his bedroom. He ducked his head down, catching a glimpse at the way his cum leaked out of your cunt, forming a creamy ring around his base and moaning at the sight.

“That’s it, mommy’s good boy,”

Taglist - @jexnrey @samiam0907 @jessmooneya @tiredmf @baddiewivdafattie @art3mas @bella-738 @aphrodites-flowers @lovemitchrry @alexloveskili @downbadforvecna @dcwrites1 @masterofmunsonspuppets @youreyesaretherealtruthtellers @m-rae23 @rubesred @bingewatchingmylifegoby @visionsgoodgirl @loudwombatmugkid @garfieldsladybird @rubes2323 @maddy-potter @dannyramirezwife @trixcate @depressedjoey @sunnysolsstuf @clover723 @anamariel2301 @kozumewhore

[roomiesoreo]

clicker.

lion kaminski x fem!reader

18+/MDNI

w.c: 3.9k

Summary: Training Lion with a clicker. Yes.

Warnings: Contains smut, MDNI. Oral sex (f!receiving.) Masturbation (f.) Fingering. Finger sucking. Dom!Reader. Sub!Lion. Hypno-adjacent. Clicker training. Praise kink. Begging kink. Being (a little!) mean to Lion.

Author's Note: Happy Thanksgiving everyone!! Enjoy this one when you have a second to sneak away from your family. That's how it was written, that's how it should be enjoyed. I am very, very thankful for all of you; thank you for all the love and support you've shown to me over the last year. Enjoy.

Special thank you and endless gratitude to abhi @scannainscanrula for beta reading and for all your input on this story! I'm very thankful for you and your worms, mo phéist.

Reblogs, comments, and likes always appreciated! Please reblog if you like what you read; it helps keep writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!

You sit down on the edge of the bed, pouting up at him.

“Lionnnn…can you help me?

You pathetically kick out one foot, displaying your heel to him.

“Oh, uh, sure,” he stammers.

You’re coming back from a friend’s birthday party, and you’re wearing your favorite white platform heels with the ankle straps. You had a little too much to drink, and wrestling with the tiny buckle around your ankle had proven to be too difficult a task while your head was still spinning.

He kneels down in front of you and gently rests your foot on his knee, his big fingers fumbling with the dainty buckle.

“Thank youu,” you coo at him.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles again, his cheeks flushing red.

He frees your foot from the shoe, then picks up your other foot and begins the process again. When he’s removed your heels, you gently bring your hand to his cheek. He glances up at you through his long lashes.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “My sweet boy.”

He gently turns his head and presses a kiss to your palm. You giggle, and his cheeks brighten again at the sound.

“F’course,” he mutters.

It didn’t take long for a delicious idea to work its way into your brain. 

Every time you came home from an evening out, you’d sit on the edge of the bed and ask Lion to take your heels off. It didn’t matter if you were black out drunk or stone cold sober, whether you were wearing classic pumps or elaborate laced-up platforms. He became so accustomed to the routine that he eventually began to follow you straight to the bedroom after stepping through the front door.

He’d kneel down, place your right foot on his knee, take the shoe off, then repeat. And you always thanked him, called him your sweet boy, made him blush. But you’d waited a while, established the routine, before introducing your latest toy.

You stand outside the apartment door while Lion turns the key in the lock. When he holds the door open for you, you cross to the coat closet, shrugging off your white wool trench and revealing the outfit you’d worn to dinner. A soft velvet dress, deep burgundy and short, short enough that you’d caught his eyes lingering on your legs more than once throughout the night. You notice him doing it now, too; his eyes drift from your shoulders, following the curves of your body, down to your dark red platform heels. You grin as you hang your coat up in the closet.

“I had fun tonight,” you start. “Did you?”

“Uh-huh,” he says half-heartedly, still looking you over as he takes off his own jacket.

You dig around in your purse for the toy as he hangs up his coat. When you find it, you slip it into your palm, a wicked smile creeping across your face. He shuts the closet door and turns to you, but before his hands can reach your hips, you cross into the bedroom, your heels click-clacking across the floor. When you reach the bed, you spin to face him and sigh as you sit. You lean back on one hand and gently kick your feet back and forth. He sinks to his knees in front of you.

click.

His head cocks to one side.

“What was that?”

“Hm? I didn’t hear anything,” you lie.

He turns back to your shoes and continues his routine.

“Good boy,” you mumble, gently tracing your thumb down the length of his jaw.

His lashes flutter as he closes his eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath. When he removes both shoes, he turns back to you.

“You want your kiss?” you tease him.

“Mhmm,” he hums, the sound low in his throat.

“C’mere,” you grin.

He sits up and gently places his hands on your knees.

click.

His brows furrow for just a second, but he leans up to meet your lips. His mouth presses against yours, warm and wet and wanting.

click.

When he finally pulls back from you, you smile, breathless.

“Good boy.”

You carried on like that for a while. Giving him a single click each time he knelt in front of you, each time his hands rested on your knees, each time he kissed you. 

Then, you started to push him.

You’re coming home from a night out with some friends. Lion wanted to object to the length of your skirt, but hadn’t mustered the nerve before you were running out the door, afraid of being late. When he opens the apartment door, both of you a little more buzzed than usual, you head directly to your bedroom, with him on your heels like a puppy. You sit on the bed and he immediately kneels in front of you.

…

His brows knit together in confusion.

“What?” you ask him innocently.

“N-no, no, nothin’,” he mutters, turning his attention back to your shoes. 

He lifts your foot onto his knee and tugs at your shoe, gently removing it. When he finishes with both, he brings his hands to rest on your knees.

click.

“Good boy,” you coo. “Thank you for helping me.”

“F’course, baby,” he replies quietly, looking up at you with those big pathetic eyes that drive you wild.

“You want your kiss?” 

He nods silently.

“C’mere.”

He pushes himself up to meet your lips. 

click.

He kisses you slow and sweet, his hands drifting to your waist. You pull back from him, and his hands halt their wandering movement. You bring one hand to the back of his head, holding his forehead to yours.

“Good boy,” you sigh, the air leaving your mouth and entering his as he gulps down quick, erratic breaths.

He hums in pleasure, eyelids fluttering closed.

He once again brings his hands to your hips, softly skimming the fabric of your dress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. 

“Y’look so pretty in this dress,” he mumbles, his voice low. 

“Awww, thank you kitty cat,” you murmur. Lion flushes at the nickname you only use when you’re especially sweet on him.

“Can we…d’you wanna…” 

“I wanna take a shower,” you yawn.

“O-okay,” he stammers.

You run your hands over his shoulders and down his arms.

“Thank you for takin’ care of me, kitty,” you purr.

“Y’welcome.”

click. 

Lion began to love the clicker. He’d eagerly kneel at your feet, remove your shoes as quickly as he could, and bring his hands to your knees promptly just to hear the sound. You were still pairing each click with a bit of praise; you hadn’t quite weaned him off of rewards yet.

You stand at the mirror in your bathroom, fiddling with your earring. You carefully remove it and set it to the side before starting on the other one. Lion slinks into the bathroom and stands behind you, gently wrapping his arms around your waist. You smile at him in the mirror and grab the clicker from where it’s sitting on the counter in front of you. 

“Y’need help with your shoes?” he asks timidly.

You roughly grind your hips back against his and a tiny noise escapes him.

“Mm, what do you say?” you chide him gently.

“Please?”

click.

“Good boy,” you grin. “Sure, you can help me.”

You turn to face him, your face tantalizingly close to his. He glances from your lips back up to your eyes. His brows are drawn together in a pathetic pleading gaze. You gingerly take his hand in yours, running your thumb over the bruises that paint his knuckles.

“Y’wanna do it here? Or the bedroom?” you ask him sweetly.

“Can we go to the bedroom?” he mumbles. “The tile…”

click.

“Please?”

You smile.

“Of course, sweet boy.”

You drop his hand and brush past him back into the bedroom, Lion following behind you. You take your usual seat on the edge of the bed.

click.

Lion drops to his knees and gets to work. He sets your shoes to the side when he’s done.

click.

He rests his hands on your knees, his palms hot over your skin.

This is usually where you’d ask him if he wants his kiss—dangling a treat out in front of him like a carrot on a stick. Clicking to make him lean up and crash his lips into yours. Lion stares up at you intently. You smile down at him sweetly.

And then you part your legs.

His rough hands are still on your knees, and his eyes dart down between your thighs.

“Shit,” he breathes.

“Yeah? See somethin’ you like, kitty cat?” you tease him. “See somethin’ you want?”

“Yes…” he mutters under his breath.

click.

“Yes, please.”

“Good boy,” you hum.

“Y-you’re…you’re not wearing…” Lion swallows.

“Well what’s the fun in that?” you taunt.

“All night?” he asks weakly.

“Alllll night, baby boy,” you grin. “Coulda been playin’ under the table the whole time. If you were payin’ attention to me.”

You punctuate your last sentence with a pout, exaggerating hurt.

“I was-I was payin’ attention,” he chokes, his eyes still glued to your exposed cunt.

“No you weren’t,” you whine. “Too busy talkin’ to everyone else.”

You had spent the evening at a dinner to celebrate Lion’s recent win. He hated going out to eat after a fight—all he wanted was to go home, cover you in kisses, and sleep—but you found a compromise. He’d let you schedule a nice dinner with a few close friends the day after a win; it did occasionally result in a few cancelled reservations, but generally, it was a good middle ground. 

Lion had spent the night being a little more sociable than usual. He made polite conversation with your best friend’s newest boyfriend whom you weren’t entirely sure you liked yet. He even remembered that your friend Liz had started a new job recently and asked her how she was liking it. You were proud of him for going out of his comfort zone a little more. He was ordinarily pretty shy and reserved at these dinners, uncomfortable being the center of attention. You’d seen a change in him over the last few weeks, and were pleased that he was getting more and more comfortable in his own skin.

But you were so pissed that he had politely taken his hand off your knee when you placed it there instead of fingering you under the table like you wanted.

“Too busy talkin’ to Liz…and Molly…” you guilt him. “Didn’t even notice I wanted these inside’a me.”

You slowly lift one of his hands from your knee and bring two of his fingers to your lips. You greedily take them in your mouth, staring at him as you suck on them. You can feel his fingernails towards the back of your throat, the calloused pads of his fingertips pressing into your tongue. He winces when your teeth graze one of the bruises blooming on his knuckles. You pull him out of your mouth, a string of saliva stretching between you obscenely.

“Still hurts, baby?” you ask softly.

“Mm–mhmm,” he hums, his brows knitted together against the painful sensation.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” 

You run your hand through his hair, using your nails to gently scratch his scalp. He groans under your touch. You draw your hand into a fist, grabbing his hair at the root.

“Gimme my kiss,” you tell him.

He brings his free hand back to your knee and goes to sit up. You tug on his hair, yanking him back down. He cries out in surprise.

“Not your kiss, silly. My kiss.”

You part your knees further and angle your hips up towards him, your skirt riding up around your waist. Lion gets the hint. He leans forward and presses his lips to your folds, placing a delicate kiss over your clit.

click.

A sigh tumbles out from your lips. You release his hair and fall back onto the mattress, propped up on one elbow.

Lion drags his tongue down your folds, the warm, wet feeling of his muscle against your sensitive skin relieving some of the pent-up frustration that’d been building in you since dinner.

“Fuck, just like that baby,” you breathe.

click. 

He speeds up, licking and sucking on your cunt with fervor. 

“A little higher, Lion,” you command him gently, your breath light and airy in your throat.

He obeys, dragging his tongue back up to your clit and massaging the sensitive nerves there.

click.

“Gooood boy,” you moan.

Lion hums against you, the low rumble reverberating through your body and making your thighs shake. He mumbles something you can’t hear.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” you tease.

He pulls away from you, his eyes glazed over with want. He looks delirious.

“Can I make you cum?” he asks, those puppy dog eyes almost melting you on the spot.

click.

“Please?” he corrects.

“Fuck, yes, Lion, make me cum.”

He dives back into you. His tongue feels divine, the pressure against your clit making it harder and harder to catch your breath. 

“Ke-keep going, baby, yes, good boy, righ-ah, right there, right there-!” 

He expertly swirls his tongue over you again, drawing the heat in your stomach down into your pelvis.

“Nng–Lionnnn,” you whine. “M’gonna, fuck, I’m…”

He roughly presses your legs further apart, his rough, bruised hands warm against your inner thighs. He sucks your clit into his mouth as he pulls away from you, releasing your flesh with a lewd wet sound. He slides his hands up, resting one on each side of your soaked core. Using his thumbs, he spreads you, the exposed angle making you blush and squirm under his touch. He gently blows cool air against you, the sensation making you even more sensitive. When he brings his mouth back to you, his tongue burns against your clit. A broken cry jumps out of your throat.

“L-Lion, Lion, please,” you pant. You toss your head back, staring up at the ceiling as he brings one thumb up to your clit, firmly pressing and rubbing in small circles.

The heat in your stomach blooms throughout your body, your cheeks flushing as you fall apart under his tongue and his touch. The sound of your groans and his wet kisses on your cunt fill the room as he works you through your orgasm. You gently push against his head when the stimulation becomes too much. He detaches from you and gazes up at you intently, eager for his reward.

click.

“Good boy,” you laugh lightly. “You want your kiss?”

He nods quietly, his chin coated in his spit and your slick.

“C’mere.”

click.

Once Lion started to understand each click as a reward, you began to train him with only the clicker. You didn’t give him praise or call him sweet names or show him affection until after he made you cum, after he obeyed every command. He knew that every click held the promise of a treat, and followed your orders with reverence.

It’s Friday night and you’re coming home from a date at a little wine bar around the corner from your apartment. You’re wearing your favorite dress, the black one that hugs your body just right, the sweetheart neckline displaying your cleavage perfectly. Your black stilettos clack against the floor of your apartment as you enter and head straight to the bedroom. Lion locks the door behind you and follows quickly behind.

He had been especially needy at the bar, stumbling and stammering over his words stupidly as he stared at your chest. When you stepped out of the dimly lit bar onto the sidewalk, Lion produced a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, shaking one out and holding it between his teeth. He fumbled around in his jacket pockets for his lighter before you opened your purse to let him borrow yours. Seeing the little black clicker in your purse, casually resting next to your lipstick, almost made him faint. Knowing that you carried his sanity around in your tiny designer purse made his knees buckle. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag before grabbing your hand in his and quickly starting towards home.

You sit on the bed now, clicker in hand, as Lion tumbles into the bedroom.

“Kneel.”

click.

He does.

“Take off my shoes.”

click.

He does.

“Get me my vibrator.”

click.

He reaches over to your nightstand and fumbles with the top drawer. He pulls out the small black satin bag and hands it to you. You notice the way his hands are shaking.

“Undress me.”

click.

He brings his hands to your knees and spreads your legs. He reaches under your dress and slides his thumbs underneath the lacy fabric of your black panties, pulling them down your legs and tossing them aside.

You remove your toy from the bag and drag it through your folds, collecting the slick lingering at your entrance. You’re already wet from the anticipation that started building in you when you started the walk home. You love having him wrapped around your finger.

You sigh as you switch the vibe onto the lowest setting, just barely grazing your clit. He watches your every move intently, awaiting his next command.

You tap the button on the toy, increasing the speed. You massage your cunt and the vibrations stimulate your nerves in a way that has your hips twitching into your own touch. Lion just kneels on the floor in front of you as you make him watch you get off on this tiny toy instead of his face.

You cum surprisingly quickly, even on just the medium setting of the vibrator. You can feel your juices coating the silicone and the tips of your fingers as you pull the toy from between your legs, your orgasm making your body feel buzzy and flushed. Lion stares at the shiny remnants of you on the vibe.

“Use your words,” you tell him. It was one of your favorite commands, though it took some getting used to. Where you would ordinarily ask him what was wrong, what he wanted, what he was thinking about, you instead gave him an order.

click.

“Can I have a taste?” he asks meekly.

click.

“Please?” he adds.

“No,” you reply cruelly, relishing every second of it. “Get me a tissue.”

click.

He rises and crosses to the bathroom, returning with the tissue. You take it and wipe your vibrator clean before putting it back in the bag.

“Throw this away,” you tell Lion, handing him the sticky tissue.

You know it’ll kill him, throwing away your cum that he so desperately wanted in his mouth. Not only watching you waste it on a toy, but being forced to be the one to discard the evidence only twisted the knife you’d sunk into his chest.

click.

He reluctantly crosses back into the bathroom and tosses the tissue in the trash can with a wince before returning to you.

“Kneel,” you command him again.

click.

He does.

You stare down at him as he stares up at you, those soft, sweet eyes boring into yours. It takes everything in you to maintain your composure. All you want to do is stroke his hair, pepper his face with tiny kisses, breathe in his breath like it’s your own. But you don’t.

“Gimme my kiss.”

click.

He leans forward and starts eating you like he’s been starved for days. His pace is immediately unrelenting as alternates between swirling his tongue around your clit and dragging it through your folds.

“Lion, oh God, yes,” you huff, your body still reeling from your first orgasm.

His facial hair scratches against your inner thighs as you squeeze them around his head. He hums in satisfaction and tosses your legs over his shoulders, tugging your hips closer to his mouth and the edge of the bed.

You lie back completely, flopping your head against the pillowy mattress. Lion continues to devour you, lapping and slurping up your wetness. It sounds like you’re in a cheesy porno, his weak, tiny moans harmonizing with the vulgar sounds of his tongue.

“Yes, baby, yes, yes, fuck.” You can hardly catch your breath. Your thighs are trembling around his head, your hips twitching and grinding against his face. “Use your words, kitty cat, talk to me.”

click.

He groans.

“Y’so pretty, so gorgeous, baby, couldn’t stop starin’ at you all night,” he mumbles. “Not fair when y’wear this one…”

“You like it?” you tease him through hurried breaths.

“Y’so sexy, fuck, I was gonna cum just starin’ at your tits in the restaurant,” he continues, pressing a sloppy kiss to your clit. “Just wanna make you cum, princess, please, please?”

He runs his tongue along your cunt and swallows the juices that collect on his tongue.

“Please, please, please, baby, please, I need you to…”

He sounds ruined. His breath is filling his lungs almost as fast as yours is, and his voice is wavering.

“I need you to click it baby, please,” he begs.

“Make me cum first, Lion,” you chastise him.

“But ‘m sayin’ please,” he whines.

He was still a little attached to his old habits, seeking clicks like treats. He was still learning.

“You get a click for making me cum, not just for saying please,” you reply sternly. He whines against you.

“M’sorry baby,” he breathes.

“It’s o-okay,” you respond, stuttering when he brings his mouth back to suck on your clit. He lets go of you with a lewd pop!

“Can I use my fingers, too?” he asks you sweetly, staring up at you through those long lashes.

“You can use your fingers,” you whisper.

He brings his hand to your cunt and slowly drags two fingers through your folds, slicking them with you, before he pushes in. You whimper at the full feeling. He usually starts with one, but now he’s pumping two fingers in and out of you at a torturously slow pace while his tongue flicks your clit over and over. You can feel the spark in your stomach ignite again, and you bring one hand down to tangle your own fingers in his hair.

You pull him closer, and he picks up the pace. You can feel him part his fingers inside of you and you cry out at the stretch. He keeps working you, his deft fingers curling up to find that spot inside of you that has your head spinning. You arch your back off the bed, angling your hips towards his face and giving him better access. 

“Right there, fuck, yes, Lion, don’t stop,” you cry.

He strokes you again, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest. 

“Cum for me baby, please,” he begs.

He hits that spot one more time, his calloused fingers applying just the right amount of pressure. You scream, gripping his hair so tight you’re almost worried about hurting him. Your orgasm shoots through you, heightened by the first one still lingering in your body. Every limb feels like it’s on fire, and your legs shake around his head. He slurps down the juices you release onto his tongue, savoring the taste of you. When he finally pulls his fingers out of your aching cunt, he brings them to his mouth and greedily sucks off the remainder of your orgasm.

You lie back in the bed, flushed and giddy. You chuckle softly in your bliss. Lion sits back on his heels, staring up at you as your chest rises and falls.

“Good boy,” you praise him through panting breath. “Good boy, Lion.”

You glance back down at him. He stares at you with his giant, sad, puppy dog eyes.

“C-can I have m-my k-kiss now?” he whimpers.

Thanks for reading! As always, likes, comments, and reblogs highly appreciated! Check out my masterlist here if you're looking for more.

[angelbumbum]

on this blog we support men whining. men squirming! men whimpering!!

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝗠𝗮𝘀𝗸 𝗦𝗹𝗶𝗽

Pairing: Sonar x Hero!Reader

Summary: You and Sonar don't exactly get along. After one bad interaction, you two have become about as compatible as oil and water. But then Malevola gives you an invitation to a house party out of the blue and after you make a discovery that wasn't meant for your eyes, it has you looking at him a little differently.

Content: 21.3k words. 18+, MDI. AFAB. Enemies to lovers adjacent (more like petty inconveniences to lovers). Sonar being an obnoxious little perv. Restraint via telepathy, biting, P in V, creampie, switch dynamics, breast play.

Notes: I don't know, I never thought I'd be here, and yet here we are. I blame it on my crush on Moistcr1tikal. Inspired by the fan art from ☆ Purple | Sonar Nation ☆ on tiktok, they get all the credit, sonar's happy trail has infected my brain like a worm. Gif by @seashellisinmyheart, divider by @omi-resources

You shouldn't be here. You don't know why you are, but your feet have picked themselves up and carried you here anyway. The uncertainty, the hesitation makes the hallway you're standing in daunting somehow, as simple as it is. Barren, pale walls lined with polished doors; clean tiled floors so pristine that you can practically use them as mirrors; the light fixtures on the ceiling above dot the corridor in a bright glow. It all seems so expensive, decorated with the kind of interior design that's so immaculate and exorbitant that you're concerned that you might leave tracks in your wake, dirt smudges and shoe prints. 

You contemplate turning around and leaving, but curiosity keeps you cemented in place. Music thumps past the barrier of the door, seeping through the wood, and you know that it must be absolutely blaring inside the apartment if you can hear from this side of the threshold. It's something upbeat, energetic, good for dancing. There's no way they're going to make it through the entire night without one of the next-door neighbors raising a noise complaint to whatever manager might be in the building. 

You could leave. Right now. No one would notice. You hadn't exactly confirmed that you would show up at all. You'd somewhat left it vague, and when she had sent you the text of what you'd assumed to be her address and apartment number this evening, all you had responded with was an unsure, "I'll see if I can make it," and you threw in a heart emoji at the end for good measure. In the hopes that it made the response seem a little less rigid and disinterested, but it mostly just made it awkward. Somehow, you felt as though you've never held a conversation in your entire life. 

Despite all of your doubts, you can't deny that you are intrigued. That just maybe you had been a little excited — and extremely bewildered — when Malevola had approached you this Tuesday, making herself known by placing a gentle hand on your shoulder to get your attention. Your teammates had gone quiet around you, the pair falling into a fascinated hush as you turned to acknowledge her with a smile. Though you're sure that the confusion you had felt was still apparent, eyebrows raising when you greeted her. 

It's not like you're unfamiliar with the Z-Team. It's impossible to work at the Torrance branch and not be somewhat aware of them. They're notorious. A group of ex-villains becoming employed under the counsel of SDN made for a lot of heavy gossip. Old cons, murderers, petty thieves trying to turn a new leaf. And despite you being a few ranks higher, up in the D-Team, you've managed to have your fair share of run-ins out on the field with a few of its members — especially one member in particular, because you were just oh so lucky in that way. 

But you've never spoken with Malevola all that much, apart from extending a brief greeting when you would cross paths down a hallway, or you'd once vented to each other in the breakroom about having to pull double-shifts last month, with every hero at SDN spread thin by a fucking hydra. It had been particularly nasty to deal with, 80 feet tall, armored flesh, fast healing, the ability to spew lava from its multiple heads. Not fire. Lava. In molten, gigantic breaths that traveled up to forty meters.

You don't recall reading about any lava breathing in middle school when you had gone over Greek myths, but it would have been nice to know. It had plowed its way through downtown, tottering, pulverizing asphalt with each step, knocking into skyscrapers and buildings like it was drunk. It had spread the Torrance branch thin, an all-hands-on deck kind of situation. And when one overzealous hero had decapitated one of the heads, he'd only made the situation worse, two more sprouting from the gnarled, raw stump with a terrifying quickness. It had taken over 24 hours to take the monster down. 

But that specific instance, a temporary, shared moment in expressing your equal exasperation, had been the only real time you'd ever talked to her. So it left you confused when she had approached you out of the blue, effectively snuffing out the conversation you'd been sharing with a couple of your teammates — though you're actually kind of thankful for it. Mimic and Hazard are great, but sometimes they talk too much, and if you had to listen to them having a debate about Nickelback any longer, you were going to lose it. 

"We're having a party this weekend. Nothing big, just a little get together. Some of Z-Team is gonna be there." Malevola had explained, definitely prompted by your visible (but you hoped, not unkind) confusion. "Don't feel obligated to turn up, but I just thought I'd extend an invitation. I'll text you the address, yeah?" 

And then just as quickly as she has arrived, she was gone. Walking away from you, tearing open a gap in the air with a rip of shimmering, pink light and was stepping inside before you could question her or properly agree. You didn't have a chance to ask her how she managed to get your phone number, either. 

And now you're here. You had contemplated turning up for longer than necessary, and you had almost decided forgoing the whole thing entirely, pacing around you bedroom while you struggled with that to wear. You figured you would just be staying inside at home all night, enjoying the time off before you'd have to wake up early for your shift at work. But the idea of that monotony, of doing the same thing you do every other night, had been bitter in your mouth, a nasty taste that your body rejected like a pill forced onto your tongue. You didn't want that. You didn't want to sit on the couch again or turn in for bed at 10 P.M. like some kind of elderly person twenty years past their prime. 

You only showed up because you thought that it was her party. Her apartment. But you had quickly deduced that you were wrong in that assumption. It isn't her place, it's Sonar's. The marble floors in the lobby and the fancy furniture in the adjoining waiting room kind of tipped you off as soon as you stepped foot inside the building, and it was enough that you had almost immediately turned around and called it night. But for whatever reason, you didn't. 

The door to his apartment almost seems imposing somehow, even though you've taken down countless villains, defeated monsters and beings beyond your comprehension, and yet what's pretty much a polished piece of wood unsettles you. It has apprehension prickling along the notches of your spine, uncomfortable, the scuttling of an insects legs on the nape of your neck. 

You don't give yourself time to hesitate or to change your own mind. You don't bother knocking, either. Judging on the noisy volume of the music booming inside, you doubt that anyone in the apartment would be able to hear it anyway. You try your luck with the knob, twisting the cool, rounded metal, and thankfully, it opens with a muffled click. 

The song playing is loud in your ears when you step inside, and you're assaulted with the pungent scent of weed and various flavors of vape, something tropical and mint. The rhythm of the tempo is so pronounced that you can feel it trembling throughout your body, rattling softly across your bones, churning in the center of your gut, and it's an awful combination with the nerves turning your stomach over. A perfunctory sweep of the apartment reveals that there's a lot more people present than just some of the Z-Team, though you do notice a few of its members scattered about the crowd. Prism is on the sofa, holding onto a sweating glass bottle, leaning into the cushioned support of the backrest while she talks with people you don't recognize who are accompanying her. Coupé is in the adjoining kitchen, seated at the small table in the corner, seated opposite to Punch Up, the both of them holding a fanned-out assortment of playing cards within their hands — probably poker or the like. 

Flambae's laugh scales high over the music playing, amused but audibly scathing, sarcastic; you still haven't spotted him yet, but he's here somewhere. You continue your survey, scanning the surrounding area, taking a vague count of the people in the room all mushed in like sardines in a tin can, bodies shifting and swaying in vague dances. There's a man reclined on the kitchen island, splayed out, shirt rucked up to his chin, exposing the length of his torso for body shots. A couple makes out furiously in a dim corner. So eager that you wouldn't be surprised if they pulled each other to the floor and started fucking in the middle of the room, hands sweeping and clawing at what they can, like they intend to maul each other, fingers groping, pulling at the other's clothes. 

And then your eyes find him, and all of the curiosity and tentative excitement you felt curdles in the pit of your stomach like spoiled milk. You aren't surprised that he's here. You know that he and Malevola are best friends, so yes, you did expect to see him. Where one is, the other is never too far behind. But you were hoping that you'd at least be able to settle in, to maybe get a drink or two in your system before you two managed to cross paths tonight. But nope, here he is, in all of his . . . Glory definitely isn't the word you'd use for him. Audacity, stupidity, bullshit. Those could all work. 

You'd butted heads with him from the start, but that was all his fault, really. Okay, maybe, you'll admit, you're the one who made a snap judgment. But when you see a guy walking around the workplace with crypto magazines, and you overhear his conversations where he's unironically talking about being on Reddit, it raises a few red flags. You'd caught him mention something about looksmaxxing one time, and you didn't bother sticking around to hear what his opinion really was, you had immediately turned around as you were crossing into the breakroom and went out for lunch instead, abandoning the food you brought from home for the Mexican joint down the street. Listening to that for the entire duration of your lunch break was a torture that you wouldn't have been able to withstand. 

He was like a caricature of person, like every online personality had been compacted and funneled into a singular body, and the first real interaction you had with him didn't do anything to improve your opinion of him. 

To be honest you didn't have to step in, but you'd been passing by, having just finished up your latest mission, and you'd spotted him when you were on your way back to SDN. He had been easy to see from your vantage point, flying high above the city, but it had been the sound of screeching, a thin, earsplitting warble that had really caught your attention. 

You knew who it was soon as you'd seen him. A dark mass down below, gigantic, membranous wings expanded, flapping harshly like he was possibly trying to generate lift, but was unable to, talons lashing out at the ground beneath him. Standing tall, morphed into that famed monstrous bat form you'd heard so much about. Shrieking at the top of his lungs, his massive maw snarling, fangs glinting with drool like he was feral, standing in the middle of a public park of all places, right next to the monkey bars. And then you'd noticed them, crazed and scattering across his body like tiny, rabid insects. Children. He was being attacked by children. 

You'd shifted your course like a bullet, slowing your body in the air above them just in time so your arrival wouldn't generate a sudden blast. You had them all before you even landed. The field of your powers expanding throughout and past you to lift them all up from his body, carefully plucking the kids up like they were a bunch of wayward cats, leaving them to kick and flail where you had them suspended in the air. A few of them had tried to cling to him, gripping at the thick clutch of his fur with their tiny fists, but they soon gave under the grasp of your pull, kicking at nothing in petty tantrums. 

"Hey, you good?" You'd asked once your feet where on the ground, the soles of your boots crunching the wood chips of the play area with their weight. "What the hell is this about?" You'd gestured to the kids, still hanging. Many hadn't ceased their floundering, but a few had given up, gone still within your telepathic grip, loose-limbed and visibly pouting. One of the rowdier ones had actually hissed at you and bit at the air. There was about six of them all together, all equally as wild. 

You had a lot of questions. Like why they were apparently rabid, and more pressing, where in the hell their parents were at. Maybe they ate them, that seemed like a sensible conclusion. 

Sonar — you'd remembered his name, thankfully, had yet to acknowledge you. He shook his head, body shuddering wildly like a dog that had just finished rolling, trying to shake free any dust that dirtied his coat. You had eyed him a little wearily. You didn't know much about him, if he was really aware of himself when he was a full-blown bat monster, or if maybe, he slipped into something more animalistic, just impulses and drive. 

But his gaze had shifted, ears twitching, and you knew that he had heard you. It was a little hard to gauge just where he was looking specifically, with those blank, crimson eyes, twin coals burning in his sockets. But you saw them shift, the lids twitching from the movement, almost as though he was maybe embarrassed by the whole ordeal. And then his head angled in your direction, tilting to properly look at you. 

"Drugs, I think? I don't know man, I'm not sure what's wrong with them," he'd replied. His voice had been deeper than the other times you'd heard it, the monotone of it layered with a kind of strange, trilling baritone. "But I had it covered, so you didn't need to swoop in like that to try and save the day." 

He sounded exasperated, words dripping with a sardonic petulance that made you huff out a bemused laugh, a little offended. You blinked, your lips pulling into a scorned smile. "I was trying to help you out, alright. A thank you would be nice." 

"I had it handled," he insisted, the almost piggish shape of his nose curling it a contemptuous snarl. His behavior was pettish, showcasing every bit of immaturity that you had assumed he possessed, and it a way, it felt vindicating to know that you had been right. He really was just some bitchy, dumb guy who probably spends his free time behind a computer screen bullying twelve-year-olds. 

"You know what, you're absolutely right," you relented, already drawing your body up from the ground in preparation to take off. "I'll leave you to it, big guy." 

"Wait, wha-" That's all he'd been able to get out before you dropped the kids back on him, all six celebrating with an invigorated cheer as they landed upon him in a pile, latching onto his back and wings and tugging on his ears, resuming their chaos as though they'd never been stopped at all. You'd been gone in a blink, launching away with a mocking laugh that you're sure his sensitive ears had been able to pick up. Good. You hoped it haunted his ass. 

Ever since that day, there's been a noticeable tension between you. Always there, bubbling beneath the surface, a kind of static building between you both whenever you have to interact. Annoyance and resentment prickling in an undercurrent, thorns prodding at your skin. It's enough that your team has remarked on it. You think the whole damn building knows honestly. Not the either of you have been exactly subtle with your hatred for each other. 

Just last week you two got into an argument over coffee creamer of all things. You felt a little childish doing it, and yet you weren't able to curb back your own voice as you snapped at him, but at least you could blame it a little on your exhaustion. Sleep was still clinging to the corners of your eyes, stinging and terrible, you felt like a zombie when you shuffled into the breakroom. All you wanted was some caffeine, some fuel to help jumpstart your system for the shift ahead. 

Sonar had already been there, the wooden stirrer he was circling around his mug softly scraped against the ceramic. You ignored his proximity as you stepped up to the counter, opening the cabinet to grab your own mug so you could work on pouring your own cup of coffee. It was fine. You were able to pretend that he wasn't there while you mentally prepared yourself for the day ahead, and in turn he hadn't made any effort to speak to you. It was all going well. Almost peaceful, if you were being generous. But when you moved to open the fridge, leaning down enough to look inside, a single glance had your simple morning routine snuffed out. 

You've long since started buying your own creamers for work. Sure, the breakroom has an entire drawer full of pods, a variety of different flavors, but you know what, you're a little particular with the brands and types that you prefer in your coffee. So you started buying and bringing your own to work a few months after you became an employee, and you've never had a single issue before. You write your name on it with permanent markers and sticky notes, and shove it to the back of the fridge, and it's been that way for the five whole years that you've been employed at SDN. Until now. 

It was empty. The entire box, but you knew for certain that you still had a few pods left when you had made your morning cup yesterday. You had enough to tide you over for a least a couple more days before you had to restock. You knew that for certain. You made a mental note of it. But there wasn't any left. What had been in there before was all gone, leaving only an empty, cardboard box in the back of the fridge. 

And then you spotted it. Out of the corner of your vision, and your full attention quickly followed, flickering up to the counter where Sonar was pouring a pod of creamer into his coffee, humming gently under his breath. Your creamer. Three other empty containers were scattered out beside his mug like corpses at a crime scene, the plastic covers peeled back, all while he was in the middle of pouring another one into his coffee. 

You didn't want to overreact. To be an asshole, and if it was anyone else you might have resisted the urge to lash out, but you had long since lost all patience for Sonar. In the brief interactions you've had with him, he always manages to pull out the worst in you, to prod and insult you until you're on the verge of snapping. 

"Is that my creamer?" You'd asked, pointing at the vacant pods strewn out, nothing but empty trash. 

"Hmm?" His brow had raised like he was clueless, head angling in your direction as he drained the small container in his hand of all its contents before dropping it onto the counter alongside the others with a hollow clatter. "Oh, yeah. It's pretty good. You should pick up some more." He stopped stirring, taking an assessing sip, making sure to slurp extra loudly just to grate on your nerves more than he already had. 

"So you thought it would be cool to steal my shit?" 

"The early bird gets the worm, my friend." He said obnoxiously, like some shitty online quote. "This is what happens when you drag your feet." 

"No that is not what happens. This is what happens when a selfish dick decides to take someone else's shit without asking," you'd seethed. 

"Mmm, I don't know. It seems that way to me." 

You hated him. You hated how he smirked at you, fangs glinting, all pleased with himself. You'd entertained the idea then, of swiping your hand, letting your powers curl around the mug held up to his face to douse him with the boiling liquid, but you regrettably didn't. You let him get away unscathed, mostly because you didn't want to get suspended for giving a SDN employee third degree burns, but the memory still eats you alive sometimes. 

You'd been good at avoiding him since then. Plus, it helps that you belonged to different teams, so your chances of naturally crossing paths are fairly low (though unfortunately not zero). And now you've managed to plant yourself directly in his path. Months of trying to evade him have gone right out the window, and you don't have anyone to blame except for yourself. You don't even have a proper excuse as to why you agreed to be here. You aren't friends with anyone on the Z-Team. You know them through fleeting interactions and the occasional team up on exceptionally tough missions, but you aren't close by any means. 

And now he's right there, maybe 30 feet away from you, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in his hand, egging people on as they step up to take body shots off of the same guy as before, still laid out on the island like an offering. You've never seen Sonar like this before. He's always in those suits — overkill, honestly, fighting villains in clothes that probably cost more than his rent, dressing as though he's some corporate CEO and not a subpar hero. 

The only change now is that the usual suit jacket he wears is absent. It's subtle, hardly noteworthy, and yet it makes him look completely different. More relaxed. His fur is disheveled, like he's been running his fingers through it, the burgundy tie around his throat loose, the weak knot of it seeming to highlight how the first two buttons of his shirt are undone. He looks . . . unkempt, casual, with his sleeves rolled up above the thick of width of his forearms, shirt untucked from the waistband of his pants. It's the opposite of tidy. So unlike the manicured image he tends to maintain. With him like this, you could almost imagine he isn't a complete bastard. 

He's at ease, clearly enjoying himself, and totally unaware that you're here. You should leave before he realizes. 

You don't get the opportunity to. Of course you don't. 

"You came!" A familiar voice calls, swaddled in that soft Australian lilt. Malevola comes shifting through the crowd. The people around her part like the Red Sea as she steps directly in front of you with a mystery drink in hand, the presumably alcoholic beverage sloshing in a solo cup as she hands it to you. "I'm glad you're here. For a second there I figured you'd ditch us all together." 

"I honestly did think about it." You almost cringe. It's sounds more like an insult and less like the joke that you had intended. But you don't even know what kind of joke it was supossed to be in the first place. 

"I can't blame you," she reassures, the pleasant smile on her face is unwavering, still gentle despite your blunder. "We're an acquired taste." An expression that's a little sheepish passes over her face then, apologetic, but still friendly. "Also, I'm sorry for lying to you about the turn out, but I figured it would have scared you off completely." 

"Yeah, it might have," you answer honestly and lean out of the way when someone shoulders past you to get to the front door. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing. Meeting new people." You almost hesitate to say it, but you're fast to decide that it doesn't really matter. She knows the truth. She's seen firsthand how you and Sonar interact with each other. You aren't salvaging anything by sugarcoating your words. 

You nod your chin in the direction of the adjoining kitchen, and she follows the gesture, angling her torso so that she can comfortably look over her shoulder. "Plus, me and him don't exactly mix, so I probably won't stick around for too long. I'm sure he'll get pissed once he realizes I'm here." 

She laughs a little at that. A delicate, short sound. It's hard to tell by the singular honeyed shade of her eyes, but you think that she rolls them, a playful exasperation. "You're pretty oblivious, huh." 

"What do you mean by that?" you laugh at little too, but it's much thinner. Lacking any true amusement, impeded by your uncertainty. She settles you with a look then, head cocking, brows raising while she appraises you. And then she's leaning in, crowding into your space conspiratorially, closing in her proximity so that she can be heard over the music without having to raise her voice. 

"It's probably not my place to say this, but Sonar doesn't hate you, babe." She answers and something mischievous passes through her gaze, and her next words makes the floor feel as though it's dropped out from beneath your feet. "He's literally had a poster of you on his wall for years; the guy's obsessed with you. It's a little pathetic honestly." 

"What?" You nearly shout, your voice pitching up so much higher than you had intended, and it if it wasn't for the vocals and electric pop instrumentals projecting across the room, bouncing against the walls that have managed to feel so much closer than before, everyone would have heard you. Your grip seizes around the cup in your hand, the thick plastic popping crisply, a dent crinkling inward from the press of your thumb. You know you're staring, mouth agape, looking dumb as you gawk at her like she's grown another head, but it's a concept that you can't entirely grasp. 

Sure, you've heard rumors about Sonar. About him being a bit of pervert, and you've experienced that facet of his personality firsthand. But he's never singled you out specifically, he doesn't flirt with you anymore than he does with his other co-workers. There wasn't anything special about how he would tease you. Or so you thought. You never would have imagined that he'd see you in such a way, and you don't know what to think. It's as though your mind has gone white, drawn a blank, emotions swirl up in the pit of your stomach like a storm. It's overwhelming, and you have no choice but to just sit with it while it all churns and heaves: surprise, irritation, and worse than all, intrigue, and the traces of something else that you don't want to name. It's too sudden, too warm and fluttery to allow yourself to accept. 

You take the first sip of your drink, and immediately grimace. You almost choke on it completely. It's like cough syrup if it burned, searing as it goes down your throat, overly sweet from its syrup, the carbonation biting and bubbling harshly, mixing with the sear of alcohol in a way that's horrific. There's a variety of conflicting flavors that attack your tongue, the pervasive punch of the combination washes over your palate. You can't tell what the hell it is. Tequila, maybe and bad soda, but you mouth twists from it. 

"Yeah, it's not too great," Malevola says, taking note as you shudder with disgust, forcing yourself to swallow. But as terrible as it is, you appreciate the burn of it right now. It gives you something to focus on, something pungent and poignant enough to guide you back into reality. "We just kinda threw together what we had. But listen . . . you can, uh, pop into his room and see it for yourself if you want. I won't blame you," she shrugs, mouth twisting into something a little sly. "It's down that way," she gestures to her right. "Down the hall, the very last door at the end." 

You tell yourself that you won't do it. You're going to finish the rest of the drink — some terrible amalgamation of what you suspect to be lemon soda and God knows what else, and then you're going to get the hell out of here. You'll go home, take a cold shower, go to sleep and pretend that tonight never happened. That you didn't become burdened with knowledge that you shouldn't be privy to. There are certain things that co-workers shouldn't know about each other, and this is one of those things. The awareness of it dredges up too many feelings. So much of your own thoughts come barreling up, fast and powerful. But you block them out, hold them at bay with the promise that you're going to leave and you can continue on with your life, pretending to be ignorant. 

You don't go home. 

You're standing in the middle of his room after a long internal debate on morality. It's easy to blame it on the alcohol. That it's already made you too dumb, infected you with a dangerous liquid courage. You're definitely crossing a line by being in here without his permission, but then again, wasn't he crossing some kind of line by having a half-naked photograph of you up on his wall? Maybe. Sort of. The reluctance you had felt was easily eclipsed by your curiosity and try as you might to protect you own peace and not feel like a terrible person, after standing in the middle of the hallway for too long, listening to music and laughter and conversation bubble around you, you had stepped inside of his room anyway. 

It's spacious for a bedroom in Torrance, where the rent prices are excessive, riding on the novelty of being so close to L.A. .It's got a high ceiling, expensive wood flooring, and a massive sky view that displays the city spanning out below. He has paintings posted around the walls of the room. The sort of art you'd find some wealthy billionaire's home. That old-money aesthetic. Oil paints, smudges made from pastels, and earthy hues stroked over canvases framed in fancy, rich wood. 

But the wall directly across the from the bed — an unnecessarily large one at that; a California King with silk sheets, because of course — seems to be dedicated to important milestones in his life. Engraved plaques and photographs taken of him shaking hands with uptight men wearing business suits and oily smiles. And there, in the middle of all that over bloated self inflation and success, is a poster of you. 

There in all of its glory, is your 2022 Posing for Pollution Awareness poster, made visible by the glimmers of light projecting through the window, the soft glow of street lamps and neighboring buildings trickling over the glass protecting the picture in a soft glow. You had done it for a fundraiser. Made to bring in donations for an independent organization, all to raise money and bring consciousness to properly clean up the bay of trash. Most of the Torrance branch had agreed to do it, and you (obviously) had been among the numbers who had. 

The photoshoot wasn't anything too scandalous. What they had dressed you in wasn't much different than what you would wear at a pool or out on a day at the beach. It was a simple bikini, exposing enough to ensure that the pictures would sell but not enough that you would feel demeaned wearing it. Simple, black, a smooth material that hugged your breasts in flattering way, making them look perky, supported, and you had appreciated how it complimented them. 

You were posed out on the beach, stretched out on the sand, skin damp and glittering in the sunlight, dewy drops glowing amber from the warm luminosity. The ties of the bikini's bottoms were cinched high around your hips, pronouncing their shape, the subtle arch in your back only perpetuating the sultry position the photographer had guided you into. 

You did admittedly feel a little awkward when he had requested for you to try and give the camera a flirtatious expression, something confident and salacious. But looking back at the end result now, you don't hate it. You look . . . good. Great, if you're being truthful with yourself, and the risk of being completely narcissistic, you can see why Sonar has this particular poster secured at the foot of his bed. He even framed it. Not even in some basic, plastic frame, but in an ornate one that you would see holding a portrait, gold and exuberant. Overkill. It felt more akin to a shrine than just some dirty totem, used for him to gawk at and jerk off to. 

Surprisingly, you aren't mad. Or even disgusted like you expected yourself to be. There's no repulsion, not even as a symptom of your shock. You suppose this is the sort of thing you had assumed the posters would be used for. Sure, you had hoped that it purchased mostly as a gag gift, or more importantly, because people wanted to contribute their money to a good cause, but you weren't ignorant. You knew that some pervert out there would end up buying it for less than innocent reasons. You had just never guessed that one of those perverts would be your co-worker. 

You hate how you almost feel flattered. Maybe there's just something wrong with you, but you're more amused than anything, satisfied almost. It's funny in a way, to know that the same guy who's been giving you so much trouble, making your life at work hellish with petty little disruptions and immature jokes has been coming home every night to a massive photograph of you on his wall, framed and hung up like it belonged on an altar. 

For a brief second, the thought raises, flickering up from the fringes of your mind, passing and thin, that maybe you should finally go home. Maybe snap of picture of the poster he has with your phone for future blackmail and then leave. But that thought passes over and past you, drifting away until it's as though it never existed in the first place. Maybe it's because for the first time in a while, you feel like you're actually in control of this stupid little game that you've both found yourselves in. After months of toying with each other, stealing things, playing childish pranks, all the paint bombs you've planted in the drawers of his cubicle's desk, this is the first instance where you truly felt like you've not just evened the scales, but completely tipped them in your favor. 

And you aren't letting an opportunity like this pass you by. You aren't leaving. Not yet anyway. 

The sound of approaching laughter snaps you out of your stare, and your head jerks to face the door. You hold your breath as someone nears, their footsteps muffled as they carry themselves down the hall. You see their shadow break through the warm light that trickles in beneath the thin gap underneath the door, bobbing and swaying unsteadily for a moment, hovering there long enough to make your heart stutter, but thankfully whoever it is keeps walking. The noise of them stumbling into the neighboring room is noisy, shoes squeaking on the tiles, and the gentle click of a toilet seat being lifted and the damp retching that follows lets you know that they'll be occupied for a while. It should give you ample time to slip past without them noticing. 

You do take a picture of the poster before you leave. Just for insurance. 

When you nudge his bedroom door open, you're careful to be quiet, even with the cover of the music raucously thundering throughout the apartment, impossible to not be heard. How they haven't managed to get a noise complaint yet is entirely beyond you. You lean out just enough to glance around the hallway, checking for anyone who might be present, but it's clear, not a soul in sight thankfully. 

You're quick to slip out of Sonar's room, carefully closing the door behind you and then you're moving, treading down the hall with casual footsteps, tucking your phone into your back pocket. 

You find him effortlessly. He's right where you last saw him, except the guy who was doing body shots is now gone, and the island has been repurposed for beer pong. Sonar is playing with the few people who are scattered around him, intently watching as one of his opponents steps up, drawing his posture up straight and raising an arm to line up the shot with the triangle of cups posted at the opposite end of the island. There's a brief pause, everyone watching seems to hold their breath, concentrating as best as they all can, some only a little buzzed and others completely trashed, watching with the glazed eyes of drunks as they all track the trajectory of the ball when the man tosses it through the air. 

It misses completely, striking loudly on the counter, just a few scant inches from the cups, and ricochets off the counter, shooting somewhere into the living room, vanishing into the sea of bodies. 

"Ha! Get wrecked loser," Sonar insults maturely. Now he's the one stepping up, clutching onto a hollow ball within his fingers, shouldering past his rival, but not without passing the man another derisive comment. "Now watch and learn." 

He doesn't even look when he launches it with the flick of his wrist, keeping his eye contact settled on his opponent with a smug grin, canines sharp. All that the other guy can do is observe, just standing in place and staring as the ball coasts smoothly through the atmosphere in a graceful arch and meets it target. A bullseye, landing neatly in the center cup with an empty, plastic clatter. The sound of defeat. 

"And that is how it's done." 

Some people cheer, others wince at the other man's loss, who is now mumbling something under his breath as he harshly slaps a few bills into Sonar's outstretched palm. His grumbling is too low against the clamorous volume of the music for you to hear, but you're sure it isn't anything nice. You take the lull in the game as an opportunity, weaving through the fringes of the crowd to sidle up next to Sonar where he's backed up against the kitchen counter. He's oblivious to your proximity, too busy counting the cash that he won from the game, nimble fingers rotating through the singles and the couple of fives he'd been given before folding them and slipping them safely inside of his front pocket. 

"Good game," you compliment, settling the base of your spine against the counter, leaning your weight on it to get comfortable, standing close enough to him that you can feel the subtle hints of his body heat caressing over your skin. All balmy and unnecessarily pleasant. You try not to focus on it, instead taking another swig of your drink, even though it still makes you grimace as it goes down, spreading a blaze in your gut. 

Sonar practically flinches when he hears you, jerking a little, eyes blinking as he tilts away to properly assess you, gaze darting over you from head to toe as though he can't believe you're real. "What— you're here. What the hell are you doing here?" 

"Malevola invited me," you answer, voice pitching up to be properly heard. But it's probably needless with how keen his hearing is. 

"Mal invited—" his words clip of abruptly, a heavy pause expanding between you both, terribly silent despite the near deafening chaos and excitement fizzling and sparkling across the space around you. As though a cloud had settled over your bodies, and only you two. You dare to look at him then, watching as his eyes dart around the living room before falling steady, locking onto something with an intensity that almost concerns you. When you allow yourself to track his stare, you find Malevola. They gaze at each other from across the distance, and something wordless and personal passes between them. A discussion unsaid, one that you aren't apart of. You aren't sure if the smile on her face should unsettle you or not. 

"Cool, cool. That's . . . cool," he says and it takes you a second to realize that he's speaking to you. "So, you enjoying yourself so far? How's the punch? I made it, it's not too b—"

"It's terrible," you answer without hardly processing it, the alcohol having made you a little loose lipped. 

"Terrible," he agrees immediately. "It really is." 

"What even is it?" 

"It's vodka mostly, but there's some tequila in there too, I think. And to make it go down easier I mixed some old lemon soda and a dash of Coke." His eyes widen a little, maybe worried from how you're squinting and glaring at the inside of the cup, analyzing the opaque brown liquid like it's something toxic. 

"The drink!" he hastily adds. "Not . . . the substance." 

"I'm glad you clarified," you joke, and it catches you off guard. You can't think of a single time where you've ever been this relaxed around Sonar. Sure, he doesn't frighten you or really make you all that uncomfortable, but he is irritating, that is indisputable. Whenever you two happen to be in the same vicinity, it's pretty much a guarantee that some kind of fight will break out, some type of immature bickering. You've never really sat like this. Never allowed yourselves to exist in the same space without some type of vitriolic exchange. It's startling, really, how nice it is. Something as simple as breathing next to each other. Peaceful in a way that sort of scares you. 

It would be easy to pin it on the liquor, and hell, maybe it is. But you really don't think so. It flows too naturally, settling somewhere in your spirit too organically; two rigid, jagged pieces finally fitting together. You've spent a lot of time with him, minutes and hours and weeks, spent taunting and troubling each other with stupid pranks and infantile jokes, and right now it's as though all of that history has taken a back seat. 

He's different, almost awkward right now. Like he doesn't know what to do with himself now that you're so close to him. As though your proximity has thrown him off, made him loose around the edges. You can't recall a time where he hasn't spoken to you with some level of annoyance or smug superiority, but now he's almost rigid, shoulders drawn up tight, his left hand white-knuckling his beer as though it's a life line. He's nervous. 

"Are you alright? You're being all chill right now, it's odd." You eye him from your peripheral vision skeptically, raising a questioning eyebrow. 

"What do you mean, I'm always chill." 

"Yeah, with other people. You're always giving me shit. You literally call my team 'Dick Team' and you're constantly stealing from my desk. You took my white-out and like, eight of my pens." 

"I don't know," he shrugs, and his nose twitches in a way that's always a little adorable — not that you'd ever admit it aloud. "I guess you're just easy to pick on. Plus, you're not innocent either. Are you conveniently forgetting the time you stole my spare suits from my locker? I had to walk around the office completely in the nude; you're lucky I'm confident with my body." 

"You deserved it," you volley back. 

His gaze narrows, those milky, flat eyes squinting like he's made a clever discovery, read between the lines and now he's all self-congratulatory. You can practically see his chest puffing out in pride, heaving behind the pale fabric of his shirt, all male bravado. "You just wanted to see my dick, didn't you." 

An amused puff of air escapes you, making you pause before you take a sparing sip of your drink. "If I wanted to see your dick, I don't think it would take very much." 

His mouth drops open, lips parting in a shock that you know is fake, large ears shifting forward, intentionally overexaggerating it before he sets his expression into what seems like an offended sneer. "Are you slut shaming me right now? What makes you so confident, huh? I may have given a few hand jobs behind The Sardine for some blow, but I am not a whore, alright." 

"Sure, sure," you agree noncommittedly. It's all so relaxed, your bodies having shifted closer than you think either of you had realized in the time that you've been talking, as though some kind of gravitational pull had gradually drifted you both into the others orbit. So close that everything else becomes faint, a thousand miles away, as though the party surrounding you is a dream, all hazy and distorted and somehow, he's become reality, a centered point. Clear, and vivid, and familiar. It's almost unsettling in a way. How at peace you are standing next to him, with the fridge humming beside you, the overhead cast from the overhead lights bathing everything in a soothing glow, his warmth gliding over you when his arm brushes against yours. Too close and somehow, despite everything, it feels right. Normal. 

So of course, your mouth goes and ruins it. 

"The poster in your room, that's what makes me so confident, big guy." 

He freezes, you can feel his body go still and you want to kick your ass as soon as you register what you've said. You want to tape your mouth shut, or maybe just crawl into a hole and cover yourself with earth until decades pass and you've been able to properly forget this little interaction. But you can't do any of those things, you can't take back time or retract what you've said and now you're left to deal with the aftermath, stranded directly in the middle of it. 

"You, you went in my room?" He asks, and now he actually sounds genuinely appalled. Maybe horrified. Now you want to pour the rest of your drink down your throat in the hope that maybe if you're lucky enough, it'll choke you out and you won't have to face this situation. He doesn't give you the opportunity to defend yourself, to try and make some kind of explanation, even though all of the ones that you've been running through your head don't sound all that convincing. And the truth is just as flimsy. Almost worse than the lies you've been mulling over. 

Your best friend told me to go snoop inside of your room and so I did? 

That sounds terrible. 

And now he's leaning into your space, turning on the heels of his shoes to properly face you, crowding close while his mouth shapes into a smile, one of pure delight, all teeth. There's that perverted glint reflecting in his eyes, one you've seen a thousand times, one that's been directed at you, present with every crass joke he's ever made at your expense. Like when he sees you after a particularly rough shift out on the field, combat suit tattered, revealing strips of skin that are typically hidden, he can't seem to resist passing you a sleazy wink. It's the same stare that he gives you when he sees you at the start of your respective shifts, always greeting you with a monotone "Mornin', sugartits." A salutation that's become an expected part of your routine. 

"Oh-ho," he chuckles, excited. "Who's the pervert now, huh? Classic case of the pot calling the kettle black." 

"Okay," you roll your eyes. Pretending to be exasperated at this point really. A façade to keep him from seeing the relief that floods through you, as though a new life had been breathed into you. The alleviation that comes with dodging a bullet. 

He dips his voice low, dropping it into something obnoxious, saturated with faux modesty, his typical monotone flourishing with a lilt. "I hope you didn't steal any of my panties." 

"Ew, don't say panties." 

He goes quiet again. Leaving you both in another bout of silence, except this one isn't as comforting as before. It's unsure, brittle, shaken in a way that your dynamic, as strange as it typically is, strained and charged, has never really been before. You feel a little lost, like you've been stepping around blindly and your foot has slipped, leaving you tripping and struggling to reorient yourself in a sightless struggle. 

If it weren't for the music, you're sure you'd be able to hear yourself breathing. You've become hyperaware of everything. The fit of the clothes on your body and the brush of each individual thread rubbing across your skin, the press of the floor beneath your shoes, the plastic cup within your hand, having long since turned lukewarm, no longer chilled. It all settles you deep into the moment, planting you directly in the thick of it and forcing you to confront it. You can't hide from any of it, and nothing is helping to distract you. Not the music, not the laughter, not even the guy who's passed out on the middle of the living room floor, a man (his friend, hopefully) giggling to himself as he creatively sketches a penis on the unconscious dude's forehead. None of it works.  

"But, uh, so what do you think?" 

It takes you off guard. The abruptness of him speaking again, the almost timid nature of his tone, reluctant, soft around the edges. For perhaps the first time since you've met him, he sounds uncertain. Anxious. For a second, your brain falls blank, caught and spun up within his sudden embarrassment. He seems modest, a little delicate, prodding you for your approval, and you hate how much you like humility on him. The tips of his ears have gone a little lax, almost as though he's wilting from his own unease, gradually caving in on himself and once again he's holding onto the sweating beer in his grip like it's a comfort blanket. 

Everything feels raw. Sensitive. Like there's a new direction spanning out in front of you, expanding, stretching far beyond your ability to comprehend, but it tugs at you. It reaches for you, grasping with inquisitive, longing fingers, urging you to step forward, to take the plunge. You aren't sure what's happening between you two. What caused the shift. If it's just the alcohol getting to both of your heads, or if it's just that damned poster that's caused the change. Struck something previously unseen between you, now demanding to be acknowledged. But as much as it frightens you, you don't entirely hate it, either. It fits somehow, like slipping into a jacket that had gone ignored in the back of your closet for years, unexpectedly snug, warm and well-fitted. 

You decide immediately, standing along the fringes of a wild party that seems to exist and carry on outside of you, that you want to test this — whatever this is. You want to study it, live in it, if only temporarily, and discover where it might take you, and if it blows up in your face, then you'll take it. You'll endure it, let it roll off of your back like oil. You can take whatever disaster may come. Take the cowards way out if you have to and pretend that it was all done under the impressionable influence of liquor — one silly night and one dumb moment of vulnerability. And then you and Sonar can go back to loathing each other, returning to the security of those stupid pranks, because that's what you've always done. But for now, you can let yourself be honest, you can indulge in the odd sincerity that's swaddled you both and take that daunting step forward. 

"About the poster?" You question, though you really don't have to. "It's fine. I mean, it's what I expected it to be used for if I'm being honest. Though the frame was a bit unexpected. It's kind of sweet. . . In a really strange, sort of creepy way." 

"You think so?" He visibly perks up, ears lifting, as though he's been revitalized, life breathed back into him. 

You only shrug, but the smile you offer him is the most genuine and gentle thing you've probably ever directed at him, and it seems to soothe whatever doubts he may have had. His eyes seem to widen by a fraction, pale and glittering in the amber lights. You can hardly recall a single moment where you two have ever been so cordial. Sure, you've had rare exchanges in the breakroom. Brief interactions where you would both mind your own business or maybe, you'd coexist long enough to do something inconsequential like grabbing a plastic utensil from one of the drawers to pass it to the other, but that's about as far as your kindness would extend. You've never seen him like this, almost soft. It's jarring, especially because of how pleasant it is. 

"I like . . . looking at you." It's such a reluctant confession. It's genuine, hesitant in its delivery, like he's almost afraid to admit it. And then, inevitably, the dreamy expression on his face shifts a little, becoming familiar in the flirtation that's shown. As though he's reminiscing, thinking back fondly on filthy memories, every bit of the pervert that you're used to. "A lot." 

In any other circumstance, you'd give him hell for it, insult him a little bit for turning a good thing crass. But weirdly enough, it hasn't ruined the moment. That authenticity is still there, tender, weaving naturally through the conversation despite his antics. 

"I like you like this. Us like this, I mean. Not being complete dicks to each other," you divulge. And you almost have to force the words out. They leave you slowly, like if you utter them carefully enough, you might have time take them all back. "It's nice." 

"Yeah, I like you too — this too." He clears his throat, the pink flesh of his snout wiggling, crinkling as though he's internally admonishing himself. 

If you were still acting like your old self — the you from literally an hour ago — you'd probably tease him for it. This entire night and interaction have given you the kind of blackmail material that you could hold over his head for years, something to dangle and taunt him with whenever he gets under your skin (which is constantly). And yet, the desire to do so barely crosses your mind. It flickers over you, as quick as a dying ember, losing its heat in its trajectory and smoldering out, dark and smothered. And with its passing, something unexpected and more than a little insane blossoms in its place.

You feel crazy by just thinking it, and you want to pin the blame on the horrendous blend of vodka and tequila coursing through your system. But you know yourself. You know your limit, and yes, you can feel the liquor beginning to settle in your body, fuzzy and balmy, but it's clement. Mild. Little more than a dull thrum gliding along your fingertips and toes. You're just starting to feel a buzz, and it's no where near the point where you can't trust yourself to make proper decisions. 

You know that if you say what you really want to then you'll reach a point of no return. There will be no pretending, no way to back track. You're staring down an event horizon. But now that you've had this, seen firsthand how life can be between you two, you really don't want to return to your old ways. You don't want the anger and hatred, the constant baring of teeth and the immature, humiliating comments that you both spit back and forth at each other like venom. This connection, as outlandish and unforeseen as it is, is something you can't help craving now that you've had a taste of it, and it forces you to make a realization that you don't think you would have otherwise. That against all odds and common sense, you might actually like Sonar. 

Sure, maybe it's just a spur of the moment type of deal. Maybe tomorrow, you both will wake back up and be at each other's throats again as though tonight never happened; treat it like a fantasy. A hallucination. But if that's the case, there's really no reason in fearing the jump, hesitating to take the plunge. You might as well, consequences be damned. 

"Hey, do you maybe wanna go to your room and see how that poster on your wall compares to the real thing?" 

It doesn't take him long to process what you've said, and when it clicks, he stands ramrod straight. Spine stretching to its full height, ears directed forward as though they've locked onto a target. You don't think you've ever seen anyone's eyes light up with such delight and disbelief before. Glittering with a wonder that seems innocent despite the perverse ideas and images that are no doubt flooding his brain in a deluge of pornographic excitement. 

His attention snaps onto you, gaze narrowing, heavy-lidded with equal parts skepticism and joy. "You mean, like, looking at your boobs and stuff?"

For being so smart he has a tendency to act incredibly dense, and yet you find yourself smiling anyway, laughing softly in weary amusement. "Yes, Sonar, like looking at my boobs and stuff." 

He stares at you heavily. Long enough for you to almost second guess the offer. For you to get a little insecure. His nose twitches again, like he's trying to sniff out a lie, breathing in the air for even a sliver of hesitation or the hint of a joke on its current. He leans so close that you can smell the cologne on him, fresh and amber, robust with a subtle spice. The clean notes of it still surprise you even now. Honestly, you expected him to wear something like Axe Body Spray, not whatever this is, notably expensive and mouthwatering in a way that's kind of humiliating.

"Are you fucking with me?" He presses, the bushy shape of his brows drawing close in an doubtful pinch. "You can't dangle the promise of boobs in front of man's face like candy and then not deliver. That would be cruel, even for you." 

You long to roll your eyes at him, to jab at him for his doubts, but you don't. For reasons beyond you, you're bold tonight. You feel empowered when you reach out and grab ahold of his tie, looping your fingers around the smooth texture of the fabric, rich and fine in your hand, like water inside of your palm as you glide it up the length of the material, seizing ahold the knot secured at the base of his neck. He bows to the drag of your arm without a sliver of resistance, malleable and compliant, all of his previous bark snuffed out with a singular gesture. He lets you guide him into your space, obeying the weight of your hand as you urge him closer, eyes already glazing over like he's become high on your confidence. 

"I'm not fucking with you, Sonar. Yet." You answer, and the dopey way his ears droop, already tangled up inside the implications of your words makes you want to laugh. "But play your cards right and you just might get lucky." 

His eyes widen with the realization and then he's rambling, a hasty, stumbling stream of emotions pouring over. "Please, please, please, I'll be so good. I'll play my cards right; whatever you want—" 

"Then come on." 

You barely tug on his tie at all, and he still falls in after you, allowing you to guide him forward as though he's been lured in. Hypnotized and trapped under a spell. You both barely have the minds to leave your drinks behind, forgotten and abandoned in favor of the anticipation and hunger. You move your way out of the kitchenette, Sonar close on your heels, and through the flurry of enthusiasm and sound, you can hear him muttering to himself, brief utterings like, "Holly shit, I can't believe this is actually happening." 

It makes you smile, amusement bubbling in your chest, fluttering and light. But you don't make it out of the party unseen. Celebratory voices rise up, following after you two before you can step down the hallway — the Z-Team. Whooping and hollering from their places scattered around the apartment. Wolf-whistles pitching high, laughter popping in the air like fireworks. 

To your utter surprise, Sonar doesn't make a comment, missing the prime opportunity for him to shout something douchy. He's too busy chasing after you, mind narrowed down into tunnel vision, pinned on you, locked tight. 

It happens in a blur, the trip down the hallway, with how desperate you both are, the thrill of what's to come alive and sharp, working through your bodies like electrical currents. And then you're back in his room, and he's stumbling in after you, quick-footed and taut from his suspense. 

"Go sit on the edge of your bed," you order as soon as the door is shut. 

"I always knew you'd be the dominating type," he comments, voice syrupy and thick, all satisfied in his quipping. He obeys your command without resistance, walking across the room quickly to seat himself down on the mattress, creating a divot there with his weight. He settles his hands in the middle of his lap, fingers flexing like he's concentrating to combat his own urges, knuckles turning pale. "Don't worry, I know the rules: I can look, but I can't touch." 

You huff in amusement, briefly eyeing your poster as you step away from the door before you shift your attention onto him, moving to stand close, directly in front of him. He seems captivated by your movements, staring as you shift yourself in front of him, standing so close that there's only a few inches between your legs and his knees. Just enough room for you to comfortably move around and toe off your shoes, swiping them out of the way with the kick of your feet. 

When you lower your fingers to the metal button of your jeans, thumb circling and pressing it down to guide it through the buttonhole, he narrows in on the movement with a zealousness that delights you. It lights up in your veins like an aphrodisiac, hot and pulsing, made intense, overwhelming by the way he watches, as though he's fascinated by your every micromovement. Captivated by how you softly sway your hips to aid your arms in rucking your pants down from around your waist and past your thighs. They pool down around your ankles in a pile, meeting the wooden floorboards with an almost inaudible thump. 

You're taken off guard about how you don't feel and ounce of shame or humiliation. It's almost impossible to with how he's observing you, eyes large with fascination. Awe. You didn't imagine that Sonar would be capable of this type of admiration. Innocent in its intrigue despite what you're doing being anything but innocent. He's just . . . tender. Soft even though his want is palpable. Noticeable with the white-knuckled grip he has around his own hands. 

It's all the drive you need to reach from the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in single movement. You let it fall to the floor as you step out of your jeans. And now you're standing in front of him in nothing more than your undergarments, which are completely unsexy. They don't even match, just a basic, lace bra and a pair of cotton underwear, blank gray and boring. 

But Sonar is still staring at you as though you created the entire night sky, strung the stars up and molded the moon with your own bare hands. 

"I'm not a striper, Sonar. You can touch me," you say, already reaching behind your back to undo your bra's clasp. 

"You serious?" His jaw drops a little, fangs poking out, fully exposed from his disbelief. You wonder what it would feel like if he bit you. 

"Very," you reply. And then with a few practiced movements, the fastenings come loose, the straps around your shoulders go slack, already slipping from their perches and you let them shift free. Your bra drops down by your feet with the rest of your clothes, and now you're practically naked. The tepid air gliding over your breasts has your nipples hardening, but the salacious look he gives you, roving over you from head to toe, is white-hot. He hasn't even touched you and you already feel as though you're being eaten alive, consumed piece by tiny piece at a time. 

But his hands aren't off of you for long. Suddenly, they're there, taking ahold of you, warm and greedy. They slip around your ribs long enough for him to hold you, moving you in between the spread of his thighs with so much enthusiasm that you nearly trip on your feet, but he manages to keep you steady. And then they brush around the shape of your torso in a pair, leaving fire in their wake as they move to grab onto your breasts in avid handfuls, fingers tensing to squeeze. 

"This is so much better than how I've imagined it," he remarks as he kneads the swell of your chest, tracing the shape of it with his thumbs. 

"Yeah?" you breathe, arching into the press of his fingers when he plucks at your nipples, circling them in teasing glides, causing a thin gasp to snag in your throat. "Better than the picture you've got right there?" You angle your head, gesturing it towards the wall behind you, trying to focus as he continues to play with your breasts as though they're the most fascinating things on the planet, kneading them in zealous gropes. 

"Oh yeah," he answers without a second of delay. "That camera really doesn't do you justice in comparison to this; you have no idea." 

But you think you do have a pretty good one with how eagerly he's still grasping at you. There's no opportunity to tease him for his desperation. The words you had ready, forming in the back of your mouth are snuffed out as quickly as they were building, vapor in the hollow of your throat. Because now he's tilting forwards, jaw hinging open to lick a long, steady trail between your breasts with the flat of his tongue. It's wet, leaving saliva glittering on your skin, pleasure darting on your nerves from the slick weight of it. 

He fucking purrs. Guttural, contented clicks lifting from somewhere deep behind the pit his ribcage as he tastes you. You feel his fangs graze your flesh alongside the drag of his tongue, lethal pinpricks caressing over you in sharp nicks. When your gaze drops downward, jumping to glance down at him, he's already watching you. Eyelids droopy, the flat white of them turned a little vacant, like he's managed to get drunk off of some simple heavy petting. 

"This okay?" he slurs around the width of his tongue, refusing to detach the press of it from your body for so much as a second. As though the separation, no matter how temporary, would be debilitating for him. Soul crushing. 

"Definitely," you nod. 

He doesn't verbally respond. He only hums, a long, satisfied vibration against your skin; you feel it bone deep, trembling inside of your marrow. He gets adventurous now, hands shifting, moving reluctantly from your chest to explore the rest of you. They're everywhere, seemingly all at once. Your back, your waist and hips, moving low to grope the shape of your ass, massaging the fat with an appreciative rumble. And then he's sealing his mouth around your right breast, maw large enough to encompass the entire thing within the stretch of his jaw if he wanted, lips clasping around the nipple to suck. 

Your spine bows, muscles coiling from the suction, damp and molten, the serrated edges of his teeth lightly dragging over it, and the dull pain rips a weak moan from your lungs. He's fast to calm the sting with his tongue, circling the large point of it around your nipple, easing the muted throb. 

In a blur he's hauling you up into his lap, arms coiling around you like steel bands to secure you to the length of his torso. It leaves you scrambling, gripping onto his shoulders for support, nails biting into his shirt, and through the abruptness of it all you notice it — Of course, he's already hard. Firm and pressing at you through the fabric of his pants. His hands return to your waist, starved for friction, self-restraint fraying around the edges, and he grinds himself between your thighs, right up against your cunt. 

You didn't exactly have a plan for this encounter. It was impulsive, abrupt, and you didn't have anything particular in mind except that maybe you'd let him see you naked, maybe you'd tease him a little, indulge in some harmless fooling around. But those initial intentions were quickly slipping right out the window. Maybe they'd been tossed out of it as soon as he'd gotten his hands on you, or maybe they were just a lie you had been telling yourself the entire time. Stupid and flimsy. Meant to trick your own mind, so you could pretend that you didn't want anything more from him. Giving yourself the curtesy of pretending to be shocked by your own actions when you roll your hips to meet his. But deep down in your bones, in the center of your body where your soul might sit, you know you want this and so much more. 

He moans when you swivel your hips down, driving them in a steady roll directly against his, right on his cock. He says something, mumbled and clipped around the edges, too distorted for you to make out, but you catch a few swears and pleads scattered inside of his murmurings. Little glimmers of 'fuck yes' and 'just like that.'

It comes over you like a wave, great and sudden, rising within you in a lashing of instincts that can't be ignored. You take ahold of his face, directing it out from your chest, and his loud complaints go disregarded to your ears in favor of threading your fingers through the silky tufts of his fur and nudging his chin up to press your mouth to his. 

"Oh, c'mon, don't take 'em away from me ye—" His voice dies out on your lips. His body goes still under you, muscles tensing as though he doesn't know what to do with himself. But his stupefaction is temporary, and now he's moving, hands roving over you and clasping tightly like he wants to steal you away and hoard you for himself. 

Kissing him takes a moment to figure out. The mechanics of it aren't the same as it would be with a regular person. His mouth is larger, a little wider, and the narrow shape of his fangs frame the corners of your lips when you press them against his own, the sharp points of them scraping over the delicate skin. But you do manage to find a rhythm, as unusual as it is, though it's not unpleasant by any means. Only different. 

It's sloppy, bordering on harsh, though that's mainly due to his enthusiasm. His tongue lapping inside of your mouth, the serrated edges of his teeth nipping, and spit smears from the messy exchange. You've never been particularly aroused by sloppy make outs. You've endured one too many guys who think its sexy to punch their tongues into your mouth, lacking any kind of technique or tact. Locking their lips with yours like they're trying to eat your face whole, but somehow, despite his fervor, he manages to do it in a way that doesn't make you want to crawl out from your skin. 

There is a kind of restraint to it. You can feel it in the way that his muscles coil beneath your palms, taut and flexed, as though he's really repressing the desire to extend his jaw and eat you alive. Maybe that should terrify you. He did used to eat people, those are some of the rumors that circulate SDN, at least. That during his stint as a villain, human flesh was a key part of his diet. But you aren't scared of him. A part of you even likes it — not the death part. Just the teeth, the prospect of him biting, and you can't help but imagine what it would be like if those honed barbs of enamel would sink through your skin. 

The thought of it, the brief fantasy has you lose control of yourself for only the flashing of a second. Your powers pour from your body in a flare, an uptick of it surging, and in a blink an invisible push has Sonar shoved back on the bed. The oxygen from his lungs escapes him in a whoosh. He stares up at you, eyes wide from his place on his back, arms splayed out and pinned down to the mattress by the thrumming of your power. You expect him to complain, to bitch a little about being thrown around, but there isn't a shred of offense on his face. Once his initial shock wears off, satisfaction takes its place, smug and delighted, as though there's no other place on the entire planet that he'd rather be right now. 

"I love a woman in charge. So, now that you've got me all vulnerable and at your mercy like this, what are you gonna do with me?" His ears lean forward while his mouth pulls into a smile, eager, ready to be used up. He's not fighting against the weight of your power. He's malleable beneath it, fully relaxed. 

Honestly, you don't know what you want to do with him. You didn't exactly plan to shove him down like this, but now that you have him here, flat on his back and compliant, it's not an opportunity that you can let slip by. It's too good to pass up. 

You let your sight spill over him, taking in every inch and detail that you can from your perch around his hips. The heave of his chest, the smear of spit around his mouth, glittering in the warm spill of light projecting through the window. If it wasn't for his fur blocking the view, you're pretty confident that he's blushing, the skin beneath the thick cover of hair flushed red. He's pretty like this, in a lethal, monstrous kind of way, eyes glimmering and eager. 

"You gonna let me do what I want?" you ask, pressing your hips down over his bulge, dragging your pussy right over the length of it. You're already wet. You can feel your arousal soaking your underwear, making the fabric cling to you, and the texture of the fabric presses right over your clit when you circle your waist over him. 

"You can do absolutely anything you want to me. My body is yours." Such a cornball. And a slut, not that either of those things surprise you in the least. 

You don't bother touching him outright. You let your ability do all of the work, mentally shaping your power to pluck at the buttons of his shirt like fingers, carefully slipping his tie loose from around his neck. You feel him try to press into the weight of your field, and you cut him some slack, easing up the pressure enough to give him room to move, to really feel the hum of the energy pulsing around him. So he can indulge in the brush of it gliding across his chest as you continue to pluck the buttons free.

More and more of him gets revealed to you as you work, and you take in each bit of him that gets exposed in an appreciative stare, tugging the drape of his shirt down and over his shoulders between the squeeze of his body and the mattress. You've wondered an embarrassing number of times how far the fur around his head travels. If it just stops at his neck or keeps going. His hands are human, that much you know. And the bit of his forearms that are visible seem the same, except for the thick smattering of hair that peeks out past the rolled-up cuff of his sleeves above the base of his elbows. But that never gave you too much to draw a proper estimation from, no matter how much you tried to imagine it. 

Now you finally have your answer. With the final button undone, you're able to tear the front of his shirt open with a lazy push of your powers, gripping ahold of the cotton material with a tangle of energy, and his compliance allows you to tug the sleeves down from around the length of his arms simultaneously. It leaves his shirt nothing more than a wrinkled-up pile of fabric under his waist, forgotten and useless, and his torso is now deliciously bare. Free for you to ogle him, shameless and starved. 

The fur keeps going from around his neck, spanning down his shoulders and upper arms. It's thick around his chest, as full and dark as the rest of it, completely covering his pectorals in a rich coat. His abdomen is bare though. Human, pale soft skin, defined and shaped by light muscles — abs, he has abs? — that you didn't expect; lithe but still visible. And there, from top to bottom is a thick stretch of hair that splits directly down the middle of his torso, expanding out from his chest, starting from his sternum and scattering in a path all the way down until it vanishes under the waistline of his pants. Referring to it as a happy 'trail' wouldn't do it any justice. It's too broad, made from a heavy scattering of coal gray fur, probably almost as wide as the width of your palm. 

It's stupid how hot it is. 

"Like what you see, huh?" Sonar gloats. "I knew you would." 

"Oh, shut up." You scoff, but there's no real bite in your voice. You're too distracted to really chide him. 

"Nah," he responds. So much arrogance dripping from one tiny word. He's a little too confident in your opinion, content and relaxed underneath the pulse your energy, white-hot, an electrical field molding around the shape of him, swaddling, stroking against his skin and fur. It's made him relaxed. Happy to lounge and soak up the sensation of it all. 

"I could shut you up, you know?" You lean in a little, just enough that you can feel the warmth from his muzzle brushing over your nose. "Pretty easily." 

"I'd love to see you try," he goads. 

You don't bother with any cheeky one-liners or boastful assurances; you just do it. The field flowing from your skin funnels, molding down into the vague shape of a hand, elongated fingers stretching around the width of his snout to trap it shut, wrapping and overlapping to seal his jaw together. Tight enough to be secure, but not enough to cause any pain. But you want him to feel it. To know that it's there, and you aren't disappointed. You see the realization creep in on his face. First, it's confusion, brows drawing close in a bewildered furrow, and then understanding dawns after, eyes expanding as he stares at you. It's that particular expression that makes you feel truly in control. You've got him at your fingertips, spun up and contained within the threads of your grip like a fly strung within a web. But unlike a fly, he doesn't seem all that concerned with getting free. 

All of his initial shock has drained away, fleeting, and now all that remains is pure, unadulterated joy. As though he's thrilled by the prospect of being put in his place, pinned down beneath you. You should have expected this honestly. All of the months he's spent burrowing under your skin, plunging himself there like a thorn, burrowed deep and irritating. It makes sense, and you're pretty disappointed with yourself for not noticing it sooner. All of the verbal sparring in the past, the stupid fights and arguments, they've been foreplay to him. 

. . . And for you too, if you're going to be truthful with yourself. He knows how to get you heated, how to piss you off in just the right way, more often than not, about the most inconsequential, pathetic things. It was only four days ago that you two spent, probably about fifteen minutes fighting over the copy machine and who got to use it first. 

(You were both so caught up with being petty that two other people had used it while you were arguing.) 

You both debated with more passion required for something so trivial, crowding up into each others spaces, so close that you could smell his cologne. It was a simple thing, and if it were anyone else, you would have been more than alright with allowing them to go ahead before you, but it wasn't anyone else, it was Sonar. And because of that, you two remained that way, caught up in the tension building between you, thick and toxic like poisoned fumes, because the hatred gave you an excuse to be close. 

But you don't need that excuse anymore — you probably never did. Now you can sit in his presence and not have to pretend to loathe the air he breathes. You can touch him and not make excuses for the soft-edged fuzz that fills the center of your stomach whenever you're around him, wedging behind the pulse of your heart, cradling it in cotton and warmth, soaked in sugar. 

It's a little terrifying, how much you like this. Him. But you don't want to run from it either. Not now at least, when you have him splayed out and wanting. 

You shift back, moving the press of your body from his hips to slip a little lower, settling down across his thighs instead. Sonar responds as best as he can, a mournful, petulant groan rumbling from his chest in an inarticulate complaint about the absence of your weight on his cock. You know that if he was still able to talk that he'd be giving you a mouthful right now. You can see his desire to grumble and protest reflecting in his eyes, burning and passionate. That bit of indignation is doused out quickly as soon as he notices his slacks being unbuttoned by an invisible force, the polished button slipping free from its notch with a simple tug. 

You only pause long enough to give him ample time to reconsider, eyeing him from your place on his thighs with an evaluating stare. You don't let him free completely, easing up the potency of your hold enough for him to give you some kind of indication that he's having second thoughts. You get the total opposite. His head lifts up, now free to do so, craning downward so that he's able to properly look at you, chin brushing against his chest. And then he's nodding, frantic and overzealous; muffled words are trapped behind the ghostly hold around his snout. You can't understand the majority of it, but you are able to make out a smothered "hell yes, please," before the rest becomes completely inaudible. 

That's all it takes for you to slip the zipper down its metallic teeth, pulling it with a hand that isn't truly there. You let yourself watch the show, sitting back on the support of his thighs, while your powers do all the work. He just as entranced by the display, staring down while his pants and boxers get rucked down in a steady grip, bunching up in their downward drag. You lift yourself just enough for the rest of his clothes to slip off around his ankles, and you remove his shoes and socks with it all in one firm tug. They fall down somewhere at the edge of the bed, landing with a pronounced thump. 

He's fully naked know, exposed to the scope of your attentions, and you are entirely brazen as you take in the sight of him. Visually eating up every sliver of his body like it's a feast for your eyes — to you it is. Because damnit, as much as that tiny part of you that's trying so badly to cling onto your hatred doesn't want to admit it, you have to. He is pretty.

He's there, all of him, spread out for you to admire every detail. The athletic muscles and the subtle divots of his ribcage contacting with his every breath; the way the dim whisps of light catch on the dark smoky hue of his coat, tracing along the pale hue of his skin in fragments of gold, his large eyes shimmering like twin pearls as they watch you. 

And then there's his cock, long and rock hard, head flushed a dusty pink. He looks turned on enough for it to seem painful, the veins trailing down the considerable length are throbbing — leave it to Sonar to be practically ready to bust from a little dry humping. He's already leaking, precum trickling from the tip in a decent flow, pouring all the way down the entirety of his cock and dampening the thick bush of fur covering his balls. It's a pretty impressive amount that he's produced considering that all you've done is some making out and a little grinding. You can't imagine what it'll be like once you actually fuck him, how soaked and full he'll get you. It's almost humiliating how much the thought of it affects you, and your blood seems to turn molten at the prospect of filled up to the brim until its leaking out of you, your pussy clenching around nothing. 

"Christ, Sonar, is this normal?" You can't keep the awe out of your voice, but you can't be bothered to contemplate how your obvious astonishment is going to have terrible consequences on his already inflated ego. 

He's not able to give much of an answer, but the flirtatious way his brows lift up is conformation enough. You can practically hear his voice in your ears despite his silence, a conceited, "Pretty impressive, right? There's a lot more where that came from." 

You don't sit in your stupor for long. It's difficult, now that you have him in front of you like this. You don't resist temptation any longer. As much as you want to touch him yourself, to bask in the warmth of his skin against your palms, you also want to be able to absorb every twitch and microexpression unencumbered, and so you let your powers encapsulate him entirely. It's holding his mouth, sweeping over his chest, pinning down his hips, and now, it's coiling around his cock. 

He tries to lurch, body involuntarily shaking and jerking against the weight of your influence, restrained and embraced within the expanse of it, but he's helpless. Caught. 

You mold the shape of your power around his girth, fitting snuggly over the whole length of him, tight and heated. You get to watch as the glide of that indiscernible grip smears the wet rivulets of his cum over blushed skin, making him soaked and messy. Maybe it's a little mean how you get to toy with him like this. Sitting, (mostly) unaffected, turning him into your own personal entertainment while he's tortured by a pressure that he can't see, only feel. And it's everywhere. You extend it across the planes of his body, encompassing him, stretching hands and solid weight over his chest, threading a stimulating energy through his flesh and sinew, saturating him at a level that'll root down to his atoms. 

Phantom fingers rake through his fur; they caress his skin and seep into his limbs like a throbbing warmth. It has to be overwhelming. Agony in the best way possible, and the expression on his face reflects that. It's crumbled, all pinched tight as though he's in pain. His chest heaves, a thin breath hiccupping within the back of his throat, a purr blurring with a pathetic whine. 

It's such a good look for him, pathetic and a little fucked out. 

"Is this what you do when you're in here?" You lean forward, holding yourself up by settling your hands on the base of his hips, fingers gripping onto the silky coat that envelops his lower waist and upper thighs. "You sit in here at night jerking off to a poster like some kind of perv." 

He's nodding again — it's all he can do while you keep him muzzled and work his cock with firm, invisible strokes. Drawing his arousal out of him, making it spill from him in a flow that's thick and constant. He tries to speak regardless. He's rambling, a flood of words gushing from him, welling up inside the hollow of his throat with no where to go. And maybe you're just weak willed. Pathetic in your own way, but you're intrigued — desperate, really — to hear what he has to say. 

As soon as you release his mouth, a deluge of comes rushing out of him, utter filth. Voice all slurred and rapid, carried out on a moan that almost sounds pained. " — ou have no idea. So many nights. So many fucking nights, fucking my fist wishing I was pumping into you instead. So fucking — I can smell you right now and it's killing me. I want you to soak me; it's gonna feel so good. I know it will. C'mon, ride me, sit on my face, I don't care. I don't —" 

It's a snap kind of decision. Jarring in its arrival. Hurtling down on you with all the mercy of a violent storm. But it's so inspired by the sheer scope of his want, the passion of it, that you're tired of all the fanfare. You two have been at it for long enough, the constant push and pull, the denial of feelings, and the fissures that's been weakening your resolve have finally grown too wide, and it splits your restraint right down the middle. With the loss of your self-discipline, your powers go with it, the gentle weight that you've been suppressing him with vanishes like a light. 

"Sonar." You breathe, collecting yourself as best as you can. Gripping tightly onto his thighs to steel yourself against the rampant emotions welling up inside of you. That want, the anticipation; lust and liquid fire blazing in the pit of your stomach. "I want you to fuck me. Think you can do that?" 

"Do I think—" His eyes narrow with his offense, growing sharp at the challenge. It's the only warning you get before he's hauling you up, hands as strong as iron when they grab onto you and flip you over on your back. The air in your lungs slips free, rattled from the jarring swap in perspective when you meet the mattress with a cushioned thump. He's over you now, caging you in with his hands on either side of your face, his hips wedged between your thighs, forcing your legs open, keeping you pinned and helpless by his weight. 

He's so close that he blots out the poor streaks of light spilling inside of the room, and now it's only him, eaten up by shadows. Consuming your vision, and he almost seems wild. His teeth glimmer, soft and lithe like porcelain. Only inches away from your face, it's perhaps the first time you've actually considered how massive they are. But you're forced to confront it now with how close they're hovering within your proximity, imposing, fatal in their potential to sink into you and tear. By all accounts, it should be a little terrifying, but you aren't scared. 

Like a damned degenerate, you're only turned on. Maybe it's the threat of danger, or maybe it's because it's just Sonar. It's hot because he's the one who's draped over you. Trapping you in place, keeping you wedged between the warmth of his body and the smooth press of a comforter that probably costs more than your monthly income. If it were anyone else, you'd have the urge to resist more, but for whatever reason — from pure horniness or something deeper — you trust him. 

"You're a real pain in my ass, you know that?" He sneers, lips pulling back to flash those rows of jagged teeth. His eyes flash, red scintillating behind the white, opaque hue of them; a hellish glow. It's the same shade that overtakes his stare whenever he goes full bat, crimson, monstrous. It makes your heart race a little faster. "Always walking around with that holier than thou attitude." 

"Because you're such a delight to be around," you quip. 

"I mean, I must be, considering that you're the one who dragged me into my bedroom during a party so I could fuck you," he snarks back. And yeah, he makes a good point, but you aren't going to tell him that. 

You could insult him back, take the boring, simple route to try and one up him. But in the duration that you've been co-workers, you've learned a thing or two about Sonar, and it's this: Despite being a savvy, tactful business and con man, that intellect and cunning do not follow him throughout all of life's facets. He may be guileful, but when it comes to sex, he's a complete and utter sucker. And you can have him in the palm of your hand if you lean into those vices. It's a little dirty, but, maybe it's his fault for being easy. 

You soften your expression, refocusing it from irritated to coy. If he was a little sharper, he'd be able to see right through it, but Sonar is a slave to his desires and it clouds his judgement. You know as soon as he sees the tender, flirty look on your face that you've got him. Hook, line, and sinker. And all it takes is for you to turn a little bashful, playing into the act by arching your back, flaunting your breasts and shoving them directly into the plush fur layered across the contours of his chest. 

You reach up with both hands to cradle the sides of his face, combing your fingers through the dark fluff there, curling them to scratch your nails over the soft skin underneath to relax him. He melts like butter, going lax as though his skeleton is made of wax and he's been held over hot coals. Eager and willing. The sharp, pitchy chirps that reverberate from the pocket of his lungs, trilling through the depths of his throat, are telling enough that you've got him right where you want him. But if you had any doubts, that glazed sheen that glosses over his eyes would have been enough to destroy any of that uncertainty. 

"Come on Sonar, you've finally got me right where you want me. You said it yourself, remember? All of those nights spent right here, all alone with nothing but your hand, wishing I was here." You draw him closer and he lets you move him. His arms bend and drop down until he's holding himself up with his elbows, leaning in towards you so his nose is brushing on yours. It lets you tilt your chin towards him, angling your head so that you can press a kiss over his mouth, chaste and brief, a brush against the smooth shape of a single fang. "So why don't you just take what you want?" 

His body has gone tense. He feels like a live wire being pulled from both sides, taut, muscles quivering and skin searing. You can feel his cock, heavy and throbbing, sitting on your stomach. You can't see it from how close your bodies are, but you know that he's still leaking. Precum is dribbling onto your bare skin, leaving it damp and wet from his arousal. 

Usually you would tell a guy to eat you out before hand, or at the very least, stretch you out with their fingers before they even think of putting their dick inside of you. But you really don't think that you have the patience for that tonight. You're pretty sure that if he doesn't get inside of you within the next five minutes that you might actually lose it. 

"Sonar, please —" 

He severs your voice off before you can finish speaking. "I'm gonna fuckin' ruin you. Don't say you didn't ask for it." 

You hardly register the sound of fabric tearing over the throaty snarl of his voice, but you feel your underwear being ruthlessly ripped from around your waist. He shreds them like they're made of paper, flimsy and delicate, but the noise they make is as harsh as the bite of them tugging into your flesh before they give to ferocity of his pulling. He's reduced them to scraps, and you just barely manage to track the scattered bits of their remains fluttering through the air when he tosses them. Or what's left of them. 

You aren't super upset about the loss, but you wouldn't have had the chance to be pissed off anyway, because in what seems like a near instant, he's slipping cock down to the entrance of your cunt. Notching the head there, getting it slick and soaked, and then he's pushing himself inside in a single, brutal stroke that steals the oxygen from your lungs like a hit to the chest. 

You're wet. You've been wet since the moment you had gotten him pinned down on the bed, but that doesn't make taking him all at once any easier. You vaguely catch yourself shouting his name, you feel your arms fly up to grab at his shoulders for stability, but it all seems so distant. As though you've been separated from your body, already overwhelmed from the girth of him splitting you open, forcing your pussy to adjust and give around the shape of his cock. It fills you with an ache that almost hurts. A sting that throbs and sears through your middle, but it also feels good in the best way possible. A sensation that balances delicately between the blurred line that splits pleasure and pain into their respective halves. 

Your hips twist, body involuntarily floundering like it doesn't know if it wants to shift away or move in closer to the weight of him. You aren't sure what you want either, tortured deliciously on the length of him, devastated and hyper-stimulated, and you've only just started. 

"Ah, ah, ah." He admonishes, arrogant, catching your waist in the tight clasp of a single hand. Holding you down on the mattress. He's smiling at you but it's all teeth. "You wanted this so badly. So be good and take it." 

He draws himself back, retracting his cock until he's sitting inside of you by only the tip, and then with another long push he's fucking himself inside of you in a grueling pace. It's deep, heavy strokes. The kind that hits spots inside of you that you haven't had a guy find a long time. It shows a level skill that you really weren't expecting from Sonar. As much as you wanted to sleep with him, you never truly bought into all of his bravado and flaunting, especially those boasting his supposed sexual prowess. You figured that he was just gassing himself up. That he'd been lied to by one too many women and was actually out of touch enough to believe them.

You've never been happier to be proved wrong.  

"Shi — God — fuck, Sonar." You ramble in disbelief, words shoved up out of your throat by the repetitive drag of his cock. Your fingers lock around the width of his shoulders, nails digging into them with enough strength that you know they're splitting flesh under the edges. He doesn't seem to mind the bite of them though. 

Air puffs from his lungs, the amused brush of it gliding along your face. You know that your blissed out cries are doing wonders for his ego. He's going to be unbearable after this. If he was hell to endure before this, then every second at work from this day onward are going to be insufferable. But it's worth it. Absolutely worth it. 

"Feelin' good, aren't you." It's rhetorical. Even your brain, as stunted and sluggish as your thoughts are becoming, is still able to gather that much. You nod regardless, your head rolling loosely on your neck because you can't be bothered to manage anything else. All you want to do is take it. To let yourself be greedy, delightfully overwhelmed. You hear him chuckle, low and smug in your ears. "I love you like this. It suits you, pretty and fucked out. I should keep you right here, in my bed, all the time. Sounds like a good plan to me, what do you think?" 

"Fuck yes," you answer, breathing through a particularly intense thrust that makes your eyes roll. 

"Yeah," he rumbles. "I agree." 

His hips grind down on you, catching your clit on the rough patch of hair on his pelvis, and the texture shoots sparks over your nerves. You chase after the sensation of it, lifting your legs up to circle around his waist, rolling your pelvis to meet the rhythm he's set. Drawing out the ecstasy that lights up within you, eating its way through your bones and veins, rippling up your spine in a thick spiral. 

He groans when you tighten around him, curling in on you to drop his head into the junction of your neck. He swears into your skin, strained and inflected with quiet tremors. The hand he has around your thigh squeezes, and the talons that's grown in place of his usual filed nails catch on your flesh, dragging to leave marks, etching the evidence of his grip onto your body. 

"Do that again," he begs, groaning lowly against your throat. "Just one more time. Feels so good —"

His words are clipped off. Dead air when you tighten yourself around him again, gripping him with your cunt, wet and warm. You aren't disappointed in his reaction. He whines a little, pathetic and relieved, as though you've grazed over something buried deep inside of him, vulnerable and gutted. He jerks up, muscles coiled as though it takes a great amount of effort and discipline to do, lifting himself above you so that he's bearing most of his weight on his knees. And then he's raising an arm with the movement, stretching it out over you to cling onto the headboard, holding it so tightly that you know his knuckles are bleached from the strain. 

It has your hips tilting, shifting from where your ass is settled on the front of his thighs and it makes the angle he's fucking you in change. He hits so deeper than before, the width of his head grazing right along your g-spot and your jaw drops from the heavy strokes. 

"Sonar," you gasp raggedly. 

"Victor," he replies. Spits out between the clench of his teeth. 

"Huh?" You ask dumbly, brows furrowing while you pant through each pronounced thrust. 

"It's Victor. Please say it. I wanna hear you say it. Thought about it so much." He babbles. 

Despite the fact that he's in the middle of railing your brains out, you smile. A lovestruck, drunken grin. It's sweet. Nice. Your heart swells a little, because regardless of your old hatred for each other, all the hostility and aggression, he's willing to share something so personal with you. Sacred. You decide then that maybe it's only fair that you return the exchange, even though he didn't ask for you to. It just makes sense. You have to focus to say it, holding in a gulp of air so that you're able to properly vocalize, and once you can, you don't hesitate. You say your name, loud and clear. 

His eyes go a little wide at the sound of it, lighting up with recognition, and you could laugh at the adorable expression if you weren't so preoccupied. 

"That's my name," you offer. 

"I know." He responds, nodding as best as he can. "I . . . shit . . . I hacked into Blazer's computer and read you file a little after I got boarded onto the Phoenix Program." He notices your confusion, sees the shock blatant and bare on your face, and he must feel regretful because his brows furrow, something that seems a lot like a worried frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That's not a turn off for you, is it?" 

You should probably be angry. Or annoyed. It's a clear invasion of privacy and a clear violation of company security and somehow, once the surprise wears off, you don't manage to feel so much as a flicker of rage or irritation. You're indifferent. Uncaring, but maybe that's only because he's balls deep inside of you, and once this is over, that repressed indignation — if there is any — will come swelling up the surface. Now though, you can't be bothered to care. 

"No, not really," you shake your head, though it's a little restricted from the pillows crowded around your skull. 

"Cool." 

The entire interaction is laughable, and it's exactly the sort of thing you had expected from him — Victor. It's a fitting name for him, though you probably wouldn't have guessed it yourself if you had been asked to —

"Victor!" you gasp abruptly, chest heaving at a rough drag. His cock ploughs through you, and it sounds sloppy. Wet, messy noises fill the room, made each time he pulls himself out of you and thrusts back inside. 

"Yeah, just like that. Let me hear it," he urges, leaning as close to you as he can while still gripping onto the headboard. The mattress is creaking, or maybe it's the bedframe, rattling and groaning with every grind. Even with the music playing throughout the rest of the apartment, if anyone were to wander down the hall, the noises coming from inside of this room are unmistakable. It's bad enough the Z-Team had practically announced to everyone at the party what you two were doing in here, but that doesn't mean that you want someone to be able to listen in, either. 

And the noises he's pulling from you don't help matters, but you can't help it. He's got you stretched open, dousing you with fire and bliss with every rock of his hips, punching moans from you with too much ease. 

"Slow down. People are gonna hear." 

He seems affronted by the mere idea of it, eyes squinting into a glare as though you've slapped him (but he would probably enjoy if you did that, honestly). "I don't care. Someone could come crashing through the door like the fucking Kool-Aid man, and I still wouldn't stop. Let them hear." 

And maybe you are thankful that he doesn't change his pace, because you can feel yourself getting close. The muscles in your abdomen flex with your impending orgasm, drawing tight to hurtle you over the edge. Dragging you closer and closer to the fringes of a rapture that feels molten. Scorching liquid pooling in the base of your gut, searing within the junction of your hips to ravage you from the inside out, smoke searing through your sinew and blood. 

It's building within you with a startling ferocity, twisting and frothing under your sweat-slick skin; a torrent of sensation seething at a bone deep level. You grab at whatever you can to settle yourself through the anticipation, nails digging at his shoulders, his chest, reaching around the claw at his spine. If it wasn't for the fur cloaked thick down his back, taking most of the damage, you're pretty sure that you'd be leaving scratches behind, nasty and raw. 

He groans, some rumbling noise that comes from a place deep inside of him, right from the depths of his lungs. It urges you to look at him, lashes fluttering as you nudge your chin to stare at him above you. It's impossible not to admire him like this, sweat glittering over the sections of his exposed skin, simmering in faint flecks of gold, made more dramatic by the shadows pouring over his body like spilled ink. Your vision traces over as much of him as you can, struggling to keep your attention focused through the bliss eating away at your soul, but you manage it. Sweeping your vision over the arm gripping onto the headboard, muscles made defined from the tension keeping them stiff. The tendons and veins in his wrist bulging from the exertion, locking his fingers around the the wooden structure in a vice grip. 

His focus is drawn elsewhere, head bowed downward to watch the pornographic view of his cock repeatedly plunging in and out of you. Ears tipped forward to listen to the wet smack of him filling you up, stretching you open around his girth. You can't help but to look now, angling your chin to see it for yourself. Taking in the way his abdomen heaves, abs clenching as he drives himself into you, his girth visibly soaked with the combination of your arousal.  

You can't help how seize up, pussy clenching around him and he practically whimpers because of it, gasps slipping from his mouth in low, thin puffs of air. "Fuck, you're getting so tight, it's — baby, you're, you gettin' close? You gonna come for me?" 

You're barely able to make yourself nod, much less talk, and all you can push from your throat is a sluggish sounding "Mmhmm." 

"Yeah, I can tell," he remarks, settling back into an arrogant, but weakly put together façade like he wasn't just whining because of you a few seconds ago. "I wanna feel it. You can let go for me, make a mess. I wan' you to soak me with it. I need to smell you on me for days." 

It's disgusting, utter filth, and yet you don't think you've ever been more turned on in your entire life. His mouth latches onto your breast just as his free hand wedges between your bodies, shifting low for his fingers to slip between the slick press of where you both meet, thumb finding your clit with deft precision, careful not to accidentally nick you with his claw. He works tight circles around it, and you jerk from the gush of pleasure it provides, ecstasy hurtling through your blood stream like an electrical pulse. He keeps his pace consistent, steadily working you up, the heat swelling to a new high, suspended by the sweep of his damp thumb around your clit and the wet suction of his tongue. Lapping and tracing your nipple into his mouth, grazing it shallowly with his teeth. 

You're right there, just a tiny step away from the precipice, a long drop that'll sweep you under, and you chase after it. Rolling your hips to meet the drive of his own, hurtling you both closer to your respective orgasms. And all it takes is a few more thrusts, the heavy drag of his cock stretching you open, repeatedly nudging into that sensitive spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll, the repetitive coast of his thumb working around your clit, for you to tip into a devastating end. 

You try to warn him, a weak moan cresting from your throat, but that's practically all you manage. A pathetic hiccup of his name, broken and lazy on your tongue, but he understands the warble regardless. 

"That's right. Give it to me, le' me feel it," he urges, a smoky purr in your ears. When he detaches his mouth from your chest with an audible, sloppy pop, tongue sticking out to lick a path up to your shoulder, you aren't expecting him to sink his fangs into the junction of it. The pain bleeds through you right when you come, either exceptionally well-timed on his part, or executed purely on luck, but the sharp throb of it is the final push you need to give in to the rush. You light up like you've been thrown into a pyre, everything in you drawing up tight like you're bound in tugging strings. Clenching, muscles spasming almost violently to wring out every possible ounce of pleasure. 

Your nails dig into the flesh on his back, sinking past the barrier of his fur to scratch. You feel the sound of his moan reverberate along your fingertips, humming across your throat from the clasp of his teeth banded around your neck. You hear the whimper in your ears, a punched out, elongated murmur, broken up only by a string a profanity and pleads, and then you feel him come, only seconds after you. It floods you with warmth, a steady, copious flow that fills you up, full to the brim and drenched from the warmth of it. Your spine arches from the sensation of it gushing inside of you, waist angling up in some primal urge take in every last drop. 

He groans deeply, an exhausted, satiated noise before he lets go of the headboard and all but collapses onto of you, cushioning his fall by temporarily taking the brunt of his weight on his elbows. His body crowds over yours, shoulders hunched as he closes over you, satiated with the kind of satisfaction that hums in one's marrow, down in their blood. But he doesn't stop. He's not even pulling out at this point, he's just grinding against you, pressing the subtle swell of his pelvic bone into your clit in sluggish, languid swivels. 

You're sensitive from your first orgasm. Everything feels raw from the pleasure still popping and fizzling across your nerves, aftershocks ebbing and flowing through you. It makes the press of his hips grinding against yours almost too much, too good, too harsh. He still hasn't let go of your shoulder, though his teeth have slackened, the bite of the enamel going lax, but not releasing, and the sting makes you twitch and tremble.

It catches you off guard, the blossom of it heating between the messy apex of your thighs, completely unexpected. You come again, much gentler than your pervious. A smaller orgasm riding off of the first, light and fleeting in comparison, but just as good in its own way. Sweeping over you in a dreamy, balmy glide, a summer gale ghosting over your skin, making your thighs twitch, ribcage shuddering from the delicate weight of it. 

It's only then that he stops, the overstimulation having become too much for the both of you, and the sluggish grind of his hips slow to a halt. He sags against you completely, relaxing with an appeased sigh, and he finally releases his teeth from around the tender, raw flesh on your shoulder. He lets his head slump on your chest, nuzzling into the shape of your breasts with a pleased huff, and the massive width of his ears unintentionally nudge across your nose with the movement. 

You want to laugh, maybe you do, but it's difficult to tell with the flood of endorphins surging through your system, stuffing your brain full of a calm, hazy fog. You're covered in a layer of sweat; his cum is trickling out past the plug of his cock, wet and slick across the inside of your thighs, and he bit you hard enough that you won't be surprised to find out that you're bleeding whenever you manage to drag yourself to the bathroom. The bastard. Most people only have to worry about hickies, but it feels like he damn near took a chunk out of your shoulder. 

You wince at the sting, groaning lowly when a dull throb pulses over your nerves, and that seems to attract Sona— Victor's attention. He lifts his head up from your chest just enough to properly look at you, and you notice his eyes shifting through the glow of the city lights, flickering as though he's assessing you. He looks like a mess, but you doubt you're any better. His fur is all disheveled, the long tuft between his ears is mussed, his eyes are hazy, clouded over from sex, and there's a clear smile tugging softly at the corners of his mouth. 

"Don't worry, you're not bleeding," he mumbles, still slurring at little around the edges. Well that answers that, at least. His eyes rove over where he sank his teeth into you, no doubt appreciating the impressions that his canines have left on your skin. "I'm sorry for biting you, I kinda have a tendency to get a little caught up in the moment." 

You roll your eyes at that, not judgmental, just amused. "No, you're not." 

He hums at that, a syrupy, gratified noise. Thick, rich, a purr. "You're right, I'm not." 

He yelps when you swat at him, smacking your hand on his back, but it's mostly out of surprise. You're still sluggish. Limbs rubbery and lethargic, and you know that even your best hit right now wouldn't be enough to cause any actual pain.  

"Ow," he grouses. "The hell was that for?" 

"That was for biting me, you ass." 

"I said I was sorry." 

"I know," you reply, unimpressed. But he's easy to soothe, the furrow between his brows smoothing out as soon as you press a kiss the tip of his nose. The silence that follows after is tranquil in a way, and you both just allow yourselves to sit in it. Absorbing the silence (well, it's sort of silent, you can still hear the party outside bleeding in past the walls), enjoying the other's body heat and the rise and fall of your chests. He takes the lull as the opportunity to slip out of you, and you both hiss from the sensation of it, too tender for it to be enjoyable. Worse than that though, is the gush of his cum pouring out of you, a profuse amount, way more than a normal man would produce, and now it's soaking down your thighs. 

"Shit, that's . . . a lot," you mutter in astonishment, mostly to yourself. You can feel it cooling on your skin already, becoming tacky, sticking your flesh as it trickles down the swell of your ass in a stagnant flow. It's disgusting. So gross, and so soon as you find the will to move, you're immediately taking a shower. 

"Yeah," Sonar agrees, but it doesn't share a single shred of your awe or mounting disgust. He's knelt down between your legs now, attention fastened down on your cunt, no doubt watching how his cum is flowing from you in its abnormally heavy pour. His hands settle across your thighs, squeezing them within his palms, massaging the pale ache from them as he gently guides them open, spreading you so that he can get an unimpeded view. "Can we stay like this, for just a minute?" He asks, and the expression that crosses his face lets you know that he's not above begging for it. 

"Ugh, you're such a guy, I swear," you grumble, but it lacks venom. You don't resist or make any effort to deny him. You remain reclined, settled back on the rumpled blankets, swaddled in the silk, cool and gossamer on your heated skin, catching your breath. 

"I now the timing is a bit weird, considering I'm staring at your pussy right now, but . . . " he trails off, gesturing his snout down towards the middle of your legs, and you don't resist the urge to playfully nudge your knee into his side at the motion of it. He smiles a little at the jab, but it's a dull one. The hesitance in his voice doesn't fade. He remains soft spoken, hushed, as though this moment is fragile and he's afraid it might shatter if he handles it too roughly. "I just want to say that I am sorry. For how I've been acting, how I treated you when we first met. . .  I know it's not much of an excuse, but I was embarrassed, I guess. You were this sexy, bigshot hero — someone who — " he sighs. "I've followed your career for years, believe it or not. And then I was just fucking up. Right in front of you, and I hated it. And then I made you hate me, so . . ." 

"So you've been acting like a dick this entire time because you have a crush on me?" You ask bluntly. It's without hatred, or the means to offend. You don't want to ruin this, to squander it or give him a reason to withdraw inside of himself, to hide behind his usual ego. He's being a genuine, a rare show of the man who lies beneath all of that debonair flirtation, and you're drawn to it, his vulnerability. His trust in you. There's an undeniable sweetness there that you long to explore, to understand on an intimate level, saccharine and serene. 

"Well when you put it like that it sounds stupid." 

"Because it is."

"Hey, I'm trying to be honest here. So can you not? Way to kick a guy while he's already down." There's no true snark in his tone. Maybe some frustration but that seems to stem from himself, rather than you. It's humiliation, clear as day, etched in the gold and the dark that filters in through the window, winking lights bathing the room and the shape him in their shifting, incandescing hues. Spilling over his embarrassment like a spotlight. 

If you're being honest, you have to take some of the blame. You were fairly quick to cast your criticisms on him, to snub him as soon as you met. Labeling him off as a lost cause and you hadn't bothered looking back, did it without a flicker of hesitation. You'd met him when he was in a stressful situation, and even though he absolutely handled it poorly, baring his teeth, lashing out as though you were the problem, you hardly paused to properly consider him. You gave up. Just like he did. You both hold an equal number of wrongs in this, choosing to squabble like a pair of middle schoolers instead of sharing a conversation like actual adults. It's uncomfortable to think about, to confront the reality of it. To admit that you aren't perfectly blameless. It's bitter, a vile pill sitting on the flat of your tongue, but you will yourself to swallow the truth down anyway. 

"It's fine. I treated you pretty badly too." You sign deeply, and for a moment you allow your focus to flicker about the room, a temporary distraction from intently he's watching you now. This entire thing should be a whole lot more awkward. You're naked, he's naked, and he's sitting directly between your cum smeared thighs, and somehow, despite all of uncertainties, it's not so bad. It feels natural, in a way. As simple as breathing. "We both made some mistakes. We were stupid. Really stupid. I mean, we could have been doing this the entire time if we'd just pulled our heads out of our asses." 

You joke to lighten the mood, and when you return your attention back to him, you're relived to see that it worked. That the smile on face is a little more authentic, the ghost of his usual demeanor slipping back into his body. His posture straightening, filling out with his confidence; expression now relaxed, blithe. "A true shame," Victor agrees. 

"I guess we'll just have to make up for lost time then." It travels across the atmosphere like a kind of offering. An extension of an olive branch, a white flag waving up in a hopeful surrender. A vow, a promise, an extended hand waiting to be accepted, taken in by another reaching palm. 

His smile is answer enough, appeased, happy. The remnants of the worry that was clinging on to him has finally relented, withdrawing its claws to slink back, forgotten. Like maybe, a part of him had been worried — expectant that you would want to go back to the way things were. To pretend that tonight never happened, a moment of weakness that would get shunned into the shadows. But that's not going to happen. Not in a thousand years. You want this. Whatever it is. And now that you've had him, seen what you can have with him, you're not letting it slip from your grasp so easily. 

"Yeah, I guess we will," he agrees. 

That feeling passes between you two again. The same one you experienced back in the kitchen. That hopeful, wistful shift. A current gliding between you, sanguine and irresistible. A lure, a shimmering of lights that you both can't help but fall for. 

His grin stretches, turning wolfish, sharp but no less ecstatic, canines flashing, pale and lethal. The grip on your thighs strengthens, fixing around you tightly just before they release to settle his palms on the bed. It makes the mattress shift when he moves, his knees whispering over the silken blankets when he bullies his shoulders between your thighs, settling the flat of his stomach down to rest comfortably within the spread of your legs, making a home for himself there. Carving a place as though it's where he belongs. 

His breath spills over you, clement, rasping over your sensitive skin. His eyes glimmer in the dark, large white coins, duskily reflecting the lights belonging to the city skyline. He looks starved again, already desperate for more. You know what's to come, you can feel it ripple through the air, still scented with the heady perfume of sex. 

"What are you doing?" You really don't have to ask, but you do it anyway. A smile presses at the corners of your mouth while you watch him from the support and comfort of the pillows haloed around your head, holding you up to aid you in getting the perfect view. You watch as he gets comfortable, hands smoothing up, massaging your thighs, fingers tracing over you as though you're something to be cherished, but he looks at you like he's wants to eat you alive. Until nothings left, bones, blood, all licked clean on his tongue. You think you'll let him. 

"What's it look like I'm doing?" He angles his head, sweeping his lips along your flesh. "I'm cleaning up my mess." 

It's going to be a long, long night, but you've got no complaints. 

[scwanncell]

Work Crush

Day One - Orgasm Control and Masturbation - Josh Futturman

MDNI

A long and painful work crush reaches its climax (hehe)

———————————————————————

My god he’s pathetic. You’ve seen him at work and yeah, he’s cute, but he’s pathetic. You try not to be presumptuous, but it’s pretty clear he’s got a crush of sorts on you. But delighting in the sick torture of making him nervous, you’re flirting back boldly and waiting for him to make the first move.

Or at least that’s what you said two months ago. Because now you’re honestly annoyed at him. You sit at your office desk, watching him mop up spilled possum fluid as he tries not to look back at you. Usually you would play it cool, but yesterday had been Valentine’s Day and you’d been certain he was going to make his move that day. So, you take a deep breath and walk over. God you hope it’s not all been in your head. But when he looks at you like you’re some Ancient Greek statue crafted from gold and marble, you know you’re right.

You reach out and put your hand on his arm and he swears he just went into cardiac arrest. He stares at you, eyes wide and somewhat terrified.

“What are you up to tonight?” You ask upfront.

“I was gonna play video games in my room…” he replies.

“Maybe you can teach me if I come over?” But his face goes to stone and he looks mortified at the idea.

“N-no you can’t because… because my parents are over-“ he is not about to tell you he lives with his parents.

“Oh okay, maybe you can come to my place tonight then.” You hand him a piece of paper you’ve scribbled his address on and saunter back to your desk without waiting for an answer, desperately hoping he’s staring at you.

That evening you wait at home uncomfortably. You’ve cleaned, cooked (ordered and received pizza), and dressed up in a low cut shirt. You didn’t give him a set time, and you’re not sure he has your number, and that interaction was genuinely so awkward you’re having second thoughts. But it’s fine. Because once the doorbell rings, you relax. His heart is hammering and he feels like he’s on death’s door for the second time that day because when you open that door, in that shirt, he just gulps. You smile and lead him in. “Thought we could watch a movie and eat pizza on the couch?” And he just nods at you, still unable to speak, eyes glued to the cleavage on display. You grin and bring the pizza boxes to the sofa.

Learning from the mistakes of the last few months of thinking he has any initiative whatsoever, once you finish the pizza you move closer to him and place your hand on his thigh. You hear his breath hitch and smile to yourself, then look up at him innocently. “Is this okay?” He nods at you, unable to speak from the breath caught in his throat. You trail your hand higher, then lower, looking up at him. “Thought I was never gonna get you here, all to myself. Got really annoyed at you for not making a move…” He looks terrified at that. “Don’t be angry… I was scared, you’re so pretty, and I-“ he stops when your hands travel back to your shirt to undo a button, eyes transfixed on you, and you watch his neck as he swallows, wanting to sink your teeth into it, waiting for a sign that you can. But for once, he makes the first move, leaning in to kiss you.

You kiss him back, immediately leaning into him and placing your hand on his thigh, and soaking up the groan he exhales into the kiss as you do. You slide your tongue along his bottom lip, revelling in the whimper that he lets out when he opens his mouth to grant you access. You reach for his hands and place them either side of your waist, kissing him deeper and letting yourself taste in his mouth. “Taste so good baby…” you mutter, and he whimpers again. You climb onto his lap and cage his head in against the sofa, and he looks up at you, pupils blown wide, heavily breathing. And you can feel him. “All this just over kissing, baby?” You ask, earning a delicious whine. You lean in to bite his neck softly, but enough to hurt a little, still irritated at how long you had waited. “Seen you staring at me at work”, you whisper between applying soothing licks to the bite, making his eyes roll back, and tiny begs to leave his lips, barely audible. “You think about me, baby?” He nods at you, still pleading for more. “What do you think about?” You ask, teasingly. He whimpers, and it’s just as hot as the first time. “Think about you, think about touching you, think about kissing you, running my hands through your hair, think about-“ he cuts himself off, embarrassed.

“Tell me.. nothing to be ashamed of…” You whisper. “I think about you too, Josh. I think about… undoing your belt, taking down your boxers and how I’d lick and bite your thighs until you begged, then finally let you feel my mouth…” you open his belt, then look at him for permission, and he begs you, the words falling from his mouth like he’s not even in control of them himself, pupils blown wide and mouth agape. His lips chase yours and he kisses you as you take him out of his boxers. “You gonna tell me what you thought about now?” You ask, as he moves to touch himself. He groans pathetically, sending heat right between your legs, as you lean in to suck deep marks into his neck as he talks. “Thought about how it would feel to touch you, to see… what’s under your shirt… to taste you… made me lose my mind...”

You look up and his eyes are rolled back as he’s touching himself. You take off your shirt and he whines, one hand reaching out to touch you as the other speeds up on his red, swollen cock. You sit back and watch, and he looks embarrassed, but so fucking hot. “Is this what you would do when you thought about me?” You ask, unable to look away as his hand travels up and down his length, pre-cum prickling at the top. He nods, pathetically. “Keep showing me baby, keep going for me. Grip it harder.” He whines and does as he’s told, desperate to be good for you. You watch, unable to decide whether to watch his face or his cock. His face contorts with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure, and his cock is starting to leak a steady stream of pre-cum. “Doing such a good job…” you say, slipping your panties down from under your skirt and letting your finger tentatively find your clit in front of him. He groans loudly at the sight, his hand speeding up. You collapse next to him on the couch, legs spread wide, touching yourself. You lean over to kiss him as you both get yourselves off, the air thick with desire, sweat and the wet, debauched sounds filling the room. You watch as his hips start to buck into his hand as he gets closer, and you slap his face. “Not until I say.” He groans raggedly, but nods, slowing his hands down, and you’re amazed at the control just your words are having over him. He’s so hard it hurts, but he looks over at you, waiting for command, looking at where you’re touching yourself and groaning. “Go on, slowly.” You watch with sick glee as he jerks himself slowly, torturously slowly, as his dick throbs and he throws his head back against the couch. It’s perfect. It’s a sight you could watch for hours, as he covers his hand in his sticky pre-cum and works his way from tip to base. “Want you to touch your balls with your other hand…” you breathe out and he whines loudly, his other hand finding his balls and cupping them, as he turns to stare into your eyes.

You work your fingers around your clit faster, staring at him, watching his orgasm build. You grab his hand to stop him for a second time. “Not yet. You know why? Because if you had just asked me out months ago, you wouldn’t have to be waiting. But since you kept me waiting, I’m gonna keep you waiting.” He whines pathetically, but he’s not pleading, and you know that somewhere in his weak little mind he’s enjoying this. You let him watch as you curve your fingers and push them into yourself, making a show of moaning. You sink them in slowly and move them in and out, letting him watch as he slowly jerks himself pathetically, knowing it’s all he’s getting, dick twitching violently. You bring yourself to the precipice, eyes on him, then cum, whispering his name. He moans and whines as he fists his dick desperately, waiting for your command, waiting to be allowed to cum, eyes begging you, drinking in the sight of you stretched out. You open your eyes when you come down from your high and withdraw your fingers, bringing them up to his mouth. He opens his mouth and takes them in without instruction, eyes rolling back at your taste, tongue wrapping around your fingers as his hand speeds up on his cock. You withdraw your fingers and he whimpers at the loss, then groans as you lean in to kiss him, then before your lips meet, you whisper against them, “now”, then pull away, watching as his eyes roll back into his skull, whimpering loudly, as his dick twitches, his balls draw up, and his sticky white semen pulses out onto his stomach in thick pulses, coating his hand and his stomach.

He lays there spent against the couch as his dick leaks out more slowly, staring up at you with his deep, brown pathetic eyes. You press a kiss to his lips, then clean him up, and the two of you fall asleep against the couch.

[coquettepascal]

good boy

summary: you and your boyfriend, clark kent, get stuck in an elevator. you make very good use of the situation.

tags: 18+, smut, porn some plot, established relationship, f!reader, clark is crashing out, sub!clark, oral (f!receiving,) perv!clark, pantyhose fetish, scent fetish, praise kink, coming in pants (m!), clark is a little rough but it's out of desperation, clark lifts reader up

written for: an anon!! anon asked for something super spicy with clark kent and mentioned that they wanted something with sub!clark during work hours. they also said it's their birthday on the 25th, so happy birthday anon!!! i hope this scratches your sub!clark itch.

a/n: this fic was not supposed to even be a Fic fic but here it is and it's yummy

wc: 2.1k (written in one sitting sorry if there are mistakes)

my masterlist - my askbox - updates blog

Clark has been… struggling lately. Perry recently asked him to try writing about something not Superman related. Apparently the people of Metropolis are leaning toward more grounded pieces right now, like firemen saving a cat. Or something. Clark was only half-listening. 

It’s another day of sitting at his computer and just staring at the screen. It’s halfway through the week, he needs to get something written by Friday morning at the latest, and he has nothing. He can feel Perry’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head, making his shoulders hunch up as if they could protect him from the scrutiny of his boss. He barely remembers what writing about not Superman related things are. It makes him feel guilty and selfish when he really thinks about it. Nobody knows that he’s actually been writing about himself this whole time, but he knows. He knows his writing integrity is somewhat shot if he can’t come up with anything. 

So he wallows. And wallows, and wallows, and huffs, and chews the end of his pen, and clenches his jaw. 

Stubborn. Ma always said he was stubborn, never wanted to do things differently than he thought they should be done, and when he would do something someone else’s way it’d never be done happily. He guesses maybe he hasn’t improved on that. It isn’t like he doesn’t want to write the piece though, he does, he just feels like he’s floundering. 

Clark flounders until finally the clock says it’s one, and Jimmy taps him on the shoulder to tell him to go have his lunch. Thank God. 

He grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder with embarrassed haste as his other hand reaches out to sleep his monitor. He’d really hate for anyone to see his blank Word document for the third day in a row. Ugh.

His eyes stay trained down as he walks to the elevator, but his heart rate picks up. The door dings, and Clark feels his heart jump.

“Hi,” you say, smiling up at him. “Lunch?” Yes. Duh. Of course.

You’ve been going out with Clark for maybe two months now, but you’re keeping it under wraps. Apparently Clark doesn’t want to get a reputation for sleeping with his co-workers, which you think is dumb because you aren’t his co-worker. You work upstairs, you’ve never worked with Clark, and you only met him because you guys take lunch at the same time. 

The doors close after Clark steps into the elevator. He presses the button for the main lobby, and it starts to move down.

“How are you?” You test. Obviously you know about his current writer’s block problem, and from the look on his face it isn’t getting any better. 

“Fine, I’m fine,” he nods, his right hand fidgeting with itself. He sucks in a breath, then blows it out. It feels like the elevator is slowing down as you look up at him with a sympathetic gaze. “How’s it feel to be dating the worst writer at the Daily Planet?” He asks jokingly. Maybe half jokingly.

“Clark,” you scowl, reaching over to pinch his arm. “You are not the worst writer at the Daily Planet. You’re just having a tough week.” 

Clark’s face morphs into a frustrated pout, looking more upset over this than ever. His hands flex out, then in, and he sighs. It really feels like the elevator is slowing down now. Is the elevator slowing–

KA-THUNK.

“Oh great,” Clark mumbles. 

The Daily Planet building is old. Really, really, old. And the elevator is a total piece of shit, or at least it is now. Last year the elevator was so problematic that it got shut down for a full month while they “renovated” it. Evidently those renovations didn’t work, probably because the “renovations” didn’t improve the elevator itself, but rather replaced the buttons on the panel and added doors that didn’t squeal so loud.

You look up at the lights displaying what floor the elevator is on, only to see that it’s stopped between the second and first level. Your body deflates at the sight of this, knowing that you’ll probably be stuck for all of your lunch and then some.

“Great,” Clark says, getting a little worked up now. He dumps his satchel on the floor and starts to walk around the small space. “No, this is awesome. I–I mean really, this day couldn’t get better!”

This is not the first time you’ve seen Clark crash out a little bit. He’s never crashed out on you, but anything to do with work or world events? Yeah he’s pacing and talking to himself. 

“Nothing works here! I sit at my desk and I don’t work, and my brain doesn’t work, and now this dumb elevator won’t work either!!” Clark says. He’s pacing faster than usual, pushing his hands through his hair and then freaking out more when his fingers get caught in his curls and pull at his scalp.

You stay quiet, sagged against the wall of the elevator as you watch him stop walking. He stands still, and then very quietly, you hear him whimper. Clark’s hand comes up, covering his eyes, and then his arm reaches up toward the ceiling corner and he knocks small security camera to face upwards. 

He’s crying. 

“Hey, Clark,” you say his name again, trying to be soothing but not knowing how. He towers over you in this small space, his form looking so pathetically sad yet still so enormous. “Clark it’s okay, you’ll be alright? Maybe the elevator getting stuck is a good thing, maybe you’ll come up with an idea while we wait.” You offer.

It’s no use though. Clark lets go of his face and then steps toward you, curling himself down so he can cry onto your shoulder, his glasses pushed up the instant his face meets the fabric of your dress shirt. 

“Oh,” you say softly, your hands rubbing over his back, “I know, I know. My poor boy.” He nods into your shoulder, sniffling. 

“I’m not good at writing anymore,” he says quietly. 

That makes you roll your eyes. He’s being overdramatic, and he knows it too, but he’s upset so you’ll let it slide for now. 

“No?” You ask. He nods into your shoulder. “Then what are you good at?” 

Clark is very quiet. 

“Being your boyfriend,” he responds, “I’m good at that. Right?” 

This big baby. It’ll kill you if he keeps acting so sad. 

“Yeah, you’re a real good boyfriend,” you agree. You turn your head so you can press your nose into his hair and nuzzle there. “You’re good at taking me out, and holding my hand… giving me kisses and being so very gentlemanly, right?”

These words seem to work better than consoling him about his job. His whimpers soon slowly fade into nothing but snuffles, though he still clings onto you. 

“You’re a good boy, Clark. I don’t want you being so hard on yourself.” You continue. That praise seems to have a somewhat unintended effect, Clark going a little stiff in your embrace. A mischievous smile grows on your face. He’s clearly worked up… he could probably spare some of that energy. 

“You wanna be a good boy?” You ask him gently, more teasingly this time. 

If Clark had a tail, it would be wagging right now. 

He turns his head to the side, kissing at your neck as he nods, murmuring “yes” into your skin between kisses. You laugh, a little impressed by how quickly his mood changed, but try to compose yourself. 

“I think we have maybe thirty minutes before the elevator technician shows up,” you tell him. Clark nods, starting to kiss down the neckline of your shirt with hot breath. 

“I can be good for you, that’s enough time,” he says before dropping to his knees with a heavy thud.

He’s so eager, looking up at you through his dorky glasses and smiling when your legs part slightly for him. You’re still leaning against the elevator wall, the flat railing digging into your lower back, and Clark seems to notice that might be uncomfortable for you. 

“Here,” he mumbles, shrugging off his suitjacket before reaching behind you and shoving the jacket between you and the wall. It cushions the impact of the railing somewhat, but you lose focus on the pain in your back as soon as he starts shoving up the material of your skirt. 

“This is too tight,” Clark complains as he forces the skirt up your legs. He gives the fabric an especially hard tug and you swear you hear a stitch rip right before the skirt finally piles on your hips.

“There,” he basically moans, leaning forward to press his nose into the crease where your thigh and crotch meet. You’re wearing pantyhose today, plain sheer ones that match your skintone, and you know it’s driving him nuts. Clark is a little bit of a pervert when he wants to be and over the past two months you’ve had to buy many new boxes of pantyhose since he keeps tearing them off you.

Clark drags his nose, and some kisses, down that crease until he’s nosing at your slit through your undies and pantyhose. “Smell so good,” he mumbles, inhaling your scent. His tongue slides out of his mouth, licking you over the layers of fabric, and you moan at the sensation.

“Good boy,” you say again. Clark’s eyes shut at the praise and he reaches up, squeezing your ass. “You’re doing so well, baby, but you gotta hurry up. You don’t want us to get caught, right?”

You’re being mean to him. You know that he definitely doesn’t want to get caught in this position, huffing his secret girlfriend’s pussy through her clothes, hard as a rock in his slacks, but the thought of it is probably driving him wild. Also you don’t want to get caught. As lovely as he is when he takes his time, you need him to hurry up. 

He seems to get the memo. 

Clark’s hands slide from your ass to the fronts of your thighs, pulling them apart. Then, one hand slides back, cupping your bum again, only to lift you up. With one hand. 

You don’t know where he finds time for the gym, but god you’re grateful for his strength.

His free hand searches the center seam of your pantyhose, finding a weak spot while he noses at that crease again. He’s still sniffing you like a degenerate when his big fingers burst through the flimsy material and he’s tearing a hole in the crotch of your tights. Clark’s too excited now, not even using his hand to pull your undies to one side, but instead using his face. It heightens every sensation, having your body lifted and exposed while he buries his nose into you, tongue sliding out to finally taste your tang. 

“O-oh fuck, good boy, Clark, good fucking–” you cut yourself off with a shaky breath as he starts lapping up and down your slit messily, his glasses sliding up and down his face as he does so. 

“Am I,” Clark pants, his tongue lashing out against you needily, “am I good at this?” 

You’d roll your eyes at him if they weren’t rolled back in your head. Clark needs reassurance right now, you know this, but seriously? How could he not know he’s good at this? “Yes, Clark, yes,” you confirm shakily, “you’re so good at eating my pussy. So talented with that pretty mouth, using your tongue and nose too like a good, dirty, boy.” 

He tries to catch his breath as he makes out with your cunt, but he just can’t seem to keep up with his own excitement. Pitifully, he humps at the air. You feel bad as you watch him completely come apart as he eats you out, wishing you could touch him too, but then… then you don’t have to.

The hand holding you up grips tightly suddenly, and you look down in concern. Your head leans forward just enough to see the pained expression Clark makes as he ruts erratically into the empty space in front of his crotch, essentially just rubbing his dick on the inside of his boxers and pants. He’s whimpering wildly into your cunt, tongue lazily flicking across your clit as his nose puffs out breath on the top of your mound. He’s coming. 

A damp spot is stained lightly on the grey fabric of his trousers by the time he’s finished. You are exceptionally wetter than before, a mix of his drool and your wet soaking the surrounding fabric of the hole in your tights and your pushed to the side undies. 

“Mmh,” Clark moans weakly. His hips have stopped moving, but he’s yet to put you down or move his face away from you. “D-do we have more time? Can I keep going?”

>///<

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[h3ll0kitty-6988]

I love needy men so much it might be a crime.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

HAND IN UNLOVABLE HAND

PAIRING: THOMAS HEWITT X FEMALE READER

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 5.8K

SUMMARY | This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

WARNINGS | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT; DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT - this is slasher fan fiction with canon typical violence, mentions of blood, death, cannibalism and gore. if slasher fiction is not your cup of tea, please keep scrolling.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT: vaginal fingering, male masturbation, oral sex - f receiving, unprotected p in v, size kink, choking, creampie, praise kink

OTHER WARNINGS: no use of y/n, dual pov, able bodied reader, reader being picked up/carried, virgin thomas hewitt, no skin masks, monsters in love. if i’ve missed any tags, please kindly let me know.

Thomas hears a scream while he’s out in the barn. It cuts off so quickly he damn near thinks he imagined it but if he holds perfectly still and listens, listens, listens, there are noises that don’t belong. A grunt, a smack, a mumbled curse. Knife in hand, he ventures out in search of the source. 

Out on the road there’s a car, hood up and smoke billowing from the engine. A man has a woman pressed to the driver’s side door, forearm tight against her throat and a knife poised in front of her face. Red creeps into Thomas’ vision and his fingers begin to ache around the hilt of his own knife but just as he steps forward, something amazing happens.

The woman spits at the man’s face and in that brief moment of surprise, she brings her hands up and shoves the man back. He stumbles, falling to ground. The knife falls and she goes after it, lunging across the dirt and rocks. The man wraps a hand around her ankle, tugging her down and dragging her back as she screams, fingers digging into the dirt. She kicks, once, twice, the third time finally connecting with a painful crack to the man’s shin and sending him down to the ground again. She crawls away, grabbing the knife and scrambling to her feet. Thomas can see her chest heave with ragged breaths, skin glistening with sweat in the Texas heat. 

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

She approaches the man, the knife brandished in front of her. The man rolls onto his back, holds his hands up. A surrender. The woman doesn’t care. Her boot slams into his skull, a shout echoing in the vast emptiness of the road and fields. Thomas feels himself grow hard, pants tightening around his cock. He reaches down, adjusting himself.

The man is on his hands and knees now. Blood streaks his face and drips to the dirt, baptizing the land in violence. She kicks him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach, and stands over him with a leg on either side of his body. The breath catches in Thomas’ throat as she reaches down and tangles her fingers in the man’s hair, lifting his head. The man stares directly at Thomas and his lips move, a cry for help, but he doesn’t hear it. No, not when all his focus is on the way the woman leans close and drags the blade across the man’s neck and the skin splits, muscles and tendons ripping with the force of it and red, red, red spilling free. 

The man’s gaze grows empty and the woman loosens her grip, his head dropping to the ground. She drops to her knees, slams the knife into the man’s back over and over and over, roaring fiercely as she does. She’s covered in the red, red, red, clothes soaked through with it, skin stained and sticky. When she’s finished, she collapses on the ground beside the man, on her back, basking in the sun.

It’s then that Thomas approaches, his shadow falling over her, broad body blocking the sun. She blinks at him but doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run. 

Thomas holds a hand out to her.

To his surprise, she takes it.

Your mind is somewhere in the clouds as you walk beside the lumbering giant that carries John or Mike or David over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, is nothing. The body bounces with each step and you find it almost comical, lips twitching as you fight a smile. Something simmers in your veins, more potent than the adrenaline of the fight or the relief that you won another day against life’s shitty hand. 

This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

A house appears on the horizon, a two story Victorian era farmhouse that must have been impressive once before falling into a state of disrepair. There’s a woman on the porch, arms crossed over her chest and a stern look on her face as she watches the two (or is it technically three?) of you approach. 

“Bring ‘im downstairs. I’ll tend to the girl,” she says. The man looks at you, hesitating to follow the command. You give him a nod, the slight dip of your chin enough for his shoulders to relax. His heavy footsteps rattle the dilapidated porch as he disappears inside the house.

The woman leads you to the kitchen and pulls a chair out from the rough wood table for you to take a seat. You watch as she wets a cloth before returning to your side. Cool water hits the hot skin of your face and the rough fabric drags away the dried blood. Her touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You do all that to the fella my boy was carryin’?” She asks.

“Yes,” you reply, voice cracking on the single word that claws at your vocal cords. 

“‘Atta girl.” She smiles. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you.”

She sets a glass on the table and you don’t hesitate to reach for it, chugging down the cold water so quickly it makes your stomach turn. She wordlessly refills it for you, twice, before murmuring a gentle, “That’s enough now, you’ll turn your stomach sour if you keep it up.”

“What’s with this fuckin’ car out on the road?” A voice yells from outside the house. Through the window you catch a glimpse of a man in a Sherriff’s uniform, shotgun held loosely in his hand as he approaches the house. The woman stands, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You don’t say nothin’, alright? You let me handle Charlie,” she commands. You nod.

The man appears in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on you. His leery gaze traces you from head to toe and you fight back the shiver that threatens to race down your spine. Your gaze drops to the floor as he addresses the woman.

“What’s with the whore?” He spits. 

“She’s a guest.”

“A guest? This a bed ‘n breakfast all of a sudden?”

“Thomas brought her up here.” As if summoned by his name, the monster returns. He looms behind the other man, silent. There’s a bucket in his hand that he drops to the floor with a loud clang that makes you jump. The woman pats your shoulder. 

“Tommy boy is takin’ in strays now, huh? What’s next, he’ll find himself some dumpster baby and finish buildin’ a whole happy family?”

The monster, Thomas, grows tense. His shoulders lift and the muscles of his arms flex, his eyes narrowed on the man who’s giving him a shit-eating smile. 

“Tommy, honey, why don’t you bring your guest to one of the rooms upstairs?” The woman suggests. Thomas shoves past Charlie and into the kitchen and stands wordlessly by your side. She nudges your shoulder and you stand, following him as he stomps through the second door to the kitchen. 

Shouting starts up as you leave, the words muffled when the door swings shut behind you. Thomas leads you upstairs to the second floor, where the hallway dark and a thick layer of dust coats anything it can reach. With a grunt he opens a door at the end of the hall and stands aside to allow you through the doorway. 

The room is bare save for a small but tidy bed and dresser. Despite the dust in the hall, the room itself is surprisingly clean. You sit on the bed, testing the squeaky springs with your weight. You look up at the man.

“Your name is Thomas?” You ask. He nods, once, a sharp dip of his chin that has his dirty hair falling into his face. You tell him your name and his blue eyes blink back at you, the only acknowledgment you’ll get.

He lingers for a moment, eyes searching. It doesn’t feel gross, not like when Charlie leered at you downstairs. No, it’s more like he’s committing you to memory. You realize, then, that he’s not looking at you like a predator looks at prey.

He’s looking at you like you’re a prize.

Thomas slams the cleaver down, the thud of it rhythmic, soothing. His thoughts keep straying to ones of you, upstairs in the kitchen with his mama. You’ve been here for two days now and he’s having a hard time concentrating on his chores knowing that you’re in the house, knowing that you’ve stuck around for God only knows what reason. It makes him antsy, suspicious. 

The door to the basement opens and he expects to hear Charlie’s boots stomping down the stairs but he’s surprised when you appear on the last step in an ill fitting dress that mama must have scrounged up for you. Thomas stands perfectly still as you look around the room. 

“This is what you do all day?” You ask. He nods. “That must be hard work.” Mama shouts your name from upstairs, making you jump. You give him a sheepish look. “I’m supposed to come tell you dinner’s ready.”

Thomas grunts, setting down the cleaver and wiping his hands on his apron. He washes up in the bloodstained sink, scrubbing at his fingers as best he can. You’re still on the stairs when he finishes, watching him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the way you don’t look away, ashamed of your staring. 

You turn to climb the steps and he follows, a step below you. Your hips sway in front of him and he has visions of grabbing you by the hips, pulling you against his body so tightly you can’t leave, can’t leave, can’t leave. 

Mama is sitting at the table when you both emerge from the darkness, bowls of stew set out for each of you. Thomas sits down to mama’s left and you to her right, across the table from him. The two of you chat about the chores she’s assigned you and are they too much, honey? No, you tell her, you’re happy to help. Mama smiles at you and he knows what she’s thinking, that you’re sent from God himself, the perfect addition to the family. The daughter she never got to have, only the fucked up sons she was cursed and forsaken with. 

Thomas feels something prod his knee beneath the table and he freezes. All of your attention is still focused on mama, your head propped in your hand and your elbow on the table, relaxed as can be. He thinks maybe he just imagined it but he feels it again and this time he jumps, rattling the dishes on the table and sloshing stew from its bowls.

“Thomas! What’s the matter with you?” Mama asks, patting at her dress with a napkin. “You just got us all wet.”

“Yeah, Thomas,” you chime in. “Got me all wet and messy.”

By the look on your face, he knows that you’re not talking about the soup. He’s got some dirty magazines he snuck into the house over the years, women with their legs spread and their hands tied, glistening pussies on full display or the one videotape that Charlie got him, where the woman is split open on a man’s cock, begging for more as the lewd, slick sounds of sex grow louder and louder. The thought of you like that, maybe even because of him, makes his cheeks burn. He grunts, an apology, and his mama waves a hand at you both.

“You better get changed outta that dress before it stains. Can’t be lettin’ one go to waste so quick,” she tells you. You nod, standing from the table and heading for the door. You pause, looking over your shoulder at him and give him a wink. Mama clears her throat, a stern expression on her face as she looks at him.

“And you, boy. Go get yourself cleaned up and brush your damn hair for once. I raised you better than that.”

She didn’t, not really, but he listens to her anyway, trudging back down to the basement to hose himself off and change his clothes. As he cleans up, he thinks about you, because when hasn’t he been since you appeared? His cock hardens and he tries to ignore it, tries to think of the Bible lessons mama loved to teach and how it’s a sin to touch himself but maybe God will forgive him, just this once? 

He wraps a hand around his thick length and squeezes, almost punishing himself. His head drops back and he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as he tugs and pulls at his cock, slow at first then fast, fast, fast, fist flying with a tight grip until stars burst in his vision and warm come dribbles over his hand. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, blinking away the dark spots as his high fizzles out.

Thomas dries himself and gets dressed before lying down on the mattress in the corner to toss and turn until the sun rises.

The next morning, Thomas doesn’t realize that you haven’t come down from your room until well into the afternoon. Mama’s gone to town and Charlie is off playing Sheriff so it’s just the two of you in the house. He debates whether he should check on you or leave you alone but ultimately the worry that something might be wrong pulls him upstairs and finds him knocking on your door, a quick tap of his knuckles to the wood.There’s no sound from the other side, no shout of fuck off like he’d get from Charlie or a quiet just a minute, sweetheart he’d hear from mama. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes the door open, just a crack, enough to peek inside.

You’re in bed, sprawled out on your back with the quilt kicked off to the floor. Your bare breasts draw his eye and he looks away quickly, shame clawing up his throat. The bed creaks as you shift, sleepy noises leaving your lips in the process, and panic races through his veins, worried that you might wake up and find him standing there, worried that it might be what sends you running, worried about what mama will say if you up and leave and it’s his fault, worried, worried, worried.

“Thomas?” You ask, voice raspy. He didn’t even realize that you were awake, stupid, stupid, stupid of him. He should have turned around and left, should have—

“Hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, sitting up. Thomas hesitates, eyes still fixed on the floor. You must notice because from the corner of his eye he notices the quilt get picked up and then you’re telling him, “I’m decent.”

He swallows around the rock lodged in his throat and looks up, meeting your gaze. You don’t look mad or disgusted or upset. You’re actually smiling at him, a hand held out in welcome. He doesn’t dare touch you, but he takes a step closer, body moving like a moth to a flame.

Your head tilts to the side, assessing him, eyes flaying him open and leaving him feeling more exposed than when someone catches him without the mask. You’re holding the quilt up over your chest but Thomas can still see the tantalizing curves of your shoulders, the long line of your neck with the flutter of your pulse beneath delicate skin. It makes his mouth go dry.

“You ever touch a woman, Tommy?” You ask. The question catches him so off guard that all he manages is a strangled noise. “Well? That a yes or a no?” He shakes his head. You smile, lowering the quilt just enough to expose the top curve of your breasts. 

“You wanna?” 

Thomas’ eyes drop to your chest before quickly looking away. A flush creeps up his neck, staining what little of his cheeks you can see above the mask he wears. His hand flexes at his side, fingers curling open and shut. 

“It’s okay, you can look,” you say, gentle, gentle, gentle, like coaxing a scared animal. He looks at you again, blue eyes wide. “Come closer.”

He shuffles closer, looming over the bed, back so wide that he blocks the sun streaming through the window and casts a shadow over your body. You reach for his hand and he jerks away, as if on instinct. You pause, giving him a few seconds of reprieve, then reach for him again, keeping your eyes fixed on his face. Lightly, you touch his hand and when he doesn’t flinch, you grasp it more tightly. 

You guide his hand to your breast, settling his warm palm to your chest. He holds perfectly still for a moment and the restraint of it drives you insane, makes you bite your tongue so hard the taste of copper blooms across your tastebuds. Finally, he leans a little closer, fingers digging into your skin and making you gasp. He massages one breast, then the other, playing with the weight and feel of them in his large hands. You press your thighs together, cunt aching from the attention.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching into his touch. The praise spurs him on, makes him more confident, and he starts to focus his attention on your nipples, pinching and twisting the sensitive buds. He’s surprisingly gentle despite his size and demeanor. 

You kick away the quilt from your legs, exposing the rest of your body to him. His eyes trail down your body, hands going still. He looks up, tilting his head, asking a question, looking for permission. You nod your head quickly and your heart races as a palm slides down, down, down, until he’s cupping your pussy over your panties. Your hips jump at the friction.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine. Thomas holds his hand still as you grind yourself against his palm. You reach your hands down, holding onto his forearm with a death grip. “Please, please, please!”

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of your panties and you both groan. He plays with the embarrassing amount of wetness, smearing it over your skin. You guide his hand the slightest bit upwards until the calloused pads of his fingers swipe over your clit.

“That’s it, Tommy,” you tell him. “Right there, right there.”

Dutifully, he continues to lavish you with attention, taking every direction beautifully. Slower, faster, harder, he adjusts to every suggestion and has you moaning and crying his name in desperation, but it’s not enough. You’re right there, so close, but you feel so empty, you just need—

“Inside?” You ask. He pauses, brows pinching together. “Put your fingers inside me.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eases one thick finger into your drenched hole. Your head drops back at the sensation, at the relief, and begin to grind your hips again. He starts to see the pattern, moving his hand so that he’s working with your rhythm. You look up at his face and the concentration in his eyes leaves you breathless. All he wants is to do good, be good, make you feel good. 

Thomas presses another finger to your entrance, glancing at your face to make sure it’s okay. When you don’t say otherwise, he works both inside of you in tandem, the stretch making you groan. He curls them, exploring, skimming a spot inside of you that makes you cry out and dig your nails into his arm so hard that he grunts but doesn’t doesn’t pull away.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good, Tommy, oh my god.”

He’s panting, sweat dripping down his neck, muscles tight with his efforts to wrench an orgasm from you. The lethal combination of his fingers inside of you and his palm against your clit and the muffled noises sneaking past his mask have you tumbling over a precipice so high you worry you might never come down. Your cunt pulses around his fingers and you babble his name and an incoherent stream of praise as your release washes over you, wave after wave of it.

Thomas waits until your body collapses against the mattress and you’re gasping for breath before slowly removing his hand. He holds it up to his face, pink tongue darting out from the slit afforded for his mouth to taste your cum from his fingertips. He groans, his other hand reaching down to press tightly to the sizeable bulge in his pants. He thrusts against his palm once, twice, before going still, shoulders shaking.

A door slams downstairs. Luda Mae’s voice shouts for Thomas and he takes a step back, head whipping towards the door and eyes wide with panic. You scramble from the bed, grabbing your dress and pulling it on quickly so that you can rush out the room, shutting Thomas inside. You lean over the banister and see Luda Mae standing at the top of the basement stairs, hands on her hips.

“I think he went out to the barn,” you call down. She looks up at you.

“Why would he be out there?” She huffs. “And what are you still doin’ in your room? You look a mess.”

“Sorry, m’am. Had trouble sleeping last night.”

Your politeness softens her annoyance. “That’s okay, darlin’, you’re still learnin’ the ropes. I gotta go find Thomas, Charlie’s found some troublemakers.”

“If I see him first, I’ll let him know.” You nervously smooth your hands down your skirt. “What kind of trouble?”

“You don’t worry yourself about that. We’ll let the boys handle it, alright?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Good girl,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

Luda Mae leaves through the front door and you return to your room. Thomas is standing where you left him, hands curled at his sides. 

“You hear all that?” You ask him. He nods. “What’s going to happen?”

He walks to the window, peeks through the curtain. His shoulders are tense. When he turns back to you, he sets his hands on your shoulders and steers you to the bed, pushing gently until you’re sitting, the springs squeaking beneath your weight. He cups your cheek with one hand and points around the room with the other.

“You want me to stay in here?”

He nods.

“What if you need help?”

He shakes his head. He won’t need help.

“Okay. You better get down there.”

He nods again. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to yours, an approximation of a kiss. You smile at him when he pulls away. He lingers for a brief second longer before tugging open the door and disappearing from the room.

Trouble is heralded by the arrival of Uncle Charlie. You watch through the window as his cop car pulls up in the yard and he gets out, spitting curses you can’t hear. He waves a shotgun in the air, firing off a warning shot that makes you jump. You know Thomas told you to stay in your room but curiosity gets the better of you and you head downstairs.

Luda Mae is in the kitchen, sat at the table with a cup of tea. A piercing scream filters through the open window as she takes a tiny sip from her cup. 

“You need somethin’, dear?” She asks, unperturbed by the interruption. You shake your head.

“No, m’am. Just came to ask if you needed help with dinner.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I got it covered.” Another sip. “Could you get the laundry from the line?”

It’s then that you realize she’s testing you. Earlier she told you to let the men handle it, but she wants to see where your loyalties lie. Thomas told you to stay put, to stay safe, but she’s sending you out to join the wolves because she knows, she knows, she knows that you’re just like them. 

She just needs proof.

You smile. “Of course.”

On your way out of the kitchen, you slip a knife from the butcher block.

One of the men that Charlie dragged home writhes in pain, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. His friend takes off at run, pace as fast as his injured ankle will allow. They’re the last two that need to be dealt with. Thomas raises his chainsaw in the air, ready to end the animal’s suffering, but movement from the corner of his eye makes him pause.

The back door to the house opens and you stroll out into the yard, looking around frantically with a frightened expression. Thomas feels a rush of anger that you didn’t listen to him, didn’t stay up in your room, didn’t stay inside. The anger quickly turns to fear when he sees the other man, the one he intended to deal with later, rushes toward you. You take off, running across the field toward the barn.

Thomas cuts the gas, tosses the chainsaw aside. The muffled whimpers from the man on the ground piss him off and with one, two, three strikes of the heel of his boot, he silences him for good. He heads for the barn, red in his vision with every step. If the other man lays a single finger on you, Thomas will keep him alive but begging for death.

“Come on, we gotta get out of here,” a male voice shouts. “They’re goin’ to kill us!”

Thomas throws open the barn doors, the wood shaking with the force of it. You’re turned away from him and the first thing he notices is the knife held in a tight fist behind your back. The man stumbles to the ground, trying to scramble back from you as Thomas comes closer.

“No. We’re going to kill you,” you tell him. You spring forward, jumping on the man with a feral scream that sounds like music to Thomas’ ears. Your arms swing up, up, up and then slam down, down, down, burying your knife into the man’s chest over and over and over.

Thomas can’t wait anymore. He approaches you from behind and wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you away from the mangled body. You struggle in his hold and he hauls you over to a work bench, swiping the tools to the ground with his other arm and setting you on the surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately, head shaking side to side. “I just wanted to help, I just—“

Your rapid apologies morph into a choked off moan when he lifts your legs, wrapping them around his hips, grinding his painfully hard cock against you. He buries his face into your neck, licking at the blood that stains your perfect skin, the taste of salt and copper opening a pit of hunger in his belly that could never be filled by food.

“Tommy,” you whimper, head dropping back. He licks and bites at all the skin he can find and when he runs out, he drops to his knees and begins anew on the muscles of your legs. 

He pushes the fabric of your dress up, bunching it around your waist to expose your pussy, still covered by the same panties you wore earlier when he made you come on his fingers. Wrapping his fist in the elastic, he pulls until it snaps under the pressure, fabric falling away and leaving you completely bare. 

Thomas pushes your thighs apart, spreading you open. He leans closer, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh, a little harder than he should. The tiny indents his teeth make in your skin are proof that this isn’t some dream. You’re flesh and blood, just like him.

Just for him.

His mouth waters as he nears your cunt, the earlier memory of your taste making that hunger grow to near starvation. His tongue slides over the slick flesh, exploring the dips and folds that taste so sweet it hits him like a sugar high, like when he’d steal a handful of candy from the corner store and eat it all at once, afraid of getting caught.

There’s a quiet thump and Thomas looks up to find that you’ve collapsed onto the table. Hands reach down and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the strands. He remembers the spot that he rubbed with his fingers and searches for it with his tongue, knowing he’s found it when your thighs press against his ears and you moan his name like you did in your room.

“Oh, god! Just like that, Tommy,” you say, holding his head in place. “So good, so fucking good.”

He licks and sucks and grazes his teeth against you to his heart’s content and you writhe beneath him, bucking up against his face so fiercely he has to hold you down with an arm across your lower belly. He grows braver, dipping his tongue into the warmth of your cunt and drinking you from the source until you’re shaking. When he pulls away, he’s awed by the mess he’s made of you, your lips puffy and skin slick and shiny from your cum. He uses his thumbs to spread you apart, admiring the way your hole clenches around nothing.

Thomas stands, unsure of what to do next. You sit up from the table, expression dazed. Tear tracks stain your cheeks and a brief strike of worry hits him. Did he hurt you? Was that too much? Are you—

“Come closer,” you whisper. His thoughts go silent as he obeys. You reach up, cupping his face, hands trailing down to the strap of his apron. You lift it over his head and drops down, hanging limply. 

Your arms wrap around his thick middle, working the knot of strings loose behind his back. It falls to the floor in a heap now and he stares at it, pulse racing as your hands roam to his chest. His breath stutters as your touch traces lower, lower, lower, until your palm presses against his cock and his mouth drops open at the pleasure of it, so different from when he touches himself or ruts his hips into the mattress. He can feel the heat of your skin even through the thick fabric of his pants.

You’re popping the button and dragging down the zipper, wrapping a soft hand around his cock and pulling it free. Thomas groans, loud and rough, as you slide your hand up, thumb swiping over the clear fluid gathered at the very tip. 

You tug on his cock, hard enough that he stumbles forward, pressing closer. You look up at him as you rub the flushed head through your wetness and his shoulders shake at the sensation. You feel so good, so warm, he just wants to—

You notch him at your entrance and on instinct he thrusts forward the slightest bit, just enough that the fat tip of him sinks into tight heat. You gasp, eyes going wide and he’s once again struck with the fear that he could be hurting you, maybe he’s too big, too much of a monster, but when he tries to pull away you’re grabbing his shirt in a tight fist.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

Thomas obeys, just as he always does, pushing his hips closer, shoving his cock deeper, deeper, deeper. He watches his length disappear, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You look beautiful, with the tears that gather in your eyes and the blood smeared on your chest and the way your thighs shake with the effort to take him, that his chest aches, that last thread of control keeping him slow and steady snapping like his hips as he buries himself inside of you, completely and thoroughly.

You’ve never been this full before. You fall back on the rough wood of the work bench with a gasp, stars in your vision as your body adjusts to the sheer size of the man, the thick length of him splitting you open and leaving you breathless. He leans forward, the angle changing and tears spilling from your eyes as you stare up at the hulking monster above you.

“So big,” you gasp. “God, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitches inside of you and you moan, back arching off the bench. He feels so good, even through the burning stretch. You give a tentative wiggle of your hips and his eyelids flutter, a moan escaping him. When the pain eases into a dull ache, you lift a shaky hand to his face, settling your palm against the cool leather of his mask.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” you tell him. “I want you to ruin me.”

His pupils grow impossibly wider and a shadow falls across his features, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. Gone is the man who was worried he would hurt you and in his place is the ravenous beast that matches the one clawing at you from the inside, just beneath your ribs where your chest aches with need. He draws his hips back until the tip is barely inside of you before thrusting forward. Your mouth opens, a scream ripping from your lungs but it’s cut short when a large hand wraps around your throat and squeezes. 

Thomas is a man possessed, pounding into your body like it’s nothing more than a toy for his pleasure, filling your pussy to the limit with each stroke. The hand on your throat holds your body steady and he uses his other arm to lift one of your legs, then the other, your thighs pressed to his thick belly and your ankles by his ears. His moans mix with the lewd sound of skin against skin, a soundtrack of hedonism that you want to listen to on repeat until God calls you for judgment and sends you straight to Hell.

Your orgasm is quick to build, a pressure in your tummy that grows tighter and tighter until it bursts, all your muscles going taut with the force of it. Thomas roars, hands gripping your hips and holding you impaled on his cock as he floods your pussy with his release. You feel untethered, like you’re floating, and it’s not until you’re squinting into the Texas sun that you realize you are floating. Thomas is carrying you through the field, back to the main house, one arm supporting your back and other under your knees, holding you close to his chest.

Luda Mae is on the porch when he reaches the door, hands on her hips. He pauses and her keen gaze assesses you both. Finally, she smiles.

“Get yourselves cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” she says. 

Wordlessly, Thomas brings you inside and down to the basement, where does exactly as he’s told.

Just as he always does.

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