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[rainrot4me]

Numb Fingers

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

───────────────────────────── nothing i need - lord huron

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

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Returning from a mission, the proxies get caught in a bad storm, causing them to seek refuge in a dingy motel. They’re rain-soaked, irritable, and—even better—there’s only one bed. They agree to keep it civil… until the storm knocks the power out, and you find yourself growing very cold.

✦ . Characters: Masky x Female Reader x Hoodie

✦ . Warning: MMF threesome, breaking & entering, there was only one bed, forced proximity, teasing, dirty talk, rough sex, rough oral sex, rough kissing, motel sex, double oral penetration, double vaginal penetration, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, hair-pulling, spanking, scratching, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, bi-curious Tim and Brian

✦ . Words: 16k

✦ . Note: First time collaborating with Reamina! They are absolutely so totally talented, so definitely go check their art out!! Hope to continue working together in the future! Hope you all enjoy this one as much I enjoyed writing it, happy reading!

Art by @reaminaart.

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Sleeping in your own bed is a luxury.

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

Coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Luxury accommodations,” Masky muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If it’s hot, I’m never coming out.”

You slammed the door shut behind you with your hip.

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

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

It was glorious.

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

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

But still living.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enjoy your mold bath?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…This is gonna be cozy.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Assholes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dude—! I just got warm!”

“Share,” he said simply.

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

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

“Your elbow’s in my ribs.”

“Your foot is on my ass.”

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

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

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

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

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

“…I hate this,” you whispered.

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

“No shit.”

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

So it was enough.

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

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

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

And that was all you needed.

── .✦

The cold woke you.

Not gently, either—rudely.

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

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

Frigid. Still. Dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

Nothing.

“Anything?” you croaked, curling tighter.

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

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

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

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

“I’d rather die,” you snapped.

“You will if you don’t move.”

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

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

You turned over. And scooted forward.

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

“…Seriously?” he grumbled.

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

“I’m not your personal space heater—”

“You are now.”

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

He hesitated for a beat—silent, unreadable.

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

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

“I told you,” you muttered.

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

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

Hoodie didn’t move.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not a heating pad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because now? Now they both noticed.

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

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

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

And yet, no one stopped.

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

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

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

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

No one was breathing the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you broke it.

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

It hit the air like a lit match.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That did it.

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

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

Your voice didn’t shake. “Do it.”

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

Like this was just another kind of mission.

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

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

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

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

That was all they needed.

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

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

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

He tilted his head and kissed you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—hands. Everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm, Brian…” you huff, tugging Masky’s hair when he lets off one nipple and shifts to the other, eyes shut tight in quiet concentration. Hoodie chuckles, making your hips twitch, angling them upward. “So impatient,” he kisses your thigh again.

You’re about to wind off with something, making a snide remark—until you feel firm lips press against your clit through your panties. Your hips immediately jerk to the sensation, clit twitching for more when he begins to plant kiss after kiss against your folds, the sensation muffled by your thin underwear.

“Oh god, oh my god—”

Masky chuckles against your tit, kneading the mound in his hand as he looks up at you, eyes heavy with satisfaction. “Remember to be quiet, sweetheart. Don’t wanna wake the neighbours.”

There’s no way they would be able to with the intensity of the storm outside, but it lights a spark low in your stomach nonetheless.

Hoodie plants one final, heavy kiss against your cunt before he’s hooking fingers under the waistband of your panties, slowly dragging them up your legs and off your ankles.

You can feel the thickness in the air, even despite the cold.

“Fuck…” Hoodie groans, mulling over every inch of your soaked cunt before him, eyes so wide you’d think he’s crazy. Masky smirks against your skin. You feel them both reading each other, shuffling in time until Masky’s teeth are nipping your chest, then your collarbones, up to your neck—and Hoodie’s hands move between your legs.

Hoodie’s warm hand spreads your folds open with slow, confident ease. You can feel his breath on your skin—close. Teasing. He runs two thick fingers between your lips, collecting the slick building at your entrance onto his fingers. “Jesus, you’re so wet. Haven’t even done anything.”

He thumbs at your clit, pressing the pad against the nub and eliciting a stark jolt from your body. They both chuckle, then Hoodie’s middle finger presses against your entrance.

“Oh, fuck—” you whine, arms wrapping around Masky’s shoulders as he finds a home at the crease of your neck, sucking with the same force as before onto your throat. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, and suddenly you’re keenly aware of just how exposed you are compared to them, their clothes still completely on while you lay shaking and bare.

Hoodie begins to press his finger, slowly slipping the first knuckle into your cunt, the cold digit making you hiss against your scalding insides. Masky captures the noise, lips gliding up your jaw and onto your lips as you drag your hands down his back. 

“Damn—tight,” Hoodie mutters. “Burnin’ up inside.” He pushes deeper, bullying against the resistance, until his entire finger is crooning into the heat of your walls. You cry out—head tilted back, running your hands under Masky’s shirt and pushing it up his back. His skin is so warm against your cold hands, him grumbling against your lips.

“Oh my god—Brian—please—” His free hand is pushing your knees apart, holding them open despite the instinctual jerks to close them shut every time he pumps that finger into your sopping cunt. It’s not another second before he’s adding another, curling the thick knuckles, your arousal glistening on his skin.

“Shhhh. Tim, can you grab her?” You’re dazed, kissed and dizzy and way-too-cold to think straight, but the two still seem to have a level head about them. Masky nods, biting a kiss against your jaw before he’s sitting up, pulling his half-askew shirt off his head and throwing it behind him. 

Your eyes are blurry, but the sight is enough to make your heart thud against your chest.

His body is thick. Solid. Built like a brawler. Not sculpted like a model, no—this is the body of someone who’s carried people over his shoulder, fought tooth and nail, hurt and healed, all muscle and brute strength. His chest is broad, lightly dusted with hair, and he’s got old scars crisscrossing his ribs—pale white against flushed skin. One, angry and puckered, traces the edge of his abdomen. You want to ask about it. You don’t. You’ll save it for later.

Hoodie follows, easing his fingers out of you, and sitting back on his knees. He pulls one arm out of his sweatshirt, then throws the fabric off, breathing deep and heavy as he looks down at you. His body is lithe. Lean muscle. Strong and resilient. Like he was made to move in the dark. His skin is pale in the light—not sickly, but smooth, cold-toned, with a few old bruises and sharp collarbones you want to mouth at. His stomach is flat, lightly defined, the kind of body that doesn’t beg for attention until you look too long. And then it’s like it begs you to touch it.

Both of them in the red VACANCY light. They move before you can stare for as long as you’d like.

Masky pushes an arm under your shoulders, lifting you just enough to sit behind you, back against the thin headboard. You’re naked, trembling, and pulled into Masky’s lap—back to his chest, legs splayed wide across his thighs, pussy bare and soaking, dripping down onto the bedspread.

His arms cage you. One around your waist, firm. One between your breasts, hand teasing the soft weight of them, thumb brushing a nipple already sensitive from earlier, still slick with their mouths. “You look so good like this,” he breathes into your ear. “So helpless.”

“All for us,” Hoodie adds from below, kneeling between your spread legs.

You’re tilted back, cradled in Masky’s lap, thighs open wide and shaking—because Hoodie’s face is right there. Inches from your core, his breath hot, his fingers already sliding between your folds again. “So pretty,” he mutters. “So fucking pretty, little mouse.”

“Don’t make her wait,” Masky growls. “She’ll start begging.” Hoodie grins, Masky does too.

Hoodie licks a slow, devastating stripe through your folds—tongue thick, hot, relentless—and your whole body jerks against Masky’s chest. He groans behind you, lips dragging along your neck, holding you tighter. “Yeah. Just like that. Let him taste how bad you need it.”

Hoodie wraps his arms under your thighs, pinning them open, then sucks your clit straight into his mouth—firm, wet pressure that sends shockwaves straight up your spine. “Oh my god—B-Brian—”

His response is to moan against you—low and hungry—then slide two fingers inside your slick heat, curling instantly, like he knows the spot. And he does. Your arch into the feeling, gripping your hands into the fabric of Masky’s pants.

“Feel that?” Masky mutters, gripping your chest, grinding his clothed cock slowly against your lower back. “He’s already got you shaking. Not even fucking you yet.”

You sob, back arching. Masky holds you tighter.

“Eyes on him,” he commands. “Watch what he’s doing to you.”

You do. Hoodie’s devouring you—tongue flicking, lips sucking, fingers pumping slow and deep, angled perfectly—and the sight alone would be enough to undo you. But with Masky’s rough grip on your tits, his breath hot in your ear, his teeth nipping your neck? You’re already right there.

“Mhmm—Hah—Fuck—” you whine, moaning every time Masky’s lips brush under your ear.

There’s no rush in him. This isn’t frantic. It’s not desperate. It’s methodical. He licks in a rhythm—slow flicks to your clit, long, wet drags through your folds, then dipping just enough of his tongue inside you to make you cry out before he’s back up again.

Your hips jerk up, instinctive. Hoodie groans—and the vibration of it against your clit sends a bolt of pleasure so sharp you gasp. “There it is,” he murmurs against you. “That little flutter. Right around my fingers.”

He fucks you slow—fingers deep, tongue steady, so much eye contact. He watches every twitch of your thighs, every shake of your breath, memorizing you. “You wanna come?” he asks softly, lips brushing your clit. “Then take it. Grind on my mouth. Come just like this.”

You do. You grind. You moan. You beg. Hoodie speeds up. His tongue never stops—swirling, licking, sucking like he’s trying to ruin you forever—and his fingers are hitting just right, just right, over and over.

Masky’s mouth is on your neck, kissing hard, biting a little, hand dragging down to your throat just enough to hold. “Come on,” he growls. “Let him taste it.”

“Be good,” Hoodie pants. “Give it to me.”

You shatter. Your thighs clamp down, toes curling, back arching against Masky as you cry out—loud, shaking, the orgasm rolling through you so hard it blinds you.

Hoodie doesn’t stop. He keeps licking. Gentle now. Praising. Masky holds you through it, one hand stroking your thigh, the other soothing your chest. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Come all over his fingers.”

You’re a mess—you can feel it. Your thighs are slick, chest heaving, and your head’s tipped back on Masky’s shoulder as aftershocks ripple through you—little tremors you can’t control. Hoodie’s fingers are still inside you, curled perfectly, buried to the knuckle while his mouth rests just above your clit, his breath still hot against your overstimulated skin.

He’s staring. Watching your pussy twitch. Watching your orgasm leak down over his fingers, practically dripping onto his wrist. “Christ,” he says softly. “Look at this mess you made on me.” And then, slowly—deliberately—he slides his fingers out of you.

You feel everything. The drag. The stretch. The wet sound as you clench down, reluctant to let go. His fingers are soaked. Glistening. Sticky with you. “Still so warm,” he murmurs, eyes low, voice thick. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t wipe them off. Instead, Hoodie brings them to his mouth and sucks. First one finger. Then the next. Tongue swirling. Lips sealed around them as he tastes your orgasm like it’s dessert—slow, patient, savoring every drop of you like you’re something holy.

You watch. You can’t not watch. His eyes never leave yours as he licks his fingers clean, moaning quietly, like he could drink down your pleasure and still need more. “Tastes so good,” he mutters, fingers leaving his mouth with a soft, wet pop. “I could keep eating you all night.”

And he means it. Because once his fingers are clean, he leans back in. His hands return to your thighs, spreading them open wider again—reverent now, like he’s laying you bare for something sacred. Then he dips his head and licks you clean.

There’s no rush now. He already got you to fall apart. His tongue is gentle, slow. He licks up the mess he made, collecting the slick along your folds, savoring it. You gasp as he brushes your clit again—sensitive, overstimulated—and he pauses. Your hips twitch, instinctively tilting into him.

He groans. Masky kisses up your throat, trailing the pulse line up your neck, rubbing your sides as he watches Hoodie.

He licks along your slit. Soft. Deep. Focused. Devouring you slowly like the taste is something he’d kill to keep on his tongue. Every flick is precise. Every swirl of his tongue feels like the echo of your orgasm being dragged out longer and longer, until you’re shaking all over again.

Your thighs squeeze his shoulders. Your hands tug at Masky’s pants. You moan—loud, raw, needy—as he sucks your clit one more time. “B-Brian—please—”

He kisses your thighs one last time, then crawls up your body—slow, mouth wet, eyes hungry. He plants his hands at either side of Masky’s hips, resting his weight just above you. He doesn’t say anything as he leans down and kisses you, tongue slipping past your lips.

And you taste it. You taste you. Raw. Sweet. Still slick on his tongue. You moan into him, and he smiles against your mouth. “Told you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Fucking addictive.”

“Fuck,” Masky mutters, voice low, rough, gravelly with want. 

“Yeah,” Hoodie says, quieter, more composed—but there’s a rasp to his voice that wasn’t there before. “She’s still dripping.”

He lifts his fingers. Still slick with his spit and the taste of you. Masky stares. His jaw clenches. Hoodie grins.

“You wanna taste?”

That makes him freeze. His eyes flick up to Hoodie’s—sharp, uncertain. A silent what the fuck hanging in the air between them.

But then your voice breaks the tension, soft and breathy, “Please… I wanna see.” You smile small between them, looking up through wet lashes as they challenge each other.

Masky’s eyes snap back to you—and whatever resistance was there? Gone. Disappearing behind a smug smile.

Masky reaches out. Not for you—for Hoodie.

His fingers wrap in Hoodie’s hair, yanking him forward fast—rough, impatient, like it pisses him off that he even wants this—and he kisses him. Not clean. Not graceful. It’s awkward. Heated. All teeth and subtle fighting. Their noses bump. Their mouths don’t line up right. Masky’s jaw is too tight, and Hoodie’s caught off guard, breath stuttering against the pressure of it—but neither of them pulls away.

Masky tastes your slick on Hoodie’s lips and growls. “Jesus,” he breathes, breaking the kiss for just a second, staring at Hoodie’s mouth like it betrayed him. “What the fuck.”

“You’re the one that kissed me,” Hoodie mutters, but there’s no anger—only heat, confused and burning, as he presses forward again.

They kiss deeper this time. Still awkward. Still not romantic. But slower. Hungrier. Their tongues slide, catching the taste of you between them—and it’s not about each other—it’s about you—or at least they’re telling that to themselves.

Masky’s hands go back to your thighs. Hoodie’s palm presses against your stomach, holding you still as they lean in together—over you, around you.

You reach up and wrap your fingers into their hair, tugging them both close—sandwiched between them, heat radiating off their bodies like they’ve been waiting for this. You pull them down toward you with a breathless whine, lips parting—eyes wild with need.

“Good grief,” you whisper, voice wrecked, trying your best to sound humorous. “I can step out of the room if you need me to.”

You glance outside to see the way the rain is flooding off the gutters and onto the pavement below, and maybe think otherwise.

Their eyes flick to each other—sharp, unreadable—but they don’t speak. They don’t need to.

Because Hoodie’s fingers are already under your jaw, tilting your face up. And Masky’s grabbing your waist, yanking you back toward his chest. It’s greedy. Open-mouthed. Back and forth—Hoodie’s lips first, still tasting like you, then Masky’s mouth, rough and hot, tongue sliding between your teeth like he’s trying to take something from you. They groan—fuck, they groan like they need this—and you moan into them as your thighs clench around Hoodie’s hips.

Their hands are already on your body—gripping your waist, your hips, your jaw—and suddenly you feel it: a shift in the weight of the bed, a rush of cool air as they move.

“Off the bed,” Masky speaks, voice thick, already climbing down. “On your knees. Now.”

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Hoodie murmurs, gentler—but the command is still there in the grip of his hands on your arms.

You’re panting as they guide you off the mattress, strong hands dragging you to the edge and down—the motel carpet rough under your knees, your body between them.

Hoodie stands to your right, skin glistening with sweat, chest rising and falling steady. He hooks his thumbs in the band of his shorts, and drags them down, kicking them and his boxers off his ankles. Masky is on your left, he does the same, tugging the string of his sweatpants and kicking them off as well.

Your hands are resting on your knees as you kneel between them, but you’re fighting the need to wipe the drool from your lip as you glance between them.

Hoodie is long. Thicker than you expected. Veins along the shaft, flushed at the head—and fully hard now. Standing proud, ready. Like the sight of you wrecked is more than enough. His pubic hair is short and well kept, a light brown trailing up to his belly button. He grins, hand fisting the base as he watches you with blown pupils and parted lips.

Masky is heavy, thick, flushed from you grinding back against him. Half-hard, proud, veins visible in the light. He’s bigger than Hoodie, but not longer. His pubic hair is thicker, too—running up through his torso to the patches at his chest. You see the thick, aching weight of him, twitching with every breath you take.

They’re both standing over you. And you’re down between them—messy, panting, mouth wet, eyes wide, ready.

Their hands find your hair at the same time. You hiss as they pull you closer, up off your heels, hands finding their thighs.

Hoodie brushes your jaw with his thumb. “Open that pretty mouth,” he breathes.

Masky growls low in his throat. “Gonna ruin it, baby.”

Your knees press against the motel carpet, damp and rough beneath your skin, but you don’t care—all you can feel is the heat rising off them, their bodies looming over you like the storm about to break through the window.

Hoodie’s cock nudges your lips first, thick and flushed, twitching with need. His fingers thread into your hair, gentle but commanding, tilting your head forward. He holds himself at the base, tapping the drooling head against your pout.

You open your mouth, tongue lapping the tip, tasting the salt of him. He groans low, deep in his throat—and you suck him in slow, sliding your mouth down the length as far as you can go, then pulling back off with a wet pop.

Right then, Masky’s hand curls around the back of your neck, steadying you, thumb brushing your cheek as his cock presses at your other lip. You turn to him, parting your lips and wrapping them around his head, swirling your tongue around his head. He groans through his teeth, then huffs when you pull off as well.

Hoodie’s fingers tighten in your hair again, tilting your face toward him. You open your mouth willingly, and he slides in deep—slow, controlled. “That’s it,” he groans, his hips giving one gentle thrust. “Open wider for me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Masky stroking himself, smearing your spit down his length as he watches you.

Hoodie’s cock glides over your tongue, salty and smooth, his breath growing rough as you suck your lips around the size. You hollow your cheeks, swallow around him, making his knees twitch. “Dammit,” he growls.

He fucks your mouth deep and slow, thumb resting on your jaw, guiding the rhythm. It’s wet, messy—obscene—your throat working to take him in. 

When you choke a little, he lets out a dark chuckle, pulling out just enough to let you breathe. “Good… just like that. Now—”

“My turn.” Masky cuts in, voice rough with impatience. His hand replaces Hoodie’s in your hair, tugging you toward him. He doesn’t say much—just lets his cock rest against your lip, thick and leaking.

You look up at him. You know that look. You’ve seen it every time he runs out of cigarettes, every time he cleans his pistol before a kill, every time you’ve caught each other’s gaze tonight—need.

He slides into your mouth hard, almost punishing, like he hates how much he wants this. “Fucking hell,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “You like being passed around, huh?”

Your moan vibrates down his length. He grabs the back of your head and starts thrusting, shallow at first, then deeper—fucking your throat with sharp, possessive hunger. Your hands claw up his thighs, nails clenched into his skin until you go to reach for the base of his cock, wrapping a fist around to give yourself some relief.

He snatches your wrist before you could even really try. “Don’t use your hands,” he snaps. “Just your mouth.”

You obey, eyes wet, throat stretched—letting him use you. Hoodie scoffs, looking between the two of you, gripping his own cock so tight he’s wincing. He grips Masky’s shoulder, leaning his weight on him as they both look down at you, both get off to the sight.

Masky grabs either side of your jaw, pulling you until you’re buried to the hilt, your nose pressed against his pelvis. You gag, tears slipping from your eyes, refusing to look anywhere but between the dual-paired eyes. Then he pulls out, with a wet gasp and a tight grip to your jaw.

“Switch.” They trade you again.

Hoodie’s cock back in your mouth, already slick from your spit, sliding in easier this time. His pace is gentler, but more thorough—praising you, petting your hair—making your eyes flutter every time he tries to reach the back of your throat. “Doing so good for us, little mouse.”

And then it’s back to Masky—rougher now, grabbing your face, thumb dragging your spit from your lips as he pushes in again, groaning through his teeth as your tongue swirls around the head. He’s quick, cockhead knocking against the roof of your mouth with each snap of his hips. “So fucking wet.”

Back to Hoodie. He lets you moan around him, and jerks just slightly when your tongue flicks the underside.

Back to Masky. He groans, “Gonna ruin your throat, sweetheart,” while his fingers dig into your mouth, tugging your jaw open.

And they keep going, keep snagging you by the hair and dragging you into a different cock before you can get settled. It’s dizzying, but you’ve never been so horny in your life. You can practically feel yourself dripping onto the carpet below, inner thighs slick with want.

Eventually, your face is a mess—lips red, eyes wet, throat raw—and both of them are panting. Their cocks are twitching, flushed, glistening with your spit and smears of precum. 

“Fuck, I could come just like this,” Hoodie mutters, thumb brushing your lower lip.

Masky growls, holding your head back as your hands grip their hips, everyone taking a moment to breathe. He’s silent for a moment, eyes dark with something unspoken—hunger, jealousy, something sharper. His hand tightens in your hair, pulling your head back just a little, tilting your chin up so both cocks press against your lips.

Hoodie’s eyes darken, his fingers tangling in your hair on the other side, steadying you with a grip that says this is going to get messy.

They slide in together—slow at first—thick, hot, slick. Your mouth is so full it almost hurts, your tongue flattened beneath them both, trying to stretch and swallow, but there’s barely any room. They can barely get just past their heads, the first ridge of a vein on Masky’s length pressing into your lip.

You gag once—low, wet—but they hold you there, groaning above you.

“That’s it, baby. Take it all,” Masky growls.

“Good girl,” Hoodie whispers, hips twitching.

You feel them push deeper, their hands pulling your hair to keep you steady as they fill your mouth completely—every inch, no space left—you can’t even move your tongue. Your cheeks bulge out, saliva pooling, and your eyes water—but you won’t back down.

They start moving slowly at first, their cocks sliding in and out in tandem, driving you wild with the tightness and heat. You can taste them—salty, slick—mixed with your own spit, the feel of want and possession.

Their breaths are heavy, ragged, voices low and broken.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” Hoodie pants.

“Goddamn, how’ve we only just now done this?” Masky hisses.

You gag again, swallowing hard around them, desperate to keep up, desperate to show them just how much you want it.

The motel room fills with the sounds of wet mouths, shallow gasps, and the slick, messy rhythm of two cocks moving inside your mouth—one gripping, one teasing, both claiming. They rival the storm outside, the intensity not even close to the swirl of emotions in this room. The roar of the rain and thunder is nowhere near the roar in your skull.

Your jaw aches. Your throat flutters around them. And it’s so obscene the way they use you—not cruel, but so fucking filthy it makes your thighs press together, desperate for friction.

Masky’s voice is tight, groaning low as he watches your lips stretch around him. “Fuck, look at that. So fucking messy.”

Hoodie strokes your hair, his fingers trembling just a bit as you moan around both of them—the vibration making them both curse. “She’s drooling all over us,” he breathes. “Sweetheart, you want us that bad?”

You can’t speak—not with your mouth so full—but you whimper, the sound broken and hot. And they feel it. Your tongue flexes beneath them. Your throat squeezes.

Their hands grip tighter. And for a moment, they start fucking your mouth—not deep, not cruel—just slow, building rhythm, hips rocking forward in sync, stuffing you full again and again until your eyes roll back and your spit drips down your chin, slicking your neck.

You don’t want it to stop.

But suddenly, they pull out—quick, with a wet gasp and a groan, your mouth gaping open, lips red and glistening, a string of saliva still connecting you to them. You’re gasping, drooling, fucked-out and needy, and they just look down at you like they’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

“C’mere,” Masky rasps. “Up.”

Hoodie helps you to your feet—gentle now—kissing your spit-slick cheek, his breath shaking. “You did so fucking good,” he whispers. “But we’re not done.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before Masky’s hands are on your hips, gripping tight, pulling you toward the edge of the bed.

Hoodie’s already climbed up, sitting back against the headboard, his cock is heavy and red, leaking with need and smeared in your spit, twitching as he props himself up on one elbow, watching you with dark, hungry eyes.

You crawl forward on your knees, fingers grazing the soft fabric of the bedspread, then dragging up his thighs, and lower your head toward him.

Your lips part eagerly, tongue sliding out to taste the slick head of his cock. He lets out a low groan, hips lifting just enough to press into your mouth. Your lips open wide, tongue swirling, sliding over every inch of him. The salty taste of him fills you, hot and sharp. His fingers thread into your hair again, tugging lightly, steadying you. But the other wraps under your jaw, angling your head just right so he can press into the back of your throat. “So good, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with need. “Just go nice and slow.”

You obey, your tongue flicking over the underside, swirling around the sensitive tip, your mouth stretching, working him deeper.

Behind you, you feel movement. Masky’s heavy hands settle on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles over your skin just above the curve of your ass.

He leans over you, body pressed atop your back, pulling your hips up to meet where his heavy cock sits against your tailbone. His breath is warm against your neck, voice low and rough. “Got you good and wet, huh?” he growls. “Look at you, taking him like you were made for this.”

One hand slides under your hip, fingers slipping between your legs, pressing firmly against your soaked folds still incredibly sensitive. You shiver, hips pressing down involuntarily, grinding against Masky’s hand. His grip tightens, thumb brushing your clit in slow, teasing circles.

Hoodie’s cock twitches in your mouth, hips rocking gently, setting a slow rhythm. You suck harder, deepening your mouth around him, feeling his pulse through your lips. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails scratching lightly at your scalp.You wrap a fist around the base of his cock, helping you as your eyes flutter closed, breath hitching around him.

Suddenly, Masky’s mouth presses to your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly, sending a sharp thrill through you.

“Make him cum, alright?” he hisses. “Let him spill all in that pretty mouth.”

You hum around Hoodie’s cock in response, tongue swirling, lashes fluttering as you feel Masky’s fingers press one last time against your clit, making you arch back just slightly. You can feel every nerve firing, every muscle tightening in eager anticipation.

He sits back, gripping your hips with bruising hands. Slowly, deliberately, Masky lines himself up. You jolt at the feeling, bulbous head smearing across your folds and collecting your arousal. You shiver, breath hitching around Hoodie’s cock as your back curves toward Masky’s. He chuckles low, and then begins to push in.

At first, just the thick head of him bobs inside—slow and steady—stretching you wide, the new, delicious pressure making your muscles clench and pulse around him. Your walls immediately grip around him, sucking him in the best they can. Your hips press back, desperate to take more, to swallow him whole.

Hoodie moans deep above you, fingers tightening in your hair as he feels your gasp and throat flutter around him.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Masky rasps behind you, his breath hot against your skin. His hands grip your hips firmly, steadying you as he pushes deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt inside your warmth.

The stretch, the fullness—your body’s desperate response sends a wave of heat rippling through you, mixing with the wet slickness from Hoodie’s cock in your mouth. You try to focus on your breathing, but it’s hard when Hoodie’s hips rock up, pushing deep and slow against your tongue, while Masky’s hands knead your hips, thumbs digging into your skin.

Your hands clutch the bedspread, nails scraping the thin fabric as Masky starts to move. His thrusts are slow at first, deliberate and testing—letting you adjust, letting you savor the sensation of being filled by him.

The motel room is alive with sounds—the wet slick of Hoodie’s cock sliding in and out of your mouth, your muffled moans and gasps, and Masky’s low growls as he fucks you from behind—all accompanied by the wonderful pounding of the storm.

You feel every inch of Masky’s cock inside you—thick, hot, and demanding—while Hoodie’s steady rhythm in your mouth keeps you dizzy with pleasure. Fucked absolutely out.

Masky leans down, pressing his chest to your back, one hand sliding under your body to cup your breast, fingers teasing your nipple. He kneads it roughly, making you arch against him, grinding back with every thrust.

Meanwhile, Hoodie’s hands tighten in your hair, pulling your head closer, making you take him deeper, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside. You’ve almost got it all—almost.

The mingled sensations—the fullness behind, the heat in your mouth—makes your head spin. 

Your breath comes in ragged gasps; your hips start to move with Masky’s rhythm, meeting him, pushing back harder. He growls, biting lightly at your neck, leaving mark after mark.

Hoodie moans deep, head leaning back to hit the headboard, voice thick with need. “You’re such a good girl for us,” he groans. “Taking us both so well.”

Your cheeks burn with the praise, your body trembling as Masky’s thrusts get harder, faster, hips slapping wetly against your skin. His hands roam greedily, one sliding between your legs to brush your clit, thumb circling as he fucks into you. Every thrust knocks against your g-spot, every tug of your hips angling your spine, forcing his cock deeper.

You cry out around Hoodie’s cock, your throat full and achingly stretched, saliva dripping down your chin. The waves of pleasure rise quickly now—your body screaming with need and overstimulation.

Masky’s grunts grow louder, his hips slamming against you, every thrust harder than the last. Hoodie’s breathing grows ragged; his fingers tighten in your hair as he holds you captive, your lips and tongue worshipping every inch of his cock inside you.

“Gonna come—” Hoodie gasps.

“Yeah,” Masky growls, voice rough and desperate.

Your body trembles, caught in the eye of their storm—filled, stretched, pleasured from both ends.

Your throat is sore, stretched perfectly around Hoodie’s cock as he shudders, his hips twitching deep inside your mouth. You feel the thick pulse, the hot flood spilling down your throat. Hoodie groans low, voice ragged, as his hips collapse down onto the bed, breath heavy and satisfied.

His cum floods into your throat, and you swallow in time with every twitch of his cock, nails digging into his skin. You pull back just enough to catch your breath, lips swollen and slick, your gaze flickering up to meet his. But before you can savor that moment, you feel Masky’s grip tighten on your hips, rough and insistent.

He growls, voice dark and possessive. “My turn.”

Without warning, he yanks you up by your hips, pulling you up onto your knees and back against his chest. Your legs wobble, but his hands hold you steady, strong. His cock is still buried deep inside you, thick and hard, and with a sudden force, he starts thrusting again—harder, faster—driving up into you with a hunger that steals your breath.

His arms wrap around your middle, holding you close as you bounce back to match every thrust. Your hands reach back, clutching his head and shoulders for support as you try to keep up with the sudden increase in pace.

Masky’s breath is hot against your neck, low and rough. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he snarls. “You gonna cum all over this cock?”

Your body responds instantly—every nerve on fire, every muscle trembling as he pounds into you. You nod, eyes rolling into your head.

Hoodie watches with dark, hungry eyes, sitting up off the mattress to press against your front. He palms at your tits, rolling your nipples as they bounce with every knock of Masky’s cock.

He leans forward, pressing a wet, teasing kiss to your cheek, then down your jawline. “You’re so good for him,” Hoodie whispers. “So fucking perfect.”

He nips at your jaw, trailing his hand down your stomach and between your legs, pressing the pads of his fingers against your clit. He jerks the bud, and you cry out, wrapping an arm around Hoodie’s shoulders.

You pull him to you, chasing hips lips as you feel your cunt ache, feel the familiar coil in the pit of your stomach. Masky feels how you tighten around him, his pace stuttering. His breath grows ragged, voice thick with desperation as he pulls you tighter against him.

“I’m—fuck—gonna—” he gasps, hips stuttering.

“Yeah—please—inside—” You’re cumming so hard your vision cuts, eyes rolling so hard the two have to hold you steady when you go limp in their arms. Hoodie’s fingers slow, easing you through the waves of pleasure. Masky thrusts once, twice—until he buries in as deep as he can.

Masky presses his face into your shoulder, biting the skin as he cums into your cunt. You feel the spill, the thick ropes that paint your cervix and fill you so good.

The bed creaks, old springs shifting under the weight as bodies shift and breathing rattles lungs. You’re gripping both of them, a head pressed close to either shoulder, each kissing your skin.

“Fuck…” you huff, eyes struggling to stay open. You rest your chin against Hoodie’s shoulder, trying your best to catch your breath. “Feels good… So warm…”

Hoodie’s eyes darken with a dangerous hunger as he pushes his fingers further past your clit, feeling the spot where your entrance begins—stretched full of Masky. He hums, making your body jerk as he tries to press his fingers into the little space there is left.

“Brian—” you warn, nails digging into his shoulder. It doesn’t matter, he somehow manages to press the first knuckles of his middle fingers in, digits burying in the warmth of your cunt along with Masky’s cock. You all groan, Masky’s hips involuntarily jerking up at the sensation of Hoodie’s knuckles against his length.

“Brian, man. What—” Masky starts.

“Stay in,” Hoodie murmurs to Masky, voice low and urgent.

Masky stalls, searching his eyes, but growls his assent, hips still heavy inside you, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid to lose you.

Hoodie pulls his fingers out of your sensitive entrance, reaching around behind your legs to pull them out from under you. Masky catches your weight, holding you steady as Hoodie pulls your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back. Hoodie grips under your ass, Masky holds under your thighs, your body sandwiched between them.

Hoodie shifts closer, positioning himself at your entrance. Your body tightens instinctively, every muscle clenching around Masky’s cock buried deep within you.

“Wait—Wait, hold on—”

“You can take it,” Masky kisses against your shoulder, continuously glancing between you and Hoodie. “You will.”

Slowly, carefully, Hoodie pushes forward. 

At first, just the tip teases your wet, stretched folds. You gasp—a mix of pleasure and shock—as you feel yourself being stretched again, wider than you thought possible.

Masky’s hands grip your thighs tighter, steadying you as Hoodie tries to fight the resistance, bobbing the very tip of his cock against the tight ring of muscle burning from the attempted stretch.

“Shit—shit, shit shit—” Your breath hitches, eyes fluttering closed, mouth parting in a moan. You try your best to relax, try your damnest not to cry and whine with every burn that runs up your body.

Finally, one angle catches his head, your cunt opening up around his thick head. Hoodie’s cock slides past Masky’s inside you, the sensation unlike anything you’ve felt before. A delicious fullness floods your senses, your body opening to take them both, cunt absolutely screaming in sparks of pain and overwhelming ecstasy.

Masky shifts, thrusting just enough to give you room, hips grinding slowly, his voice a low growl against your skin. “Gonna ruin this pussy,” Masky rasps. “You’ll never be satisfied again if it’s not us.”

The three of you move as one tight, wet unit—Masky’s cock buried balls-deep, Hoodie’s cock sliding alongside him, pinning you open so completely it’s like you don’t even have a choice. The motel sheets are rumpled beneath you, their knees pressed hard into the thin mattress, arms braced against their shoulders for balance as Masky’s heavy thrusts rock you forward into Hoodie’s chest.

You can feel both of them inside you. Masky’s thick length fills your back walls, the girth taking up most of the room inside, causing you to lose your breath with every hardened thrust. Hoodie’s cock presses into your front, sliding quickly past Masky’s still-buried base, the dual pressure stretching you wider than you’ve ever felt before.

“C’mon, little mouse. Let us hear you.” Hoodie smiles.

Their hands grip your hips and thighs like anchors, thumbs digging into flesh, guiding your movements. Every time Masky pulls out slightly, Hoodie pushes in an extra half-inch, and vice versa, the two of them taking turns controlling your rhythm. The sensation is overwhelming—a deliciously torturous fullness that has your entire body humming with overstimulation.

Your senses explode. The slick heat of Masky’s cum still coating you from before mixes with fresh heat as you’re squeezed around both of them, a salt-tinged warmth that makes your toes curl. Their breaths are hot in your ear and on your neck—Masky’s rough growls vibrating against your spine, Hoodie’s low moans tickling your shoulder.

The sound of skin slapping skin echoes around the cramped room—Masky’s thighs smacking against your ass, Hoodie’s groaning as he presses flush into you.

With each thrust, Masky leans forward, chest against your back, caging you. His hands push your hips down, angling you so every stroke smacks your cervix with delicious force. You feel every ridge of his cock sliding deep inside, muscles clenching around him. “Hnn—gonna fu—shit—gonna fuck you stupid, sweet girl.”

Hoodie shifts his grip from your ass to slide to Masky’s hip, feeling his timing. He digs his nails into Masky’s skin, matching his pacing so he fucks you in perfect sync with Masky, making you cry out. “Feels so good, doesn’t it?” Hoodie pants. “Wanna do this forever.”

Your head falls forward onto Hoodie’s shoulder, lips parted in breathless moans that each of them feeds on. You can taste yourself on their skin—your slick mix of spit and cum—and it makes you ache for more. Every nerve ending feels alive, your clit crushed against Hoodie’s pelvis, Masky’s cock pulsating inside you like a living thing, and your brain goes fuzzy with the exquisite pain-pleasure of being stretched beyond your limits.

“It’s too much—fuck—I can’t—can’t keep up—”

They don’t let you rest.

Masky’s thrusts grow harder, sharper, forcing your hips up into Hoodie’s pelvis each time the head of his cock hits your g-spot. Hoodie, in turn, squeezes your ass so tight you can’t move, riding those jolting shocks from Masky’s cock, matching you thrust for thrust with a fierce, driving pace that threatens to break every bone in your body.

Your vision swims; sweat beads on your skin. You feel your orgasm building again—hot, desperate, unstoppable. They know your signs now. They’re built to adapt, to learn, to complete impossible tasks—so of course they know exactly what it feels like when you’re about to cum already. As the pressure peaks, Hoodie’s hand slaps down hard on your ass, and Masky’s fingers dig into your thighs in a gritted command, “Come for us.”

With a final, simultaneous plunge—Masky’s cock buried to the hilt, Hoodie’s thrusting floor-to-ceiling—you break.

“Fuck!”

Your toes curl, your back arches, and a guttural cry tears from your throat as wave after wave of orgasm ripples through you. Your body clenches so fiercely around both of them that it drives them over the edge, too.

Masky roars, releasing inside you in long, trembling spurts, his cock pulsing deep within. Hoodie groans your name, spilling his hot cum as he holds you tight, his fingers still gripping your ass as he comes.

Their combined release floods you, warmth coating your insides as the tremors of your orgasm shake your limbs. For a long moment, the three of you move together in trembling grinds—skin gleaming with sweat, breaths ragged and mingling as you ride out every inch of pleasure, tight cunt milking every drop they’ve got.

Finally, Masky pulls back, still buried inside you, and Hoodie slides out, collapsing under you on the bed. You fall forward, landing on top of Hoodie, Masky following behind.

They sandwich you, sweat-soaked bodies pressed close as Masky musters the last of his strength to slip out of your spent cunt, sending cum spilling from your folds and onto the bedsheets below. 

The room smells like sex and sweat and crappy motel soap.

You’re sprawled across Hoodie, boneless and dazed, your body still trembling from the storm they dragged you through. The thin, scratchy sheet is tangled around your legs. The pillows are damp and askew. The red light from the neon sign outside bleeds in through the blinds, painting everything in a low crimson haze.

Everyone rolls off each other, taking up the entirety of what little space there is of the matters.

You’re caught in the middle, surrounded by the weight of their bodies, the heat of their skin, and the press of breath that slows with every minute on either side of you.

Masky’s against you, chest to your back, arm slung lazily around your waist. His hand is splayed across your stomach, fingers twitching occasionally, as if he’s trying his best to go back to staying still. His breath brushes your shoulder in soft exhales, nose buried in the crook of your neck.

In front of you, Hoodie lies on his back, one hand lazily stroking your arm, eyes half-lidded and dark with something softer than before. He’s flushed, chest rising and falling slow, mouth slightly parted. There’s a sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin, his lashes damp from the heat and friction of everything that just happened.

No one speaks for a long while. Just breathing. Just silence. The weight of your shared pleasure settling in the small, hazy air of the motel room.

Your body aches in every place they touched. You’re full, sore, and you feel like your soul’s been picked clean—but not in a bad way. It’s grounding. It feels good, like you’ve finally unwound all the tension in your psyche.

Eventually, Hoodie shifts, his knuckles brushing your cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but the touch is soft, thoughtful.

Masky murmurs into your shoulder, his voice scratchy and low. “You good?”

You nod, barely, too tired to speak yet. But your hand finds his on your stomach and laces your fingers through his, gently squeezing.

Hoodie lets out a breath—somewhere between a sigh and a huff of amusement. “Didn’t think you’d actually let us go that far.”

You blink slowly, managing a tired little smirk. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Hoodie chuckles under his breath, the sound light, pulling you a little closer with the crook of his arm. You nuzzle into the curve of his shoulder, lips brushing over the faint scrape of stubble on his jaw.

Behind you, Masky groans quietly. “Stop flirting.”

“You can’t call dibs on her after we just shared her.”

You laugh under your breath, soft and barely there. Masky’s grip tightens just a little at your waist in response.

“You okay?” Hoodie asks this time, a little more serious.

You nod again. “Yeah. Just… full.”

Both of them laugh, low and lazy and quiet, and you let your eyes flutter shut as they sit up.

They don’t say a word.

They just move—Masky sliding down your body to one side, Hoodie shifting to the other—and before you can protest, both their heads dip low.

Masky begins at your hip crease, tongue tracing slow, firm licks along your soaked skin, gathering every last drop of cum that smears across your skin. His free hand cups your thigh, pressing you open for him, while his other hand snakes between your legs to steady you. Each broad stroke of his tongue pulls your body taut with sensitivity, the warmth of his mouth searing against your skin.

Hoodie, mirrored on the opposite side, leans in beneath your belly, tongue flicking up in short, quick passes at your lower lips—then sliding deeper into your soaked center. He laps gently, methodically, collecting the sweetness you left behind. His breath hovers warm across your thigh as he cleans with expert devotion, making sure no spot is missed.

They work effortlessly.

Every few inches of Masky’s slow, worshipful licks are matched by Hoodie’s precise, teasing sweeps. You feel the wet press of their tongues meet at the center, swallowing and savouring you, their mouths hot and insistent.

Masky’s tongue drags a slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, then circles it, flattening and pressing until you arch your back, legs tensing around both of them. Hoodie’s tongue dives in synchrony, curling just right to find every crevice, every tremble point. You grab the bedsheets, tugging and pulling with every sharp roll of the muscles.

Their hands aren’t idle either. Masky’s fingertips brush delicate arcs along your inner thighs, glide up to tease your sensitive folds; Hoodie’s thumb brushes gentle, reassuring circles over your hip bone as he leans in to work the tip of his tongue against your clit again.

You moan—soft, breathy, nearly pained with relief and pleasure—as they feed on you, cleaning you with their mouths like they’re righting some cosmic wrong. The red neon light flickers in the curtains, painting their faces in shadow and warmth, and you’re suspended between their ministrations, heart pounding.

Finally, when every drop is gone, they lift their heads together, lips glistening, eyes dark with need and something softer—care, devotion, worship. Masky presses a slow, wet kiss to your inner thigh; Hoodie brushes your stomach with his nose, his breath feather-light.

They slide back up—Masky pressing a gentle kiss behind your ear, Hoodie trailing one across your collarbone. Their hands settle on your hips and shoulders, cradling you in a triangle of warmth and quiet satisfaction.

You’re nestled between them again, chest still rising in unsteady waves as the weight of their attention and afterglow begins to soften into something cozy, close. The scratchy motel sheet is pulled half-heartedly over your legs, but Hoodie reaches to tug the heavy comforter up higher, draping it over all three of you. You instinctively scoot closer to the body heat pressing into you from both sides. The heater is still broken, the electricity is still shot—but you’re incredibly warm despite it.

Masky’s arm is hooked under your neck, fingers resting lightly on your shoulder. Hoodie’s hand is against your hip, thumb rubbing slow circles into your bare skin. Their bodies bracket you like armor, all strong limbs and quiet breath.

There’s a quiet moment—just the loud thrum of the rain in the background and the distant hum of neon through the window.

Then you tilt your chin up toward Hoodie and nudge Masky’s jaw with your nose. “C’mere,” you whisper, voice still low and sleep-thick.

They don’t hesitate. Hoodie leans in first, kissing you slow and unhurried, his lips soft and warm, the kind of kiss that isn’t asking for more—it’s just being. A little messy, from how relaxed he is, but sweet.

When you break apart, Masky is already there, nudging Hoodie aside with a little grunt like he’s annoyed he had to wait. His kiss is rougher, more teeth, more pressure—but not because he’s impatient. It’s just him. And you like that.

They both kiss you again—switching off without a word—until you’re dazed, lazy, flushed all over again from nothing but mouth and hands and heat.

You hum against Masky’s lips as he kisses you one last time, then break away with a smug little grin. “You know…” you murmur, glancing between them. “You two should kiss again.”

Hoodie’s eyes flick toward Masky, brow arching slightly. Masky scoffs, instantly bristling.

“Fuck off,” Masky mutters, shifting on the mattress. “Not gonna do that just ‘cause you get off on it.”

“Yeah,” Hoodie echoes, dry but amused, “not a circus act for you.”

You pout playfully, dramatically cuddling into Hoodie’s chest like you’re wounded. “Rude,” you mumble. “After you did unspeakable things to me, too.”

Masky snorts. “Yeah, more like you begged us to, sweetheart.”

But even as he says it, you catch the glance he and Hoodie share—a flicker of tension, a spark of something under the surface. A challenge.

And then Hoodie shrugs. “Fine.” He grabs Masky by the jaw, jerks him forward, and kisses him across you.

It’s not graceful. It’s not slow, or romantic. It’s messy and firm and unexpected—Hoodie’s hand in Masky’s hair, their mouths pressed together hard enough to bruise. Masky makes a surprised sound, fists clenching in the sheets, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.

The kiss breaks after a few seconds—both of them pulling back just a little, eyes locking for one tense, unreadable moment.

“Happy now?” Masky mutters, breath warm and a little shaken.

You beam. “So happy.”

They groan in unison—so done with you—but they don’t move away. The three of you settle again, tangled under the blanket, skin against skin, quiet and warm. Hoodie lets out a soft breath, his fingers threading lazily through yours. Masky shifts until his nose brushes your shoulder.

And it’s not another minute before your breathing slows, eyes fluttering shut whether you’d like them to or not. It’s just so warm, and safe, and…

── .✦

The first thing you notice is the sharp click—the unmistakable hum of power rushing back through the motel’s ancient wiring.

Lights flicker on, harsh and sudden, cutting through the red glow of the neon sign outside. The storm has passed. Outside, rain still trickles down the windowpanes, gentle now, like a quiet exhale after a violent scream.

You stir slowly, eyelids fluttering open to find Masky’s warm chest pressed against your back, Hoodie’s arms wrapped loosely around your waist. All three of you are tangled, skin slick with the aftermath of last night’s messy heat. Your muscles ache, sore from every touch, every thrust—but that ache feels good, grounding.

You reach out, fingers trailing softly over Masky’s shoulder, then nudge Hoodie’s arm. Their eyes blink open, heavy-lidded and slow, matching your own sleepy haze.

Masky grunts low, voice rough from sleep. “Power’s back. Storm’s over.”

Hoodie’s lips twitch into a tired smile. “Figured. I heard it snap back a few minutes ago.”

You press a kiss into Hoodie’s shoulder, then turn to face Masky, your hand resting on his chest. “Feels like… we should get up.”

Masky groans, pulling you closer. “Five more minutes.”

You shake your head with a soft laugh, the warmth of their bodies still wrapping around you like a cocoon. “Nope. We gotta move before motel staff starts getting suspicious.”

Hoodie shifts, fingers brushing your ribs, his eyes dark and sleepy but amused. “Final shower before the road?”

You nod. “Yeah. Warm water. Then hit the road and figure out why Toby didn’t meet us.”

Masky lets out a slow breath, reluctantly peeling away from you. Hoodie follows, helping you all untangle from the sheets and each other, muscles stiff but spirits gentle.

Together, you move toward the bathroom, the air cool against your heated skin, the scent of rain still lingering in the cracked-open window. The sound of water soon fills the room—steady, soothing—and you lean against each other, sharing quiet moments of comfort before the world outside calls you back to motion.

The morning was cool but the shower was blistering hot—steam clouded the cracked mirror, dripping down the grimy tiles like sweat. You shuffled in first, hauling the wrinkled plastic curtain closed, the water sputtering uncertainly before finally warming up.

The spray hit you in jagged pulses, barely enough to drown the sweat and grime from the night. You grabbed your clothes from the grimy floor and hung them on the rusted rack, wincing as the cold brushed your skin.

Then, the bathroom door creaked open.

“Hoodie?” Masky’s voice echoed in the tight space. “You getting in or what?”

Hoodie grinned, stepping into the narrow space, brushing damp hair from his eyes. “Hell yeah. This place might be a shithole, but a hot shower’s a hot shower.”

You laughed, leaning back against the cool tiles as Hoodie slipped in beside you. Masky pressed in from the doorway, careful to avoid knocking over the lone soap bar.

The three of you shuffled under the tiny showerhead, water washing away the grime and the tension. The cramped space forced your bodies close, and though it was uncomfortably tight, it was also… familiar.

“Man,” Hoodie said, voice muffled by the water. “You ever crave something stupid after missions? Like, I dunno—pancakes? With syrup? Maybe some crispy bacon?”

Masky chuckled. “Pancakes sound nice. But all I want is a coffee.”

You smirked. “I’d kill for a greasy diner breakfast right now. Coffee that’s strong enough to wake the dead. Eggs over easy. Hell, I’d even take burnt toast.”

“Burnt toast?” Hoodie teased. “You’re picky.”

“Not when it comes to food. I’m starving.”

The water splashed harder as Masky shifted, nudging you gently. “We’ll get there,” he promised. “Back at the mansion. Full kitchen, good food, and maybe even a bed that doesn’t squeak.”

The warmth seeped into your bones, but reality crept back in. The storm had passed, but you still had to get out.

You rinsed off quickly, the water cooler than before, and dried off with the thin motel towel. Masky and Hoodie did the same, the cramped bathroom turning into a mess of wet clothes and half-stifled laughter.

Back in the room, you grabbed your packs, and Hoodie yanked open the dresser. With a grunt, the three of you shifted the heavy, scratched piece of furniture off the door—praying that nobody heard the loud shuffling.

“Think they’ll lose their shit when they see this place?” you asked, peeking over your shoulder to see the absolute disarray you’re leaving it in.

“Doubt it,” Masky shrugged. “They probably get worse than this.”

You peeked out the grimy window. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the lot was nearly empty.

“Alright,” Hoodie said, voice low. “Let’s move before someone sees us.”

You crept out the door, puddles of water and broken tree limbs littering the lot. Outside, the cold air hit you all at once, bracing and sharp. The truck was waiting, just like you left it—windows streaked with rain, engine cool but ready.

You climbed in, each of you wiping the last drops of water from your faces. Hoodie turned the keys, the engine sputtering to life, before you peeled out of the parking lot. Music was turned up, the heater was turned high, and you all relaxed back into your familiar spots.

Masky’s hand dipped into the glove compartment with that familiar, casual ease—the one that made you forget just how much he needed the habit. His fingers closed around a crumpled pack of cigarettes, the familiar crinkle of cellophane breaking the silence. He pulled one free, flicked the lighter from his pocket, and inhaled deep.

Passing the cigarette over, you caught it next—fingers brushing against his briefly as you took a slow drag, the smoke filling your lungs and settling the restless ache that lingered after the night. Hoodie leaned in, grabbing it carefully, his eyes half-lidded in that hazy, just-woken-up way.

Just then, your phone buzzed—buried deep in the bottom of your pack, vibrating insistently. It was a burner, one used only to communicate between proxies. You cursed softly, fumbling to unzip the heavy canvas and dig through the clutter.

“Shit,” you muttered, finally pulling it free. The screen flashed with Toby’s name.

“Where the h-hell have you be-been?” his voice was sharp, frantic.

You glanced up at Masky and Hoodie, who had gone quiet, exchanging looks loaded with equal parts exhaustion and irritation.

You answered, voice low, “We got caught in the storm. Couldn’t get back to the mansion.”

Toby’s rant came fast and furious through the speaker. “You should’ve c-come back. The meeting point was h-hours ago. I never met you gu-guys cause boss told me to come back. Not wo-worth getting caught in a storm. St-Staying out like that? Stupid.”

The three of you shared a glance—silent, tired, and pisses beyond compare knowing that while the three of you were forced into a shitty motel to stay safe, Toby was lounging at the mansion with his feet kicked up.

You cut the call, the line going dead with a quick flick of your thumb. You tossed the phone back in the bag with a groan.

Masky cracked a crooked grin, shaking his head. “Screw it. After last night? A diner stop is worth it.”

Hoodie nodded, the cigarette between his fingers almost forgotten as he looked out the window. “Yeah. Pancakes, bacon, coffee… Toby can kiss my ass.”

You smirked, leaning back against the seat, the morning sun finally breaking through the clouds as the truck rolled down the highway. The energy stirred, a silent thrum between the three of you that was undeniable now, one that you didn’t even have to speak on to know.

Sleeping in your own bed is a luxury, no doubt.

But when two pairs of strong hands keep you warm, hold you close, and make you feel like the cold isn't going to kill you.

Maybe sharing one isn’t so bad.

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

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

[huntedrabbit]

˗ˋˏ BE A FREAK LIKE ME ˎˊ˗

im thinking...again...mostly abt what (weird) kinks some of the creeps (+ habit bc god knows i love this freak.) would have...!!!

as of today there is a pt2!!

includes: tim wright, brian thomas, jeffery woods, toby rogers, jack nyras, habit, nsfw....obviously, a lot of self indulgent thoughts/headcanons

TWs!!!: choking/breath play, cigarette burns, knife/blood play, med play, cannibalism, biting, habit, weird kinks in general...!! (no piss, scat or vomit)

nsfw under the cut <3

TIM

✦︎ big into choking u so hard u almost pass out ✦︎ hes sweet during it though which makes it either better or worse. depends. ✦︎ would probably put his cigarettes out on u...IF u begged before hand bc he isnt actually into hurting you like this at all ✦︎ but if its something u really want he might start with letting the ash fall onto ur bare skin ✦︎ if he does end up putting them out on u, its in hidden places. usually ur back or the inside of ur thighs ✦︎ has definitely shaped a heart with them ✦︎ i also think hed be into fucking u with brian. i fully believe this with my entire bunny heart. (i just really want to be between them) ✦︎ i think hes also really into u sucking/gagging on his fingers >o<!! ✦︎ a brat tamer through and through. sometimes he just waits for u to talk back so he can put u back into place

BRIAN

✶ i need u to hear me out on him. (this is self indulgent holy shit) ✶ hes so mean. i know it. i know it. I KNOW IT. ✶ LOVES tying u up......especially with either rough-ish rope or pretty ribbons :3 ✶ edges AND overstimulates u until ur a shaking and crying mess. yup yup yup...!!! ✶ filming. obviously. do i even have to explain it? ✶ he just really likes seeing how ur hole gripped his cock when hes out and cant sink it into u...u cant blame a guy for that ✶ he is the KING of munching. its his favorite past time. hes IN there. rip to all the soldiers that died in the service, i dive in her cervix type shit (this is so cringe forgive me) ✶ calls u the meanest names EVEEEERRR ✶ he's so sweet and nice literally any other time...........but hes letting it all lose during sex. i do not take criticism on this.

JEFF

ꕤ .........a FREAK ꕤ i mean...to the obvious shit...hes into knife play. ꕤ like not just dragging it across ur skin, which is hot enough. but cutting shit shallowly into ur skin. now that gets him GOING ꕤ has definitely cut his name into ur skin...hashtag ownership and stuff ꕤ also really into blood play ꕤ which is usually just u two making out or fucking while he's covered in blood form a victim. he's also into using blood as a lube. ꕤ def meaner than brian. also really fucking selfish....... ꕤ still somehow makes u have a brain shattering orgasm even if hes just chasing his own ꕤ LOVEEEESSSS seeing u cock drunk, it boosts his stupid ego so bad ꕤ he is NOT gentle whatsoever...i feel like he barely even knows what gentle is in bed... ꕤ also big into throat fucking,,,hearing u gag and choke around his cock is also somehow great for his ego ꕤ spews the nastiest and dirtiest dirty talk u have ever HEARD. ꕤ also into public shit, bc hes a freak like that. i just know it. i cant prove it yet.

TOBY

಄ he's open for it all ಄ he's not crazy kinky i think....so u gotta teach him... ಄ does love marking u up in any way though...especially biting u ಄ also into mutual masturbation, but he will probably not keep masturbating iykwim ಄ he is either a dom or a sub...he still tops regardless though. i <3 u sub top toby... ಄ if u praise him he might cum in his pants. i just know praise makes him crazy ಄ second biggest munch after brian!!!! LOOOVEEESSS being down there ಄ really sloppy. the sloppiest ever really. ಄ so so so very eager...like a little doggy... ಄ ON THE TOPIC OF DOGGY.......dare i say hes lowkey into pet play....yes i do dare to say that...i see it right in front of me i just KNOOOOW it ಄ wouldnt do the whole ear and tail thing (well...no he would probably) but 100% would get a collar with a bone shaped tag on it that just says "Toby" and "If lost return to [NAME]" ಄ would also probably be ok if u want to be the pet???? especially if its like. a cat or a bunny or some shit like that...he thinks the difference is cute ಄ really into overstim...both u and him actually. yeah :3

JACK

✽ im not crazy for saying hed be into medplay right? right. ✽ i think he and brian actually share title of king of munching. he has three tongues...come on now guys............ ✽ PERIOD SEX.......!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! hes scared that hes actually going to eat u at first but he also knows it can help with cramps so...why not try it after he knows he isnt gonna be randomly hungry... ✽ biting........ ✽ sighs ok i lied maybe hes into a bit of cannibalism during sex!! ✽ he doesnt take HUGE chunks or fully eats u. and ONLY does it with ur consent ofc...but if u let him u might be missing a small piece of ur shoulder or thigh...not too bad but it def leaves a scar (hes patching u up ofc...!!!!) ✽ with all that i said itd be hypocritical to say hes kinda vanilla but......he kinda is?? sure hes freaked out in a way but.......not that freaky when it comes to other stuff ✽ but very open to trying new things!!!! as long as ur happy, he's happy!!!

HABIT

⌖ FREAK PT 2 but even worse than jeff. ⌖ knife play. so much of it. all types. he wants to see which scares u the most and which cuts u easier ⌖ fear play...!! he LOVES scaring u during sex, its SO much fun for him. u also tighten up and cry so sweetly...whats not to love!! ⌖ predator/prey...hes the wolf...ur the bunny...yeah u get it. this also ties in with the fear play shit actually... ⌖ also big into filming, especially if ur shy/embarrassed about it. it just makes it even better!!!! ⌖ MARATHON SEX. his stamina is out of hand. evans body probably can barely keep up but that doesnt mean he wont try to fuck u as much as possible in one session!!!!!!!! ⌖ if ud let him he'd probably fuck u in his true form...yeah thats all ⌖ also a huge biter......bites u so hard u bruise and bleed. he licks it up. ofc. ⌖ THE MEANEST. not even jeff and brian together could get up to his level of mean. im so srs.

[wwwrottendotcom]

The creeps & "Just the tip" (Part 1)

Personal word vomit: I'm currently obsessing over The Evil Within and dudeeeeeee why did no one tell me about how amazing that stupid game is GOD GUYS I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME about it😞💔🥀 (Read Part 2 HERE)

Featuring: Ticci Toby / Toby Rogers, Masky / Tim Wright, Hoodie / Brian Thomas

CW: nsfw, fem!reader, unprotected sex, p in v sex, creampie, teasing, edging, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy / pregnancy scare, swearing, pet names, not proof read, written by a non-naitive english speaker

༘⋆ Toby

✦ lololol are you fucking crazy? He's kind of offended that you would even suggest such a thing. Toby has been begging you to hit it raw for some time now and while the thought of it turns you on, you don't want to deal with the hassle of the morning after pill. So, when he was yet again hesitant to grab a condom the other night, you caved: "Fuck, okay... just the tip, though." The proxy looked at you like you said something wildly atrocious, but it's better than nothing, so he went with it.

✦ He looked down at you, all sprawled out on the bed, the sheer nightgown you wore bunched up over your breasts... It was honestly something Toby would have wet dreams about. And, god, he really did try "Just the tip" — He sunk in just a few inches into your wet hole while watching your face in anticipation if you either want him to continue or put on a condom anyway.

✦ The more you sighed, squirmed, wiggled under him, the less he was able to control himself. Toby felt like his balls were about to explode — He could be bottoming out in your pretty pussy right now and fill you up like a cumdump (Or like you guys want to have children in exactly 9 months), but he also wanted to respect your wishes. He feared you might never let him hit again. With the lack of stimulation, you grew more frustrated, overthinking your own decisions right now. The stretch of only your boyfriend's tip just felt so good... And one time wouldn't hurt anyone, right?

✦ In conclusion, "Just the tip" just doesn't work with Toby. He'll be whining about how good you feel without a condom and you'll absolutely fold in a matter of minutes. When you give him the go, there isn't even a second he wastes before he fully thrusts into your hole, moaning like he's never felt this before. "Oh m—my god you f—feel so fucking g—good, baby," Toby kept blabbering and every filthy word made you clench around his dick. You didn't even regret this decision when thick ropes of his cum coated your walls a little while later.

༘⋆ Masky

✦ For Tim, it's more of a game of who survives longer beteeen the two of you. Of course, he'd love to just fuck into you and pump you full with his cum — It gets his mind reeling every time he imagines you pregnant with his child. It would ultimately make you his.. completely. That's wish-thinking, though. Right now he just enjoys toying around with you, teasing you by suggesting "Only the tip" himself. At first you raised your eyebrow, not really believing your boyfriend when he said he'd be able to withstand you.

✦ You were proven right at the end — Tim slid the tip of his cock along your wet slit, occasionally bumping against your clit which made your hole already clenche around nothing. The problem was, he couldn't keep his eyes off your pussy.. The temptation to just plunge balls deep into you, enjoying every squeeze and ripple of your walls around his dick... Oh yeah, that would be absolute heaven. "Already fantasizing about it aren't you? Thought you'd do better, Tim." You winked at him, a finger playing with a stray strand of your own hair. Your words made him frown — I mean, you were right, but he just didn't want to hear that.

✦ "Fuuuck, okay, you need to shut your mouth, woman." You just sneered. It was annoying Tim quite a lot that he was basically losing his own game. Why were you lying there so unbothered? Like all of this wasn't happening? You should be begging for his cock to fill you up by now!

✦ Bottom line is: "Just the tip" was the stupidest thing that ever left Tim's mouth. Don't worry, it didn't take long before even you begged him to fill you up and until he did exactly that. Fueled only by the thought of you being pregnant, his cum spilling out of your hole with how much he already came to basically breed you, Tim fucked you into the mattress like the world would end if he didn't.

༘⋆ Hoodie

✦ WHAT? "Just... the tip?" Why? What kind of mind tricks are you trying to play on him? Where did you see this? Were you just teasing him? Is this some stupid trend girlfriends came up with to film their boyfriend's reaction again? Your reasoning "You can't control yourself without a condom, Brian" did sound plausible, though. Like, yeah, he asks Santa every year for only one gift: Hitting you raw. It was just unlike you to suggest something like that now.

✦ "No, I can't do it babe, fuckfuckfuckfuck—" You'd think Brian needed to kill you or something, but no, he was just a couple inches deep in your clenching pussy. The sight of you beneath him, eyes filled with lust, boobs so perfectly on display... it was pornographic. How was he supposed to withstand the evil, evil thoughts he had about just slamming into you when he had this beautiful sight in front of him?

✦ "Brian! God, what did I tell you?" He couldn't stop himself. In a matter of seconds he was balls deep in your pussy, filling you up to the brim. Oh wow, for some reason his dick felt even better without protection — Like, ridiculously better. It was like his tip was kissing your cervix without having to bend and break you to get to the deepest parts of you and it was euphoric.

✦ Yeah no, "Just the tip" also doesn't work with Brian. He's unapologeticly horny and just the thought of being able to fuck you raw got him as hard as a rock. The pregnancy thing was something to worry about later — The only thing Brian was worrying about now was how he isn't able to last nearly as long fucking into you than normal.

[fernsandthesun]

Old man cock

[sirfigglehorn]

real

[nic0altine-sh0ts]

art dump loll

[maskysfawn]

i NEED to be pounded into the mattress face down ass up by masky until i either can’t think or breathe.

i NEED him to hold my hips and leave bruises.

i NEED him to tell me how disgusting i am to be so eager to be fucked by a masked stranger.

i NEED him to laugh at me when i can’t form sentences.

i NEED to feel his tip hit my cervix even though it hurts.

i NEED to feel him cum so deep inside me that it will 100% leave me pregnant.

i NEED him to get hard again and keep going.

[sirfigglehorn]

real shit

[vicious-sugar]

I imagine Tim to be a rough lover, you know? Probably because it's how he learned in the hospital and as a proxy. Like, yes, he works hard, but he'll also be rough around the edges because of it. He's quiet, gruff, but God, he loves like the devil himself. Biting, nipping, etc, he loves all of it. He loves hard and rough, because that's how he was taught, and it's not tender like they say, really. It's just, overwhelming, but amazingly so.

I imagine Brian as a little bit of a gentler lover because he didn't have those experiences like Tim. Of course, he'll be a little rough because of his missions, but I think he'd take solace in the softer things when he's not out on a mission. Holding you close, and making sure you're wrapped in a soft blanket or sweater. He loves like a man starved of it for years.

[sirfigglehorn]

Literally just here for Marble Hornets and Creepypasta content..