getting a “they’re gone, come over” prank text from the creeps but you don’t play like that (from this ask :P)
warnings: threats of violence (from reader), possessive behavior, suggestive content, angst in jeff’s (sorry) ((no i’m not)) not rlly a warning but EJ’s references jeff’s partner,
ft. brian thomas, tim wright, tobias rogers, jeffery woods, EJ, ben drowned/BEN
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a/n: no nat or habit for this one bc clocky would NEVER do that to you and habit and the reader aren’t established enough for that to effect y’alls situationship. yes you’re in a situationship with habit im So sorry
Cowboy!Brian taking you out for a ride on his horse, the thumping rhythm of hoofbeats beneath you as that low and smooth southern drawl curls his every word.
“Y’er alright, girl…”
A toothy smile tugging at his mouth as he feels your arms relax around his waist.
“Yeah… good girl.”
He says it with such sensuality that you can’t help but wonder if he’s talking to you or the horse anymore..
finding out the creeps have slept with each other. (this was so fucking funny i love being a multishipper)
MATURE CONTENT!!! MDNI!!!
warnings for: talk of sex, implied masturbation, cyberstalking(?), threesomes, vulgar language
ft. brian thomas, tim wright, tobias rogers, jeffery woods
pt 1. (you’re here!) -> pt. 2
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a/n: this one is ALL OVER THE PLACE. formatted with tim’s conversation being a follow up to brian’s, toby and jeff’s are separate storylines from the gc with ben which will be in part two.. (also what toby describes is a ticcijeff fic i abandoned lowkey)
saw u mention how tim and brian are a package deal and i’m curious, how do u think they’d go abt pursuing the same person? whether if it’s meeting said person at the same time, or one got to meet that person before the other
sorry if that’s a mouthful hopefully what i’m asking makes sense (ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ·̫ ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀)
holy moly i may have gotten a little carried away answering this, so i’m counting it as a drabble LOLL
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that could go a few ways, depending on which situation happens.
if they both met you at the same time, i’d have to go with the trope of both of them coming into the diner or gas station you work at, completely exhausted. they share a look.
you’re conversational and pleasant in a way that isn’t entirely the forced customer service persona you put on each shift. maybe it’s ignorance, or your desperation to cling to an actually decent person to person connection between the degenerates you usually have the displeasure of talking to.
they quickly become regulars, and you end up lost in conversations with the two of them. you ask what they do for work, always coming in at the most ungodly hours possible.
tim is the first to speak, only muttering “hunters” and not elaborating further when you prod that deer hunting season doesn’t start until october or november, if you remembered correctly.
you were too clever for your own good, and brian loved that.
his main job was gathering intel for The Bald One, and god, did he gather intel about you.
tim chided him for it, of course. called him a fuckin’ creep, but shut his mouth when brian tossed a few polaroids into his lap.
ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⦻ˎˊ˗
either way, there’s going to be competition. friendly, to an extent.
there’s a certain push/pull dynamic between the two of them, and both are constantly trying to one up each other to gain brownie points with you.
tim had met you first, stranded on the side of the road and pacing in front of your car. it was late, too late for someone like you to be stranded in the middle of nowhere with whatever car trouble you had going on.
brian knew more about cars, and had practically taught tim everything he knew as he explained to you the issue.
he jump started your car, and you exchanged numbers with the promise of seeing a mechanic as soon as you could find one.
and find one you did. it wasn’t too hard to fudge the credentials and mock up his profile when you’d posted about looking for a mechanic nearby, too wary to drive your car after the scare you had with your engine dying just the night prior.
your knight in bootcut jeans, brian. the post hadn’t even been up for an hour when he’d messaged you, offering to take a look at it.
after he had returned home, he couldn’t wait to tell tim about the sweet thing he’d talked to.
much to tim’s surprise, brian gave your description. and just like that, you had the two of them in your life. both of them offering to help you out here and there, fixing up the busted cabin you’d been renting in hopes of starting fresh.
you caught feelings so fast it felt surreal, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
a/n: bear with me chat i havent slept and i lowkey might elaborate on this and make it the canon ‘how you met’ if this is well received
Content / Tags: gn!reader (called pretty once, no other gendered language used), unhinged!reader, unhinged!brian, “they deserve each other” trope, stalking, kidnapping, non-sexual romantic coercion (basically reader uses outside means so brian will go on a date w them), brian is lowkey into all of this and he’s an enabler, bait-and-switch angst/minor angst with a happy(??) ending, they’re both insane i cannot stress this enough pls don’t kidnap your crush or flirt with your kidnapper irl, no beta we die like hoodie in entry 83, 3.9k words
Brian Thomas was far from stupid. However, looking back, he wishes he had a little more tact in breaking up with you. It wasn't really his fault he was so moody when he did it, but that doesn't change the fact that there's a lot he wishes he could take back.
… The yellow hoodie currently wrapped around your body being the main one.
Brian, admittedly, did have trouble letting things go sometimes, but he wasn't so sentimental that he couldn't bear to part with his favorite hoodie. What he was really after, the real reason he'd been plotting and planning to get it back by any means necessary, was the half full pill bottle that had been tucked in the pocket when he had broken up with you.
Over text, mind you. Yeah, asking politley was definitely not going to get those back. If the severe eyebags, unkempt hair, and the fact that you hadn't taken off the hoodie in a week were anything to go by, you were still pissed about his unclassy departure.
The first two days after the break up, he considers breaking in and stealing it back— or at least the pills, if he really couldn't manage to get both the hoodie and the medication. But, he had figured the wound was too fresh. You'd be on high alert, even in sleep.
Then days three, four, five, and six came and you still hadn't taken the damn thing off. You slept with it, you took it in the bathroom when you showered, it's practically become your emotional support object. You'd probably fuse it to your skin if you could.
He had also been there, a few days back, watching from your bedroom window when you found the pills in the pocket for the first time. He watched you give them a little shake before stubbornly placing them back in the pocket. Never mind the fact that the name on the bottle was Tim's and not his, you had no intention of giving them up if it meant you had one more thing to dangle over Brian's head for throwing you out like trash.
Presently, he's been watching you for the past hour and you've given him no openings to swipe it. He had started at your bedroom window, where he watched you slip into a pretty little outfit after a shower (layering the hoodie over it, of course), and he'd ended up now at your kitchen window, where you're humming to yourself and stirring a large pot. Restlessness was building in his legs and arms. He probably would've given up 30 minutes ago if Masky hadn't grabbed him by the front of his shirt and threw him onto the porch of the shared safe house. All he said he was "work your shit out" and slammed the door shut, but Brian knew what he meant. He had gotten good at communicating with Masky in that way.
Plus, Masky had spent the previous 10 minutes dumping backpacks, flipping tables, and throwing empty pill bottles at poor Toby after he found out Brian had lost the bottle he stole from Tim. So yeah. Context clues played a role.
You continue to move about your kitchen casually, plating two generous servings of pasta and putting them on the dinner table. There was also a platter of bread, a bottle of red wine— were you having company?
You must be, he reasons, because he sees you finally— finally— pull the unwashed hoodie that had been collecting your sweat over your head. Brian can see the outline of the pills still in the pocket. You carefully drape the hoodie over one of the chairs in the dining room, before walking out with a little skip in your step.
It's bait. It's so obviously bait that Brian wants to laugh. You may as well have written a huge sign that says "Come here Brian! I promise I won't do anything crazy!”
Brian knew you better than that. Nothing was ever easy with you, least of all when something you didn't like happened.
It is a little troubling, the fact that you clearly know he must be lurking around, but perhaps he shouldn't have expected less. You had long grown indifferent to his presence lingering behind you like a shadow. You were used to him knowing information he couldn't have possibly gained access to unless he was watching from afar, out of sight. The element of surprise had been flung out of your relationship by day three, really. He had been stalking you far before he asked you out.
He really doesn't want to give you the satisfaction of falling for your bait. While he does enjoy the way your eyes light up in delight when you do manage to get the jump on him (which, let's be honest, just isn't often. You get much too excited around the things you like— you could never be a successful stalker), it's different when he knows how mad at him you are.
Then again, it's already two in the morning and if Masky hasn't killed Toby yet, he will soon. So bait or no bait, he unfortunately has to at least try to outsmart you.
He still makes sure to wait about 30 minutes, just to see if he could wait you out into impatience or boredom. You didn't show yourself, but hopefully you've gotten tired of staring blankly at the hoodie perched on the chair. He deftly busts your kitchen lock and slowly slides the window up, planting one boot on your kitchen counter and swinging the rest of his body forward to crouch on it. He lands silently on the ground.
They're right there. The pills. The only reprieve he has against his Operator Sickness. A few feet in front of him.
All the waiting has made him antsy, his heart jumping in his chest. He darts forward to claim his hoodie. Just as his fingers brush the fabric, a cold and painfully tight grip finds his wrist.
He had you beat in strength, so if it came down to a physical altercation, he thought he could at least push you off of him if you decided to pummel his face in.
Unfortunately, there's no pummeling. A sharp click! locks his wrist to the chair his hoodie is on.
"Got you." He flinches when you whisper in his ear, your body pressed so close he's able to feel your breath against his ear even through his mask.
"I knew you'd come running back for it." You smile, snatching the hoodie off of the chair and hugging it to your chest. You step away to flip the lights on, revealing the dinner you had laid out.
"What— but, you— what is this?" He quickly looks between you and the cuffs on his wrist, completely taken aback.
"A date. Obviously. Have a seat." You roll your eyes, plopping on the chair across from the one Brian is handcuffed to. Brian looks at the handcuffs, then at you, then at the chair. He considers making a run for it, dragging the chair behind him, but swallows the thought when he sees the look on your face.
"Darlin', this is a bit much, even for you." He drawls, sitting down. His free hand comes up and yanks his mask off, bunching it in his lap. His brow is furrowed, mostly in disbelief.
"There he is." You coo, finally looking a semblance of pleased. The way you're looking at him is down right demented. Your eyes flickered between saccharine warmth and vacant coldness, and your smile twitched at the corners; something in your expression tells him that you must've been thinking about pulling this stunt for a little bit. Perhaps even the very night he broke up with you, you planned to do this. There's desperation in the way you grip the table beneath you, eyes unblinking even as your knuckles turn white.
He could never forget how intensely you feel. It's one of the things he loves about you; it's as fascinating as it is mesmerizing, the ability to be able to form a strong opinion on anything your heart desires. There was something gratifying about meeting someone else who was stubborn to a fault, especially when it came to feelings.
"I missed seeing your handsome face." You plant your head on his palm. Your words make his heart give a pathetic little squeeze, your honeyed voice going straight to his head. "Did you miss me? I think you did. It's why you won't leave me alone, isn't it?"
You're clearly very optimistic about his motivations for stalking you so openly.
Brian swallows thickly, taking a minute to think before speaking. "You remember what I said, darl', and I said what I needed to say."
"Maybe. But I know you had more to say to me that you left out. You had to. I know you better than that." You suddenly stand up abruptly, chair screeching against the hard wood in protest.
"I know you, Bri. You don't— you don't just ditch someone you're close to without a second thought! You don't text them shit like "it's not you, it's me" and "I’m doing this for your own good". My own good my ass. You're going to give me a proper explanation."
Something in your tone— namely the defiance and demanding attitude— makes his expression shift. His eyebrows raise at your nerve, a slightly surprised look on his face that slowly melts into pure intrigued and sharp amusement. He tilts his head, a slow and lazy smirk curling his mouth upward.
"Am I?" He asks. A strange sense of calm settles within him; perhaps because this is a game he knows. A push and pull that was played over and over again in your relationship. Taking turns putting the other in their place was a song and dance you both still remembered the steps to, and you fell into it effortlessly with him.
"Yes. You are." You speak firmly through grit teeth, leaning forward a little.
"Or what?" He says in a murmured tone. A tone that's almost bizarrely sultry for the situation at hand. What could he say? He missed you. He missed this… or at least something adjacent to this.
Was sex adjacent to this? The wires in Brian's head were beyond crossed at this point in his life.
"Or what? Or what? Are you fucking serious? I have you handcuffed in my kitchen!" You gesture wildly to him, throwing your arms up in a disbelieving manner.
He lets out a long hum, followed by a sigh as he slumps back in his chair. He has the audacity to manspread. "I'm pretty comfy, buttercup. Got me dinner and a drink right here. You even gave me the nice chair that doesn't have the rickety leg. Could fall asleep right here, really."
"You seriously piss me off."
"Still can't help yourself but to treat me real nice though, huh, sugar?" The grin he sends you makes your face flood with heat.
"Shut up. Stop fucking with me." You cross your arms, looking away in a way he can only describe as huffy. You curled in on yourself slightly, your body language defensive.
"I'm not."
"You are. You know I hate when you do that." You whine, now squinting at him in an annoyed manner at his condescension and easy confidence.
"Liar. No you don't. I know it secretly gets your heart pumping when I'm mean to you.”
"I mean it, Brian, I'm gonna get a proper explanation out of you."
"Go on, then, baby. Get it out me."
You're up in a flash, snatching the bread knife that was in the basket up and kicking his chair back. He's leaning dangerously on the edges of the two back legs of the chair, your hand being the only thing to hold him up as his feet leave the floor. Even as you press the serrated edge of the knife against his throat, he doesn't move. He remains as still as his expression, and says nothing. He stares at you through a half lidded and empty gaze.
"This is new. You angry enough to threaten me now? That's not nice, honey."
"Tell me the truth." You demand again.
"No. What are you gonna do 'bout that, hm?" He leans forward a little, letting the knife press down into his skin. Any more pressure and it would pierce right through into the delicate innards of his throat.
"I'll hurt you." You threaten again, but there's a precipice of shakiness in your tone that makes it sound more like a desperate warning than a threat. The knife trembles in your grip, and you tighten your hand when you see the skin beneath the blade begin to redden.
"You ain't gonna do nothin'. 'S why I like you so much. You act all tough with everyone else, but you're so sweet with me, even when you’re actin’ all crazy." He grins at you. It's a cocky and condescending thing that makes your pulse rush. The way he knows you better than anyone else used to make your head go fuzzy and your heart warm, but right now it's making you feel cold and exposed. His eyes practically pierce deep into your soul, holding your gaze while he speaks, even with a knife to his throat.
"Makes me feel real special. But go ahead. Prove me wrong." He lets his head fall back, eyes shut. Now safe from his gaze, you finally let your hardened expression fall into something a little more pained. You can't do it. You knew you couldn't when you picked up the knife, and you know you can't now that he's practically letting you. You aren't sure if it's his calm confidence, his assumed trust in you, or your own lack of strength, but he has you convinced that you can't. You swallow thickly, dropping your hands.
Brian smiles when he hears the knife clatter to the floor, and steadies himself on the floor when you drop him. He picks his head back up to look at you, but whatever smug remark he was cooking up in his head dies on his tongue when he sees your face.
He loved— still loves— teasing and pushing you; testing boundaries just enough to make your blood pressure spike but not enough to fully break your trust, poking at you when you weren't in the mood to be poked at, humoring your whims with a patronizing, but satisfied, little grin. It was mostly because you fell for the goading everytime, admittedly, but he never failed to pick up the pieces after. He’d kiss the pout off of your lips and make sure to remind you that he thinks you're plenty capable and smart to boot. He’d reward you for letting him enable your dependency. He’d treat you just for the hell of it, sure, but also to see the way you turned all warm and syrupy by the end of the night.
He quietly watches you slink back to your seat, lips pursed and eyebrows scrunched up. If you had a tail, it'd be tucked between your legs. It makes his heart throb; it was devastatingly cute, how frustrated you got when he one upped you. The way that you'd get misty-eyed when he was particularly mean. The silent treatments that lasted about fifteen minutes before you're forgiving him.
"I'm real sick, doll." Brian speaks up, his words more muttered than anything. The lightness in his expression fades, now looking a bit more solemn. It's a subtle change, barely noticeable if you didn't know how to read him, but it's clear the thing on his mind is heavy.
"What?" You look up, the kicked puppy expression still lingering on your face; though, now you look confused.
"That's why I had to leave you. I'm sick." Brian adds. You blink rapidly, shoulders dropping and eyes lighting up marginally when you see he's going to give you what you wanted after all.
Then again, has he ever not? Sure, it was always with playground taunts and playing coy, but he always gave you what you wanted— and what you needed— at the end of the day.
"Sick in the head, maybe…" You can't help but mutter snarkily.
"I'm being serious here." He says patiently.
"What exactly do you mean… sick? I don't understand." You ask, leaning forward a little. Brian lets out a quiet sigh as he runs a hand through his hair, thinking about how exactly he's going to explain Operator Sickness without actually saying it’s Operator Sickness.
"It's a, er, sickness that can pass from person to person. Real rough on the body. No cure." He starts, finding the words as he goes. "I just didn't want to give it to you, darl'. Swear I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted to keep my baby safe."
His words make your frown deepen, your hands fidgeting a little as you listen to him. He decides now is as good of a time as ever to ask for what's his, now that you're calmer.
"And for that sickness, I need those pills. So please, baby. Lemme have em?" He asks, keeping his tone gentle and warm, like he didn't want to spook you.
"What kind of sickness is it? You make it sound really serious, and… You really wanted these." You reach into the hoodie's pocket, taking the bottle of pills out. You're suddenly glad you didn't flush them. Or threw them into a fire pit. Or sold them for cash. There were too many good options to choose from, so you didn't end up doing anything with them, sue you. When he dumped you, you were beyond pissed and you obviously didn't want reminders of him just laying around when you were angry.
"I can't get into it." He says, hesitating because he knows you won't like that. His assumption was correct. Predictably, your head snaps up, your brows already furrowing in annoyance.
"Because," He says quickly, leaning forward a little. "It's private, and a lot to get into right now. You saw how Tim's name is on the bottle, yeah? Airing myself out means airing him out too. I don't wanna do that to him, not when he don't deserve it. We both need that medicine."
The mention of Tim makes you guiltily frown. You two weren't besties by any means, but he was always polite when Brian brought him over.
"And trust me, the less you know about this shit, the better." Brian suddenly tacks on in a mutter, frowning at the floor bitterly like it personally offended him.
"If it's so contagious, why didn't you tell me before?" You squint in a suspicious manner.
"I thought I could keep it under control. I really did. But things aren't so simple anymore— it's a condition that worsens with time."
You're quietly staring at him. He can practically see the cogs whirling in your head. You inhale through your nose, standing with your palms flat on the table like you were about to close a business deal. "Fine. I'll give them back."
Brian's eyes widen a little, his expression lighting up with relief. "You will, darl'? Thank you—"
"If you promise me another date." You cross your arms, staring him down. Brian shuts his mouth quickly, pursing his lips.
"… Sweetheart, didn't you hear me? You shouldn't be around me."
"Brian, I don't care about some mysterious illness you have!" You speak incredulously. "I'll prove it, I'll contract it myself right now."
His eyes widen when you stomp around the table to lean into his space. Your hands plant on each side of the chair, caging him in against it. "What do you have to do? Sneeze on me? Cough in my face? I don't care, whatever it is, do it!" You lean forward as he leans back in his seat from sheer astonishment.
"I just want to be with you. I don't care if I get sick!" You emphasize again, giving the hand that's handcuffed to the chair a squeeze. He swallows thickly. He can feel heat crawling up his neck as he averts his gaze.
"You don't understand what you're saying right now…" He says, voice a little wobbly.
"I do! I do understand." You insist urgently, a knee coming to rest between his parted legs. It's like you wanted to be as close as possible; breathing the same air as him as you make your promise of devotion.
"I want this. I want you. Please. I'll let you keep the pills, and keep extras in my room— I'll give the hoodie back too! I won't even ask about it anymore. Just tell me you'll stay." Your hand fists into the front of his shirt. It's not threatening. The frantic look on your face makes the gesture look desperate and pleading.
He can't find it in himelf to deny you bluntly like he should; he also can't bring himself to subject you to the same fate he got shackled to long ago. His mouth feels dry as he looks at you, trying to will himself to speak. All he has to do is say no, but he's never been good at saying no to you.
At the prolong silence, your lower lip wobbles a little. Your eyes flood with tears, a pained expression crossing it. Brian immediately wants to comfort you, the chain on his wrist jingling as his hand automatically rushes up to cradle you. His free one tries to cups your cheek, but you jerk your head away. You take the keys from your pocket with a sniffle, the lock clicking as you stick them into the handcuffs. The cuffs come undone, but Brian doesn't even glance down at them, concerned eyes staying on you.
"Fine. Go." You say, stand and turning your back to him. You pick the hoodie up, hugging it to your chest. Brian's voice takes on a desperate note as he walks toward you, his hands coming up to touch your shoulders.
"Sweetheart—"
"Just go!" You cry, shoving the hoodie against his chest. You let out another sniffle as you shut the lights in your kitchen off, turing down the hall to what Brian knows is your bedroom.
His stomach churns with guilt as he clenches the hoodie in his hand, eyes glued to where you disappeared deeper into the house that he used to call his own. The broken expression on your face is something he knows he's going to think about for hours before he falls asleep— if he falls asleep.
His exit from your home isn't nearly as interesting as his entrance. He shuffles through the kitchen, locking the door behind him with the key he knows you hide in your flower pot. His feet automatically move, walking back to Tim's truck with a solemn expression and demeanor.
This was for the better, wasn't it? He has to tell himself that. It's for the better. The last person who deserves Operator Sickness was you. He's trying to protect you, because he loves you. Sometimes the right thing requires a few hurt feelings— breaking eggs and making omelets and that.
He feels a headache start to throb in his skull, the quiet static that was a low constant hum now turned up louder in response to his negative emotions. He grumbles to himself, rummaging through the hoodie's pocket.
Empty.
… Empty?
He blinks, properly looking down as if that would change the fact that the hoodie’s pocket had nothing in it. The pills weren't in there.
Before he could even process it, his phone makes a dinging sound, the screen lighting up the dark interior of the truck. He reaches for it blindly, eyes locked on the hoodie, willing the pills to appear out of thin air.
He reads the text message that was now on his lock screen. He grins involuntarily, and he can feel his heart skip a beat. His chest swells with hope and affection.
"I'll see you tomorrow night for our second date, lover :) sweet dreams <3”
You were perfect for him.
𖡎𓂃 𓂃✍︎
A/N: FINE IM GUILTY!!!! I JUST WANTED AN EXCUSE TO USE THIS SONG WITH BRIAN… 😔
