Mirror | Brian Thomas × Reader. Explicit, CW below. 18+
Your stoic, silent, eccentric boyfriend has always had a few... Quirks. You've taken most of them in stride– until one night, he returns from a mission, and his energy is different. He takes you in a way you've never been taken before. And, really, who are you to complain?
*CW: Reader has AFAB-typical sex traits, though all are described with gender neutral language. Dom Top Brian. Service Sub Reader. Handjob. Hair Pulling. Facial. Creampie. Mirror sex. Roughness. Dirty talk.
Silent as ever.
That is what you think, when you hear the gentle creak of doorknob, and all-at-once realize that he's home. You're greeted by a near-faceless thing— tall, brooding, and splattered with blood. You never caught onto how he'd learned to sneak up the creaky back porch, and even better, up the creakier stairs, without ever granting you an inkling of his presence. You supposed that was just one of those little things that reminded you of your superstition.
"Missed you," you murmur, finally glancing up from a worn novel he'd gifted you a few weeks ago. A murder mystery– he suspected a curious type like you might enjoy it, despite the blood that tattered the bottom left corner of most pages, and sullied the cracked spine. You don't hear so much as a hum, while he unzips his winter coat and leaves it on a hook that hangs from the closet door.
His hands are just slightly too forceful, when he removes other items from himself. His holster is unstrapped, and the pistol within thuds heavily as it lands on your bedside table. A serrated hunting knife clatters at it's side, and your brows furrow. He's frustrated.
"Brian?" You muster, although you're not afraid. Not even when his 'face,' still hidden behind that strange, masked hoodie he wears around, snaps to face you... Like you said something you shouldn't have.
Ah. That's it. He hasn't come home yet.
What came home to you, instead, was the thing that drove him to kill in the first place. The ash and fog and static that took over his head and invaded his skull with little more than hunger and vitriol. That was what had come.
He approaches in heavy steps– audible. Present. Like he wants you to hear him. And you do, tucking a bookmark into your page and setting the book aside. Lucky you did: A gloved hand grips your face, and he stares you down. You can't see it, but surely you can feel it— heat licking up your back. It's bitter like shame, and sweet like excitement.
"Brian–?" You demand again, and this time your eyebrows are crinkled. You know exactly who sits behind the mask, but what you need is to hear him. Just once. He stares, and thinks, and with a mask of no expression, pleads.
"Later?" His voice is small. It's still deep– smooth, and low, and yet... Wanting. Needy. He can't be a person right now. He just can't.
He yearns to sully the look in your eyes when you soften. His fingers press into your cheeks, and it nearly hurts– and you're looking at him so, so sweetly.
"Okay," you agree, and that soft moment flickers into distant memory. He lets go of your face, only for long enough to tug his gloves off and stuff them in the pockets of his old denim. Two fingers reach up and tap at your bottom lip. You're unsure, but you part them anyways— and gasp when three long digits shove themselves against your tongue and slide in further.
The only sounds in the room are your soft breaths and the quiet wetness of his fingerpads wetting themselves with your tongue. He makes rough circles– pushing and pulling as he pleases. He doesn't seem to react if and when you gag. You're staring up at him, brows furrowed and confused. He likes that face— like he's the headlights.
You clink back to consciousness at the sound of a belt buckle coming undone. Your eyes flit down and a thumb clamps tight underneath your jaw. When you wince, he holds firm, until your gaze falls right where it belongs— on the faux face of his fabric mask. His hand loosens and you shiver at the realization. He doesn't want you to look. You gag one last time, tears beading on your bottom lashes, when he finally slides his fingers free from your mouth. It's near impossible to ignore the thick connection of your own spit that he carries down, while his other hand jerks the waistband of his boxers out of the way.
There is no watching it— not while he holds you so firmly, analyzes you so fully. But you can hear it. Your own spit helps his fingers glide in impatient fisting motions, and it stirs something in you when his dry hand laces into your hair and grabs on tight. You think you hear something like a sigh, like relief, but you can't be so sure when you watch his shoulders lace with tension.
When he grips to you tighter yet, you wince slightly, and his head tilts to the sound of a soft whine beneath your breath. Your eyes lock to his, and he's soothed by such obedience. His chest heaves, and his hand strokes, while the one that grips to you pushes you lower.
Lower, until you're kneeling in front of the chair you'd previously sat on— until your weight settles on your ankles, and his hand guides your head up. Finally, you're allowed to look— big doe eyes, gliding up the slick shaft of fat cock. So close, you can see him throbbing in his hand. You gasp when he pitches you closer to him, and you whine when he snickers and messily smears precum across your lips. Brian isn't usually quite so vulgar. You aren't, either, and yet you're burning up despite it all.
"Is this what you want...?" You whisper, brows quirking together slightly when his hand speeds up in an eager sort of rhythm. "Y'wanna use me, Brian?"
He growls aloud, fisting his cock so close to your face that you can feel the movement. Tears gather in your eyes as he grips to your hair— tight, and brutal, like you'll escape him otherwise. His breaths are tight. Labored. He's staring at the glossy look of your lips, and wondering what else he could do to them.
"It's okay," you assure, between slick sounds and fabric shifting. Your eyelashes bat when you blink up at him, and he tugs at the nape of your neck until you've got your chin raised. He wants to look at you properly. You look back— stare into the mask, with such pretty, trusting eyes. He really could do anything, couldn't he?
"Make me yours."
He does. Shoulders strap tight when he cums in thick, relentless bursts. There are tears beading heavy on your eyelashes as you brace, and Brian thinks only of his accomplishment when he paints pretty streaks up half of your profile.
He milks himself good and hard— squeezing at the base, as though he might massage another load out of himself before going soft. The three thinning spurts that followed would have to be good enough, and he decides they must be when your eyes flit open, apprehensive and sheepish. Good and properly marked. Fuck.
You're giving him those eyes. That look— like you were embarassed, but also something else. Like you wanted him to play this role.
"Get up," he demands, and he's sort of living for the way you jump before you obey. "Strip." And he watches, silently, while you do— down to underwear. That's when fingers wander again: thick, unyielding digits tucking against cotton and rubbing in eager circles. It's not like he needs to be gentle with you– he keens when he realizes you're just as wet as he'd expected.
You lean against him in a daze while he toys with you– when he rubs through underwear until it's thoroughly soaked, and then uses an index finger to shove it sideways, so that he might dip two fingers into your wanting cunt. And he does, though not for your sake. He's greedy enough for three, no, four, dips to his knuckles, but not enough for anything more. You whine when he pulls them from you, taking a few idle steps to steady yourself.
That same hand, humiliatingly wet, is used to grasp at your waist, yanking you over to the side of the chair you'd been sitting in to read. His fingers nudge at your spine, and he shoves you down– until you're half his height, and suddenly a renewed hard-on is weighted against your ass. Brian had never been... Like this. He was a sweet lover— doting, really. But never had he been so rough. Never had he been so demanding of you– bucking slick cock between your thighs like he might get off on that alone. With the way you're drooling on him? God, he might.
Instead, he settles for using forefinger and thumb to spread you open, and pushing his tip up against you until it felt tight. Teasing himself there, making you wait to feel full. Your eyes squeeze shut for just a moment, before patience runs thin.
"Fuck, Brian! Come on," you urge, wiggling back against him. He makes a sharp point of slapping your hip– and god, is he tempted to fill you right then. He nearly does when you keen, gasping out before shifting your hips back against him. "Please–" You finally seethe, and he's drinking your voice in like honey. "Pleaseee just fuck me, Brian, I can take it– You don't have to be gentle–"
One hand squeezes hip in hand when he pushes himself in– watching you eagerly take every inch. The pace is abrupt, bucking cervix-deep as though attempting to bruise. All he's paying attention to, though, is the way you moan. This was different. New— you'd never been so loud for him before. Never cried like you needed it.
"It hurts," you whine, when Brian's fingers lace into your hair again. Your eyes open again, and he's holding your head up, straight. His other-handed fingers tap your cheek, and he then points to the wall accross from you– where you make eye contact with his mask, dimly lit in the full-size mirror.
And there you are, too— bare naked, bent over a chair, lifting a leg up to take him deeper. He holds you there, and you know you're meant to watch. To see yourself take it– to see yourself under him.
"Fuck," you croak out, when tears dribble down your cheeks. He's so deep, and so relentless— how long can you even take this? "I love you," you squeak in your delirium— "I love you sooo much, Brian," and you mean it more, when his hand changes grip and finds your throat instead. He squeezes, and your eyes roll back— and you cum on him, squirting onto him and dripping to the floor. Brian bullies you through it in short, deep thrusts, until the stars in your eyes give way to static.
"Cum in me, please, please–" You insist, even though it hurts. Your legs are shaking, but it's okay– your hips are propped up on the chair arm, so you don't even have to hold yourself up, between that and him.
His teeth come to find your shoulder in a rough bite when he buries himself deep for the last time, groaning through a brutally sudden second orgasm. Brian fucks himself as deep as he can go— ensuring that every inch of you was infected with him. Ensuring that you wouldn't forget what it felt like to be well and truly taken by him.
And once his shoulders are done flexing, and he's sure he can't dump another drop into you— he pulls out, and his entire body is heavy. He's tired, and he's overwhelmed, and— Ah. Brian's home.
He sits himself properly in your chair, and gentle hands bring you to sit in his lap. Fingers rub gentle circles into your hips, as you keen thoughtlessly and settle into place, nose tucked up beneath his jaw.
"Just what I needed..." And, Operator willing, he might just spend the rest of that night right by your side.
