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Finn had been at it all day—following Shrimpo around the halls with an endless stream of ocean puns and fish facts.
He'd managed to wriggle his way right into his personal room, a place that was usually a sanctuary from the other toons—the space cluttered with stolen items from Gigi's hoard, mostly clothes—and the air was thick with palpable irritation.
He'd invited himself in and showed no signs of leaving.
He was currently laid out on the bed, his head tilted back as he looked around at the clear destructive mess of everything.
Shrimpo was glaring at him from across the room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
He ignored the clear signs of hostility.
He tapped his fingers against his bowl, making soft sounds against the glass.
"You know," he began, his voice cheerful and entirely too loud for the cramped space. "I was just thinking—you've got a real 'shellfish' attitude today. You're being all grumpy and keeping all the fun to yourself!!"
"We could do something fun—maybe go bother Looey? I heard he's been practicing new balloon animals!!"
His eye twitched.
He didn't move from his spot near the door, as if hoping Finn would take the hint and leave.
"You're so quiet.." he observed, undeterred. "Like a clam—the kind that sits there all sulky. Don't you wanna have a little fun? We could go find Cosmo, I bet he's baking something. You like pastries, right?"
He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, his life jacket rustling. "We could go to the lobby and see if Dyle's running the train!! He always looks so serious—bet we could make him crack a smile. Well, maybe not you—you kinda make everyone's smiles sink... heh.."
He was willfully ignorant of the seething anger radiating from the other toon.
To him, this was just another way to pass the time.
To Shrimpo, it was torment.
Finn grinned broadly, his chipped tooth visible as his enthusiasm grew.
He hopped off the messy bed with a slight splash from the water in his bowl, making his way closer.
"Shrimpo.." he cooed, poking a playful finger into his shoulder. "Don't be such a crab! You know you're enjoying this." he gave a light, insistent tug on the oversized sleeve of his shirt.
He jerked his arm away—but he just chuckled, undeterred.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I mean, think about it!! You let me follow you all the way back to your room. You haven't actually thrown me out. You could have, you're plenty strong!!"
He gave another playful poke, this time at his side.
"Admit it—you're bored!! All this sitting around, hating everything... it gets old, doesn't it? You need someone like me to liven things up!!"
His hand shot out in a flash, clamping down over his wrist before he could poke him again. His grip was startlingly strong—fingers digging in with enough force to make the joints of his hand ache.
The cheerful grin on his face faltered.
"Hey—ow, Shrimpo, easy—" he started, trying to pull back.
He didn't let go.
He twisted his hand, forcing the palm to rotate unnaturally outward.
"I get it—you're n-not in the mood for poking!!" he said through gritted teeth, trying to laugh it off despite the pain. "I was just playing—you know me!! I don't mean anything by it—my hand's not made for this kind of wringing—"
He didn't answer.
He applied more pressure, forcing him to stumble backward to ease the strain on his wrist.
He backed him toward the bed.
"Shrimpo—" his voice wavered as his heel hit the footboard. "This is starting to really hurt—you can let go now!! I'll leave, I-I promise!!"
He twisted his hand a little further—and he yelped, his free hand coming up as if to push him away, but he stopped himself—not wanting to escalate things.
"Y-You don't want to actually break it, do you?" his tone was pleading now, all humor gone.
He finally released his wrist—only to shove him backward hard, sending him stumbling and sprawling onto the messy blankets of his bed.
—a small splash as the water in his bowl sloshed violently, and he barely caught himself on his elbows before he could fully fall back.
"Why?" Shrimpo's voice was low, seething, and barely contained as he stepped forward, placing one knee on the mattress beside his hip, then the other—straddling him in one swift motion.
His hands pressed down on his shoulders, holding him firmly in place.
"Why do you have to be so annoying?"
Finn blinked up at him, wide-eyed, his good hand coming up to rub the soreness out of his other wrist.
He winced at the blooming ache, but something in his expression shifted—from fear to something more curious, even playful.
"You know.." he started slowly, a hesitant grin tugging at his mouth. "You don't actually seem to hate me that much."
His expression went blank for a moment—then hardened.
"What?"
"If you really hated me," he continued, his tone almost teasing. "You would've tossed me out the door the second I stepped in here." He gestured vaguely to himself. "You're pinning me down—on your bed!! Isn't that some sort of suggestion?"
"Plus—your grip's strong, but you didn't break anything!! You're soft on me.."
At the word 'soft', his hand shot out again, fingers closing toward his already-throbbing wrist as if to prove him wrong—but Finn was ready this time.
He jerked his hand back and brought his other arm up, swatting his reaching hand away—accompanied by a breathless, startled laugh.
"I'm just saying!! You could be a lot meaner if you wanted to be.."
He froze above him, hand still hovering in the air where he'd batted it away.
—the silence between them stretched, filled only with the sound of his nervous, shallow breathing and the faint drip of water from his bowl onto the sheets beneath them.
He stared down at him for a long moment, his expression a storm of conflicting emotions—the anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it was now mixed with a profound sense of confusion.
"..do you want me to be meaner?" the question left his mouth slowly, almost dumbly, as if he couldn't quite fathom why anyone would want that.
His brow furrowed slightly, and he unconsciously shifted his weight atop him, his hands still braced on his shoulders.
Finn's gaze softened.
He shook his head slowly—a small, genuine smile playing on his lips.
"No.." he said, his voice surprisingly sincere. "I don't want that. I think... I like you just like this.."
—tentatively, as if testing the waters, he lifted his hands from the mattress.
He kept his movements slow—and when he didn't move away, he carefully placed his palms on his hips, his touch light and cautious. He didn't squeeze, or pull—he simply rested them there.
Shrimpo's eyes widened a fraction at the contact.
His whole body tensed as if expecting some kind of trick—but when all Finn did was hold him there, the tension slowly began to ease.
He looked utterly bewildered.
His usual scowl had melted into a look of uncertainty—and after a silent beat, he shifted his position, moving to sit more squarely in his lap.
It was a more comfortable, stable position—but also an undeniably more intimate one.
He seemed to realize this a second later—and a faint, uncharacteristic flush crept into his cheeks.
He didn't pull away.
He just stared down at him.
"What are you doing?" he finally asked, his voice quiet and lacking its usual sharp edge.
It was more a question of genuine curiosity than an accusation.
"I'm just holding you." his voice was uncharacteristically soft. "I know it's weird. I know you could punch me in the face if you wanted to."
He tilted his head back to look up at him, his expression open and strangely vulnerable.
"I'm just touching you. It's nice."
—as he spoke, almost as if it were a natural extension of the contact, he shifted his own hips subtly beneath him—a faint, rolling motion that rocked Shrimpo's body against his own.
It wasn't forceful—it felt more like an unconscious sway.
He watched him with uncertain eyes, as if trying to solve a puzzle he'd never seen before.
He rocked him again—a little more deliberately this time, his own movements slow and languid.
"I like that you're letting me do this.."
His gaze dropped from Finn's face to where his hands rested on his hips. He seemed to be processing the sensation—the warmth of his palms through the thin fabric, the insistent pressure of him beneath him.
"Why is it nice?" he finally whispered, the words barely audible.
"You don't let anyone else this close—so it makes this feel special.."
His thumbs began to trace small, almost absent-minded circles against the curve of his hips.
The motion was somehow more intimate than the initial touch.
"You feel warm.." he murmured, his voice a low hum that vibrated pleasantly against where their bodies pressed together.
He continued that subtle, rocking motion of his hips—a deliberate undulation that pressed the firming ridge of his arousal more distinctly against him with each pass.
The friction was muffled by layers of fabric, but the intent was becoming unmistakable.
He felt it—that hardening pressure.
His own body tensed for a fleeting second, a reflexive coil of fight or flight—but it dissolved just as quickly.
Finn took that as all the permission he needed.
—with a careful shift of his weight, he pushed himself up from the mattress, sitting upright.
Now fully seated in his lap, with their chests nearly touching, his usual narrowed expression was gone—replaced by a look of dazed, bewildered curiosity.
He was still for a moment—then, as if testing a theory, he cautiously rolled his own hips downward, meeting the next upward grind.
"It feels strange." Shrimpo admitted quietly, his voice devoid of its usual bite.
It was just an observation.
"Is it a good strange?" he asked, his gaze searching.
He didn't answer with words.
He leaned in, resting his forehead against the cool glass of his bowl—it was an awkward angle, but it brought them closer. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed not in anger, but in deep concentration.
He moved again—a tentative, experimental roll of his hips that drew an, approving groan from the toon beneath him.
"Yeah.." his hand slid from his hip to cradle the small of his back, urging him into a slightly deeper, slower rhythm. "It's a good strange."
"It's just us—no one else gets this.."
—the admission seemed to settle something in him.
Finn felt the moment deepen—a strange, breathless quiet settling between them—broken only by the soft sound of fabric shifting and the ever-present gentle slosh within his bowl.
He could see how his usual sharp edges softened, blunted by this unexpected intimacy—the anger that normally radiated from him like a furnace had cooled to a low, pulsing warmth that he found himself craving more than any ocean pun or playful tease.
His gaze flickered down to his face, taking in the subtle part of his lips as he concentrated on the rhythm of their bodies.
He saw a moment of distraction—a lapse in the ever-present scowl.
It was that look—that quiet, absorbed, almost vulnerable expression—that gave him the misguided confidence.
He leaned in.
—the kiss was short, chaste—more a firm press of lips than anything passionate.
It was an experiment—a way of sealing this strange, private bubble they'd created.
It lasted less than a second.
His eyes flew open—all the dazed curiosity evaporated in an instant, replaced by a flash of panic.
This wasn't just unwanted touching or annoying banter—this was a line, a boundary he hadn't even realized existed—and it was being crossed.
His fist shot out in a blind, instinctive reaction as he flinched away—a hard punch connected squarely with the center of Finn's face.
He was knocked flat against the mattress, his hands flying to his face—blood immediately began to seep from his nose, dripping between his fingers and onto the now soaked sheets below.
He choked out a whine of pain, his voice thick and muffled by his hands.
Shrimpo stared down at him, his fist still clenched, trembling slightly at his side. His chest was heaving, and the vulnerability shown in him had been completely obliterated.
"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!" he yelled, his voice cracking with the force of it.
He scrambled off his lap—putting distance between them as he stood up from the bed.
"Wh-Why would you—why the FUCK would you DO THAT?!"
Y-Yeah... okay.." he wheezed, wincing again as he tried to sit up. "Th-That was fair. I guess I deserved that one—should've... asked for permission first, huh?"
His attempt at a joke was strained.
"PERMISSION?!" he shouted, gesturing wildly at him. "It's not about PERMISSION—it's about WHY!! Why would you even WANT to—"
He trailed off—his anger momentarily stymied by the sheer, baffling absurdity of the situation.
He looked at him—bloody-nosed, trying to smile, sitting in the middle of his messy bed—and he looked so pathetically sincere that it made his head spin.
"I just wanted to kiss you.." he said simply, his voice quiet but clear. "That's all."
It left Shrimpo speechless—his anger momentarily deflating into a state of stunned, bewildered silence.
He slowly lowered his hands from his face, wincing as he gently prodded the tender, already-swelling bridge of his nose.
"I like you." he said, the words soft but unwavering. "I know that sounds stupid.."
He shook his head, a pained smile touching his lips. "I like following you around. I like that you're mean to me. I like that you don't pretend to be happy all the time."
He stared, his own fists slowly unclenching—the fury was receding, leaving behind hollow confusion.
"Nobody likes me." he stated flatly, as if reciting a fundamental law of the universe. "I was made to be disliked. I make the others look better by comparison."
"I like you anyway." he replied, his voice gaining a little strength.
He shifted on the bed, drawing his knees up slightly.
"I liked having you in my lap.." he continued, his gaze dropping to the rumpled sheets between them.
His cheeks colored slightly as he pushed on.
"I liked kissing you. It was my first time kissing anyone. I didn't really know what I was doing, and I guess I really messed it up.." he gave a weak, self-deprecating chuckle. "I liked it, though.."
He finally looked back up, meeting his bewildered gaze.
"I even liked getting punched in the face, only because you did it."
Shrimpo took a step back, his shoulders hunching as if the words were physical blows.
This was a language he didn't understand—a logic that defied his entire existence.
Affection?
Desire?
Directed at him?
He could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on him—the familiar urge to lash out warring with a tangled, foreign feeling he couldn't name.
"I should probably go.." he moved to swing his legs off the bed, his movements careful and slow, as if afraid any sudden motion might restart the whole messy conflict. "I'll give you some space. I didn't mean to make you feel like you had to hit me."
"No."
He froze, half off the bed.
"No?"
Shrimpo looked as surprised as he did—a flicker of confusion passing over his own features.
He hadn't planned to say that.
He couldn't take it back.
He didn't want to.
He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, a defensive posture, but he didn't move toward the door to block it. He just stood there, glaring—but the glare lacked its usual heat.
"You said you liked me." he stated, his voice demanding. "You liked that I was mean. You liked having me in your lap. You liked kissing me." he recited the list like an accusation, each item a bizarre piece of evidence. "That's stupid. That doesn't make sense."
"Tell me more." his tone brooked no argument. "If you're going to spout senseless garbage, then say it all. What else do you like about me?"
He blinked, his expression softening from wary to something a little more tender, despite the pain in his nose.
He settled back onto the edge of the bed.
"I like how direct you are.." he began, his voice thoughtful. "You don't sugarcoat anything. You don't try to be polite. When you're mad, you act like it. When you think something's stupid, you say it. There's no guessing with you.."
"I like how you walk." he continued, an affectionate smile playing on his lips. "You sort of stomp everywhere, like you're upset at the floor. It's kinda funny."
His brow furrowed slightly at that—but he said nothing.
"I like that you have your own sense of style, even if all your clothes are from Gigi." he gestured vaguely at the oversized shirt he was wearing. "You look good in her clothes."
He paused—his gaze dropping to where his hands were folded in his lap.
"I like that you're strong.." he admitted, his voice growing quieter. "You're stronger than you look. You could probably lift me with one hand.."
"I like your laugh."
This made Shrimpo visibly startle, his head jerking up.
"I don't laugh." he stated flatly, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone.
"You do." Finn insisted, his smile widening just a bit. "It's not a big laugh. It's more like a sharp huff of air through your nose, and your shoulders shake a little. You did it once when Sprout walked into the kitchen door. I saw it. I was the only one looking at you."
He felt a strange, tight feeling in his chest. He hadn't realized anyone was watching him that closely, let alone cataloging his reactions.
"I like.." his voice dropped to almost a whisper, his gaze lifting to meet his again, warm and earnest. "I like how you look when you're nervous—like right now.."
"That's enough stupid shit!!" he growled, taking a half-step forward.
HIs smile didn't falter.
He nodded slowly—understanding the warning for what it was.
"Alright." he agreed softly. "Can I ask one more thing?"
"What?"
He swallowed, his own nerves showing now. He gestured faintly between them, to the space on the bed where he'd been pinned just minutes before.
"Can we go back to what we were doing?" his voice was hopeful, but laced with a genuine fear of rejection. "We don't have to kiss. We could just sit. You could just be in my lap again. I won't move unless you want me to."
"I... I gotta be honest, too.." his voice wavered, his gaze dropping to his lap and then back up to his face, searching for a reaction. "I was kinda getting hard earlier—with you on top of me.." he admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush.
"Gross." he spat, the single word dripping with contempt. "That's disgusting. Why would you even say that?"
"I couldn't help it!!" he protested, his hands clenching in his lap. "You were right there—I was... I was nervous, and it felt good, and my body just reacted!! It's not like either of us have ever really been this close with anyone else—I don't know what I'm supposed to do.." his frustration was evident, a genuine plea for understanding beneath the petulant tone.
The logic seemed to give him pause, though his expression remained a rigid mask of repulsion. The fact that it was a new experience—for both of them—was an irritatingly valid point.
"I don't want to be close to you at all." he stated firmly, though the words lacked the complete conviction they'd held earlier.
It sounded more like a rehearsed line—a default setting he was struggling to maintain.
"Maybe you don't want to be all mushy and soft.." he suggested, his head tilting. "Maybe you just don't know how to be. That's okay. We were close. We were really close—and it wasn't awful, was it?"
He didn't answer.
Encouraged by his silence, Finn continued, his tone growing more earnest.
"It's better if we experience this together." he said, leaning forward slightly. "Who else would you test things out with?" he made a face, as if the very concept was distasteful. "I already know you hate most things. You already know I'm annoying."
"I'm closer than you've ever been with anyone. Isn't that worth something?"
He was laying everything out on the messy bed between them.
He'd been punched for less.
He was hoping—desperately—that the bizarre connection they'd forged in the last few minutes was meant to be explored.
"Let's say—for a stupid, hypothetical second—that I consider this." he began, the words coming out slow. "Why should I? What do I get out of letting you hump me like a dog?"
—a wide, hopeful grin spread across his face, ignoring the insult entirely.
"Because you love me, too!!" he announced, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Why else would we be best friends?"
He recoiled—his eyes widening in genuine, appalled horror. "We are NOT best friends!! I don't have friends!! I tolerate your existence at best—and right now I'm severely re-evaluating even that!!"
Finn just waved a dismissive hand, his grin unfaltering. "Details!! You're thinking about it, aren't you? That's the first step—"
He clenched his fists, his teeth grinding together.
This was infuriating.
He was infuriating.
"I'm not thinking about it—I'm thinking about how to make you leave!!"
"Tell me to leave." he challenged softly, his smile softening into something more sincere. "Tell me to get out and never come back. I'll go."
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
"'Sea'?" he whispered, his voice triumphant.
—growling in frustration, he turned his back—pacing a short, agitated path across the cluttered floor.
"Fine." he snapped, whirling back to face him. "Let's say I'm curious." he spat the word like it was poison. "What are we even supposed to do?"
He could see his frustration building—the way his shoulders were drawing up tight, the sharp twitch near his eye.
He shifted on the bed, patting the messy space next to him.
"Come here."
He stopped his pacing—fixing him with a wary, skeptical glare.
"Why?"
"Just come here." he repeated, his voice gentle. "I want you to be with me."
It was the 'be with me' that seemed to get to him.
It was such a strange, soft request.
He let out a low grumble of protest—more habit than genuine refusal—before he moved back toward the bed.
He sat stiffly beside him, a clear inch of space between them.
He was looking straight ahead at the wall—not at him.
Finn felt a small swell of victory—even if the silence between them was heavy.
It was a silence of two people trying to figure out what came next.
"Shrimpo?"
"What?" he replied, his tone clipped.
He still didn't look at him.
"Can I try to kiss you again?"
It was so direct, so vulnerable.
It made him finally turn his head.
His expression was unreadable—a mix of annoyance, deep suspicion—and that underlying, baffled curiosity.
"Why?"
He gave a helpless little shrug, a faint smile touching his lips. "I want to do it right this time. I think you might like it."
Shrimpo's jaw tightened.
He looked away again.
He was silent for so long that Finn thought the answer was no.
—then, with a short, jerky nod—he mumbled.
"Fine—but if it's stupid, I'm hitting you again.."
"I know." he whispered.
He didn't go for his lips immediately—he stopped just inches away, close enough for him to feel the warmth of his breath. He let him feel his proximity, the intention hanging in the air between them.
He closed the distance.
This kiss was nothing like the sudden one before.
It was a gentle press.
He kept his hands in his own lap, not daring to touch him.
For a long moment, Shrimpo remained still.
His eyes were wide open, staring blankly Finn's face from mere inches away, his body rigid with tension. He wasn't kissing back, he was merely enduring it.
He didn't pull away.
—ever so slightly, he moved his mouth against his—a faint, coaxing brush.
He kissed him back.
It was awkward, unpracticed, the motion stiff and unsure—but it was undeniably reciprocal.
Encouraged, he dared to lift a hand—he didn't grab or pull, he simply brought it up to cradle the side of his face, his thumb stroking a soothing arc along his jawline. The touch seemed to startle him, but he didn't jerk away—he held his stare, then let his eyes slowly closed, leaning ever so slightly into the touch.
The kiss deepened naturally from there—no longer a static press, but a tentative exploration.
His movements grew less stiff, becoming more fluid as he mimicked the rhythm set.
The hesitant curiosity in his posture melted away—replaced by a sudden, decisive intensity.
His hands, which had been passive at his sides, shot out—and with a firm strength, he pushed him down.
His back met the rumpled blankets of the bed—but this was different.
There was no violence in the motion.
Shrimpo followed him down, his weight settling over him, pinning him not with anger, but with a newfound certainty.
He broke the kiss only to stare down at him—his expression came off as lost, but at the same time he looked like he knew exactly what he wanted.
He wanted to be the one in control of whatever this was becoming.
He let out a soft laugh as he was pressed back into the bedding, the familiar feeling of his weight on him stirring a pleased warmth low in his gut.
"I'm guess you're just taking charge again.." he teased, his voice a little breathy. "You really like this position, don't you?"
He stared down at him, his gaze intense and unwavering as his hands drifted from his shoulders.
One palm flattened against his chest, right over the bright orange fabric of his life jacket. For a moment, Finn thought he was just feeling his heartbeat—which was racing a bit—but then his fingers curled into the material, gripping it.
"Take this off.." his tone was commanding, devoid of its usual snap.
He blinked, the playful grin slipping from his face.
"What?" he asked, confusion coloring his tone. "Why?"
He didn't elaborate.
"Take. This. Off." he just repeated, his grip tightening slightly.
—a flicker of uncertainty crossed his expression.
This felt like it was moving fast—they'd just shared their first real kiss, and now he wanted clothes off—
He'd been worried about pushing too far earlier, but now he wasn't so sure he pushed far at all.
"I don't know if we should.." he began, his voice hesitant. "Maybe we should just keep kissing for a bit?"
His explanation was met with a flat, impatient stare.
"You're taking too fucking long." he stated, as if it were an error Finn was making.
Before he could protest further, his other hand joined the first—instead of fumbling with the buckle or zipper, his claws simply hooked into the thick material at the collar, tearing the fabric open down the front.
"Shrimpo—"
The torn jacket was pushed aside, revealing the simple white tank top he wore underneath.
His claws pricked against the thin cotton, ripping that too—
"Hold on!!" he yelped, his hands flying up to try and catch his wrists, but he just batted his grasping hands aside like they were pesky flies, his focus entirely on the ruined tank top.
"Wh-What are you doing?!" he sputtered, trying to wiggle out from under him, but his weight was solid and unyielding.
He managed to get a hand on his forearm, only for him to snatch his own hand in a tight grip and shove it back down against the mattress, pinning it there.
He lifted up slightly, kneeling over his hips, as his free hand went straight down—
"Are you—Are you trying to take my pants off?! Now?!" Finn's voice was a mixture of shock, nervous laughter, and genuine alarm.
He tugged them easily—despite not purposely ripping them, they tore regardless.
"Shrimpo!!" his laughter bubbling up despite the frantic situation as he kicked his legs, trying to keep his pants from being pulled down. "This is—This is really moving fast!!"
He ignored him, gripping the waistband of both his pants and boxers in one strong hand and yanking them down in a merciless motion.
His squirming ceased for a moment, replaced by a stunned, wide-eyed silence as he lay there, completely exposed from the waist down.
He looked down at him, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there was a flicker of something—satisfaction, maybe—in his eyes as he took in the sight.
Then his gaze dropped to Finn's boxers, which were now tangled around his knees.
They were a bright, garish green, covered in cartoon fish and seaweed.
A sharp, involuntary huff of air escaped Shrimpo's nose—it wasn't a laugh, but it was close.
His face flushed, the water in his bowl boiling in embarrassment.
"Hey!!" he protested weakly, his hands coming up to try and cover himself, but he was still pinned. "Don't make fun of them!!"
He just stared at the ridiculous underwear, then back up at Finn's mortified face.
He gave another sharp exhale, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly.
"Stop laughing at meee!!" he whined, though he couldn't help the embarrassed grin that was fighting its way onto his own face.
The whole thing was so absurd—the ripped clothes, the sudden nudity, his stupid fish boxers—that his earlier panic was melting into bewildered hilarity.
"I'm not laughing." he stated flatly, though the ghost of something was definitely tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He shifted, lowering his upper body so that his chest was pressed against his , his head resting against the cool glass of his bowl.
It was an oddly intimate position—one that left his lower half entirely accessible.
His fingers closed with surprising delicacy around his cock.
His entire body jerked at the contact—the touch was unexpected given the violence of the undressing.
"You're limp.." he observed flatly, giving an experimental squeeze, his thumb brushing over the tip. "You were hard earlier. What happened?"
"It's—It's not—" he stammered, his words tripping over themselves. "You just tore all my clothes off and laughed at my boxers!! It's a lot to process!!"
His explanation trailed off into an embarrassed squeak as he began to stroke him. the motion awkward, unpracticed—all tight grip and uncertain rhythm—but it was undeniably happening.
"..you're... decent-sized.." he muttered, more to himself than to Finn.
"Thanks?" he managed to choke out, though his voice was strained.
The initial shock was subsiding, replaced by a warmth that began to pool low in his gut.
The clumsy strokes were starting to feel good.
He felt Shrimpo's body shift against him, settling more of his weight on top of him in a way that was less about restraint and more about closeness.
His hand that wasn't occupied continued to rest on his chest, fingers splayed over his sternum. He was staring intently at his own hand as it worked, his brow furrowed in concentration.
The shift in atmosphere was so drastic—
"What.." he started, his voice breathy. "What changed your mind?"
His strokes became a fraction more confident, his thumb occasionally swiping over the head in a way that made his breath hitch.
"I didn't change my mind." he stated, his tone matter-of-fact. "I decided this is what I wanted to do."
"Yeah?" he pressed, his own hands finally moving—tentatively, he brought them up to rest on his back, his fingers curling lightly into the fabric of the oversized shirt. "You've never wanted anything like this before—not that I know of.."
He could feel him thinking—the rigid line of his body conveying a stubborn refusal to explain himself.
Then—a new thought occurred to him.
The way Shrimpo had taken control so suddenly.
The way he seemed to have a goal in mind.
"Do you know what you're doing?" he whispered, his voice laced with sudden suspicion.
The stroking hand paused for a half-second.
"..it's not complicated.." he growled, but the denial came a beat too fast.
He resumed his movements, his grip tightening slightly.
"You touch it. It gets hard. That's it."
"Y-Yeah.." he breathed out, his words shaky. "That makes sense..."
He didn't elaborate—it was all very straightforward in his own mind.
The rhythmic stroking was starting to work—the warmth spreading through him, the stiffness returning under his determined hand.
His brows furrowed again, concentration deepening as he felt him hardening further in his grip.
He leaned in closer, burying his face against the side of his neck.
He felt the sharp pressure of his teeth, followed by a sharp inhale—
He didn't bite down hard—it was more of a persistent pressure, a pinch that was just shy of painful.
Finn felt the heat rush to his face.
—tentatively, he let the hand that was resting on his back trail downwards.
He slipped it between their bodies, his palm sliding over the curve of his hip, then down the outside of his thigh.
He paused for a long moment.
His hesitation was palpable, a nervous tension that vibrated through his touch.
He wasn't trying to take control—he was asking for permission.
He was met with no resistance.
He let his hand slide further, slipping beneath the loose fabric.
His knuckles brushed against his inner thigh, and he could feel the slight tremble there, a mirror of his own nervousness.
The fabric of his underwear was damp—a distinct, growing wetness that seeped through the thin cotton.
He let out a soft, shaky sound against his neck.
Emboldened, he slipped his fingers under the waistband of his underwear—beneath he was impossibly warm and slick.
He brushed his fingertips against him—exploratory. He found the small, hooded nub and circled it with a touch so light it was almost a question.
Shrimpo tensed above him—a full-body shudder that had nothing to do with the cold.
His hips gave an involuntary, tiny jerk into the touch, his own hand stuttering to a stop on his cock.
He didn't move away.
He pressed his face harder into his neck, his breath coming in hot puffs against him. His hand tightened around him—not moving, just holding—as if to anchor himself.
His fingers, still slick with the wetness he'd found, traced the delicate folds with a reverence that was entirely new to him.
He had no roadmap for this, no experience to guide him beyond a vague understanding.
He found a place that seemed to yield more readily than the rest—something that clenched instinctively at the brush of his fingertip.
He looked down, though his head was buried against him, hiding his expression.
All he could see was the tense line of his shoulders, the way his free hand had curled into a fist against the mattress.
He pressed his fingers inward.
Shrimpo's body went rigid—a sharp, pained hiss escaped through his clenched teeth.
Finn froze instantly, his own arousal momentarily forgotten in a wave of concern.
"Does that hurt?" he whispered, his voice laced with genuine worry.
He felt his jaw work against his neck, a tense grinding of teeth.
"..no.." was all he managed, the words thick with an emotion Finn couldn't quite name.
"You're lying.." he murmured, his voice soft against the top of his head.
He wasn't accusing, just stating a fact he felt in the rigid line of his body.
"It hurts, doesn't it?"
Shrimpo growled, the sound muffled and strained against him. His hips shifted, a minuscule attempt to either press into or escape the intrusion—Finn couldn't tell which.
Maybe he'd done it wrong.
Maybe he was supposed to do something else first.
"It's okay if it does.." he soothed.
He began to move his finger again, just enough to lessen the pressure, before he began a gentle rocking motion—shallow, rhythmic presses that didn't try to breach that stubborn tightness, but simply massaged the slick, heated entrance.
His thumb found its way back to that sensitive bundle he'd discovered earlier. He circled it, applying a soft, consistent pressure.
He was trying to build a different kind of feeling—
He focused on the rhythm, on the feel of his wetness coating his hand, on the way his body was beginning to tremble for a different reason.
He didn't know what to think of this.
"Better?" he whispered, his own voice husky with a mixture of concern and the slow-burning heat still pooling in his own gut.
He didn't get a verbal answer.
Shrimpo turned his head slightly, pressing his forehead hard against the glass of his bowl.
His eyes were squeezed shut, his expression a complex mask of frustration, confusion, and dawning pleasure.
His hips gave a tiny, involuntary rock, meeting the shallow thrust of his finger.
It was permission enough.
He let his other hand drift from where it had been, sliding his palm up to grip the back of his head.
He tilted his own head back on the pillow, his gaze searching his flushed, conflicted face.
"Can you look at me?"
His eyes cracked open a sliver—dark, glossy pools of bewildered frustration.
He focused on him—and for a moment, the world outside their tangled limbs and rushed breathing didn't exist.
He gently guided Shrimpo's head down, closing the small distance between them, and captured his lips in a deep kiss.
It was a distraction—for both of them.
For Shrimpo, to pull his focus away from the confusing, intrusive pain blooming between his legs.
For Finn, to drown out the roaring in his own head, the frantic pulse of blood that made his cock throb painfully in his loose grip.
The kiss was different from their first.
He poured every ounce of his own nervous, eager energy into it—coaxing his mouth open with a gentle swipe of his tongue—and to his surprise, he yielded.
His hips gave an involuntary, shallow thrust up into the circle of his fist—the motion seemed to jolt him back to his task. His own hand, which had grown still, tightened again, resuming its awkward stroking.
In turn, his finger began to move with more purpose—the shallow rocking became a pumping motion, curling slightly on the inward stroke. He could feel the tight, clenching resistance slowly beginning to give way, eased by the slickness that now coated his entire finger.
They were a mess of conflicting sensations.
The kiss became their anchor—a hot, sloppy exchange of breath and tongue that drowned out the awkwardness, the pain, the sheer strangeness of it all.
They were getting each other off in the most clumsy, inexperienced, and profoundly intimate way possible.
Finn was lost in the kiss, in the taste of him, in the clumsy rhythm of his hand on his cock—he was so lost that the sharp, sudden pain caught him completely off guard.
He made a muffled cry against his mouth as his teeth clamped down on his tongue—not hard enough to draw blood, but with enough force to sting sharply and startle him out of his haze.
He broke the kiss, pulling back with a gasp, his eyes wide with confusion and a flicker of hurt.
Shrimpo leveraged his weight, pushing up off of him slightly—and for a wild second, he thought he was going to stop, to pull away completely.
He didn't.
His free hand guided him, positioning the rigid length of him at his entrance—despite his fingers still being curled inside him.
He understood.
He was impatient. He wanted more.
He'd decided this was how he was going to get it.
"Come on—" he breathed out, the words shaky.
He withdrew his fingers carefully—a wet sound accompanying their exit—letting his hand drop to the mattress, giving him space.
He felt the blunt, insistent pressure against his entrance again—this time, there was nothing in the way.
He watched, his breath hitching, as he slowly began to lower himself.
He braced his hands on his chest, fingers curling into the torn remains of his top.
His face was a mask of fierce concentration—brow furrowed, teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut—as he worked to take him in.
The stretch was immediate and intense—he was impossibly tight, the muscles of his cunt fluttering and clenching in a desperate attempt to accommodate the sudden intrusion.
"..slow down.." he pleaded softly, his own hands coming up to rest lightly on his hips—not to guide, just to offer some semblance of stability. "It'll hurt worse—"
"It already hurts." he growled, his voice strained.
He forced himself down another inch—
"You're so impatient.." he murmured, the words laced with a strange mixture of awe and exasperation. "We could have taken our time.."
He paused, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself still, halfway seated on him.
"I am impatient." he admitted, the words coming out in a rush, laced with a frustration that was almost childlike in its honesty. "I don't want to wait."
—the admission was so stark, so utterly him, that a startled laugh bubbled up in Finn's chest, even as his own breathing grew ragged.
"It's kinda funny.." he whispered, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on his trembling hips. "Hearing you admit it out loud."
He ignored Finn's attempt at comfort.
His focus was singular—locked on the searing stretch and burn that radiated from his core.
He bore down, forcing himself to sink lower—ignoring the sharp, tearing sensation that accompanied the descent.
Finn's breath hitched—not in pleasure this time, but in a wave of startled alarm as he felt the new, unmistakable slickness mixed with his natural wetness.
It coated his length as he finally settled fully into his lap, his body trembling from the effort.
His eyes were glassy, brimming with unshed tears he was fighting with every ounce of his will—but his gaze was hard, unyielding.
He stared down at him, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.
"Move." he commanded, his voice a low, strained rasp that brooked no argument.
Finn stared back, his own expression a tumult of concern, arousal, and confusion.
He could smell the blood, the metallic tang in the air was subtle but present—and the warm, coppery wetness was smearing between them.
"You're bleeding—"
"I don't care!!" he snapped, the words cracking with a frustration that bordered on desperation. "Move—up into me—now!!"
He hesitated, his hands tightening on his hips.
He could see the pain etched into every line of his face, the way his jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful.
This was wrong.
He knew it was wrong.
—but the subtle plea in his eyes, the raw, demanding need in his voice—it overrode every sensible thought.
He tightened his grip, anchoring himself, and drove his hips upward in a sharp thrust.
He felt the hot, tight clench of him around his cock—the new, slick warmth of blood making the slide impossibly smooth.
He pulled back slightly, only to thrust up again.
It was an awkwardly hard rhythm, born of confusion and a twisted sense of duty to fulfill his command.
Shrimpo's head dropped, his forehead pressing against his collarbone.
His body shook with each thrust, his breathing a ragged sound in his ear.
He wasn't making any other noise—no cries, or pleas.
He was biting his lip so hard he was sure he'd draw blood there, too—swallowing every whimper, every pained hitch of breath.
He was doing a real good job at trying not to cry—the tears were there, hot and undeniable, but they were trapped behind his tightly squeezed eyelids, beading on his lashes before being viciously blinked away each time they threatened to fall.
He was taking it—all of it—in stubborn, furious silence.
Finn's own pleasure was a distant, guilty thing, overshadowed by the visceral reality of what they were doing.
He was lost in it—in the painful, messy intimacy, in the realization that he was hurting the one person he'd claimed to care about in a way he never imagined he could.
"I-I wish you weren't so difficult some—sometimes.." he whispered, the words torn from him with a ragged breath as he buried his face into the side of his head. "I just wanted to kiss you.."
His hips snapped upward—an angle that made Shrimpo's whole body jolt.
"You make everything so hard—wh-why do you have to be like this?" his voice was a pained, frustrated murmur against his forehead.
He could feel him trembling, his breath hitching in pained gasps.
His head lifted from his shoulder—and before Finn could process the movement, his teeth sank into the side of his neck.
It wasn't a playful nip like before.
It was a full, vicious bite—sharp teeth clamping down with a ferocity that made him cry out, his body instinctively arching.
He didn't pull away.
He pressed his hand firmly against the back of his head, holding him there, encouraging the bite even as the pain shot through his neck.
His thrusts didn't falter—if anything, they became more rhythmic, each deep drive into his body was met with a corresponding clench of his jaw.
He knew it hurt him.
He could see it in the rigid line of his spine, in the way his hands were fisted so tightly in the sheets that his knuckles were white. He could feel it in the way his body resisted then yielded, over and over.
He didn't stop—because stopping would mean admitting this was a mistake, and a part of him—a confused, aching part—wasn't ready to let this go.
It felt good—it felt so good to be inside him, to feel the slick clench of him around his cock, even the added slip of blood felt intense—but he was hurting him.
He was hurting him badly, and he was just taking it, fighting back with nothing but his own teeth and his stubborn, furious silence.
He forced his hips to slow—the frantic, deep thrusts easing into something shallower, a desperate attempt to find a rhythm that was less punishing. He shifted his angle, grinding upwards into him more than he was thrusting.
His movements became a slow roll—a steady, grinding pressure that sought to fill him without the tearing drive that had come before.
He could feel the difference immediately.
He was trembling less now, his body no longer recoiling with each impact.
His teeth unclenched from his neck, leaving behind a throbbing ache and a set of angry marks—but he didn't lift his head. He simply rested his forehead against his collarbone again, his breathing still ragged, but it was no longer the frantic gasps of someone trying not to cry.
His hands, which had been fisted in the sheets, loosened slightly.
He was still so impossibly tight around him—each grinding roll sending waves of intense, guilty pleasure coiling in his gut.
He could feel the wet heat of his breath puffing against his neck, shaky and uneven.
He could feel the snug clench of his cunt, the way his inner muscles fluttered and squeezed around him with each lift of his hips.
His forehead pressed against him, as if he were anchoring himself to the only solid thing in the room—his claws slowly unclenching from the torn bedding.
His hand—the one not braced against Finn's chest—lifted from the mattress.
His fingers were trembling.
They brushed against his own hand, which was gripping his hip—not to push it away, but to search. His fingers clumsily found his, and—with a surprisingly firm grip—he interlaced them.
He held onto his hand tightly, as if it were a lifeline.
He held his hand just as fiercely, squeezing back—a reassurance he hoped he could feel.
He increased the pressure of his grinding, shifting his angle just slightly to press up against a spot that seemed to make him flinch—but not in a bad way this time.
—a soft, choked sound escaped Shrimpo's throat—it was barely a whimper, more of a stifled gasp—and Finn felt him tighten around him in response.
He loved that sound.
He loved the way it was torn from him against his will—a tiny, vulnerable crack in his furious armor.
He wanted to hear more of it.
He rocked his hips up again, aiming for that same spot—and was rewarded with another quiet, breathy hitch of air.
He still wouldn't look at him—his face was stubbornly buried, his eyes squeezed shut—but he was holding his hand, and his body was moving now, meeting his slow thrusts with tiny, hesitant rocks of his own hips.
He was participating.
He was beginning to give back.
He found a rhythm—a rolling thrust that was more about fullness and pressure than frantic pace.
"I like you like this.." he murmured, his voice. "You're just here—with me."
He was rewarded with a low, displeased grunt against his neck—but Shrimpo didn't pull away. If anything, his grip on his hand tightened fractionally.
"I wish you wouldn't go back and forth so much." he continued, emboldened by the lack of a fist to his face. "One second you're tearing my clothes off, the next you're biting my neck—then you're holding my hand.."
He felt him tense—but he just kept moving, that steady, unhurried pace.
"Can we keep it like this?"
"Shut. Up."
He didn't shut up.
A breathless, almost delirious chuckle escaped him as he drove up into him again—savoring the tight, wet heat.
"Being inside you feels amazing.." he admitted aloud, his voice filled with a kind of awed sincerity. "It's so warm... and tight... I can feel every little part of you. It's the best thing I've ever felt."
He felt the shudder that ran through his frame—the way his shoulders hunched slightly, the way he pressed his face even harder against him, as if he could hide from the words.
It was embarrassment.
That—more than anything—made Finn's heart ache with a strange, tender fondness.
He'd been yelled at, hit, bitten, and glared at—but he'd never seen him embarrassed.
It was a vulnerability so profound it stole his breath.
Shrimpo's quiet sounds were changing, too—the pained hitches and stifled gasps had softened into something else—small, breathy exhales that escaped him with each inward thrust, little unconscious noises that seemed to surprise him every time they left his throat.
He loved those sounds.
He loved knowing he was the one drawing them from him.
He focused all his energy on maintaining that gentle, insistent rhythm. His free hand, the one not locked with his, smoothed up and down his trembling back in soothing strokes.
He was trying so hard to show him that this didn't have to be a battle.
He was happy—genuinely, bewilderingly happy—that Shrimpo seemed to have given up on forcing it, that he wasn't trying to dominate the pace or grit through the pain with sheer willpower anymore.
The change was subtle at first.
That low grunt of discontent, that sharp hitch of breath—it happened when he shifted his angle just slightly, rolling his hips up and forward in a way that pressed the tip of his cock firmly against a particular spot within him.
This time, the sound that escaped Shrimpo's lips was unmistakable—a choked-off moan, raw and unfiltered, that was immediately bitten back into a strangled growl.
He went completely still above him, his body locking up in a wave of mortified tension.
Finn had frozen, too—his own rhythm stuttering as he processed the sound.
It wasn't a sound of pain.
The grip on his hand became vicelike.
"Don't." he hissed, his voice a strained, furious whisper. "D-Don't you fucking—"
He didn't finish the threat.
Finn, his heart hammering against his ribs, resumed his motion.
He kept the pace languid—but with unwavering focus, he angled himself to hit that same spot again.
The effect was immediate and profound—
Each press against that sensitive bundle of nerves drew another fractured sound from him—a stuttered moan, a breathy whimper, a soft, pleading cry that was swallowed halfway.
He was trying so hard to stay quiet, to maintain that stoic silence, but his body was betraying him spectacularly.
"Finn—" his name left his lips in a broken whisper, laced with a confusion and a desperate need that he'd never heard from him before.
He loved it.
He loved the raw, unfiltered honesty of it.
He loved that he was the one who had uncovered this hidden, sensitive part of him.
He loved the way his proud, stubborn facade was crumbling apart under the relentless, gentle pressure of his hips.
"Right there?" he murmured, his own voice husky and thick with awe. "You like it when I press into you right there?"
Shrimpo's body answered where his voice failed.
His hips moved in tiny, eager circles, meeting each inward push. His legs, which had been locked rigid, began to tremble with a different kind of tension.
He was embarrassed.
He was overwhelmed.
He was feeling something so good it was terrifying him—
Finn loved being the cause.
He loved being the one to see him like this—not angry, not hateful, but utterly and completely undone by sensation.
He held his hand tightly, his thumb stroking over his knuckles in a soothing rhythm that matched the pace of his hips.
He found himself unable to remain as languid as before—the tempo of his hips increased, driven by a growing, desperate need.
Each thrust was still deliberate, still angled to find that sweet spot that made him gasp and clench—but they came faster now, a building rhythm that pushed them both further from the hesitant beginning.
He couldn't keep the adoration out of his voice.
"I like you so much." he breathed against the side of his head. "You feel incredible—I don't ever want this to stop.."
Shrimpo, for his part, was trying to block him out.
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, pressing his face harder into his shoulder, as if he could physically muffle his words along with his own sounds.
It was futile.
—every compliment, every husky admission of enjoyment, wormed its way past his defenses, each one another crack in the furious wall he'd built around himself.
He wasn't thinking about the torn clothes, or the lingering sting between his legs, or the bewildering fact that he was letting this happen.
All he could focus on was the rhythmic pressure inside him—the way each thrust coiled a tight, unfamiliar heat low in his stomach, a tension that was building with frightening intensity.
It was making his head spin.
He met each upward drive with a downward grind of his own hips, a desperate plea for more.
He could feel a climax hovering somewhere on the distant horizon, a pleasurable threat he was actively ignoring.
He made a low, guttural sound of frustration, his hips giving a desperate, stuttering jerk. His attempt to form words was swallowed by another sharp gasp as his next upward thrust struck that same impossible spot, sending a jolt of white-hot pleasure directly to his core.
"St-Stop talking—" he ground out, the words slurred and breathless against his neck, his nails digging into the back of his hand.
It was a command, but it lacked all authority, coming out as more of a pained, overwhelmed plea.
Finn only hummed in response—a soft, pleased sound that vibrated against him.
He shifted his free hand from his back, sliding it around to cradle the curve of his hip, his fingers pressing into the soft give there to better guide his movements.
"But I like talking to you.." he murmured, his own breathing growing more ragged as he chased his own pleasure, his thrusts deepening. "I like telling you how good you feel.."
His words felt more invasive than the physical act itself.
His body was screaming at him—the tension was coiling tighter, a spring wound to its absolute limit—the pleasure had become a relentless, throbbing ache, concentrated at the point where their bodies joined and radiating outwards, making his limbs feel heavy and weak.
He could feel every ridge, every vein of him as he slid in and out of him—and the friction was becoming almost too much to bear.
He tried to focus on the discomfort—the residual sting, the soreness—but it was drowned out by the overwhelming tide of sensation.
He tried to focus on his anger—but it was dissipating, replaced by a dazed, frantic need.
His hips stuttered their rhythm, losing coordination as the wave of pleasure crested dangerously close to breaking. His cunt clenched in a rapid flutter around his cock, a precursor to the release that was now an inevitability he could no longer deny or delay.
His entire body seized up—his legs clamping tightly around his waist as every muscle in his lower body clenched and released in a frantic, involuntary rhythm.
The tension he'd been fighting against shattered—erupting out of him in a hot, gushing flood.
The sensation of it—the sudden, shocking gush, the way his cunt seemed to pulse and clench around him in a rapid, fluttering cadence—was too much.
He could feel himself losing it completely—the intensity of the climax robbing him of all thought.
He was still shaking—small aftershocks rippling through him, his body twitching with each new wave of sensation.
His body was so tight, so impossibly wet—clenching and milking Finn's cock with a frantic intensity that was making his own control fray.
He was so close—the coiled pleasure in his own gut was an urgent ache, ready to snap at any moment.
He wrapped his arms tighter around his trembling form, holding him close as he continued to move—his thrusts slowed but didn't cease, riding him through the waves of his orgasm.
He kept moving because his body, even in its trembling, post-climax state, was clinging to him, his inner muscles still grasping and fluttering around his length, pulling him deeper.
He kept moving because he was terrified that if he let go now, he'd never get this back—this raw, vulnerable version of him, lost in a pleasure he'd never even known he could feel.
It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
The way his whole body had just seized, the way his eyes had flown open—wide and glassy, unseeing—before squeezing shut again as a low, gutted groan was torn from his throat.
He was so close.
He should stop.
He should pull out.
This was reckless.
This was selfish.
His body was moving of its own accord—a relentless rhythm that pistoned his cock in and out of him, even as his cunt fluttered and spasmed around him, still slick and tight from his own release—the wet, squelching sounds were obscene in the quiet room, punctuated only by their heavy breathing and the creak of the bed.
He was terrified of stopping.
He was terrified that if he pulled out—if he broke this connection—the usual scowling, furious Shrimpo would return, and this bewildered, open version of him would vanish forever.
He kept moving.
He kept driving into him, chasing the release that hovered just out of reach—the pleasure was intense, almost painful in its urgency, but it was tangled with a gnawing guilt.
He shouldn't be doing this.
He should be holding him, soothing him, telling him he was okay.
He was being an awful friend.
A worse 'whatever-they-were'.
He kept his arms locked around him, holding his trembling body close as his own hips worked in that desperate, shallow rhythm.
Shrimpo didn't push him away.
He didn't yell.
He just lay there, his face buried in his neck, his body still shuddering with the fading echoes of his climax. His breathing was slowing, but it still hitched occasionally—a soft, exhausted sound escaped his lips—a sound Finn couldn't decipher.
Was it contentment?
Was it resignation?
Was he simply too overwhelmed to protest?
He didn't know.
He knew the heat of him—the slick, clenching warmth that seemed to be pulling the very essence from him—the frantic, rising tide of his own orgasm that was now an undeniable threat.
He should pull out and finish himself off elsewhere.
His thrusts became shallower, faster—a frantic, jerky pace as he chased the release that was now inevitable.
His hips stuttered, losing their rhythm completely as the tightly coiled pressure in his core finally snapped.
He spilled inside, the wet heat of his release joining the slick mess that was already there—ach pulse of his orgasm seemed to go on forever with drawn-out spurts that emptied him completely.
He stayed buried inside him, his hips pressed flush against his as he rode out the last waves of it—small, weak thrusts accompanying the final aftershocks.
His mind was blank—a haze of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
For a few precious seconds, there was only the feeling—the incredible warmth, the tightness, the sheer rightness of it all.
He hadn't pulled out.
He hadn't even tried.
He had been so lost in his own pleasure, so terrified of breaking the moment, that he'd abandoned any pretense of common sense.
Shrimpo had gone limp against him—the earlier trembling had subsided, replaced by a heavy, boneless stillness.
—carefully, he began to pull out.
He winced at the sensation—the drag of his softening cock against his sensitive entrance, the messy sound it made—and a fresh wave of guilt washed over him.
He could see it now—a mixture of his own release, Shrimpo's blood, and his wetness, slick and glistening between his thighs and on his own softening length.
Finn was terrified.
This was Shrimpo.
The same Shrimpo who had punched him in the face for an attempted kiss.
What was he going to do when he processed what had just happened?
He was going to kill him.
He was definitely going to kill him.