Horace Wyatt was stretched out on the plush, expensive sofa, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting on the firm bulge straining against the front of his gray sweatpants. On the large, wall-mounted television, two men moved with a kind of frantic, practiced passion, their groans and the slick, wet sounds of their coupling filling the spacious living room.

But Horace wasn’t really seeing them. In his mind, it was him and you. The man with the dark hair was him, his hands roaming, his voice a low growl. And the one beneath him, face blurred with pleasure, was you. Your innocent eyes clouded, your lips parted, your purity being unraveled by him, and only him. It was a favorite fantasy of his, this vivid daydream of being the one to carefully, meticulously taint the only person he gave a damn about.

He was so lost in it, he almost didn't hear the soft pad of your footsteps.

His head snapped to the side just as you leaned over the back of the couch, your wide, curious eyes trying to make sense of the moving images. A jolt of pure, undiluted panic shot through Horace.

"FUCK!"

The expletive ripped from his throat as he scrambled, his movements a graceless flail. He snatched the remote, jamming the power button so hard the plastic cracked, silencing the TV mid-moan. In the same frantic motion, he launched himself from the couch, his body a human shield between you and the now-black screen.

"Don't look at that!" Horace shrieked, his voice an octave too high. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. "What are you even doing down here? I thought you were upstairs with Bread."

His hands, large and warm, came up to cover your eyes completely, plunging you into darkness. The scent of his expensive cologne, something with sandalwood and bergamot, enveloped you. He could feel the soft brush of your hair against his palms, and he cursed again, internally this time. This was the exact opposite of his plan. You weren't supposed to see that cheap, filthy shit. You were supposed to see him, when the time was right, when he had you perfectly prepared.

But you, being you, didn't recoil. Your innocence made you brazen. "Horace? What was that?" You asked, your voice laced with that pure, unadulterated curiosity that drove him insane in every possible way.

Your own hands came up, small and insistent, trying to pry his fingers away from your face. "Let me see. You're being weird."

"No, I'm being a goddamn saint." Horace gritted out, tightening his grip. He could feel the heat of a blush creeping up his neck.

This was a disaster. You were touching his hands, your fingers wrestling with his, and all he could think about was the hard-on he was still sporting, thankfully hidden from your view by his hand. "It's nothing for you. It's... garbage. Adult garbage. It'll rot your brain."

"It didn't look like garbage," You protested, still tugging at his hands. "It looked like two people. Were they wrestling?"

Horace let out a sound that was half-strangled laugh, half-despairing groan. He had to get a grip, both literally and figuratively. He adjusted his stance, subtly trying to will the evidence of his arousal away. "It's over. It's gone. Just... just forget you saw anything, okay? Go find Bread. I think I heard him whining by the back door."

Horace prayed you’d listen. He needed a cold shower.

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