Chapter Text
Toby
Just calling him Toby will already have him nervous; that’s Tobes or Baby to you. To call him Tobias Erin Rogers would probably set every hair on his body on edge. Instantly, he’s all over you– kissing your face, nuzzling your neck, running his hands over your body– like he’s trying to override whatever he’d done to make you angry with physical affection. A pang of guilt washes over you once Toby nearly lifts your feet off the floor, clutching you like you’re a life raft in open ocean while stuttering over his repeated, “Did I do something? What’s wrong, babe?”
If you’re sitting down, he will literally sink to his knees and stare up at you with pleading, already teary eyes while resting his head on your thighs and asking what he did wrong. And if you’re really trying to play up the fury in your heart towards him, crossing your arms and sternly frowning, he’ll grab at your hand in a way that’s borderline pitiful before shoving it under his hair. Okay, prank’s over, you feel too bad. Once you explain that it was just a joke, he’ll playfully swat at you and pout about how scared he was before starting a playfight or cuddle session to make up for it.
Tim
Being a very traditionally masculine gentleman, Tim knows exactly what it means when his lady shouts for Timothy Wright to “come here now!” Taking a deep, preparatory exhale, he puts whatever he was doing on pause to ready that smooth, chivalrous persona that he uses to butter you up. The way he asks, “What’d I do, sugar?” is just dripping with honey, and you almost forget that you’re supposed to be mad at him for the purposes of this bit. His rough, work-hardened hands are firmly settled on your hips as Tim looks down at you with the slight tug at the corner of his lips that he calls a smile.
Unless it’s a truly serious matter, he knows that he’ll be forgiven soon enough; but now you’re actually almost annoyed at how ridiculously easy it is for him to win you over. Pouting up at him, you explain that it was just a prank and he did not have to suck up to you so hard. He gives you the usual smug-bastard smirk as he asks you if it gave you the laugh you were looking for.
Brian
He couldn’t hear how hard you were trying not to laugh since his upper body was covered by the undercarriage of his truck. All he heard was the muffled call of his name with the surname attached, and that was enough for him to heave himself out from under his current project and futilely attempt to clean the grease off his arms. Before he can finish his, “What is it, sweetheart?” he sees you struggling to keep a straight face and knows exactly what little game you’re playing.
Apparently, Brian is only humorous when it involves getting back at you for something. “Have I made my baby upset? Oh, I’m sorry.” The dry sarcasm rolling off his tongue as he comes in for a very engine oil-ridden embrace. Even as you cry out and whine about, “It was just a joke!” or “You’re staining my clothes, Bri!” Once he’s had his fill of petty revenge, he’ll just promise to replace your outfit streaked with jet black before turning back to the garage with his typically stoic expression containing just a glint of amusement.
Jeff
Oh, he does not like it. Everyone just calls him Jeff for a reason; he thinks Jeffery sounds ugly. That, and the only other people who ever referred to him as such were his parents after he got caught starting another schoolyard brawl. “Fuck are you calling me that for?” His lips curl into an irritated snarl, disregarding what you thought was a pretty solid attempt at faux anger. Though, you really should’ve expected a lack of any preemptive remorse from him in the first place.
You throw out some lame excuse about him not washing a dish he left in the sink. “‘Kay, just tell me that next time instead of yelling for me like my mom.” He huffs and rolls his eyes before snatching up the sponge and aggressively scrubbing the plate like it owes him money. Maybe it’d be better to let him think this wasn’t a miserable attempt at a prank.
Ben
Like Jeff, he thinks Benjamin is a name for wrinkled old men on their deathbeds. He’s fully absorbed in some coding jargon on his computer when he hears you open the door, calling his full name like he’s your grandpa who asked how to take a screenshot. His eyebrow shoots up and his entire face contorts into a cringing grimace. “Hey, hey, sorry.” The mouse is set aside and Ben’s hands go up in mock surrender, “What’d I fuck up, damn?” Was it the fact that his room reeked of weed and was littered with empty containers? Maybe, he thought as he scrambled out of his chair to crack open his window and herd all the discarded cans and snack bags into the trash can. “Sorry, baby, I swear I was gonna get to it today.”
“I was just trying to play a little prank, gosh.” An amused smirk pulled at your lips upon seeing how quickly you could whip him into shape. “Keep cleaning this shit up, though.” He retorts by playfully moping and flopping into his bed, back facing you, woefully proclaiming that the only way to make it up to him is to join him under the covers.
If you called him some stupid shit like “Behavioral Event Network,” though, he’d probably laugh his ass off and ask how you even got through the phrase without jumbling the syllables up before returning to doomscrolling with the joint in his mouth.