dark-nautica-2

[dark-nautica-2]

maybe gross creep jimmy grinding on and groping far too young girls (like college age) o the train, chikan style?

i made him extra pervy in this one 😁 #BONER

genre: smut

word count: 1.1k

warnings/content: age gap, perv jimmy, noncon, jim diddles a girl in public <- thats like. the entire synopsis lol

—

Jimmy's always liked girls young and inexperienced. Barely legal and still in school, too dumb and trusting to be weary of an older man that looks at them like they're his prey, fresh meat to sink his teeth into and tear apart.

They're all cuter than women his age, with their short little skirts that give any creep an open invitation to snap a quick picture of what's underneath when they're not looking. Their skin is youthful; plump, firm, and ripe, which makes for perfect tits that are so cushiony and soft in his disgusting hands.

The train ride back to his apartment would've been downright boring if lady luck didn't place the prettiest little doll he's seen in a while right in front of him, her hand much smaller than his as it grips the pole to stabilize her body as the subway jostles around, speeding down the rail.

Jimmy's eyes locked onto her with a focus that would make a hawk feel like an amateur. Purposefully, he grabs onto the very same pole, slowly inching his way up, just so he can brush his much rougher hand against hers. His taller stature looms over her, her head stopping right at his chest.

She's obviously aware of his presence behind her, as she shifts awkwardly in place, trying to put a little distance between them, the force of the train jolting them around making her brush against his body more than once, giving him the perfect opportunity for his hand to find contact against her lower back to support her when she stumbled backwards into him.

"Careful. Don't wanna fall." He speaks lowly, his tone intentionally sweet sounding, although coming from him, a man who is known to be anything but sweet, it's more menacing than anything else.

Returning to her previous position, cheeks flushed from the awkward encounter, she mutters a small "Thank you." and goes quiet again.

A shy one, it seems. Adorable.

"So," he starts, leaning in a little closer, his lips uncomfortably close to her ear, invading her personal space even more than before. "You comin' from school?" He asks, because he notices the bookbag in her other hand, decorated with various iron-on patches and pins.

She nods, humming a soft 'mhm' in response. "College." She specifies. Even her voice is cute; mellow and honeyed. That means she can't be older than, what, nineteen, early twenties at most? Nearly two decades younger than him, regardless. Her tensed up form, trying so hard to put some distance between them, tells him she's anything but comfortable. She's perfect.

"Yeah? Whatcha studying?" He takes a fake interest in hearing her answer. He's even not paying any attention when she meekly tells him, her sentence trailing off into unintelligible stammering as he returns his hand to it's previous position on her lower back, worrisomely close to her ass.

"Really? That's neat." He responds, as if he actually listened. "You're a smart one, huh?" He adds, his fingers lightly tracing her skin, moving lower inch by inch.

She takes in a nervous breath, her body going rigid, knowing she can't do anything to stop him in such a crowded area. If she made a scene, she'd only be met with annoyance from the other passengers. No one would care, or believe, that the man behind her is a sick pervert, violating her.

She doesn't answer him.

"A shy one, too." Jimmy whispers into her ear as he slips his hand under her skirt and begins fully groping her ass now, massaging the fat between his fingers. She's scared stiff, which is perfect for him, because now he's certain she won't– cant– try and get away. "You're such a pretty little thing." he continues speaking to her, aware she won't say anything back, but he prefers girls to keep quiet anyway.

He presses his groin into her backside so she can feel his dick against her, already harder than a rock, aching for her, wishing he could do so much more than just touch her. "You feel what you're doin' to me?" Jimmy mutters, gruffly, "Bet you've never even taken cock before. You seem like the goodie-two-shoes type."

The idea of her being a virgin gets him riled up even more, even if there's a possibility that it's not entirely true. She won't tell him the truth, though, so he'll have to imagine. His fingers slip under her panties, feeling his way to her pussy, which she tries so hard to guard him from, pressing her things together as tight as she can. It's a futile effort. She feels nauseous. Dizzy from fear.

Jimmy's index runs along her slit, finding it's way to her clit, giving the soft nub a little poke just to watch her jump and hold back a squeal. His laugh comes out as a light huff of air. "I'm gonna be thinkin' 'bout you tonight, that's a given." He takes his other hand off the pole, using it to grab at her chest, kneading her pillowy soft tits as he continues to toy with her cunt. He groans lowly at the feeling.

"I wonder what these look like under here," Jimmy thinks aloud, pinching her nipple through her clothing, "Wonder what your cute little pussy would feel like, gripping my cock." He's breathing heavily, his hot breath fanning against her neck as he gets off to just the thought of defiling her. "You're probably so fuckin' tight."

He jimmies (hah) the tip of his finger into her hole to test his theory. She wants to cry, scream, throw up; everything about this is sickening. Perverse in the most monstrous way. It hurts when he forces his way in, even the smallest bit of his finger is painful. He was right. "I'd fuck you right here, if I could," Jimmy tells her, as if it were ever a secret, "Pussy ain't worth getting arrested for public indecency, though."

Finally, he removes himself from her hole, granting her some kind of relief. He also lets go of her chest, but only so he can slide both hands up her shirt so he can touch her without anything else getting in his way. What an awful day to not wear a bra, she thinks despairingly. Her nipples are puffy and fat between his index and thumb, rolling her hardened buds around. It hurts.

"You'd look even prettier with my cum all over your tits, y'know." Jimmy verbalizes his fantasies like it's casual conversation. Before he can whisper any more vile things into her ear, the train comes to a stop. He lets go of her completely, stepping back as a crowd clamors together to get out the sliding doors. She immediately follows them, frantically pushing and shoving her way out so she can run away as fast as she can, out of his sight in a flash.

Jimmy feels disappointed, still painfully hard in his jeans as he stands there alone. Annoyingly enough, he'll have to wait until he's home to take care of his... problem.

At least he gained new jerk off material today.

[dark-nautica-2]

sweetpea… please write jimmy leaving his girlfriend to overdose at curly’s place like you said 😭

tw for overdose, cocaine, drug use, shitty bf jimmy, blood, death and shitty writing

“Hiii, Curly.” You’re clutching onto his doorframe, blinking at him rapidly, one of your false lashes is MIA.

Jimmy is close behind, smiling too hard for it to actually be Jimmy. Jesus. It’s a little scary. Like he’s wearing someone else’s face, the skin stretched thinly over his bones is looking worn. He shoulders past Curly and makes himself comfortable on the couch he has called home so many times.

“Woah, okay—Hey, hey, Jim.” Curly catches you when you stumble, clammy hands on his chest to steady yourself. “What’s all this about?” He’s too old for this. Too old to think Jimmy is cool for snorting crack off public bathroom counters, too old to be anything but worried.

“Nothin’, man.” Jimmy waves a dismissive hand his way. “She just overdid it, your place is closer than mine.”

You blink up at Curly with a dopey smile as he sets you down beside your boyfriend. “You’re sooo nice, Curly,” you slur, tucking your legs beneath you, it takes a few attempts but you make it there. “Just the best, like, so nice, you know any girl would be lucky to have you.”

Good ol’ reliable Curly. Got a big ol’ shoulder to lean on. Big ass back to stab. Curly who cannot keep him at arms length.

So he sits down like a dumbass and chaperones the two of you as Jimmy, loyalty card in hand, cuts up another few lines on the coffee table. Curly opts out, mumbling about blocked sinuses and a short nasal passage. He takes a dollar bill from your purse and rolls it up, dexterous fingers that only get put to use for one thing in particular. Jimmy snorts it, tips his head back, thumbing the edge of his nose, his smile crooked and lazy when he passes the bill over to you.

You do the same.

Snort it, tip your head back, sniffle, wipe your nose.

Your head doesn’t fall back into place. You stay like that for one second, two seconds, three seconds, four, five—

Foam dribbles down your chin, and your body jerks backwards until you are sprawled on the floor lifelessly like a discarded mannequin.

“Holy shit.” Curly jumps to his feet, floundering, breathing just as hard as you are trying to breathe. “Holy shit, Jim. Holy shit, she’s fucking—Jesus Christ.”

“Fuck, shut up, Curly, I know, I know—I’ve got this,” says Jimmy, who has not got this, who has not got fucking anything at all, like, ever. So why would he have this? “C’mon, baby.” He smacks you hard, somehow managing to look unfazed and completely unhinged. “Don’t die on me, I’ll fucking kill you, you… Fucking shit, shit, shit.”

There is so much blood seeping into Curly’s new shag rug. He is going to pass it off as wine when his mother visits. You’re twisting and choking and kicking like your legs, putting up a nasty fight and nobody has bothered to call a fucking ambulance, nobody wants to deal with the fucking consequences. There is a girl overdosing in his lounge and Jimmy is going to go back to jail and—

“Where are you going?” Curly asks, horrified as you fit on the ground while your boyfriend pulls on his jacket. “Jim, where are you going, are you fucking serious?”

“I can’t—“ Jimmy motions with his hand at you, at himself. “I can’t fucking go back there, man, shit, not for this, not for her.”

You’re not worth it, not worth hospital bills and phone calls and court dates.

So they let it happen.

Jimmy helps you ride it out, kissing your face and cupping your tit like it is going to do anything at all.

And when you go cold, he rolls you up in Curly’s shag rug to keep you warm, it’s a two-man job, lifting all this dead weight, but Jimmy does it all on his own while Curly sits there jittering.

“There’s a creek nearby,” Curly tells him, white-knuckling the arm of the sofa.

“How about that job you were talking about?” Jimmy murmurs soberly.

[dark-nautica-2]

twist in the gut

3.3k words / warnings - rape/noncon, .2 seconds of plot w lots of implications, penis in vagina sex, alley sex, no comfort

summary - Dead Dove: curly rapes a lesbian that he's in love with.

He’s twenty-six, he’s got soft cheeks, he’s got messy waves, his hands are thick with all the show of hard work without any callouses to stand behind; and he’s eyeing you from across the bar.

Curled around Swansea’s shoulder with a cherried grin, positively gleaming despite the older man’s visible displeasure. His entire face wrinkled inward and hands firmly denting into his hips. He watches you with disdain warped around awe. Says something snarky that makes you and the rest of the crew laugh.

Whatever he sneered, all you respond with is tipping your head back to laugh harder than the rest and wringing both arms around his neck to squeeze.

Sight alone makes Curly grin to himself.

Fingers tightening around both glasses. Something sweet and tangy in his right, and frothy sweaty beer in his left. One step forward precedes another until he’s flanking Swansea’s opposite side, holding out a red cocktail with the cheapest plastic umbrella slotted against the rim.

“Captain. For you.”

Your face brightens, flinging a hand out over Swansea’s chest to snag the drink. Sugary sweet, you sing, “Thank you!”

Easier than brushing lint away, you flit from Swansea and into Curly’s side. Barely able to peek at him from behind his obnoxiously broad chest with yet another sickeningly saccharine chirp,

“I missed you!”

“Did you?” he scratches behind his ear, cheeks suddenly flaring, “I wasn’t gone too long, was I?”

“Basically an eternity,” you slur into your glass’ rim, downing a fifth of it before cringing as bitter tequila overwhelms your senses.

“It’s a bit ironic, we’re celebrating my promotion but you’re the one drinking.”

“Aye,” you tink, tink, tink his pint with your finger nail, “I see some Coors in there.”

“Mhm,” Curly tilts his glass back, pouring the sharp wheat down his throat in hopes to dull the searing heat in his gut. A foolish wish because he should know better by now -- drinking only makes him hotter, “But I could see straight.”

“Can you?” prodding, you hold a finger in front of his face and drift it in either direction, “Sobriety test. If you don’t pass, then I’ll need your keys.”

“You need the keys?” Curly staples your hand into his and waves the entwined limbs in front of your face, “Can you even follow something this big, sweetheart?”

Snorting, eyes rolling, and scoffing- as if that was the most ridiculous thing he could’ve asked, before you blink and shake your head. Knees swaying and mascara caking beneath your lashes, “No.”

Then your eyes flutter shut, you squeeze his hand. Warm. Just slightly chapped. Secure. Knees buckling, you rock into his side with the softest giggles muffled into his cotton-polyester blend shirt. A hot sigh fans his ribs before your face angles away, and you down another fifth of your drink.

Cocktails are meant to be sipped, but you’re not a traditionalist by any sense of the word.

“Again,” he lulls you back to hang in the crook of his arm, your head drooped against his shoulder and bloodshot eyes slithering all across his face, “Ironic.”

“Huh…?” your brows knit inward, cradling your drink to your chest and tonguing the straw into your mouth. Cheeks hollowing as you sip, “What’re you talking about?”

“I just got promoted to co-pilot, but you’re drinking harder.”

“Guess I’m just happier than you!”

“Right… finally some competent back-up, huh?”

“Something like that,” you glug half your drink’s remains- candy red dew leaking down your chin.

Curly reaches out, thumb swiping over your hot skin. Silk against silk until only a sticky smear remains along your jaw. He smiles, close-lipped and lopsided, and sucks the tip of his thumb into his mouth to lave off tequila.

“Good stuff?” you wonder, voice thick and drowsy, both brows raising.

“Too sweet for me,” he shrugs, slinking an arm around you and shuffling you closer, “You know I prefer beer.”

At that, your nose wrinkles. Earnest disgust flashing over your face, throat bobbing in protest at the simple mention, “Horrible taste comes with being a man, I guess…”

“And you would know about that?”

“Yeah, that’s why I avoid you guys.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods, exaggerated with each pull, choosing not to mention the two men you’ve already clung to tonight, “I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“Huhh? No way…” you pout up at him, caging your drink to your chest, “I’m just getting buzzed.”

“A captain should stay vigilant,” he notes.

“And what would you know about that?” sneer rapidly devolving into a giggle, you pinch his cheek, “You just got to be co-pilot! You’re still little!”

“Am not,” he pries your hand away, smoothing his thumb up your palm. Massaging up until he’s practically caressing your knuckles.

Which is when you rip away. Placing your cocktail on the table to cradle both hands by your churning stomach, an unsteady smile rising over you before you announce,

“I’m gonna step out for air.”

Anya nods and sweeps your glass beside hers, sharing an adorable wink as you pass.

You’re gone for all of two seconds before Curly announces,

“I’ll go check on her.”

Anya does not respond. He passes unacknowledged.

Stepping out the bar just to round toward the alley when the front bares no signs of you. No fruity perfume or straight cut jeans or colorful top. Calling your name heeds no answer, either. So he ventures deeper into the alley. Behind blocky dumpsters and far away from boorish orange streetlights. Even the moon shies away from back here.

That is where he finds you.

Shadowed away and huddled into yourself, and you don’t have to look up before asking,

“We’re friends, right, Curly?”

“Of course,” he sounds wounded, guttural. Even cups a hand over his heart as though you stabbed him, “You hate me all of the sudden or something?”

Shucks out a laugh like that’s the end of it, but it isn’t.

“We’ve worked together awhile, and even though you were never co-pilot, you really took responsibility like one. I liked the way you walked, commanding respect. And I liked how sure you sounded carrying orders. I always knew you were cut to lead,” it’s hard to make you out when you’re muttering, head bent and hands shaking, “Not like me. I don’t like being in charge. Can’t handle the scrutiny, but you can. You’re good for it.”

He says your name.

You just continue to bubble out, “For better or worse, you always go forward. Always marching ahead. Sometimes it’s like you don’t hear anything else, you see the forest and just try getting through. Blind to the trees.”

“Sounds like you don’t think I’m cut for co-pilot…” again, he laughs. Plastic. Structured. Thick, almost impossible to snip through and call out. But you know him well enough to wear it out.

“I do, I just know you’re…”

“I’m…?”

Pushing yourself off the wall and lowering both arms, you sigh. Eyes still cast toward your shoes, “We’re just friends, Grant. But I can feel… I feel like there’s more you’re expecting.”

“Well,” he barks a scoff and shrugs offbeat, “I mean. I- what do you want to hear?”

“The truth.”

“Then yes, I want more,” bright blues stick to you, unblinking, “I’m in love with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am!”

“You can’t be!”

“Why not?!”

“Curly, I’m- I don’t…” your head is just a tad too heavy, far too clogged with toxins, to process the complicated feelings balled in your gut, “I love you, but I can’t love you…” you drawl, lips drawn in a fat pout, “You know that.”

“You’re why I still work here,” he affirms, those sad puppy eyes emboldening -- flaxen brows furrowing, “I decorated my apartment with you in mind, everything I own I bought because I wanted you to like it. Everything I say is because I want to impress you, everything I wear is for you- !”

Before he finishes rambling, you slap a palm over his mouth. Violently shaking your head, teeth grit and eyes so wide they burn, “Curly, don’t…”

Three words are muffled into the meat of your hand. Vibrating down your forearm.

“Please, just stop,” you whimper, sniffling, “It’s not gonna happen.” When nothing else comes from him, you slowly retreat -folding both arms over your chest before repeating, “It’s not gonna happen.”

His mouth hangs open a moment, cinching the next, and opens again. Shuts. Opens. He has lots of things to say, but none of them come out beneath the spindling nerves stinging his throat. Barbs protruding through pinkish flesh until all he can do is swallow hot blood and saliva. One breath precedes another until he’s dry-heaving over your shoes. Stumbling forward with both hands flying out towards you, wide open before clutching you viciously. Shaved nails cutting down to the veins in your biceps.

Horrible gags rack through his entire body, shaking from his fingers to his neck. Tearing up, Curly suppresses the twitching long enough to look up at you. Red spindles webbed around the ridges of his eyes. Flitting over the cringe lines in your face, then to your bunched shoulders, bent knees, and clenched fists. Studying the rigid form you’ve adopted from his touch.

Is he so disgusting to you? When everything he’s done is for you?

“I thought we were getting married,” he croaks. Squeezing your shoulders.

Jutting both palms into his chest, you jerk back -trying to wriggle out of his hold, “I’m a fucking lesbian! You know that!”

“But you- “ he snarls down at you now, each exhale increasingly ragged, “You’re so cute with me, you flirt and touch and you let me in!” quickly rocking you in his grasp, throttling you so violently your chin cracks into your collar and the back of your neck pops, “You let me stay with you! We drink and we talk, you’re the only reason I’m here.”

“I told you!” you scream in his face, pressing your hands against his face and one foot flying towards his gut, “Get off of me!” he merely pulls you in, arms binding your waist flush to his, so you try ripping his eyes out with your nails, “Get the fuck off me!”

Curly flips you in his arms, teeth shelling your earlobe, burning fingerprints into your shirt. Your hips flick off his with panicked gasps fizzling in the base of your chest. For a moment, he’s confused why you’re pulling away so oddly. Focused entirely on your legs rather than using arms to budge out.

Then, suddenly and without much pause, his whole brain lights up. Every neuron firing simultaneously just for him to realize:

You think he’s going to fuck you.

And suddenly, he’s just so much more enamored with you. Letting out a low sigh and hooking his chin over your shoulder while one arm slithers down and around your pelvis, “I guess that’s why you’re captain,” he murmurs, mushing his lips as tightly to your cheek as possible, “You’re smart and you think ahead…”

Because suddenly, fucking you sounds impossibly good right now.

Cupping your cunt through your pants, Curly watches -batting lashes fluttering along your skin- as you squirm. Soft whimpers and seethed curses sway him none as he slots two fingers along the seam of your jeans. Palm crushing, covering your mound.

You can feel his heartbeat against your back. Erratic and thundering. Sweltering pants slick down your front.

When his other arm straps around you to begin unclicking your buttons, you scream. Kicking back elbows and heels in any hope some jagged piece of bone will punch sense through him. Because, surely, that’s all this is. He’s just drunk, right? He’s just stressed, right? He’s just upset.

Curly’s just not thinking straight, he’d never

One hand rips your jeans and panties down toward your knees in a single swipe while the other flies over your mouth.

“Shhh,” he assures, spinning and pinning you against the bricked wall. His wrist takes each scrape from uneven plaster instead of your face, “Just be nice, it’ll be over quicker.”

Like he’s your boyfriend. You gag behind his hand and bite. He doesn’t even flinch.

Just as he’s about to enter, knuckles brushing your ass and tip parting your lips, he husks, “I love you.”

Deranged, Curly repeats himself into your boiling ear. The hand not bracing your face against brick peeling you open from below. Fingertips skittering over where his cock splits into you, obsessively caressing as he harshly cuts in. Sinking without water. Punching into the current, desperate to go down with the waves no matter how violently he’s spat out.

i love you

Hunched over you like a growling hound, Curly’s hand blurs up from between your thighs -wetting the digits by your ear, earning a shudder from you- and darts back down. Circling your clit with measured incisions, each drag painfully sensational. You shudder again, this time with a gurgled down whine. Leg twitching around his.

Swiping both hands back against his flexing abs does nothing, if anything Curly takes it as encouragement. Nails scraping over his soft shirt only serve to pull him closer with every thrust. Deeper. Closer to the core. Like he wants to be melted inside you.

Manufacture devotion from your warm hole. Die and be reborn from the one place he isn’t allowed.

i love you

Sawing through you with even strokes. Stretching you around his fat cock as he moans -- crackled and low from the back of his throat. Budding pressure against your clit, carving the initials of the kids he wants to have with you. Lips moulding against your shoulder, kissing along the dewy flesh before chomping into your bone. Licking over the dented gashes apologetically, just to suck them again with intent to bruise.

Then, like a gunshot you can tell the bullet is coming -hear it, sense it, feel it- just before it hits. You squeeze around Curly and a gush flows out around the seam, sticky wetness clicking with each drag of his hips. Skin clipping skin as he smears proud lips over your shoulder. Gasping out mangled praises

“Take it so well, so tight and wet for me,” he mewls, “I knew you’d like me,” he buckles, thwap, thwap, thwaping into you faster as his cock twitches inside you, “I love you.”

i love you

You already know. Fighting it is useless.

Battering your insides until they’re pliant enough to milk his cum, Curly tears your head aside to expose your lips to his. You can’t even open them to scream before he’s puckering them together. Slobbering over your face, desperately clawing his tongue into your mouth. Groans and huffs vibrating against you while his chest is hot, pelvis rocking unsteadily, and he’s spewing thick globs against your cervix.

“Get pregnant,” he murmurs, you don’t know if he meant to say that aloud, but now that he’s orgasming his honesty is ripe, “I want you- need you- have… ugh… uh, uh…”

Climax brings resolution brings sobriety to Curly. Once his ears have stopped ringing blood, he can hear your hiccuping breaths. Feel you trying in vain to wriggle off his softening cock. Cum sloppily dribbling down your thighs.

As gently as a leech, he latches and pulls you off the wall. Turning you around to wipe snot and dirt and tears from your face, frozen into a grimace. Your entire body shakes beneath him, even as he sinks to pull your pants back up like he’s tender. Like he’s compassionate and soft.

When Curly’s stood straight again, a loose blonde strand dangles between his brows. Glued in place with sweat. Rosy lips parted panting, he watches snowy white air puff out his mouth with each exhale before asking:

“Do you need a ride home?”

Stiffly, without much affection or personality, you nod. Your walk is different. Curly never really noticed that each person had a different walk until yours was gone. Without rhythm to your gait, you march toward his Nissan and wait by the passenger side door. Staring at the handle like it means anything.

If this was a couple hours ago, you probably would’ve joked that he should open the door for you. And then opened it yourself. But the joke still would have been made.

You don’t say a word the entire drive out. He doesn’t either, but he really wants you to.

After the fifth turn, the silence becomes normal. Punctuated by the lack of radio jargon.

As Curly rolls up to your house, you slip out -which is when he realizes you never strapped the seatbelt.

“Hey,” he calls through the window.

You look back without flinching. That has to be good for him, right?

“I’m…” Curly watches you. Black soaked beneath your eyes and cheeks shiny with spit and tears and mucus. Lips swollen. One shoulder -the bruised one- hanging lower than the other. You look fucked up, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

He’s really fucked up. Coiffed hair and big muscles and a still-wet dick molding in his pants.

When you’re totally unresponsive, he repeats,

“I’m sorry.”

You nod limply. Turn away. Retreat to your door.

Curly sits there long enough to catch you peeking through the blind slats to see if he’s left. When you know he hasn’t, he hears a crash behind the door. He isn’t delusional enough to check the source, instead speeding off down your street and whipping towards his own.

He doesn’t expect to see you in the corporate office the next day, though maybe he should have. He was called in earlier this morning; a spontaneous meeting about his rank. When they said that, he nearly puked. When they said he was moving up, he actually did.

He should’ve assumed he’d see you walking out just as he arrived. You’re out of uniform, he isn’t. Your hair is unkempt, his isn’t. Your hands are shaking, his aren’t.

Studying you head to toe, he asks the obvious, “You’re leaving?”

The driest, “yeah” is all you can summon. When what you really want to say sounds something clunkier and less succinct and more like

Fuck you i hope you get shot you were my fucking friend i cant work here anymore everything here reminds me of you we met here we laughed here you think you fell in love with me here i feel bad until i dont i think you should fucking kill yourself i hate you i wish i just stayed in that night at least then i would never know

Then i would never know

Id rather not know

“Where’re you going?”

“Don’t know.”

For a moment, Curly stretches the script open. So brief, you’re almost not sure it ever happened when he says, “I guess now you wouldn’t tell me even if you did, huh?”

And for a moment, you can let out just a fraction of what you’re feeling, “No, I wouldn’t.”

Then he’s snapping back, “Well. Take care.”

Absolute indifference. It’s all you can muster in the face of a man you’re sure you would’ve died for days ago.

“Okay.”

* *

He hopes Jimmy has the same number. Every couple of months or so, he’ll get a text from a random string of digits claiming to be his lifelong friend from a new phone. Chancing it all, Curly calls the most recent string and prays it answers,

“Aye, Jim’, a spot just opened on the freighter.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Our captain just resigned, so, uhm. Yeah. They’ll promote me, and then we’ll need a new copilot; I’ve already talked to my supervisors from corporate about you.”

“Your captain walked?” Jimmy snorts, “The chick, right?”

“Uh, yes.”

A faint mutilation of your name drips from the receiver before Jimmy snaps and declares your name. Repeating it again when Curly says nothing, then he outright laughs, “Damn, what’d you do to make her ditch that position? Fuck her girlfriend?”

Curly says nothing.

Jimmy laughs louder, “Oh, shit- you did!”

“No. Just some… personal disagreements.”

[dark-nautica-2]

go ahead and ignore it if it makes you uncomforatble, ill get the hint

but uummmmmm maybe something from jimmy's pov where he finds a girl at the bar, gets her drunk, has sex with her, and chokes to death? corpsefucker jim is my hyperfixation rn not gonna lie

aaaa sorry this took a lil while ! ive been sick and very sleepy

genre: smut, dark fic

word count: 2.2k

warnings/content: dead dove, noncon, coercion, manipulation, choking, murder, necro, jim being misogynistic

—

It was almost embarrassing, how easy some women are. At least their willingness to spread their legs for any man that came their way made it less of a hassle to get in their pants, Jimmy thought.

Pussy is pussy, no matter how you get it, or how many men have had it before you.

That's why he's not very particular when it comes to choosing some trashy whore to spend the night with. Looks, of course, is the main factor he pays attention to, but that's about it. Doesn't matter if she's annoying, unwilling, or bitchy; he'll never see her again, anyway.

He takes interest in a young girl sitting in the corner of the shitty bar he regulars, a drink in her hand and an aura of innocence surrounding her. She's alone and out of place, eyes darting around the room like she's overwhelmed by all the different noises, and the pungent scent of alcohol pervading the stuffy air. Plus, she's not bad looking, pretty by any standard.

Could the opportunity be any more perfect?

Jimmy gets up from his barstool and approaches her, leaning against the counter, a little too close to her for comfort, not that he gives a fuck about how she feels in the first place.

"Hey. You alright?" He feigns concern, "Ain't never seen you here before."

She has the demeanor of a frightened rabbit, ready to scamper away at the slightest sound or sense of danger. The girl's got pretty eyes, he notices, as she looks up at him with apprehension. He bets her daddy at home warned her about all the dangerous men that want to take advantage of a sweet thing like her. Jimmy almost pities the man that raised her.

She explains that it's her twenty first birthday. Ah, so she's one of the ripest on the branch, it seems. That's how he likes 'em. The younger, the dumber. Her friends are already plastered, throwing up in the bathroom. In harsher words, she was ditched.

Jimmy pretends to feel some kind of sympathy for her situation, while he's already coming up with a plan on how to steal her away and tarnish her purity.

"Your friends are a buncha assholes then. They just leave you high and dry like that?"

With a shake of her head, she smiles a little, already looking at him with complete trust. "They're usually nice... just not when they're drunk, I guess." She defends the very people that selfishly abandoned her. He can tell this won't be hard for him at all.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" He asks, a little too sweetly for someone with such vile intent.

It's obvious a man has never spoken to her like this. Flirtatiously. Her flushed cheeks give away that she's either a virgin, or just very inexperienced. Cute. She tells him her name, but if he's being honest, he forgot in about five minutes. Her name doesn't hold much significance to him, anyway.

Introducing himself was the first step. Now, onto the second. Buy her a drink. Alcohol will loosen her up nicely.

"What kinda drink you want? I'm buying."

She orders something sweet and fruity. It suits her. He flags down the bartender, hoping the drink is strong enough to give her a good buzz. In other words, easier to take home.

When their drinks are ready, he clinks the rim of his glass to hers. "To your first legal drink." He says, his smile deceptively warm, tipping the glass back and downing the whole thing in one go. She takes a little longer to drink hers, drinking in small, irritatingly cautious sips. That won't do. He doesn't want to be here all night.

"You're doin' it wrong," He invasively grabs her wrist, "C'mon, you gotta drink it all at once."

He guides the glass to her lips, coaxing her to take his advice. He watches her hesitate, before she mimics him and swallows it all down in one gulp, wincing as the tart liquid burns going down her throat, the flavor lingering on her taste buds.

Jimmy is a more than pleased at her obedience.

"There ya go. Atta girl." He praises, intentionally making her feel proud of herself so she continues to crave his validation and listen to his every word. He orders a round of shots, moreso for her than for himself. He needs to be sober enough to drive her back to his place, after all.

Jimmy intently observes her as she takes shot after shot, becoming increasingly more drunk. She's a giggly one, blathering about every thought on her mind. Jim nods and hums absentmindedly, not having any interest in actually conversing with her.

"Alright, I think you're done for the night. Time to get you home." He pulls her up off the stool and wraps an arm around her waist to support her weight.

Confused at his sudden insistence on leaving, she places her hands on his chest, stopping him from dragging her any further. "N– No, I'm good! I can handle a little more..." Her words slur, eyes glazed over. This will be a little harder than he initially thought. He has to repress the urge to roll his eyes.

"You can barely walk. C'mon, I'll drive. You'll thank me in the morning."

To her drunken mind, what he's saying makes sense. "Oh... M'kay." She mumbles, too intoxicated to question how he knows where her house even is, and in truth, he doesn't, but he's not taking her home.

She's going to his.

Jimmy keeps a tight grip on her as he leads her out of the bar towards his parked car. She's stumbling the whole way and leaning against him far more than she should. "Whoa, whoa. Careful, now." He says, though it lacks any sort of real concern for her well-being.

The drive back to his apartment feels longer with her babbling to him about pointless stories that he can hardly comprehend because she's recalling every event out of order. Jimmy has to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at her to shut up. He'll get plenty of use out of her mouth soon enough.

"Yeah, yeah. That's great." He says absentmindedly as she babbles on. He makes a show to listen, adding an occasional hum or wordless response to her ramblings, but he's only focused on getting her to his door. Finally, he parks the car and cuts off her incoherent chattering. "We're here."

It took her until now to realize she's not where she's supposed to be. "Umm... That's not my apartment." She points out, as Jimmy helps her out of the passenger seat, grabbing her arm to lead her along with him, leaving no room for her to protest or pull away.

"I'm takin' care of you tonight. Can't leave you home alone, you'll end up doin' something stupid." The way he lies without flinching is convincing enough to the inebriated woman, allowing him to drag her to his floor, and into his home.

The interior is messy, empty liquor bottles and cans laid on various surfaces, not excluding the floor, either. Half-smoked cigarettes fill an ashtray on the coffee table, a variety of trash littered in every corner. He won't bother cleaning up, of course. She's not here to judge how he lives.

"Sit." He gestures to his ratty couch. Jimmy speaks more like he's ordering her, rather than offering her a place to rest out of the kindness of his heart. She obeys nonetheless, collapsing onto the torn cushions. Fortunately, she can't properly notice the filth with double vision. Unfortunately, she doesn't know what she's in for.

He sits himself down next to her, too close, invading her personal space. He takes her chin in his hand and tilts her head around, studying her. "You're a pretty little thing, ain't you?" His arm snakes around her shoulder, pulling her close against him.

Lacking her usual judgement and reflexes, she let's him run his hands all over her, albeit confused as to why he's touching her like this in the first place. "Uhh... My boyfriend's not gonna like you doing that..." She tells him, inarticulately.

Jimmy laughs dryly, "Aww, your boyfriend wouldn't like it? And where is he if he cares about you so much, hm?" He lets his hand continue downward, tracing the curve of her ass. She recoils slightly, much to his displeasure. "I don't think I should do this..." She attempts to back away from him, but his grip is stuck firmly in place, her body forcibly pressed to his.

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head in disappointment, "And here I thought you were a good girl. I've been so nice to you, haven't I? You should be thanking me." He gruffly tells her, his fake compassion long gone.

Jimmy pushes her to her back carelessly rough, grabbing her wrists in one hand to pin them above her head. He utilizes his free hand to pull her skirt up, bunching it at her waist. Thankfully, she's too stupid to fight back right now, her mind barely processing what's happening to her, unable to understand the danger she's in.

He takes two fingers to rub her pussy through her underwear, feeling her clit twitch at the contact. She squirms ineffectively, trapped under him. "N– Nooo..." She whines, kicking her legs weakly, yet despite her resistance, her slick begins to dampen the fabric. He hums in satisfaction at the sight of her body betraying her.

"If you don't want it, why's this little cunt all wet for me?" Jimmy pulls her underwear to the side, uncovering her glistening folds, spreading them to get a better look at her. She whimpers, ashamed that she's enjoying the way he toys with her pussy, as if it's not even attached to a human being.

He pinches her swollen clit just to watch her jolt. She attempts to close her legs, but he pins down her thighs with his knees, trapping her under his weight and keeping them spread apart. "You're not gettin' away from me," he grunts, "Not after I've put in so much effort gettin' you here."

Jimmy unzips his jeans, slipping his cock out through his open fly. He's already hard. He's been hard since the moment he finally got his hands on her. He runs his girthy, flushed tip up and down her wet slit, making her whine every time he repeatedly nudges against her rock hard bundle of nerves.

"Y' like that, huh? You're all the same once you get a bit of alcohol in your system. Just a bunch of cock hungry fuckin' sluts." Jim presses into her hole without warning, eliciting a gasp from her at the sudden intrusion. "I'll tell you what, though," he hisses through his teeth, "You've got one of the best holes I've ever felt."

Jim rams into her, his pace already relentless, and he's only just begun. Her body jerks at every brutal thrust, the sound of his heavy balls slapping rhythmically against her ass, along with his heavy breathing and the occasional grunt filling the room. "That's all you're– shit– good for though, isn't it? This little pussy's the best thing you've got goin' for ya."

Both his hands find their way to her throat, squeezing uncomfortably tight. She tries to wriggle her way out of his grasp, or at least into a more comfortable position, but he firmly holds her down in place, supporting more of his weight directly onto her windpipe. She tries to gasp for air, claw at his arms and shoulders to get him to stop, but nothing works. Ice cold fear washes over her body when she realizes she can't breathe anymore. She can't even scream at him to get off of her, let alone speak.

"Sorry bout' this. I was tired of your fuckin' whining. You don't mind, do you?" He chuckles lowly to himself, leading her to believe that this is what he wants. He's intentionally trying to kill her. That only makes her panic more as she becomes lightheaded from the lack of oxygen, her limbs weakened and unable to properly writhe underneath him. Not that it'd help her anyway. All she can feel is his hands on her, cutting off her airway, lungs burning and eager for oxygen, and his cock pounding ruthlessly hard into her, bruising her insides.

Even when she falls unconscious and limp, her face turned a light shade of blue, he doesn't stop. "Better finish up while you're still warm, huh?" Jimmy huffs, fucking into her like he hates her, although he has no real reason to. "Cold pussy doesn't sound very appealing."

She's much more likeable when she's dead, he thinks. Quiet, laying there like an obedient little doll, her only purpose being to take his dick. He's not sure if she's actually dead yet, but taking the time to check her pulse doesn't exactly cross his mind.

He finishes inside her, a deep growl ripping from his chest, hot spurts of cum filling her hole to the brim. He finally removes his hands from her throat after he catches his breath, a ring of fresh, fingerprint shaped bruises around her neck. She's not breathing, her eyes still open, wide with the same fear she felt before he killed her. Jimmy pulls out of her with a sigh, like she's inconveniencing him by being dead.

"Fuck. You're gonna be a pain in the ass to hide, ain't you?" He grumbles, lighting a Newport and taking a long drag. "There's a... forest or somethin' a ways away from the city. That'll be a good spot for ya."

Jimmy himself is unsure if he's speaking aloud to himself, or the lifeless corpse laying on the couch beside him.

—

[dark-nautica-2]

necrophilia with jimmy

[dark-nautica-2]

ok ok ok so if i may be so bold as to request something, ive been enamored wiht the idea of an older, controlling, borderline abuse boyfriend jimmy, like he and reader live together on earth, and reader goes to college, while jimmy works physical jobs trying to support them both. he's a SHITTY person though, so hes jealous of any man the reader talks to, reads through their phone, makes sinde comments about their weight and appearance, and (im totally not projecting here) eventually pressures them into dropping out, for like his perfect little live in partner/gf fantasy sjdhasd feel free to do whatever with this, but this specific scenario has not left my head for days

WHEEE this was fun to write ^w^ i rushed this a bit but i just didnt want you to have to wait any longer... :p

—

Jimmy Zare x fem!reader

reader uses fem terms (girl, girlfriend)

genre: how do i categorize this.... fic that makes you feel bad or horny depending on how you handle verbal abuse lol

word count: 1.8k

warnings/content: age gap, domestic abuse, manipulation, arguing, fat shaming, several references to the readers body/appearance, jimmy being the biggest asshole oh my god i hate him (i want him so bad it makes me look stupid)

(is it bad that writing about jimmy yelling at me turns me on... WOAHHH who said that .....😰 also dont kill me for the weight shaming part IM A FAT GIRL !!!!!! i like when evil men are mean to me !!!!!! RAAAH)

—

"He's a good guy, he can actually be really sweet!"

That's a sentence you find yourself saying out of complete muscle memory at this point whenever someone questions why your boyfriend–... well, they question an awful lot about your boyfriend.

For example, why he's over twenty years your senior whilst you're still going to class on the weekdays. Why he doesn't allow you to see your friends, wear certain clothes, leave your apartment without him, and why he takes up so much space in your brain, completely distracting you from your own life and goals.

You've missed at least four assignments this semester alone. It's stupid, really. You thought you'd be done with obsessing and crying over boys after you graduated highschool. It's completely immature for a so-called adult like yourself, but then again, you're hardly into adulthood at all.

Jimmy, on the other hand, has a lot more life experience, many of those experiences negative. That might be why you've taken some form of pity on him, going so far as to move into his apartment so you can take care of him when you're not busy. He needs someone to make sure he doesn't fall off the deep end.

The thing is, it's become hard to fit him in your schedule, but whenever you're unable to make time for him after he comes home from work, that familiar scowl on his face indicating it was another shitty day, he throws a fit.

He'll accuse you of everything under the sun; Infidelity being the primary thing.

"You don't love me. There's someone else, isn't there? It's that one kid that asked you to help him 'study' last week, isn't it? No? Give me your fucking phone, then."

This is what you come home to everyday, so it's nothing new. In fact, you're pretty used to it by now. Though today, Jimmy seems particularly pissed.

"Where have you been?" He crosses his arms and leans against the wall, eyeing you up and down like he always does when he's about to grill you on something.

"Sorry..." You mutter, way too tired to deal with one of his moods again. "Traffic." You answer simply, not having enough energy to overexplain yourself like you normally do.

"Uh huh. Traffic." He mimics you in a way that already tells you he's not buying it. Great.

"...It's the truth." You shrink into yourself at the way he's looking at you. Contemptuous as always. You're in for another argument, it seems. A million, desperate pleas run through your mind;

'Please don't give me another lecture about how you're my only financial support, and how grateful I should be. Please don't ask to see my phone. Please don't tell me to drop out.'

But, of course, you can't actually change the outcome of this. You're gonna get yelled at. Belittled. Degraded.

"You're two hours late, and you're gonna tell me you were just stuck in traffic?" He pushes himself off the wall and walks towards you.

"You're never home when you're supposed to be, and when you are home, you're all tired and upset.” He pokes a finger into your shoulder, hard. "What do you think that looks like from my point of view?"

"I'm sorry." You rub your face, exasperated. God, you wish he would shut up sometimes. Sure, he can be amicable, but lately... he's been a raging dick. Yet, you can't help but cling to the memory of his good moments. "I'll try to make it back on time tomorrow."

"Yeah? And how many times have I heard that before?" He sneers, "You're hiding something from me, aren't you?"

The way he accuses you so confidently, so sure of himself... it's insulting. Does he really think that little of you? "College has been kicking my ass, Jim. You know that. I'm not hiding anything from you, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, college this, college that. Always complaining about fuckin' college," He scoffs, his eyes stay narrowed, still glaring. "How about what I'm going through? You think I'm having a great time every day at work, hm?"

"No, I–" You stammer, hating the way he's turning this around to make himself the victim. Oh, woe is him, having to provide for himself and his girlfriend. How tortured he is. "I know, alright? I'm sorry. I just– what else do you expect me to do?"

"Be here. Like you're supposed to be. And I expect you to stop acting like I'm the bad guy for asking you to be a decent girlfriend."

Jimmy's voice raises slightly as he takes a step closer, towering over your sheepish figure. He nudges your shoulder again, even rougher this time.

"I'm busting my ass every day to put food on the table, and you can't even have the decency to show up on time, let alone look happy to see me?"

"I– I am happy to see you! I am, I'm just– you don't get it. I want to be here, but... I'm not even halfway through this semester, and–" You stumble over your words as you attempt, in vain, to defend yourself. It's not like he'll ever feel sympathy for you. It's always about what he wants. What makes him happy.

Jimmy rolls his eyes at your attempt to reason with him. It's as if he doesn't even register a word you say. "But what? What's more important to you, huh? Some stupid classes, or the guy who keeps a fuckin' roof over your head and feeds you? Be grateful, goddamn it." He snaps, grabbing your arms and giving them a forceful shake.

You flinch from being handled like you're not even a human being, much less one with feelings. "Stop, please, I'm– I am grateful, I really am..." You're not lying, either. To be honest, his guilt tripping works wonders on you. Are you really acting unappreciative? He wouldn't be this upset if you were in the right...

He seems unfazed by your frightened demeanor and continues to hold a firm grip on your arms. He looks you up and down, not even having to say anything for you to know he's judging you, as a girlfriend and person in general.

"Oh, you're grateful? Then maybe you should act like it for once." Jimmy gives your arms another firm shake, a harsh reminder of who's in charge here.

"I'm not asking much of you. I just want you to be here, and you can't even do that. Do you think I'm just gonna sit back and accept that bullshit?"

"No..." You shake your head, looking down at the ground in shame. Were you really that awful? You didn't want to be a bad partner, it's the last thing you ever wanted. If you could make eye contact without feeling guilty, you'd see Jimmy's face light up with satisfaction as he finally notices you're not even bothering to put up a fight anymore.

There's a condescending lilt to his tone as he speaks, "No one will ever love you like I do. You know that?"

You nod, knowing there has to be some truth to his claim. He takes care of you, doesn't he? He keeps a roof over your head, gives you money for groceries, and he's not always that unpleasant to be around...

He's a good boyfriend. You're the problem. You always are.

"Exactly."

The grip on your arms eases, moving them to place a hand on each of your shoulders, contrastingly gentle compared to his behavior only moments ago.

"You oughta thank your lucky stars you have a man like me who puts up with all your bullshit. You get that, right? How lucky you are to be with me?"

You know he's right. You were blessed with someone who still loves you, despite your many shortcomings. You're too fat, the acne on your face and body is repulsive, the way you do your makeup is weird... all of this being things Jimmy has told you directly. At least you have an honest boyfriend, isn't that what every girl wants?

He gives your shoulder a pat, like he's treating you like a small, petulant child. "You realize I could have literally any girl I want, right? Pretty, skinny, smart ones, even. But I chose you. Because I care about you."

He pauses, letting that sink in.

"But it would help if you'd actually put the effort in to look decent." He adds as an afterthought.

You've internalized every single snide remark he's thrown your way, reminded of them every single time you look in the mirror. Yet he still loves someone like you. Someone so difficult and embarrassing to be with.

"Jim, I don't... I don't know how I'm even gonna be able to free my schedule at all with school and stuff..." You mumble guiltily. You know he wants you to drop out, he's suggested it more times than you can count.

"That right there, that's why I'm frustrated, goddamn it," He says with an exacerbated sigh. He moves one hand from your shoulder to pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "Why don't you get it? Dropping out isn't the end of the world. Just quit and stay home. Done. Easy."

"It's not that easy... I want to get a good job and help out too, you know..."

It's true that you want to pull your weight around your shared home. With your combined income, it'd make everything easier. But... with how shitty college makes you feel, leaving you beaten down and tired by the end of the day...

You find yourself listening to Jimmy on this for once.

He can tell you're seriously contemplating it this time, which makes him feel... more in control. He's got you thinking and believing exactly what he wants you to. Soon, he'll be able to get you to obey him without another word from you.

The thought of having you as his subservient, stay at home girlfriend is more than appealing. It's his goal to mold you into what he wants you to be.

"Yeah, yeah, I get that, I know. But you're stressing yourself half to death, and for what? Some stupid degree? Listen to me, I'm not gonna ask you again. You're just creating problems that don't need to exist. Just quit. You'll have plenty of free time that you can spend with me."

You can't deny how tempting the idea is. Hesitantly, after several moments of pondering the hypotheticals and what-ifs, you speak up,

"...I guess... dropping out wouldn't hurt too much."

He perks up at that, barely being able to contain a delighted grin. You're actually putting him and his wants first, and acknowledging that he's right. You're doing as he says, without any of the usual arguing or excuses. He'll finally have his dream complaisant, docile girlfriend to come home to every night.

It only took a month or two to finally get you to cave. You'll be easier to control from now on. Hell, maybe you'll lose some weight with some free time on your hands, stop wearing that shitty makeup...

"Good girl," He says in a patronizing tone, like he's addressing a child, "That's what wanna hear."

God, you really hope this isn't a bad idea. Jimmy looks pleased for once, so...

This decision can't possibly ruin your future too badly, right?

—

[dark-nautica-2]

hello i’m here..

i would love if u wrote something about this. there is a very particular cruelty to reinforcing trauma and somehow making something already horrific worse cause it’s guided and patronising… & cause of that i need it really bad..

HELLO HANNAH THIS TOOK SO FUCKING LONG AND IM SO SO RUSTY W WRITING!!! but ily.. thank u for sending me this ily UGH!! tw for past rape and incest and references to underage abuse - post in question btw!! link is old bc I changed my user

Jimmy picks you up on a street corner, leering out the window of his pick-up truck like you’re a two-dollar whore.

“Oh.” You press your cheek into your raised shoulder. Coy and playful. Like he’s flirting with you. Jimmy would like to make it clear that he is doing anything but that, he’s harassing you. He is ogling you. You are a slutty piece of meat. “I’m not for sale mister.”

“Why you dressed like that then?”

He takes a good look at your face. You’re young—Younger than he has ever looked. Eyes that swallow up your whole entire face, fringed by feathery lashes, that sweet little girl pout.

In the sunlight he sees you in fresco.

When he takes you home he sees you for who you are. This sad little girl with a daddy-shaped hole in her heart.

It makes him like you even more.

You’re splayed flat on his mattress, blinking up at him with big, sad eyes. You know, those kind of eyes. The eyes that girls who end up on the side of milk cartons have. The eyes that foster children and teenage girls on suicide watch have.

“C’mon.” Jimmy cocks his head to the side, he’s got you all figured out. “What’s going on at home?” He squeezes your cheeks until your lips are forced into a pink pout.

“Whath d’yu meanth?” It comes out muffled but he understands well enough.

“I mean, sweetheart, what is it about me—“ Jimmy’s free hand works on unbuckling his belt, you flinch with each clink. Oh, poor thing. He wonders if daddy used it on your tits or cunt. “—That reminds you of daddy?” He lets go of your face to watch it scrunch up in protest and then fall a moment later.

Shyly, quietly, peeking at him through your lashes—“You smell like him.”

“Oh, do I?” Jimmy bumps your nose with his, your eyes are so big there are barely any whites. Your heart is beating so fast he feels it beneath your skin.

“You do…” You trace your fingers along the bridge of his nose. “And you have his nose.” Jimmy’s nose is a pretty regular fucking nose, a little crooked from punches thrown his way.

He hums with this nasty smile on his face, giving you a once over before he asks the nitty-gritty questions. “Where did daddy touch you?”

When you don’t respond, blinking at him stupidly like you are oh-so shocked, Jimmy sighs and slips a hand up your dress. He pushes your thong to the side, plucking your clit so hard you whimper. “Did daddy touch you here?”

You stare at him, bottom lip trembling, unable to move.

“No?” He moves on, hand travelling further up your dress to one of your nice tits. “Was it here? Did daddy touch you like this?” He asks, giving it a firm squeeze, like he’s checking a fruit ripeness.

You are still fucking looking at him with those big, sad eyes. It’s like you want him to feel bad for you. But Jimmy does not care if you have been touched here, there or everywhere.

Jimmy pushes his fingers into your mouth. You don’t bite down because you have done this before. He wets your puffy asshole. “I guess daddy liked to touch you here, huh?” One finger makes it in and you whine deep in the back of your throat. “Don’t blame the guy.”

[dark-nautica-2]

on hard times

5.4k words / summary - jimmy needs a place to stay, and what place is better than with his enabling best friend, curly, and curly's hot step-daughter? nothing could go wrong!

warnings - fem!reader, piv sex, noncon jimmy, stepcest, objectification/sexism (thank u jimmy), curly and jimmy should both be shot in the head

reader is 20 not actually a teenager.

[B Side: Jimmy Zare]

Sitting in a hospital room is not unfamiliar to Jimmy, the only peculiarity to it now being that he’s the one in a gown with his ass out. He’s perched over the edge of the bed now, elbows on his knees and flicking an unlit cigarette between two fingers. Below him is a head of flaxen hair, thick hands unzipping a black bag full to the lumps of plain long-sleeves and jeans and socks.

Grant Curly is Jimmy's sole emergency contact. Mrs. Grant Curly used to be Curly's emergency contact. Next was Grant Curly senior. Then Jimmy Zare.

Jimmy thinks that's fucked up. He should have a Mrs. Jimmy Zare and a Jimmy Zare senior and then, finally and as a last resort, there would be Grant Curly.

But, unfortunately, that’s just not true.

Curly now rolls socks on both Jimmy’s feet. Patting the man’s ankle in a way meant to be reassuring, but only squeezes repulsion from Jimmy’s face.

“I can dress myself,” he sneers.

Lots of remarks could’ve followed from Curly’s mouth -- most apparent being: why’d you let me get this far? None of them come, though, Curly simply nods and stands and kicks the bag closer to where Jimmy’s legs dangle over the edge.

“You got everything?” Curly grimaces at his own question, “What happened to your phone?”

Jimmy shrugs before shucking on a stiff pair of jeans, grunting with the effort and cupping his bruised over stomach, “Dunno.”

Curly bites back a sigh, Jimmy watches it happen in real time: a little bit more faith in him is eaten back by disappointment.

All the same, he pulls over a black long sleeve. Violet stomach screaming in protest as he hisses a curse for his dimwitted neighbor, stumbling back into the bed.

“Alright,” Curly bends, hands out to assist Jimmy in standing, “Let’s get you home.”

Jimmy elbows his friend away, paying no mind the pained wheeze he lets out, before stumbling onto two feet by himself. In the hand not bracing his abdomen, is a crinkled plastic bag with vomit-stained clothes and a peeling leather belt.

In silence they wade through the buzzing clinical halls. Hours prior this same hallway was in chaos, Jimmy knows that -- he just doesn’t remember it. Not between yellow-black dots sucking out the light in his eyes or the stinging remnants of bile around his teeth. Now the corridor is sleepier, and stars are beginning to crawl out from behind the horizon.

Jimmy wonders if he waited until now- if his neighbor would’ve had her kids already in bed, too tired to check out the next trailer over rattling-

He supposes it doesn’t matter. He’s already breaking out toward the parking lot with Curly.

Who then takes a bold step toward the bubblegum Jeep with no back doors, which he knows is not Curly’s car. Meaning one thing,

“Oh,” Curly says like a last minute thought, “Kid’s home, by the way. I hope that’s fine.”

He smiles in such a tight way that slyly communicates: it better be fine because there’s no fighting this. All importance Mrs. Grant Curly took up in the man’s life was drained instantly when she served divorce papers; a space rapidly refilled with the child from a previous marriage. The crooked thorn in Jimmy’s side. The new emergency contact. You.

“Why do you even have a room for it?” Jimmy shuffles into the passenger side, scooting the seat forward and leaving the seatbelt dangling at his shoulder, “Not your kid.”

Curly waves off such criticism, “I love her! She’s nice and funny, everything I could’ve wanted.”

“Ugh,” Jimmy gags, eyes fluttering shut, “Do I get my own room, or do I have to share?”

If his eyes were open, he’s certain he’d be forced to gaze upon that same pressed smile. That stale smile that says more than enough. Jimmy will not like this.

“You got the couch or my bed,” a click and hum vibrates Jimmy in his seat before the car electrifies with whistling pop music. Big chunky tires rolling onto the highway back into clean cut suburbs.

Jimmy cringes at the moaning welps over the radio and flings a hand out, one eye creaking open just enough to make out the volume knob between his crowding lashes. Twisting it far down while croaking,

“You’re a grown ass man, the fuck are you listening to that shit for?”

“It’s just what she left on,” Curly’s jovial, despite the rude quizzing, “You don’t like a bit of girly pop?”

Jimmy glares, turning his whole head to spit daggers toward his friend, “If that little cunt is playing this shit while I’m over, one of us is dying.”

Curly just laughs, then quietly murmurs -- too quiet to be taken seriously, “Don’t call her that.”

Curly is like the sun. Big and bright and nurturing no matter how violently you resist. Making Jimmy mercury: small and red and forever revolving around him.

Upon pulling into the broad driveway up to Curly’s two-story home, Jimmy’s already rich negative attitude only sours more. He spots the sleek little navy blue Toyota Corolla (that’s seen more blood and sweat and tears than your cute two-seater would ever know about) closer to the door.

“Why’d you pick me up in this if your car was here?”

“I figured you’d appreciate this one more,” Curly snarks, killing the engine and jingling your ring of chains with two keys. One for the house and one for your car. Aside from that is a rose gold blinged out rectangle with your name on it, pink little plastic cats, a metal fairy, and purple fuzzy dice.

“Figured wrong,” Jimmy slinks out, curling the clear bag of his belongings to his chest before patting the plastic with loud ‘pops’ as the pair steps through the front door, “I wanna wash this.”

Curly hisses lowly, head turning toward the very obviously clunking washing machine in the utility closet, “I think she’s doing a load right now.”

Ideally, Jimmy would toss his shit in with yours but God forbid the princess gets just a little crusted vomit washed off alongside her delicate thin dresses and lace panties.

“Then I just leave this shit?”

“Looks like it.”

Jimmy really hates you -you’re a little bitch. And you’re hopping down the stairs in a yellow Pony Express shirt three sizes too big for you, smiling, waving, melodically chirping:

”Hi, Uncle Jimmy!”

“Don’t call me that,” Jimmy huffs at you, eye rolling while Curly’s back still faces him from the kitchen.

You stop at the foot of the steps and pout out at him, “Jeez, aren’t you rude? Did they have to amputate your heart out there?”

Jimmy rolls his eyes again, this time with more apparent gusto. He flips you off to boot. You pull an offended scowl before trampling over to Curly and tugging the back of his shirt, murmuring dirt and shit and lies into his big ear. Curly doesn’t spare the energy of twisting back before calling out,

“Jim’ play nice, please?!”

Jimmy hates you. You’re not even Curly’s. You were just some teenage sulk when you came into their lives, and now you’re some codependent wimp living at home. Despite the blonde never complaining about this fact, Jimmy just knows it’s insane that you’re still clinging around. It’s all that pampering Curly did on you.

You skip back out, hands tied behind your back with that awful smile. Rosy lipped with just the perfect sliver of teeth showing, and the apples of your cheeks glowing. The best part of you perched like that is that he can make out the plumpness of your tits -- could probably even reach out and squeeze one before you manage untangling your hands to shove him off.

“So, how long are you staying?” your soft voice grates him again,

Shrugging at you, Jimmy confesses, “Until I get my own house back.”

Your mouth opens, brows furrowed, then they dart up in shock -or perhaps realization- and your mouth closes. You nod and look back at Curly, then again at Jimmy, “Okay,” and prattle back into the kitchen.

Murmuring ensues.

That’s when Curly presses, “Jim’, are you takin’ my room or the couch?!”

More murmuring. You hiss something and he can see the whip of your arm as you whack the blonde’s arm. He laughs quietly and waltzes out, shaking his head a bit,

“Sorry, little lady says you’ve gotta take the couch.”

Jimmy’s scowl must be so hilarious because Curly just laughs harder. You come out whining, smacking at the man’s arm again with a belated shush.

Your concern is brushed off without thought, “It’s just Uncle Jimmy.”

You love Grant, really. He’s been a massive teddy bear since the day you met, but his fatal flaw is his guilted sense of devotion. Especially when it revolved around dear old Uncle Jimmy.

A soft jingle and hiss clues you all to the sudden silence where a machine once clanged. Jimmy spares no seconds before thumbing over his shoulder and seething at you, “Change your load over. I got shit to wash.”

“Grant, don’t let him talk to me like that!” you stomp your foot and whine.

“‘Grant’,” Jimmy mimics your voice, tone nasally and drawn impossibly high.

“Already bickering,” Curly plasters on his worst smile yet, hands fisted on his hips, “This’ll be a good time.”

***

It, decidedly, has not been a good time.

Not in the mornings.

“Grant’s out for his jog,” you mumble around a spoonful of fruity cereal. Milk faintly pink from the artificial dyes.

Jimmy doesn’t even dignify you with a response, prowling from the bed with his striped pajama pants sagging and an unmatching black beater swerved to expose one of his nipples.

“You have a tit piercing?” said with undeniably judgment. Poking the bear just to prove it won’t do anything.

As expected, you receive sullen silence. Jimmy only confirms he heard you in how he roughly yanks the thin material to cover the silver bar through his nipple.

That’s precisely when you spot something sure to make the bear roar. Thin line upon thin line, now blistering white and all stacked in uneven rows along each forearm. A couple stretch past his elbow. You open your mouth, then think better of pointing those out. Partially from some undeserved pity, and partially because of some fleeting certainty he’ll actually kill you over that remark.

“Slept in real late today, huh?” is what you decide on instead.

Jimmy, again, completely skimps you. Rooting around the cabinets until he finds the shiniest bowl and clacking it loudly on the marble counter. Taking down your box of pebbles cereal, ignoring your scoffed protests, and pouring out an overly generous portion. Despite his determination to dodge you, he throws down his bowl -splattering milk over the hardwood table as he does- right beside yours.

Chair skidding out before he hunches over the table. Elbows ungracefully planted on either side of his bowl.

From your peripherals, you watch Jimmy eat. Milk dribbles down his greyed scruff and he crunches open-mouthed, you can identify each sugary morsel just before it’s mashed into rainbow paste. No amount of blatant cringing or sighing does you any favors, so you resort to simply abandoning breakfast before you hurl what’s gone down.

Little do you know that as you rise, so too does the material of your itty bitty silk shorts. Riding up into your ass until fat is spilling out the bottom, and Jimmy hones in on the sight as soon as you’re up. Following with utmost interest as you round the table and perch onto the silver sink ledge, flicking on the hot tap. Definitely prettier bent over the counter than when you’re talking.

If you were his step-daughter you’d probably never leave the house. He’d have the door deadbolted from the outside.

Jimmy blinks at that. Leaning back in his chair, stare unwavering as your hips veer left and right with the effort of scrubbing out dried cereal, and folding his arms. He blinks again, this time with more confidence in his chest.

There’s a reason you’re here, and it isn’t because you’re Curly’s kid.

“Hey,” Jimmy’s voice is buried in the back of his throat, all gravel and rock beneath every different thing he actually wants to say. Eyes rounding over your exposed ass cheeks, “Why’d your parents split?”

Your guttural offense is pretty indicating, “Grant’s not my dad.”

“You still live with him.”

“Yeah, when I’m not on campus.”

Jimmy’s silence is so stagnant, you have to turn to confirm he’s still in the room.

Surprisingly, he is, and he’s staring right at you. Every muscle in his face stony, a hardset confidence as if he knows everything before he even opens his mouth, “Your mom’s just downtown, isn’t she?”

Rather than rationalize -whether it’s a lie or not- you swallow the nerves in your throat and turn back on him, “Why do you care so much? Do you wanna live here forever or something?”

“Call it curiosity.”

“Then be curious about why you don’t have your own place yet,” if you spent even a second longer at that sink then you would’ve gotten a ceramic bowl buried into your skull.

Luckily you immediately break for the stairs, jumping them two at a time (joke’s on your stupid ass anyway, now he’s memorizing the way your tits jiggle up each step).

Not out on errands.

Jimmy’s leaning against the rickety cart with a plastic red handcover. Head drooped to one shoulder, silently observing as you stretch up to grab a jar of Curly’s favored peanut butter from the top shelf.

“You can ask for help,” Jimmy sneers.

You ignore him, flagrantly. Even kicking a leg onto the bottom shelf, selfishly knocking over thin blue boxes of macaroni with your other foot stretching backward. One hand clutching the middle of the bay for purchase, the other high above your head.

“Fine, be a bitch about it,” he sighs and sinks back.

Suddenly thankful he did because at this angle with you reaching for that height: your little cotton panties suctioned against your pussy lips become visible beneath that teeny pleated skirt. A studded belt hangs limply around the loops.

The swell of your ass is more obvious from down here, too.

Jimmy hangs a little more to the side, slowly fishing out his phone and holding it at his chest. Eyes drawing toward the screen as he ensures his flash is off before snapping a far away picture. Then two fingers crawl over the glass, pinching at your cunt and zooming in for another three pics.

Briefly, he wonders if he could get away with reaching out and pulling aside the gusset for the holy grail of shots.

Just as his hands are twitching to carry out the mull-over, you’re fucking turning. Sweaty and huffing,

“Okay, fine, can you grab this?”

Jimmy pockets his phone with an eye roll and easily swipes the orange-lidded jar into your cart.

Not at dinner.

“You get this every night?” Jimmy asks, undeniably lewd with thighs sprawled apart on the chair. A hand clutching either knee.

Curly shrugged, hands politely folded over his abdomen, “Not every night. Sometimes we order in.”

“Your own housewife in training,” Jimmy whistles, watching you at the stove and not bothering to temper his volume, “Guy that puts a ring on it will be lucky.”

Out of minuscule respect for Curly, Jimmy decides against vocalizing the rest of his statement.

Still, though, Curly has the gall to look offended. Broad chest puffing out and thick jaw setting into a disturbed square. Hands curling around each other less politely now, and his knee starts bouncing as he says,

“Won’t need a husband when dad’s here for her.”

Jimmy can only laugh as you visibly cringe upon the utterance of that dreaded ‘D’-word.

“What do you think of that, kid?” Jimmy rolls one elbow over the back of his chair, spare hand now flattening over the table, “No husband, just Dad.”

“He’s not my dad…” you grumble, not unlike that pouty, sulky teenager you were when you and Jimmy first met.

“Well, any dating prospects?” it’s the most tender Jimmy has been with you yet, and by the immediate glow in your face he can read your appreciation.

Curly, however, is the one to answer -a much more rotten expression written over his face, “No,” he frightens himself with how aggressively the two letters spit out, so he tries again with the tiniest, fakest chuckle, “No suitors yet.”

And now you’re pissed, glaring at Curly before whipping right back around.

Jimmy revels in it. Watching you and your step-dad silently bat one argument over the other. He wonders if you two really think it’s all over his head.

And certainly not at night.

On the way to your room is Curly’s. Curly is a deep sleeper, so Jimmy has never felt more assured than right now as he twists the handle on your bedroom door.

Unlocked. As it should be. Your sweet heart entirely unassuming to the dangerous wiles of men twice your age.

He bets your pussy is even sweeter than your heart. It has to be when your personality is so gratingly cliche. Maybe by the end he’ll be even more bewitched by you than Curly.

The thought makes him snort.

Steadily planting a knee onto your marshmallow mattress, Jimmy soothes one hand over your thigh -- kicked over fluffy pink blankets. Soft skin that bounces right back into place. Firm and dewy. Your body embraces him completely, which he already knew it would.

A crackly groan makes his eyes dart from your thigh to your face scrunching at the sudden contact.

Silently, he squeezes, just to see the exact moment you rouse behind those batting lashes.

Initially, you smile -tight-lipped- until your bleary vision makes out the figure on your bed. That exact moment, when you realize who’s groping up your thigh, is when your smile tears apart.

“Calm down,” he husks into the open air of your bedroom, calloused palms cutting along your waist and pausing at the warmth of your collar bones, “It’s just Uncle Jimmy.”

Now is when you kick. A startled gasp shoved back behind the palm of his hand, fingers clamping tight around your jaw. He swings a leg over yours, effectively straddling your pelvis. Grinding down between your legs, something thick and hard protruding from the loose stripes of his pajama pants.

“Feel that?” he taunts, pressing against you harder, lowering his face by yours until the stiff scruff along his cheeks is tearing up your soft skin, “That’s my dick, and it’s going inside you.”

A scream is muffled against his thick palm, you smack at his ribs but he pushes forward without constraint, wrenching up your silk candy slips. The sleaziest little smirk smears over his entire face as your boobs spill out, he cuffs the material to your throat. Pressing your legs open with his own, kneeling on one of your thighs with his full weight and you’re sure the bone’s going to snap. Another scream dies against his meaty hand.

Reaching up, you knot one hand in his stringy hair -yanking out chunks of chestnut- and crushing fingerprints into his eyes.

“Be -fuckin’- nice,” Jimmy tugs you down the bed, blanketing your body with his, “to Uncle Jimmy, yeah?” he snickers in your wide-eyed, sweaty face, quickly swapping the hand over your mouth with his lips. Spearing your face open with his tongue, slobbering over you.

Burying your knees into Jimmy’s sides does about as much as it would if you flicked paper in his face.

Jimmy peels off your thin lace panties, balling them up in one hand and yoinking down his pants with the other. Stretchy hem now digging halfway down his thighs, he taps the hot head against your clit. Then sliding it down your slit, highlighting around your hole with two circles. Grunting against your lips, sinking just beneath the seam to drag back up toward the twitchy little pink bundle up top.

Licking over your tongue one final time, he saps up the final sweet mint taste from your toothpaste before pulling back. Pecking you, outrageously chaste for a man now bruising your tits with his fingers, before parting altogether.

Sneering, “Keep quiet for me,” and stuffing your own panties into your sodden, swollen mouth.

Jimmy heaves your knees over his shoulders, bending over you before sliding in -- staring you dead in the eyes as he lets out the most dramatic huff. You gasp as he sheathes in a single swing, throwing your head back at the sudden stretch with a grunt following.

“Soft and warm,” he hums, biting at your pulse with sick glee, “Tight.”

You wail in protest, but it gurgles out a little sweeter. Just a tad higher pitched than you mean for. Eyes watering and back arching as you try budging for even slight breathing room.

Stubbornly, Jimmy locks his chest against your bouncing tits. Eyes needling down at the pillowing flesh, hard nipples peeking out with every ragged thrust. Thrusts that get smoother, steadier, wetter the longer he’s inside you.

Cold teeth dig into your neck, velvet tongue laving the area as he sucks welts along your skin. Hot pants fanning the juncture with every gushy dive of his hips. Then he laughs out the cruelest dig when that first splat rings around the sweltering room:

“Take it so good, princess,” just to continue with a snide, “Knew you would.”

Biting down on your spit-soaked panties provides superficial comfort, squeals still leaking from the corners of your mouth. Muffled, but not silenced.

“What would your old man think about this?” he chokes, pulling up enough to stare down at your pinched face, “You’re gonna cum for me.”

One of his hands settles over your throat, crushing the sides warmly. Not enough to actually choke you, but just so there’s bruises by tomorrow morning.

“He’ll have to get rid of one of us,” Jimmy hisses coldly, now scarring his bottom lip with crooked teeth, brows furrowing as his cock twitches in your sucking cunt.

it better be you he thinks curly was mine before you

He spits down onto where you’re swallowing him up -- frothy spit dribbling cooly over your clit and along the broken seam he fucks. Instinctually, your hips buck up for it -for more. Thighs clamping around his neck and throat bobbing with a trapped moan.

A practically inaudible yadyyee manages to break past your gag, Jimmy snickers as you crow louder aaatyyyy as you seize around and below him. Eyes flying open and nails scratching up to reopen silvery scars on his arms as you nearly choke on your own slick panties.

“And is this the part when I call you ‘baby’?” he draws a thumb beneath your shiny lip, spit webbing your skin together, “Whore,” is what he chooses instead, “Cumming like the pretty slut I knew you were.”

And just like the slut he knew you were the second he saw you, you grind into his pistoning. Tears caking your lashes and cheeks flaming hot, your body still caves to any attention it’s given.

He knew it the second you were introduced to him. In a spaghetti strap and short shorts with bleached bangs. Dressed like every other little pornstar in the making. Hellbent on catching as many eyes as possible just to rip it away like he was some yippy puppy content to be played with and walked and given little treats. Maybe your dad was, but Jimmy never had that paternal instinct.

Jimmy just wanted to defile you.

And now you live under the same roof: you’re all his.

Last minute, Jimmy slides out easier than he went in and beats his cock into your pubes. Rivulets of your wetness roll down the curve of your ass with nothing to plug you up, sheets darkening beneath you.

Tugging your panties out so hard he nearly knocks out a tooth, Jimmy balls them again and licks up the drool from your chin. Knuckles catching your overstimulated clit as he frantically jerks off, hips cracking forward until your pelvis is streaked in thick white ropes.

Pitchy and broken you wail, “Daddy…!”

Jimmy could’ve cackled in your face, if not for the sound of metal clicking over his shoulder.

And maybe the sight before him -Curly in the doorway, clutching the brass knob hard enough for his knuckles to whiten- could’ve been terrifying. Men kill other men for touching their daughters, after all. But all that intimidation flies out your window, decorated with the daintiest peach curtains, as soon as Jimmy spots the tent in Curly’s boxers.

Curly reads the electric glint in his old friend’s eyes. Something bright and livelier than he’s seen from the man in a long while.

Something that makes him feel relieved he doesn’t have to keep the medicine cabinet locked.

Something that says: I know why your wife left you.

*** ***

[A Side: Grant Curly]

“It’s late, Grant…”

“I told you not to call me that.”

An eye roll is the last thing he wants to see. He scowls, drunkenly, and shoves his head into his hands with all the indignity of a child.

“You really think drinking makes you easier to talk to? It’s no wonder you make her so…”

“So what?”

The stilted silence preceding a sigh tells him the what he needs to know. Unhappiness permeates the house now. Having it all pinned on him feels so fucking unfair, so fucking untrue.

“You know what,” another sigh, this time more playful -more throaty and evidently annoyed, “Daddy.”

“I thought marriages didn’t fall apart until at least the fifth year…” he pouts up at you, again with all the righteousness of a toddler.

You smack his arm, “You guys have been dating longer, anyway. Besides, you kinda knew it wasn’t gonna work out, right?”

“I thought we’d be okay.”

Two hands settle on either of his shoulders. Thumbs pressing into the knotted muscle between his shoulder blades and up toward his stiff neck. Pulling tense flesh until he’s all malleable and soft again.

Curly groans, pleased, and leans into your touch. Laying his head against the back of the couch to stare up at you. A lopsided smile gracing his lips as he confesses with whiskey-slick lips,

“You’re a blessing, sweetheart.”

You grace him with one of those humble, tight-lipped grins that make him all gooey in the center. A paternal feeling, he’s sure.

Whenever your mother upsets him, you’re there.

More things make Curly want to kill himself than they don’t these days. He has the sick urge to fellate a gun after most minor inconveniences, and suddenly the only way he can feel true joy is when someone half his age is fawning over him. It should be another reason he wants to die, but it isn’t. You could never be.

He places a thick hand on yours and grins, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Looping both arms around his neck, you settle your heated cheek over the back of Curly’s head and squeeze. Flushing your breasts against his back with a sugary whisper, “Probably die miserable.”

“Probably,” he reaches up to squeeze your wrist.

Knowledge would be him pushing you off right now. Wisdom would be kicking you out of his house. But that ripe, sweating instinct makes him encourage you to slither over the back of the couch.

He pulls at your cropped sweater, laughing in your flustered face as you giggle. Legs wild before you’re slipping into his lap, thighs spreading yours apart with his hands on your hips. Thumbs scarring up your bare ribs.

“How are you so like her, but so different?” he wonders aloud.

“I dunno…” you shrug off shyly. Hips ticking against his.

“Mhmm,” he lets you and leans back, eyes fluttering shut as warmth eats him from both directions. Your body is sweet while the alcohol is savory. Both ways, he’s treated with nothing but love.

Then there’s your lips on his cheek, he smiles into it. Turns his head just to kiss the air above your own cheek as he sighs,

“Thank you, baby.”

“Daddy,” your hips cant down harder and now he has to plant both feet firmly in the ground to keep from thrusting up. That would just be inappropriate, right? But no more inappropriate than what you utter next, “Can I suck you off?”

His eyes peel open one at a time. Bloodshot. Confused, “Huh?”

“I know Mom doesn’t,” you grind down on him again. The material of your oversized sleep shirt riding up. Nothing but pink lace panties greet him. Damp and sticking to his shorts, “But I really want to…”

“Uhh,” maybe if you could let him think for a second, he’d have replied better. Maybe if you could stop rubbing that wet cunt on him for even one breath, he could’ve given you the emphatic NO you deserved. But you didn’t, so he didn’t.

Instead, he just sat you on the floor and waved with one hand while the other came up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “Fine, fine, yes.”

Already, the carpet burns your knees. But you rock forward and unclink his buttons.

Without technique, but eager and hungry: your mouth sinks onto his cock. Feeling it twitch and thicken on your tongue as you whine. Hollowing your cheeks with both hands burying manicured nails into his meaty thighs. Noisily slurping the spit dribbling past your gaping lips.

Sucking more than you can handle, trying to impress Grant by tickling your nose with his wiry gold pubes just makes you gag. An abrupt gush of thick slobber waxing his pelvis.

“Aw, baby,” he coos, throwing his head back with bending brows, “Be careful, honey, don’t hurt yourself…”

Despite himself, he’s knotting hand at the back of your head. Not-so-subtly pushing your forehead against his abs.

Curly cannot verbally explain or comprehend his relationship with you in labels, the guilt just eats him up.

The comfort of a stepdaughter should be non-existent -or at the least temporary, but you’re still here. You love him and he adores you. He has no strength to beat you away.

*** he really should just die ***

Little under a year spins by before his phone rings, interrupting the unquestioned domesticity.

You caught bits of that call while perched on the kitchen counter. Bare legs left to swing while Curly stirred creamer into his coffee. His old Pony Express shirt swamped over you. A girl’s voice blisters out from the other side. You glare at the speaker in juvenile jealousy despite how displeased Curly seems to be listening to her.

Occasionally he’ll nod, no matter how ridiculous the notion is given you’re the only one looking. Jaw popping. Fingers tapping.

“But he’s alive?” is the first thing of substance he says.

Curly is Jimmy Zare’s emergency contact because Jimmy never had a Misses or a Senior to count on. Not even the highly inappropriate relationship with a young girl to lean on.

You assume that is all connected to the phone call that suddenly has him all serious.

“Okay. I’ll be out there soon,” he nods again, making you want to rip his head off it’s so cute how stupid he is sometimes, “He can stay with me… I’ll be sure.”

He doesn’t look your way after hanging up. Instead, he spares a few minutes blankly staring into the cabinets.

Curly thinks Jimmy is like the sun. Big and angry and burning with barely contained passion. Making Curly mercury: small and burnt and the first to be swallowed when Jimmy inevitably blows up.

It’s so cute how stupid he is sometimes.

“Grant?” you murmur, head tilting.

He finally satisfies your need for attention. Eyes widening as if he spontaneously forgot and then remembered who he’s looking at. He smiles tightly and pats your knee like he’s trying to comfort a child after a lost softball game,

He even speaks to you like one.

“Uncle Jimmy’s staying with us for a bit,” before you can ask anything more, he turns away toward the front door, “Try not to fight with him.”

“Eugh… He’s weird!” you protest, “Can’t he stay at a hotel?!”

Curly pokes his head out and shakes it, disappointed, at you, “He’s staying with us,” then disappears to announce, “I’m going to pick him up! Be dressed when we get back!”

You wait until he’s slammed the front door behind him before muttering, “I am dressed.”

Uncle Jimmy is the type of person men shouldn’t trust their daughters with, so maybe this is a step forward. Somewhere in the knotted affair your life became, a gleaming light assures you this means Grant has his eyes on a new Mrs. Curly.

It’s so cute how stupid step-daughters are sometimes.

@toxycodone / @maniacpixiedreamboy + @xyfanficarchive + @m-carriaga2021 + @reniverse 

[dark-nautica-2]

He didn't know he'd have this much fun 🚀

Jimmy Zare x Curly's daughter!reader

she/her pronouns used, reader is described as female.

genre: smut, dark fic !!

warnings/content: dead dove, age gap, (reader is 18 and jimmy is pushing 40) intox, coercion, virgin!reader, manipulation, underage drinking, dubcon turned noncon, implication that jimmy was attracted to reader when they were a minor, rough sex, hair pulling, jimmys a terrible friend what else is new -_- sorry curly

—

Jimmy spending the night at Curly's wasn't uncommon. In fact, he's been a constant presence in your life from the moment you first opened your eyes.

He's been through bouts of homelessness, seeking refuge at you and your dad's house for a month or two until he got back on his feet. And during that time, Curly would ask Jim to babysit if he would be home late or couldn't pick you up from school- whatever the reason, it's a wonder why he entrusted his daughters safety with Jimmy of all people.

He swore around you. Smoked right next to your fragile eight year old lungs. Made completely age inappropriate jokes that went over your head whenever you somehow convinced him to play Barbies with you. Let you chew a piece of nicotine gum when you were ten, which you immediately spat out on the living room carpet.

Jimmy saw you as a surrogate niece. Plus, it was amusing to him to teach you swear words and snicker when you cluelessly say the word "cunt" around your poor father, who'd done his best to protect you from bad influences.

But Jimmy was always an exception because, well, Curly could never say no to welcoming his best friend into his home. And it's not like Jimmy would ever hurt you, his precious daughter. He'd never stoop so low as to put you in any danger.

Right?

Tonight, Jimmy's not here because he's homeless. He'd just gotten back from a long haul– five months to be exact, and he tagged along with Curly back to his place. Figured he didn't feel like immediately going back to his shithole of an apartment and would use Curly's picturesque, clean home as a place to crash. It always had a distinct sense of... family. Belonging. His own home didn't have that.

Maybe he was jealous of you and your privileged life; a father who adored you and spoiled you damn near rotten, academic excellence, and a clean-cut lifestyle. It was like you were immune to the scars and vices that had marked him. Your untainted nature irked him to no end.

Still, the thought of corrupting you, making your stray from that perfect little life of yours, had some sort of twisted appeal to it. One thing about you is that you love your Uncle Jimmy. You've looked up to him since you were in diapers, seeing him as the stereotypical "cool" uncle figure. The loud music he blasted on his beat up truck radio and the way he always reeked of a pack of Marlboros represented a world of rebellion and freedom you'd never experienced.

He's not sure exactly when he habitually started sneaking quick glances at your chest to see how big your tits were growing, or when the sight of you lapping at a melting popsicle in the summer made his dick twitch in his pants.

He did well at holding himself back. The sole reason for that being he didn't want to catch a case anytime soon. But the day came when you were finally legal, his chest immediately felt lighter as the weight of his deep seated guilt that he felt for even wanting to fuck you at all left his body. You were fair game now, and you had the type of beauty he wouldn't let go to waste.

So when you an up to him and hugged him, your supple young tits squishing against his as you squealed about how much you missed him during his time away from Earth, he'd already made up his mind.

He'll have you one way or another.

That night, after Curly went to bed early after the exhaustion from five months of work hit him like a cement truck, Jimmy was left alone on the couch, beer can in hand as he mindlessly watched two wrestlers he didn't know a thing about senselessly beat eachother up as some form of entertainment as he slipped into a slightly tipsy state.

And when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching, too light to be Curly's, he knew you had stepped out of your room. He turned his head, looking up at you from his position on the couch. His eyes ran over your form, taking in your pajamas. A tank top and shorts that hugged your figure in all the right places. Not exactly made for modesty.

"Hey..." You greeted him, waving sheepishly as you tried to keep your voice down as to not wake your father. "You're not asleep either." You state the obvious.

Jimmy shakes head, swallowing down the remaining liquor on his tongue before replying, "Nah. Can't sleep." As curt as always. He pats the spot on the couch beside him, gesturing for you to come sit with him.

"You're up pretty late. Thought you'd still be givin' yourself a bedtime."

He refers to– well, more like mocks, your disciplined and clean-cut lifestyle. He assumed you'd still be going to bed at 9:30 sharp. You laugh lightly at his jest, not picking up on the sardonic tone of his words.

"Not tonight. Don't have school tomorrow 'cause of... some holiday. I forget."

You plop yourself right down on the seat beside him, blindly trusting and naive as always, never once suspecting he'd have any ill intentions with you, so completely at ease in his presence. It'd make him feel guilty if he was a better person, or less drunk. Unfortunately for you, he's neither.

"Lucky you." He drawls, taking another sip of his drink. Once when you were little, maybe five or so, you'd curiously asked what beer tasted like. 'Bitter horse piss', he replied back to you. It made you laugh uncontrollably, but he wasn't lying. It still tastes like shit.

He doesn't miss the way your eyes fixate on the can with that same curiosity she had all those years ago. Your liver is most likely untainted, never tasted a drop of liquor in your idealistic life, he thinks. He can't help but want to exploit your inexperience, break down that golden child persona of yours.

So, without a second of apprehension, he holds the can out in front of you, almost tantalizing, and asks, "Hey, kid. You still curious about what beer tastes like?"

Your eyes widen in surprise at the unexpected inquiry. "Huh? Oh, um... No, not really." You shake your head, nervous smile plastered on your perfect face. Of course you were a terrible liar. In fact, you've never had to lie before, never had a reason to.

"I know bullshit when I hear it. You can be honest with me, I'm not gonna snitch to Curly or nothin'."

"...I guess." You cave in laughably quick, toying with a stand of your hair to ease your guilty conscience, as if having a single sip of alcohol would turn you into a delinquent. As if your precious reputation would be forever tarnished if someone found out.

He can't hold back a hoarse chuckle. "There we go." He says, before holding it out to you once again, this time more insistent. "C'mon, kid. Just a taste. It won't kill ya."

You trepidly reach out to grab the beer from him, the metal now warm from being held in his palm. You swirl it around and watch the brief whirlpool that forms, torn between your ingrained knowledge of the dangers of alcohol and the desire to try it, the substance you've been told was a deadly poison closer than it's ever been to your stomach.

"...I dunno..." You hesitate, looking up at your dear, reliable Uncle Jimmy for reassurance that this is okay. It's almost amusing for him to see you conflicted about such a simple task. Your obedient nature, that need for approval, is exactly why he's able to pull this off without a hitch.

"Oh, come on. It's just one taste. It won't hurt. I wouldn't let you do somethin' dangerous, you know that." He coaxes further, a gentle tone softening his usual blunt demeanor. You trust him.

"Well... Okay. If you say so." You brush your nerves aside and bring the can to your lips, a rush of bitter liquid coating your taste buds. You make a face at the unfamiliar flavor, but choke it down to impress your uncle, who's engrossed by the way your lips look as they close around the rim of the can, where his own mouth was moments ago. Something warm twists around inside his gut as he watches you swallow the bitter beer, the way your nose wrinkles as you grimace in distaste. Oddly satisfying.

"Yeah, it's an acquired taste," He remarks, ogling you with a focused intensity. "You've gotta take a few more swigs to get used to it."

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, expression twisted into one of disgust. "Are you sure? It's really gross." You attempt to hand the beer back to him, but he pushes it right back towards you.

"C'mon. Don't chicken out now. You'll get used to the taste after a while, I promise." He persists, committed to his goal of getting you to lose your inhibitions. If anything gets to a young girls head, it's peer pressure.

You're always to quick to give in to him, and that gives him a power trip like no other. He's got a pretty young thing wrapped around his finger and you can't untangle yourself. "Eugh... Fine..." You show clear disinterest in continuing, but anything for your Uncle Jimmy, right?

You take another gulp, this one bigger than the last. Then another, and another...

With every swig, he watches the flush on your cheeks deepen, the resistance fade. The effects of the alcohol are already starting to show.

"That's it. Attagirl. You're doin' so good." Jimmy reaches up to run his calloused fingers through your hair, petting you like a stray animal he's trying to get to warm up to him. Your vision grows hazy, your usually sharp and intelligent mind disoriented by the alcohol in your system.

"M' kinda dizzy..." You groan, not enjoying the way the foreign drink is making you feel so far. You barely even register the hand he's placed on the exposed skin of your thigh, too inebriated to think too much into it.

"You okay there, kid? You feel nauseous or anything?" He feigns concern, playing up the caring older uncle role, pulling your body closer to his so you can rest your head on his shoulder to stop the room from spinning.

"Mmm." You close your eyes, leaning into Jimmy's body, your entire body warm and fuzzy. Having your body so pliant in his hands is only making this easier to go through with. He continues stroking your hair to make you feel a sense of safety. To get you let let your guard down completely. "Feels so weird... is this normal?" Your words slur together.

"Yeah, it's normal. Don't worry. I'm right here for you. You trust me, yeah? I'm gonna make sure nothin' bad happens to ya."

"Thanks Uncle Jimmy... You're the best..." You snuggle up closer to him, your soft young body pressed to his scarred, jagged one. He's such a good uncle, isn't he? Taking care of his favorite girl while she's drunk.

"I know, I know. I'm the best uncle a girl could have. Always lookin' out for you, right?" He mutters, his tone becoming a tad more gravelly as he begins to drop his act. He slowly pulls your tank top straps down, your judgement and perception too clouded for you to question his actions.

"Y'know..." The beginning of your sentence is interrupted by drunken giggles before you can continue, "I used to have a crush on you when I was little." You confess like it's the most casual thing in the world. But to him, it only fuels the fire in his gut.

He pretends to be surprised at your admission, when it was always painfully obvious how much you adored him. You always looked up to him, asked your dad if you could spend every moment of your free time with him. Every time he turned around, you'd come running up to him, eager to show him some cool rock you found, or show off a drawing you made in class.

“Oh yeah? You had a thing for your old uncle, huh?” He teases, unable to hide his satisfaction. You finally register his hands on you when he pulls the front of your top down, revealing your bare tits to him, not covered by a bra. Your nipples pique at the sudden rush of cold air against them.

"Jimmy...?" You become confused. Why is he doing this all of a sudden? Surely he would never have those kinds of thoughts about you. He wouldn't hurt you. "What are you... doing?"

He looks down at you with faux innocence. "What do you mean? I'm just making you a little more comfy. It's gettin' warm in here, don'tcha think?" You feel him grope the fat of your breasts roughly, causing you to wince and let out a soft whine. You've never been touched like this before. Never been touched at all, in fact. Curly did his best to keep you safe from any boys and men that'd want to selfishly take advantage of you. He never expected Jimmy to be that kind of man.

Neither did you.

"Fuck, kid. Can't believe you've been hiding these from me this whole time. Prettiest fuckin' tits I've seen in a while." He grunts, the atmosphere in the room suddenly shifting to something more sinister. It scares you, seeing your uncle act like this. Squeezing and prodding and pinching you like you're nothing more than an unfeeling object.

Yet you still feel arousal twisting deep inside you, making your cunt gush with fresh slick as his thumbs rub in teasing circles along your nipples. You let out a moan, unsure of where the sound even came from, because if you were more in control of your body and reactions you'd never allow yourself to enjoy this.

"Shh... quiet, kid. Don't want daddy to hear you, yeah? Wouldn't want him to know how much of a little tease you've been." His accusation is completely false, you've done nothing to tempt him. Not intentionally, at least. But it's easier for him to convince himself that this is all your fault. You asked for this when you decided to be so fuckin' cute and pretty around him.

He moves your body, handling your limbs like you're a doll, so you're sitting in his lap, your legs straddling him. You can feel his dick under you, hard and straining against his jeans, prodding at your clothed clit. The stimulation causes you to jolt, attempting to lift yourself away from it, but he roughly forced you back down into his lap, purposefully grinding your hips into his.

"Don't do that. Don't try to run from me. Just relax, kid. Uncle Jimmy's gotcha. You know I won't hurt you, right?" His breathing grows heavy, his voice low in a way you've never heard him speak before. You can't focus on your discomfort and fear when he's forcing you to rut your aching pussy against his cock, and with your brain being under the influence, his blatant lie makes sense to you. So you nod cooperatively. Jimmy wouldn't hurt you. Of course he wouldn't. That's the silliest thing you've ever heard.

In the span of a few minutes you went from naive to downright stupid.

"I– I know. M' sorry..." You're not even sure what you're apologizing for. Are you apologetic for thinking he'd do something as vile as rape you? Maybe. This doesn't even count as assault, does it? Not when you're sitting on his lap so willingly, allowing him to maneuver you in whatever way he pleases.

"It's okay." He seems to accept your ambiguous apology, and you feel him move onto groping your ass, kneading the ample flesh. He breathes out a nearly inaudible swear. "Just sit right there, nice and still. I'll take good care of you, kiddo. I promise you that."

You never had any reason to doubt him before. Now, you're too drunk to think clearly. All you want is to make him happy. Make him proud. After all, you've always looked up to him. Who are you to question why he's pulling down your shorts, stripping you completely bare?

Who are you to question why his fingers are gliding along your slick folds, brushing against your sensitive clit just to watch you squirm at the feeling.

"Jimmy..." You whine, "I've never... done anything like this..." You decide to at least warn him of your inexperience, not like he's unaware. Everything about you screams 'virgin'. That's part of why he wants you so bad. You're so much more... pure, than the women he usually hooks up with.

"Mhm, I know." His response is almost condescending, but it's a turn-on for him to hear it out loud, for you to admit you'd never been this close to a man in your life.

Before you know it, he's guiding your hand to something hard and thick, something you can't even wrap two fingers around. Your vision is blurry and your dizziness is making it difficult to focus on what's in front of you, or what's even going on around you. But you can hear him speak, instructing you.

"Fuck, that's it. Can you feel that? Feel how fuckin' hard you're makin' me?" He grunts. Your eyes widen as you realize what he's got you holding. His cock throbs in your clammy palm, and now that you're getting a good look at it, you can see just how huge it is. Your thighs clamp together like your body is subconsciously trying to protect you from him shoving himself inside you when you can barely take one finger.

"Jim, it's not gonna fit..." You speak timidly, genuinely afraid he'll tear you right open. "I– I can't..."

"You'll be fine." He says firmly, like he's reprimanding you for your apprehension. That alone gets you to shut up, which he's grateful for. He's not patient enough to deal with your whining the whole time.

Everything else beyond that is a blur, so you're not exactly sure how you ended up with your face in the couch pillow, ass in the air, the thick head of Jimmy's dick prodding against the entrance to your virgin cunt. "Be gentle." You plead, mentally and physically bracing yourself. There's no escaping this.

"Yeah, yeah." Jimmy huffs, clearly no longer in the mood to pretend that he's gonna be careful with you. "Just keep it down."

Before you can even respond or meekly protest, he pushes himself about halfway in with one sharp thrust, ripping a loud yelp from your throat. He immediately takes a fistful of your hair, shoving your face down into the pillow as he slides the rest of himself inside of you, your walls pulsing around him.

"I said keep it the fuck down. You're supposed to be smart, aren't you?" He leans down to whisper to you through gritted teeth. "Do you want your dad to come out here and see how much of a fucking slut you are?"

You tremble under him, body stiffened from fear and pain, your pussy sore from the harsh intrusion. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, both at his aggression, and the ache between your legs. He sighs deeply, like you're the problem here.

"This is what you wanted. Don't try and tell me it isn't." He pulls out, before roughly slamming back in all the way to the hilt, causing you to cry out in agony, the sound muffled by the suffocating cushion you're forcefully smushed into. "Here's a life lesson, kid. Don't dress like a whore, and you won't get fucked like one."

You weep softly. He's never been so mean towards you, never spoke to you with such deep seated vitriol. "J– Jim, please, you're h– hurting me–" You lift your head up to look back at him, hoping that when he sees the tears streaming down your reddened eyes, he'll feel some sort of sympathy for you. Go back to being the Uncle Jimmy you know.

Instead, what you're met with is another sharp tug at you hair, irritating your scalp. "God, just shut your fuckin' mouth for once. This is what pretty girls like you are good for." His cock jackhammers into you so rapidly, you physically feel him repeatedly ram into your cervix, making your insides feel tender and bruised all over.

You accept that there's no getting through to him, so you allow him to violate you with what feels like every ounce of strength in his body, tears silently flowing down your cheeks as you pray for all of this to be a nightmare. Just a bad dream you'll wake up from and be back in reality, where your Uncle Jimmy is still just as amazing as he's always been. He's taken care of you so many times in the past. Made you laugh until your ribs hurt when he cracked a crude joke.

The man with your blood streaking around his cock can't be the same person. No, this is a monster. An evil monster that Jimmy would protect you from.

He grunts animalistically when he finally pulls out and spills his hot, thick spurts of cum all over your ass. Your legs shake, barely able to hold yourself up. Your eyes are wide, shell shocked. Jimmy takes a moment to catch his breath, wiping the sweat from his furrowed brow before giving your ass a light smack, making you wince as he inflicts even more pain onto your poor body.

"Don't worry, kid. You won't remember shit in the morning. Thank the alcohol for that." You're not sure if he's trying to be reassuring. Regardless, it's not.

But he didn't lie. You wake up the next morning in your own bed with a pounding migraine, clothes still on your body. You feel disoriented as you rub the sleep from your eyes, nausea churning in your stomach, along with a sharp, throbbing pain between your legs.

All you remember from last night is sitting next to Jimmy, and then... everything else is fuzzy. Thanks to your headache, you can't find the strength to dig deeper into your memory. You inexplicably feel like you've been hit by seven trucks at once from every angle, and it's only 7:30 in the morning.

If any memories do resurface, you'll assume you're recalling a nightmare. Uncle Jimmy wouldn't do that to you.

He loves you.

—

(i havent written smut in a hot minute sorry for being rusty >_< also not proofread thoroughly im eepy)

[dark-nautica-2]

a/n : no thoughts, just slippin' jimmy

RUINATION

{ inmate! jimmy x correctional officer! f! reader ]

word count : 1486

warnings/tags : NSFW, jimmy's noncon fantasy, pre-tulpar/prison setting, voyeurism, objectification, solo masturbation, obsession, implied violence, jimmy has a corruption/domination kink.

Jimmy had seen you for the first time two months ago, fresh-faced and stiff-backed, walking into this pit like you belonged here. You didn’t. He could see that from a mile away.

You weren’t like the other guards—those grizzled, bitter men with dead eyes and nicotine-stained teeth. You didn’t smile, didn’t soften, didn’t slouch under the weight of this place like so many others had. You were new, unspoiled—a picture of order and control in a place where everything and everyone was dirty.

Your navy blue uniform fit a little too well, the pressed seams highlighting the curve of your hips, the swell of your chest, the delicate line of your throat where a small vein pulsed. You smelled clean, like the citrusy shampoo you probably used every morning. It was a scent so out of place that it almost made him sick, lingering in his head hours after you passed by, curling into his thoughts like smoke. Jimmy couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman in person, let alone one like you.

He couldn’t decide if he hated you or if he wanted you. Both, probably. You weren’t here for him—you weren’t here for any of them. You walked the block like you were above it all, like the filthy men behind these bars weren’t worth your time. You wouldn’t look at him, not really. A quick glance, maybe, when you were counting heads or writing something down, but never long enough to see the way he watched you.

And he did watch you.

Jimmy watched the way your shirt pulled tight over your chest when you reached for the radio on your belt. He noticed how the top button was always undone, offering the faintest glimpse of the hollow of your throat, smooth and delicate like porcelain. He noticed the way your pants clung to your thighs, the belt cinching your waist so tightly it made him think of his hands wrapping around you instead.

Today was different, though. Today you weren’t just walking past his cell with that quick, dismissive glance that set his blood on fire. Today you were inside his cell, tearing through his cellmate's things, your small hands shoving his meagre belongings aside with practiced efficiency.

Jimmy stayed seated, his hands resting on his thighs as he watched you move. You started with the bunk opposite his, rifling through the thin mattress, shaking out threadbare clothes, and tossing them to the floor. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his bony knees, his gaze fixed on you like a predator sizing up prey.

He barely registered his cellmate's nervous muttering as you crouched low to the floor, your hand sweeping under his bunk. And when you bent lower, he swore under his breath.

The fabric of your pants stretched tight over your ass, the seams straining, pulling, moulding to every curve like a second skin. He could see the faint indent of your underwear beneath the cheap polyester, the way it dug into the soft flesh of your hips and dipped between your thighs. His mouth went dry. He could feel his pulse pounding in his throat, in his chest, in his groin.

He wondered what your hands would feel like if they weren’t reaching under his cellmate's bunk but instead dragging over his ribs, his hips, his cock. He wondered if you’d grip him like you gripped that pack of cigarettes when you found them, firm and unapologetic.

“Whose are these?” you asked, standing up, the pack dangling from two fingers as you locked eyes with his cellmate.

“N-Not mine,” his cellmate croaked as he shifted on his feet, trapped under the weight of your stare.

Your lips curled into something faintly amused. “Funny,” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “because they sure as hell didn’t walk in here on their own.”

The silence stretched, taut as a tripwire, until you turned sharply on your heel, your boots scuffing the floor. With a jerk of your head, you beckoned his cellmate. “Let’s go,” you said, your tone dropping an octave into something that wasn’t a request. “Now.”

He scrambled to follow as you walked out, your posture rigid, your hips swaying just enough to make Jimmy grit his teeth.

And then you were gone, the door slamming shut behind you, leaving him alone in the cell with nothing but the memory of your body bent over and the faint, maddening scent of your shampoo.

He couldn’t help himself.

Jimmy sprawled across his bunk, the springs groaning beneath his weight as he shoved his hand down his pants. He was already hard, painfully so, hissing through his teeth as his fingers curled around his length. His free hand gripped the thin, scratchy blanket beneath him, twisting it as he closed his eyes and let the image of you flood his mind.

He thought of your body in that uniform, too tight in all the right places, hugging the curves he could only dream of now. The navy-blue fabric was like armour, shielding you from men like him, but it did nothing to hide the soft, alluring contours beneath. What did you wear under it, he wondered, when you left this prison and stepped back into your clean, untouchable life? Something modest, perhaps, like plain cotton, prim and white—or something more sinful, like black or red, silk or lace.

His thumb dragged over the head of his cock, slick now with precum, and a low, guttural groan clawed its way out of his throat. The thought of you in lace—delicate, sheer, barely covering you—made his hips jerk against his own hand. He imagined tearing it away, his rough fingers yanking at the fabric until it unravelled into useless tatters.

You’d be weak on the outside, he thought. Easy to restrain, easy to overwhelm. You’d try to fight him, of course—claw at him, maybe even scream—but it wouldn’t matter. Not against his strength, not against his need, not against the singular thought of you.

He’d push you down, pin you beneath him, let you feel the weight of his desperation. He could already see how you’d crumble under him, the fight draining from your limbs as you realized there was nowhere to run, nothing left to do but give in. All that authority, all those clipped commands—you’d lose them the second he touched you, the second he dragged you down into the dirt.

You’d smell the same out there, wouldn’t you? Like blood on snow. Like something pure, ruined. He’d strip away that pristine edge of yours, leave you raw and trembling, a smear of himself staining the perfect surface you worked so hard to maintain. You wouldn’t be clean anymore—not after him.

Jimmy's strokes were ruthless, his grip tight like a vice, as though he could claw the frustration out of himself with every punishing movement. He imagined your lips trembling, your breath catching in your throat as he pressed you into the ground, his hands greedy and unrelenting. Your hair, usually so neat, would spill like a dark halo against the earth, and your eyes would be blown wide, wet with fear, shining like glass just before it shattered.

He spat into his palm, the slick warmth easing the drag of his hand as his pace quickened, frantic now. The mattress creaked beneath him, and he bit down on his lip hard enough to taste blood, the metallic tang searing through his mouth. He imagined you tasting it, imagined forcing his mouth against yours until you had no choice but to take him in.

The groan that tore from his throat was feral, guttural, his head tipping back against the cold cinderblock wall. Sweat slicked his skin, the coarse prison shirt sticking to his chest as he chased the vision of you to its inevitable end. You’d break so beautifully, he thought. He’d whittle you down to nothing but a trembling, begging whore. He’d ruin you as thoroughly as you’d ruined him, with that maddening, little smile you didn’t even know you gave.

The thought pushed him over the edge, his body seizing as release tore through him. His hand faltered, his breath hitched, and he spilled across his stomach, the warmth pooling sticky and unwelcome against his skin. The world blurred, dissolving into static and white noise as he rode the wave to its bitter, relentless conclusion.

When he came back to himself, he was left with the oppressive weight of silence, his chest heaving and skin damp with sweat. The faint scent of you still lingered, haunting him like a ghost, and he let out a low, ragged curse, wiping himself clean with the edge of the blanket.

You weren’t clean anymore—not in his mind. He’d dragged you down into the filth with him, ruined you in ways you’d never even know, and the thought curled his lips into a slow, wicked smile.

[dark-nautica-2]

if you still write for off and are willing to do more kinky requests: dedan making a (gender neutral) reader lick his boots clean? 😁

“You must be a real fuckin shit-for-brains if you thought your limp dick Batter could beat me.”

You grit your teeth at Dedan’s sneering face above you but you say nothing. You’re no fool. The Batter, as strong as he was, is lying unconscious at your feet; you know you stand no chance in a fight with the guardian. The only reason you’re alive right now is because Dedan allows it. And that’s liable to change if you don’t do something to get on his good side.

“Please, don’t hurt him,” you beg, looking meek and submissive to play to Dedan’s ego.

Dedan looks down at the Batter and kicks him out of spite. The Batter twitches but otherwise does not move. You can see the wet sheen of blood shine on the toe of Dedan’s boots.

“Please!” You shout, voice cracking in your fear. “Please, stop, I’ll do anything!!!!!”

“Anything, huh?” He keeps his eyes on the Batter, boot nudging the man onto his side. “You really like this little cock-sucker that much?”

Dedan finally turns back to you and you want nothing more than to wipe that smug look off his ugly face.

“You’d do anything for him? Prove it. Come over here and show me what you’d do to keep your precious Batter safe.”

You take a deep breath. In, out. Grit your teeth and take a step forward—

“Not like that.” Dedan points to the ground. Then, as if it’s not clear enough, “Crawl.”

You stare daggers as you get down on your knees, the ground unforgiving against the palms of your hands. Still, you crawl forward, eyes on the ground until you see his boots.

“Good,” Dedan mock praises, hand on your head like he’s petting a dog. Then his fingers thread through the roots of your hair. They curl around and tug hard enough to sting. “Glad you can follow simple orders. That should make this easier.”

He pushes your head down so your cheek is smashed against his boot. He smells like dirt and blood and smoke.

“Lick my boots clean, slut.”

Your hesitation causes Dedan’s grip to tighten on your hair. The moment his punishing grip loosens, you turn your lips to meet the toe of his boot, tongue darting out to draw across its surface. You taste leather and the Batter’s blood. You gag. Dedan takes that as an opportunity to press his heel to your open mouth.

“Do a good job or I’ll kill him right in front of you.”

You ignore the tickle of bile in your throat, tongue teasing the treads of the sole. You feel like you want to throw up but you fight to keep it down as you feel Batter’s blood like an oil spill smudge against your lips.

You feel another sharp tug in your scalp. “Eyes on me, cocktease.” You keep your glare on him as your mouth kisses his boot and the grip loosens as his fingers gently scratch your scalp. You lave your tongue against its surface and feel the sour thickness of the Batter’s blood pool into your mouth. You see him throb against his pant leg.

He keeps your head down there until his boot shines from the sheen of your spit, no trace of blood or dirt.

“Good. Now open your mouth.” When you obey, he immediately spits directly into your open mouth. “And swallow.”

You do.

You get another condescending pat to your head and a brush of Dedan’s thumb against your bottom lip. The look he gives you could almost be described as fond if not for the sneer of his lipless mouth and the erection straining against his pants. “You’ve got ten minutes to get yourself and your dickless Batter out of here before I change my mind.”

And like that, he leaves you with the Batter shallowly breathing on the ground and you with blood on your lips and chin.

[dark-nautica-2]

Downtime Dismas

[dark-nautica-2]

have this i guess

[dark-nautica-2]

C'mon, you know you want to...

[dark-nautica-2]

My AM Human design is just Harlan

[dark-nautica-2]

𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍 | masterlist

pairing: patrick bateman x fem!reader

— warnings: nsfw content ! bondage, rope, ptrick bateman, p in v, mentions of murderous urges

summary: There's a thin line between pleasure and pain. Patrick lets you walk that line — if anyone else did, it would snap.

"Do you like it?”

Patrick’s voice is sultry, calm; a lewd illusion of the man he is, the desire which consumes him. Being bound to his bed with rope is surreal - you squirm under his cool touch, trying to hide the discomfort which pulsates through you.

“It’s different.” Your voice is hoarse, but you’re honest, and Patrick grins in response. “It feels too tight.”

“I could’ve made it tighter.” Patrick's breath fans your neck, and you’re suddenly more aware of how out-of-place he looks. Whilst you’re naked, splayed in front of him ready to be devoured, he’s fully dressed in a Valentino, classic charcoal, pinstriped double-breasted suit. His suited arms reach up towards your bound wrists, and your eyes flitter shut as you imagine what he would look like naked - how his arms would flex as he loosens the rope slightly. “What do you say?”

“Thank you, Patrick.”

His hum of approval vibrates through you, as his fingers dart over your thighs, before slowly trailing toward your cunt. “I want to do terrible things to you. Do you know that? I want to—“ Patrick’s fingers shake slightly and his voice wavers, his digits darting over your slits and finding a home in your cunt. “—I want to ruin you.”

“But you won’t.” Your eyes squeeze shut as his fingers curl inside you, his hand growing slick with your wetness. Satisfied squelches echo across his bedroom, and your stomach tightens with each come hither motion of his fingers.

“But I won’t.” Patrick agrees, letting out a shaky breath that jitters against your neck. “Because when I start ruining you, I’m not going to be able to stop. I’ll hurt you so bad you’ll wish you were dead and maybe at the end of it all, you would be.”

“So I’m spared,” you breathe, a broken mewl slipping past your lips as Patrick’s fingers effortlessly flicker you closer and closer to an orgasm. There is an imaginary coil inside of you, and it feels as though it is going to snap - the ever-growing pressure on the special spot inside of your cunt is constant, and his motions are consistent, specialized. “You’ll spare me?”

“I’ll do more than spare you. I’m going to fuck you like I love you and maybe I do, but then again, maybe I don’t.”

The crassness of his voice, the harshness of his words, and the overwhelming stimulant of his fingers fucking you so good is what sends you over the edge. The coil snaps - breaks in half, sending shockwaves of electricity pulsing through you, your legs shaking as Patrick continues to toy with your cunt, a bored expression on his face.

“My suit is drenched in your cum.” Patrick comments, slathering your wet against your thighs and stomach, crinkling his nose as he gently begins to undress himself. “Remind me to take this to the dry-cleaners, later.”

The conversation is so… nonchalant, so familiar. He talks to you like he’d talk to a lover - but are you his partner or just his plaything? Cold engulfs you and you shiver, but Patrick tuts, his cock hard and red as he nestles himself between your thighs.

“You’re cold.” He notes.

“I am.” You reply.

Patrick is odd - weird, a loser, but he consumes you. All you can think of day and night is Patrick, his slender fingers and skillful tongue, his angry and red cock which stuffs you perfectly and leaves you forever wanting. “What are you doing?”

Patrick’s fingers toy with the rope on your wrists. “Are they still too tight?”

“No. You fixed them earlier.” It makes your face flush when his cock presses against your slits, somehow perfectly aligned with your clit as he reaches further forward to loosen the restraints a tiny bit more. “Patrick-“

“I think you’re the only person I could ever love,” Patrick interrupts randomly with a mumble, repositioning himself and opening your thighs slightly wider. “If I tried. I could be a good husband, you know, a good father. Do you want that?”

Is he talking to you or himself? You don’t know anymore, letting him ramble on as he slowly pushes his cock inside of you. And it’s amazing - of course - it’s instant ecstasy because you were made for him, and he for you. You sheath him perfectly - and a broken moan bubbles up your throat as he snaps his hips slowly, his eyebrows furrowed in thought and his fingers digging into your thighs, his grip so tight it’s going to leave behind bruises.

“I will never hurt you.” Patrick tells himself - reassures himself, because you know it’s a lie as he’s hurting you right now. All he does is hurt you, leaves you insecure and violated, feeling guilty for the marks you’ve let him leave behind, feeling anguish as he leaves you for his skanky fiancé, night after night. “I will never hurt you. I can’t. I won’t. Do you hear me?”

Quiet gasps leave you as Patrick peppers gentle kisses against your chest. He groans into your skin as he fucks you, his balls heavy and sore as they smack into your ass. The rhythm he has is perfect - hard and slow, and the curve of his cock hits the special spot inside of you and it just feels so, so good. Everything feels amazing - feels perfect. You’re engulfed in him, the scent of his cologne and the nestling of his cock inside of you, and what have you done to deserve this?

“Do you hear me?” Patrick is slightly breathless, his eyes somewhat starry, and he looks down at you with something that could resemble adoration. And you gaze back, lovingly, because you love him, and you nod your head, but you don’t hear him - not really, because you’re too focused on feeling him.

And he feels good. It’s like you’re milking his cock - so tight and clenched down around him as the imaginary coil begins to wither away, your belly growing warm with each snap of his hips. “I want that, Patrick.”

“I won’t hurt you,” he tells himself as he tugs on the rope, leaving your skin burning in its wake. “I won’t.”

You can hear him. It’s a battle with himself. There is a thin line between pleasure and pain with Patrick, and he lets you walk that line. And he will continue to let you do so. Because you walk it prim and proper. You’re so focused on his words; "I could be a good husband, you know, a good father. Do you want that?" that you don’t care when he grips your face so hard it feels like your cheekbones are going to smash and your skull is going to turn into putty.

“Patrick," you gasp, incoherent as you feel his cum begin to fill you. "I want all of you.”

taglist: @makeyoumine69

[dark-nautica-2]

CHRISTIAN BALE as Patrick Bateman American Psycho (2000) dir. Mary Harron