#I WANT TO GIVE YOU MONEY. LET ME GIVE YOU MONEY.

[yeyinde]

bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i

mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader

You don't question your brother when he sends you to drop off packages to his friends, but when the enforcer for the 141 shows up to teach the small-time dealer selling on their turf a lesson, you realize there are different ways to pay someone back with pounds of flesh.

(OR: your brother owes them, and Ghost is content to let you settle the debt. after all, if you wanted freedom, then you shouldn't have caught the eye of the butcher of the 141, should you?)

18+ SMUT. noncon. objectification. marking. kidnapping. threats of violence. unsafe sex (manipulation into unprotected sex). rough sex. size difference. breathplay. 10k of foreplay. light pussy slapping. overstimulation. mafia au.

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

The goal is to be as quick and discreet as possible. 

In and out, he says, looping the baggie around his index finger. Inside, a snowfall of white powder settles at the bottom. 

Meth this time. Oxytocin the last. 

He ties it tight before giving the bag a quick shake, breaking up the clumps. Satisfied with the way it looks, he turns toward you. Levels you with a sombre look, the picture of a concerned older brother. 

You almost fall for it. Believe it. But the clouded, flat edge to his gaze undercuts his worry for what it really is. A farce. 

“And if it seems sketchy—”

—run.

But your knees are locked, soles glued to the pavement. You can't move even though everything is screaming at you to flee. 

The problem, maybe, is that there's nowhere to go. Escape cut off, filled by a body, a man—even though the idea, the mere notion, of thinking this behemoth as human, flesh and bone; blood and tissue, is laughable when he's so clearly a beast. A monster. 

He fills up your field of vision. Your line of sight was eclipsed by the thickness of his waist, the broad expanse of his shoulders. Thighs that are as wide as the trunk of a tree. Arms boxing you in. A prison of obsidian. A black shadow. 

In the panic that surfaces, surging to the top like an oil spill, you catch a pocket where he doesn't root. A small alcove between the bend of his elbow and the slot of his knee perched against the wall. Enough room for you to—

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.” 

His voice seems to shake the earth, rolling out of his broad chest like the low, brassy roar of a lion; a rumbling thunderclap. 

You feel sick—

The leather covering his hand is cold when it closes around your arm, grip tight. Bruising. Trapping you with just the slightest effort. 

“Go’ a problem, you and I,” he starts, and it's almost conversational. Might be, perhaps, if the clean, sleek outline of his gun inside the unclasped holster around his ungodly thick waist wasn't threatening you more than the grip he has on your arm. “How do you reckon we can fix it?”

You have a meagre twenty dollars in your pocket. Less money for them to take if things go awry. If they decide that the little girl standing in for her older brother was an easier target to rob—money and drugs—than to settle things fairly. Money, goods. Hand over hand. 

Just like the movies, he'd said. 

Just like the movies, you think when he leans in closer, bulk swallowing you whole. 

There is a pockmark in the corner of his crooked, misshapen nose and the crease of his eye. A scar, maybe. It's circular—almost perfectly so; a silver-pink moon on the angular ridge of his nose. Uneven, craggy, like crumpled printer paper. 

It looks almost like—

You think of the mark on your arm. Soot-stained. The smell of burning hair, tissue. The searing pain. 

“I–I can pay you—” you stammer out, tearing your gaze away from the ugly mark on his skin. A cigarette burn. It makes you shudder. 

He cocks his head slowly like a big, dumb dog, but there's something eerie in the ink spill of his eyes. The soft matte of a saltwater crocodile staring at you from beneath the murk. Calculative. Hungry. 

“Pay me?” He echoes slowly, dragging the words out mockingly. “D’you know ‘ow much trouble your brother is in? For sellin’ ‘ere of all places?” 

“No,” you swallow. It feels like your heart is stuck inside your throat. “I–I just—”

“Run ‘is errands,” he finishes cruelly but you can't deny it. “Ain't you a good little sister? Almost makes me wish I ‘ad somethin’ as sweet as you f’myself growin’ up.”

You don't answer. He doesn't seem to be looking for one, really; just empty words to fill space. To echo in your head, barbed wire around any sense of comfort you might have felt. Punishing cruelty. 

He has the upper hand, it says. He's the one who makes derisive jokes while you tremble in his grasp, and try to make yourself as small, as unassuming, as possible. Hiding from the predator in plain sight. Hoping he passes you over for something bigger, more calorie-dense; the effort to catch and consume you expends more energy than the return. Hardly worth it in the long run. The comfort of a risk-reward ratio, right?

But he's opportunistic, it seems. A snacking scavenger. 

Could eat, it says, like a basking tiger keeping a mouse trapped between his paws, letting it squirm and squeak as he slowly licks his lips. Not enough to fill its belly but enough to satisfy the gluttonous urge a predator has to eat. Sharpening its teeth on flimsy bones. Child’s play. 

It's a fitting image, especially with the way he arches over you, looms; fingers looped around the thick of your arm, holding firm, but not—

Not as tight as he could. 

It's a loose-fisted grasp. Lazy, almost. He knows you won't run—or, at the very least, knows you won't get far. 

You peel your gaze away from his, dropping it to the curve of his shoulders—the width of them is just as dizzying as his height; broad, muscular. Pulling it further down the length of his arm, covered in a thick jacket. Black corduroy. Ashes stain the cuffs. A bulky watch juts out from his wrist. Gold. Glinting even in the grey-blue gloom of an overcast evenfall. 

His muscles tense. Hand tightening around your arm, fingers digging hard. Rubbing muscle painfully against bone. 

A warning, maybe. Stop looking—

But something else catches your eye. Blood red. The colour of meat. A fresh kill. 

The back of his hand has a blooming rose. Petals spread out, unfurled. In the middle, a milky skull sits. Stencilled in boxy, yellow letters is ONE-FOUR-ONE—

You know what it means even as your mind whirs, gears turning, turning; plummeting into a tailspin, making excuses as it falls, dragging your heart down alongside it. An area code. Some special date. An inside joke. 

But you've seen the marking around town before. Heard whispers about them from your brother, his friends. 141, they say, and then: mafia. 

The real deal, he said, puffing around a joint his friend rolled. It's too tight. He scoffs, and rips it out from between his lips. Shitty roll, man, make another one—

Mob. Mafia. Gangsters. It seemed so extreme, Hollywood. Fiction, fantasy, all rolled into one. Tony Soprano. Ralph Cifaretto. Michael and Vito Corleone. Tony Montana. Larger-than-life men created on paper. 

You think your brother thought so too. Child's play. Grown men selling weed to kids for two hundred an ounce. Buying themselves sleek, black cars—G Wagons, Escalades, Cullinans—on the Xanax they sell at clubs, parties. Cocaine. Heroin. 

Nothing to worry about. 

Then his friend went missing. 

Sent out on a routine delivery to drop off cocaine to well-dressed men in suits outside of a local butcher shop. A normal, nondescript Tuesday. 

But he wouldn't answer his phone. Texts were being delivered, read, but no chat bubble appeared. Nothing sent back. Calls went straight to voicemail. He wasn't at home. Wasn't at his mum's. No one saw him. Heard from him. 

Your brother didn't call the police. Didn't report him as missing. 

It's just not what they do, he said. You don't involve them. Ever. 

The most shocking part of it was that no one saw anything. He just vanished. Disappeared—stock an’ all, your brother angrily spits—without a trace, picked up off the streets. 

If it was the police, someone would have said something by now. They're hardly discreet. And a rival—

Well.

The biggest problem was that your brother was blindsided by his own small-time success. An accumulation of little wins bolstered his confidence. Overfed his ego. This fallout was tunnel vision. A refusal to see the bigger picture. 

Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon. 

You'd heard of the 141 in passing. Little quips, anecdotes from the passel of friends that congregated around your brother—often getting high on the couch and watching old cartoons; sharing a joint back and forth between gossip. 

Through rheumy eyes, they'd talk about the real gangsters in town—much to the irritation of your brother—and swap tales of run-ins and feats they heard from a friend (of a friend, of a friend). Most of the guys were known already. Soap and Gaz are the biggest names that cropped up on the streets through reputation alone. Both fighters for a gym. MMA, mostly, but whispers of street fighting and extracurricular activities weren't uncommon. 

Liked the thrill of it, they said. But the worst was a man simply known as the Ghost. An enforcer for the 141—a fucking butcher, more like, Liam cut in, jaundiced eyes widening—the guy who took care of problems. 

“Can't be,” your brother scoffed, lifting off the couch to reach in his back pocket for his wallet. A small anthill of white powder poured into the glass table. “They don't get involved in our shit—”

And for the most part, you're sure that's true. Dealing to the same circle of people—outreach spread through word of mouth—seemed paltry in comparison to the scale of an operation that had a money laundering gym. But the problem was that your brother lacked common sense. His ego often got in the way of foresight. The shadow greed casts blocking out the bigger picture. 

Like—

Territory is territory—regardless of what's being pushed. 

You wish there was a modicum of surprise when his friend turned up. Barely recognizable. Sent right to the morgue as a John Doe. 

Most would see the marks on the man's skin—the distinct lack of blood—as an indicator to abandon ship, find the boss, beg for forgiveness, and maybe even try to strike up a deal. But—

That picture is hidden under his anger. Greed. Selfishness. 

He sends you instead. 

You're somethin’ they ain't expectin’, he said. Won't mess with you.

Right. 

He catches the realisation dripping down your brow—beads of sweat gathering at your hairline; anxiety, fear, churning your stomach—and hums. Cocks his head to the side. 

“Was expectin’ ‘im t’show up, though—” he murmurs, hand tightening around your arm. The pressure, the sting, is eclipsed by the gnawing sense of dread biting viciously into you. “Told ‘im if I caught ‘im sellin’ on our streets again, there'd be trouble. Thought we ‘ad an agreement after ‘is friend. But—”

His eyes cut to yours. It feels like a knife to your guts, sinking into soft tissue. A pain you can't breathe around. 

Won't mess with you, you think, and then viciously—sadly—he knew. Was warned by them and still sent you out. Let you take his place for whatever comeuppance they decided he deserved. 

It should shock you. You almost wish it did. Desperately clinging to the threads of surprise that slip through your oily fingers, grasping onto the nothing but empty air. Numbed to the resignation that trickles in. 

Of course he would leave you here to save himself. Letting you fend off whatever they threw at you alone. Leaving you trapped between a brick wall and a wall of a man. 

The excuses are there. They pool on the tip of your tongue—it isn't me, don't do this, it's my (stupid, selfish) brother you want, not me—but you swallow them down and try not to wince at how quickly they dissipate when you do. It doesn't matter in the end because whatever you have to say won't negate the drugs in your backpack. The empty house you'll lead them to—your brother probably squirrelled away somewhere until this blows over. Half-hopeful you'd call him and say everything is fine, the deal went smoothly. You're on your way back. Or that the debt he racked up with them is settled by you. 

It's half-hearted when it slips out again, caught between resignation and dread. A brittle whisper. A prayer—

“I can pay you. Whatever he owes, I can—”

He's already shaking his head. 

“Too late for that, birdie. ‘sides, I don't want your money.”

He moves back, rocking on his heels to put a small measure of distance between your bodies. In that scant space, he drops his gaze, sweeping it over you. His eyes darken.

When he pivots them down, catching yours, you can't stop the shiver that crawls up your spine. 

That calculative gleam is back. 

“But I think we can work something else out.”

Something else turns out to be ushering you into the backseat of an old Ford pickup. 

The door whines when he opens it. Rust flaking off, falling to the ground by your feet. Your mind reels. Spins comparisons to falling snow, dried blood. 

He hauls you in with his hand wrapped around the nape of your neck, thick thigh sliding between your own to boost you up. The protest—a mindless, reactionary squeal at being manhandled—only makes him chuff. A brief flex of his fingers around the skin of your neck is the only warning he gives before it pulls away, and wraps tight around your waist. His thigh flexes, muscle drawing taut as he shifts his foot up to the running board, lifting your feet off the ground and seating you fully on his leg like a child.

(In his hands, you feel like one, too.)

The motion makes you slip, back glueing along his broad chest with a shallow thump. You feel the rumble of his laugh trembling up your spine before you hear it. 

“Careful,” he drawls, oiled with amusement. “Might slip.”

Anything you could say in response is choked back when he bumps the corded steel of his thigh into the seam of your legs, pushing tight to your clothed cunt. His intention is unmistakable this time. Unignorable. And with the rasp of filtered, balmy air against your crown; the pull of a groan when you rock back into his groin, the noise still slicked with mirth, you feel a knot of dread spool tight in your belly. 

Something else is dragged back to the forefront, coiling like wisps of smoke around you. 

And you knew. It's shocking, you think, but not necessarily a surprise. To call it a dichotomy would be lying to yourself, and so, you settle against it. This notion that what he wants—wanted—is flesh. Not money. Not retribution. 

Not to talk things out like you'd hoped he’d try (grabbing onto the idealistic thread, holding it tight to your chest); bringing you in and forcing you to convince your—stupid selfish greedy—older brother that quitting was the only option. Dangling you—baby sister—over his head in an appeal to his emotions. Familial bonds. Love. 

That thread is cut. Snipped. 

Probably severed when they first came to him with an offer. No strikes against him and yet—

The idea of using you to make him bend was expunged from the drawing board. It's not even a plan b, or c, or z. 

And—

You knew. Have known. Maybe that's why it's so easy to swallow around the panic when it lances through your chest, climbs up your throat. You can think and feel and breathe around this dagger in your back like it was there the whole time and you've only just noticed it now. 

Nothing but a small, whispered oh in the roiling polyphony of your emotions. 

It sits there as he manuevers you into the passenger seat of his truck, your head spinning around the indescribable sensation of being woefully cognisant despite the paralysing fugue pressing against the bubble of stark awareness that keeps it at bay. It manifests itself as a numbed sort of shock. Or more accurately—

Indifference. 

Defeat. 

His hand brushes your cheek, the snag of dry leather against humid skin tugs uncomfortably at your flesh, stinging as they dance down to your jaw, the delicate line of your vulnerable throat, skimming over the curve of your breast—

And it's too much. Too present. Too real. 

Autopilot. Dissociation. Derealisation. All of these concepts slip past the bubble of hypervigilance, skidding the surface like a pebble thrown over a lake. Out of reach as he unashamedly gropes you, barely making an effort to mask his actions as just buckling you in. 

You pretend, though. Curl your fists around the sides of the seat, fingers digging into the worn foam. Head lulling back on the headrest. Eyes fixed out the window as he walked around the front, head and shoulders still visible in the windshield despite the height of the truck. It makes your heart leap, stuttering in your chest as the absurdity of his size is brought back into focus. Too big, you think. Grossly so. 

There's a moment when you think about running. Toying with the idea of sliding your hand over the lock, pulling the door open when he's too busy on his side to notice. It'll give you an advantage—a head start. Enough time to slink through the dense forest of concrete buildings lining the industrial zone, and into somewhere safe. Help, a behemoth is chasing me—

But the door clicks. Swings open with a squeal of rusted metal just as your fingers twitch toward the handle. Hope evaporates with each lurch of the cab as he climbs inside, metal creaking under his weight when he settles in the seat. 

From the corner of your eye, you can see his head tip. Chin angling toward you. Staring. Assessing. 

When he speaks, you feel the words like cold fingers dancing maliciously down your spine. 

“‘pected you t’run.” 

It's said idly enough. Nonchalant. Tone even, if a little cruel, and you wonder if this is some test. One that you passed—and failed—in equal measure. 

He doesn't look away. It takes less effort than you wish it did to peel your lips apart, to breathe in the stale, mulch scent of the cab—something overgrown, rotting, and damp—and mumble:

Where would I go?

It seems to amuse him. He hums around a mouthful of mockery before turning away, pawing at the ignition. Gloved hand curling over the wheel. 

“Smart girl.”

You don't feel very smart. In fact, you feel very small. Stupid. Maybe you should have taken a stab at it—running. Tried, at least, to save your own life before the jaws of the beast closed over you like an iron bear trap around your ankle. Fought like hell. Clawed and kicked and screamed. 

When most kids read the back of a cereal box, you learned about secondary locations. You know better than this. 

But the truck sputters to life in a belly-deep rumble, hacking up soot into the air as he pulls the lever into DRIVE. The fight inside of you—however ephemeral it might have been—dies inside the smoke spilling out of his exhaust. Gone so quickly that you begin to wonder if it was even there at all—

Must be, you think, eyes listing outward. Keen. Mapping the twists and turns—a futile effort in the end: he doesn't bother hiding where he's taking you, and you've been down these old, grim streets more times than you can count. 

It doesn't surprise you much when he turns down the street leading to the butcher shop. An old relic that still carries the marks of a booming farming town before it fell victim to industrialisation. Concrete skyscrapers in place of lush cornfields. Warehouses over old barns, ranches. Cattle, meat, produce—it all used to be a mainstay here but now hides under layers of steel. 

The dark windows of the small shop gleam with hazy smears of neon blue, red, when you pull up, catching on the array of rowdy bars across the street. All clubs that belong to the 141. A playground of drugs, sex. More money than you'd ever see in your lifetime. 

It's an uncanny juxtaposition to the quiet, assuming street right across from it. Barber, butcher, accountant firm, antique store. All dark inside and bathed in the smeared stream of glimmering neon as lights flash in the fading glow of twilight. 

He pulls up to the curb in front of the shop. A bold move if the streets weren't so empty. Lifeless. The clubs won't be open for four more hours. Everything else follows the same nine to five as the rest of the world. The shops closed an hour ago, and everyone in town seems to know not to linger here after dark. 

The air seems to stagnate in your lungs when he cuts the ignition. Slips the key into his pocket. 

“Don't get any funny ideas in tha' pretty little ‘ead o’yours.” 

“Funny ideas,” you echo, toneless. Flat. It rolls out with your exhale. Words that might have been smarter to swallow down. “Like following a stranger to a butcher shop?” 

“Lippy little thing, ain't you?” He scoffs. The truck creaks when he shifts. “Ain't go’ no one t’blame but yourself. Told you what would ‘appen if you kept sellin’ in our territory. You should ‘ave known better.”

“That was my brother.” The words slip out before you can stop them. “Not me—”

“‘ow am I suppose t’know that? You were sellin’ where I told ‘im not to—” he has the gall to shrug. Spit these careless words at you like it wasn't life or death. “That's all there is to it, birdie.”

“That's not fair—”

The truck groans under his weight, shaking from side to side as he leans over to push his door open before turning back to you, rolling his eyes. 

“Life ain't very fair, is it?” 

The acerbic words are flicked out from between his teeth; an apathetic, droning curl clinging to each syllable. He doesn't care. Won't. What happens to you next is your choice, and yours alone. 

And he's just doing his job—

“When I get out of ‘ere, you ain't gonna do anythin’ funny—”  

His hand lashes out. Gloved fingers close over the thick of your throat in a blink. Fear lags by a beat, giving him enough time to sink his fingers over your neck, and when it catches up—heart rabbiting in your chest, thudding in your ears; roaring as your pulse thunders beneath the press of his thumb—he’s already got you in his hold. The width forces your chin to lift, stretching up to accommodate the curl of his hand around you. 

Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter. 

He tilts his head down, keeping his eyes on yours as he forces your crown into the headrest, chin lifted up. It's uncomfortable. The curve of your neck cuts off your airways. Constricts your breathing to shallow gasps. An ache grows in your nape. 

The swell of panic, fear, in your eyes makes him hum. But there's nothing echoing back. An absence of light in the deep, placid pits. It looks like still water. A stagnant lake. 

It's unnerving how dispassionately expressive his eyes are. Wild, wild. Vats of ink. Pools of obsidian. Ringed in red-lined ivory. Long, ashen lashes dusting over the smears of charcoal under his eyes. Sleepless nights, maybe. Fatigue. The corners are tattooed with coal, leaving behind a thumbprint in the crease. 

But empty. Barren. No light.

Like black holes. Eating everything around it. Devouring all that gets too close, but giving nothing in return except a bottomless crater in the bruised-plum nebulous of space around it. 

You're not sure you like it. You can't look away. 

But in staring back so hard (getting pulled in deeper and deeper), you catch the twitch in his left eye. A shallow spasm. It throws off the symmetry when he blinks, one eye a sliver of a second behind. Desynchronized in a way that seems so—

Unlike him. 

Disjointed. 

You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous. 

His lid twitches again. Just once. Brief. Pale, pink eyelids drop, unveiling a nebula of indigo veins on the smooth, thin surface as they roll down to half-mast over his eyes, now narrowed slightly in contemplation. Thought. 

Whatever is happening in his head can't be good. It causes a ripple over the lake. Little rings rebound outwards. 

He looks away first. A quick slide of his eyes to the corners, glancing out of the passenger side window. Whatever catches his attention is unknown to you. The anchor on his hand around your throat keeps you still. Immovable.

(Every instinct in your body compels you not to look away from him because nothing outside could ever be scarier, more dangerous, than him.)

A second later, he breathes in through his nose. The fabric of his mask is pulled into his nostrils from the force, forming little black holes under the crooked arch. 

You hadn't really given much thought to his appearance outside of big, massive. But there's a strange asymmetry to the slopes and valleys beneath the balaclava. Trying to map his face, fill in the blanks with just black cloth and vague, lopsided outlines, is impossible. There are too many gaps. Too many missing pieces. You can only wonder, then, what he looks like under it. 

Monstrous, you hope. 

It's just a coincidence that he looks at you the moment the thought passes, but you flinch like a naughty child getting caught doing something you shouldn't when the heavy, dour weight of his impenetrable stare is levelled at you once more. Your heart stutters. It's loud in your ears. In the truck. 

You wonder if he can hear it just as loudly as you do—

Another blink, and his gaze flickers down, settling on the gap between your lips, watching the little tremble they make with each shallow hiccup of air you greedily suck in. His head tilts to the side, eyes never leaving your mouth even as he leans down, masked lips brushing over the beading sweat gathering on your hairline. 

It's a brief touch. A taste. You tremble when he pulls back, fingers tightening around your flesh. 

His eyes are lavascapes.  

“Are you, birdie?” 

You almost forget what he's asking. The conversation hidden between the scant beats it took for him to measure your worth with the blistering intensity of his stare, and the tumult of your feelings still looping around each other in your belly. Knotting up tight into a ball. There's fear, of course there is. 

But the rest—

You'd rather not think about. 

The grip on your throat eases just enough for you to shake your head no to whatever he is asking. Doing anything funny, you think, scrambling at the tangle of memories flipping past, trying to connect the pieces to a puzzle you've already forgotten. 

It must be the right response. Or maybe it's another question like before, a test where there’s no right answer. 

Run, stay. 

Smart and stupid. 

But it seems to appease him—marginally. His eyes crease. Tightening. His other hand folds over your throat, sliding until his palms kiss the sides of your neck in a near-perfect symmetry. 

Something frissons across the blank, placid lake of his expression. Another ripple. A shudder. He leans in for a moment, nose touching the apple of your cheek, and when he breathes in, it’s sharp, reedy. Cold air ghosts over your skin. Long, pale lashes flutter when you swallow. 

He hums quietly under his breath before peeling back. The flatness to his gaze is back; a cold, impenetrable distance widening like a chasm as he uncoils around you. You almost fall for this—this indifference. An icy nonchalance. But you've been eating the minuscule quirks of him just as ravenously as he's been devouring yours. 

There is something there. A fracture, maybe. A splinter. 

But what leaks through from the other side isn't anything close to warmth. It's—

Hunger. 

The shift in your throat draws his molten gaze to your neck, still wrapped tight in his firm grip. Your reflection blooms in the vat of black; eyes wide, all white. Pupils narrowed to a pinprick. Mouth slack, corners tugging downward from the pressure of his hand. The tilt of your head. His thumbs press under your chin, pushing you back further until it feels like your neck might break—

He stops. Shifts. You puff out a shallow breath. 

What looks back at you is unremarkable in the murk. A sliver of fear. A slip of unease.

Eye of the beholder, you think when his breath chuffs out shallowly through the mask. When that hunger is ground down to a raw, esoteric fissure hairlining the black of his eyes. The widening expanse of his pupil. 

You wonder if it's your fear that itches under his skin, dredging up something predatory in his hindbrain. The urge to chase. To bite. 

But the nearly indiscernible flicker of his gaze has you brushing that idea aside when it snags on the expanse of his hand coiled around your throat. Easily swallowing it whole with just his palms. 

You're not a small thing, but the indomitable size of him makes you feel insignificant. 

You think he feels it, too. 

His fingers flex over your nape, stretching. Pulling. It pushes the flat of his palm into your throat, ridges crushed against your trachea. But you can still breathe. It's shallow. Hoarse. A touch painful. Dizzying in a way that makes you feel like you're on a rollercoaster. A teacup ride that just spins and spins and spins—

The gap closes. A sliver of air snakes down your throat. Muscles flexing, shifting. Struggling to swallow around the pinch of his hand. A harrowing task when you feel the gloved fingers link to the first, then the second knuckle, tying together in a too-tight, impossible, noose around your neck. Thumbs overlap. Fingers slide into place. It forms a chain of his hands with no gaps between them. Not a single sliver of skin shows from under the leather of his gloves. 

He makes a sound when they meet—a nasal groan in the back of his throat, mouth clenched shut so the air has no choice but to tear through his nose. It's raw. Fractured. The devastating moan of a tiger nuzzling at its meal. 

Your vision blurs. A black fog presses into the edges, seeping over the arch of your peripherals. Dripping down slowly over the hazy smear of the man. The way the ochre sun peeks over the angular roof of the accountant's office illuminates his back and casts swaths of shadows over his front. Drenching him in murk. 

Despite the flickering darkness shuttering over your sight, you don't blink. Even as the tears prickle at your eyes, they stay open. Fixed on him. Black holes, you think, watching as the fever marbling those obsidian pools recedes. Cools. 

He makes that noise again. Softer this time. A purr from deep in his chest. A breath. And then he peels back. His hands go slack. His shoulders slumping back into the lax, easy spread from before as you gasp hard, nearly choking on the flood of air that roars down your throat. 

Your cheeks feel hot for a moment, and then cold. Icy. You don't have to touch them to know that you're crying. That the deluge clinging to your lashline spilt over, dripping messily to the collar of your shirt. 

The placid lake is back. In the stillness, you heave. Mouth hanging open, chin quivering. His thumb lifts, slides over the curve of your chin. You don't feel it. Numbed, maybe, by the brief kiss of hypoxia. But you see it. Watch as he slides it up to the jut of your lower lip, the black, angular tip tickling over your skin. He follows the seam between skin and lip, tracing it to the corner of your mouth. It's slick. Drool pools in the crease, dribbles over the top of his finger. His eyes drop when he mops it up, catching it on the pad. 

He makes another noise. An arid rasp bubbling between the soft tissue behind the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue. It's ugly. The shiver you try to fight back slinks through. 

His hand peels away from your neck, movements lax. Slow. The unwinding gait of an idling tiger in no real rush, no hurry, because there's nothing in the frigid Arctic that can touch him. 

You watch him with flared eyes as he brings his thumb to his clothed mouth, and rubs your spit into the fabric of his mask. 

His eyes don't break away from yours once. 

Your spit doesn't stand out against the black of balaclava, but the idea of it burns through you. Throwing you headfirst into a dazed stupor. Dizzy. Confused. 

Satisfied with whatever it was supposed to mean, he clambers out of the truck before coming around to your side. Distantly, you're sure this is what he meant by funny ideas when he passes the headlight, head straight and eyes gliding around the empty street. An opening to run. You know where you are. It would be easy to flee. Hide in the construction zone just ahead, tucking yourself into the tightest corner you can find until help arrives. 

Help, though. 

Officer, please. I got caught selling meth in the mob's territory and now they're going to skin me alive. Please hurry—

Right. 

They'd rather help bury your body than get in the way of the mafia. Gangland violence isn't their concern unless it tumbles out into the street. Fat wallets keep even the most compassionate person quiet. Willing to turn a blind eye. 

You'd be thrown in a cell. Or dropped off at their doorstep. 

Either way—

You won't be coming back alive. 

There's nothing to steel, harden, when he pulls the door open, your nerves long since ground down to fine powder. Nothing to fight against, either. He hauls you out of the truck, hands firm on your skin. Bursting blood vessels easily between his fingers. Barely any effort at all to crack your bones. 

The moment in the car seems miles away when he pulls you in front of him, hand curling over your nape. Any flicker of humanity rendered out when he pinches you tight and shoves you forward. Dragging you back to the butcher shop by the scruff of your neck, leading you down a narrow set of stairs to the basement where pale white carcasses hang from hooks on the ceiling. He laughs when you tense. When your heels dig into the brown-stained linoleum. 

Ain't gonna hang you, he mocks, fingers dipping punishingly into the sides of your neck. “Not yet, anyway—”

It brings little comfort when he drags you to a room in the back, kicking open the door with the toe of his boot before pushing you inside with a nudge against your nape. 

It's dark. Walls covered in stains; mould, mildew. Something you hope is just rust. A single mattress is shoved into the corner; sheets stained with sweat and grime. Tinged a pale brown. Two pillows sit at the top, lopsided and matted with use. Threadbare. A twisted, black heap of fabric sits at the bottom. Wisps of cotton poke out from the cigarette burns. 

A pair of muddy, black boots sit against the wall at the end of the bed. A basket of clothes—jeans, black shirts, black sweaters—is piled on the wall across from the door. 

The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes. 

You don't want to be here. The thought is abrupt. Immediate. Unease prickles along your nape, warmed and damp under his gloved palm. Between the look of the room—the floors stained the same suspicious brown, the rumpled bed in a corner—and the smell, you know this is not a place you want to stay. To be trapped inside with a man cut from Everest; whose hands are more dangerous than the sharp end of a knife. 

He must feel the tension brimming beneath your skin; the spark of adrenaline surging through your veins. The clamp of his hand on your nape digs in tighter. Holding firm. 

A breath tumbles out, thickening with mockery. “Like I said,” he leans down, pressing the mountainous width of his chest into your spine. The accentuation in your size difference, how big he is in comparison to you, makes you feel like prey. Small. Brittle, thin. He eats you whole. Spares nothing for later. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.” 

Another nudge and you're pushed further into the room. He leans away, foot shoving back on the door until it snaps shut with a noise that cuts through the gossamer that spun around you, bifurcating reality from dream. The haze is wafted away, and all that remains is a barren room with a lumpy mattress, the smeared stain of rotten blood coagulating on the floor, and his body boxing you in. No escape. 

The rumble of his chest shakes loose the cobwebs spooling across your thoughts. A brush of humid air ghosts along the line of your jaw, dampening the skin below your ear as he leans in close, too close, and purrs: 

“Go on now. Strip for me.” 

Each scrap of clothing you slowly roll off of your body is exchanged for a slip of information about him—who he is (Simon Riley, the name rumbled through the split between his teeth; a low, brassy purr as his eyes gleam in the dark, drilling into the expanse of skin unveiled to him)—and what he wants—

Nothing, he tells you, lifting one massive shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. Jus’ what's owed to me, pet. For stickin’ my neck out f’you. 

You don't think he did. Not really. But you're harshly reminded of the unsubtle threat. The gun balanced on his massive thigh. So wide, so big, it seems to make it look smaller in comparison. Tiny. A toy. 

Child's play. 

It's made worse, somehow, as he lounges. Sprawls out on the bed, legs spread, pulling taut on the jeans that stretch around the thickness of his upper thigh, bunching around his calves in a half-tuck inside his black boots. Arms flexing. Folded over his broad chest. He rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbow, showing off an impressive tapestry of harsh, faded black ink. Crisscrossing lines. All asymmetrical. Guns, barbed wire. A bullet with a wide, toothy grin—

All of it knits together; woven into a tangled mass of muscle. Of man, hidden under scar tissue. Rope burns on his wrists cut so deep that the skin is permanently dented in. More cigarette burns hidden inside the mess of ink. Jagged lines—from a knife, maybe; bullet wounds. 

His skin tells stories of a terrible life. Ink spills over the worst of them, but they're visible under the fading charcoal. A series of burns—acid, fire, chemical—and raw, torn skin. He looks like he's been mauled. Pressed into the cold metal of a wood chipper until chunks of flesh were taken out. But even with these deep gouges, craters of missing tissue, he's big. Bulky. Soft—like a tiger. Predatory muscle tucked away under a thick layer of fatty tissue. 

The pillowed pouch of his belly, the softness around his biceps—

It belies the danger underneath. The steel. 

But as scary as it is, it has nothing on his eyes. 

Glinting in the dim room. Dark pools of obsidian that follow each movement with an almost clinical keenness. Sharpened to a razor's edge. 

They might be pretty, you think, if they weren't so intense. So liquid. His eyes gleam like wet ink, languidly rolling along his lashline as you clumsily shed your jacket, your blouse. Shoes, socks. Pants. Until you're in nothing but your panties.

Swallowing around the influx of panic that flutters like little birds beating their wings against the soft walls of your throat, you slip your fingers into the hem, now or never, and—

And you hesitate. 

There's a difference between undressing willingly and doing so to save your life. It should spurn you on—survive, survive, survive—but you freeze at the apex. The summit is within reach. 

You know what happens when you climb it. Cross over the invisible threshold. 

What you've been trying to ignore this whole time, ever since he shoved you into the room with a huff, taking his perch on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, but in such a terrifying state of vulnerability, nearly nude, you can't any longer. Can't avert your gaze to the stained linoleum in a thinly veiled effort to keep from glancing at the thickening bulge lying prone against his thigh. 

His—

Well. 

You knew what he wanted when he grabbed your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pursed, puckered for him to run his finger along the inseam. Prying your teeth apart. Rubbing his finger over your tongue, eyes dark—full; black holes pulling, tugging you in, dragging you closer to the event horizon framed in a ring of arsenic—and locked on to the sight of his gloved knuckle disappearing into your mouth. Wanting. Hungry. 

You knew. And now—

Committing to it is legions above what you’re mentally prepared for. Nausea brims, churns your stomach. Unease curdling inside of you like rotten milk. 

You don’t want this. But you don’t have a choice, do you?

That notion, the idea, prickles along your nape, raising the fine, peach-fuzz there until it stands on end. 

You freeze. Movements still as every muscle in your body tenses. Coils. You can't do it. Can't—

A huff is dragged out of his chest as he sits up, knocking the gun carelessly to the mattress. His eyes daggering, sharpening into needlepoints, as he stares at you. 

“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?” 

A grunt and he’s up. Pulling himself to his feet with nothing but the flex of his abdominal muscles. 

There's no reprieve. Not a moment graced to gather your bearings before he crosses the distance between you. Once a comfort, a chasm, now conquered in a single stride.  

The tips of his gloves are cold when they brush over your skin, sliding down the slope of your waist until they meet the hem of your panties. The last piece of modesty you have—

But he doesn't wait.

You're aware that this isn't a non-consensual thriller where the lead looms over the hapless love interest, eyes blazing with passion and need. That each interaction is drenched in a thick, palpable tension tethering the two together. Urges coalescing. Threads pulling taut, magnetic, dragging them closer and closer to the brink until they tumble over. 

This is reality. And he doesn't stare into your eyes with an all-consuming desire as he slowly removes that last scrap of fabric keeping him from devouring you. No. 

His skin-warmed fingers push under the elastic band with a rough shove, curling into the fabric until it tightens across your pelvis and thighs, and then he huffs, annoyed, and pulls. Pulls—

Until something gives. 

The lace yields to the tension in his flexing bicep, and scrapes over your skin as it rips apart in his hand, threads snapping. Popping. 

It hurts. Stings. You hiss, but the noise is ignored when he peels the ruined scrap of fabric from your legs, shoving it into his back pocket with a grunt of satisfaction. He looks back to you, eyes rippling like the dark, ink-black surface of a lake during nightfall, and coos, mocking and mean—

“Not s’hard, was it?”

He leans closer to you, a hand skimming up your spine before his fingers curl around your nape, keeping you still for just a breath before he pulls you into him with too much force. Your hands lift, palms slapping against his thick stomach when the movement nearly topples you over and threatens to break your nose on his chest.

“Makin’ me do all the work when y’supposed t’be payin’ me back? Ain't very nice o’you, is it?”

He touches you like he's taking stock of your worth. Grabbing a heavy, rough palmful of your beast in his hand, squeezing. Testing the weight, the softness, how supple you were between his fingers like he might with a piece of fruit. Meat. Prodding into the flesh, feeling the ripeness there. Gauging whether or not it was a piece he wanted to keep. 

It's demeaning. Humiliating. He treats you like cattle; presses into the elasticity of your muscle, examines every inch of your skin for blemishes. Scouring for imperfections. There's no softness in the way he grabs handfuls of your body—squeezing your breasts, pushing them together, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger; pinching your belly, your sides, your waist; curling his fingers under your thigh, lifting it until it hitches over his waist, cunt exposed and pressed tight to the bulge trapped in his jeans. Your ass is handled rougher than the rest. Each cheek sitting in a hand, squeezed and punched and spread embarrassingly wide. 

He ruts into you as he does it. Pushes the thick, fat length of him into your belly, rolling his hips against you with a heavy, ragged puff of air. 

He feels big. 

Everywhere, of course—it’s not so much his height, but the absurd width of him that really digs into your hindbrain, crossing all those intricate wires until they're tangled up, knotted together. Seeing his thigh, the same scale as a tree truck, slotting between yours—a mere branch by comparison—makes your belly flop. Turn over itself.

The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.

He could crush your head between them like a bear pushing its paw down on a watermelon. 

It's fear and heat. 

The two work in tandem, forming a seamless cohesion, as they flit down your spine, brimming up the urge to sink to your knees, the need to roll over and show your belly. A paradoxical desire to both run and be chased. 

You're not sure if he's tendering your meat to eat later or if this is the usual type of foreplay he engages in, but once satisfied you're softened up enough for him, he shoves his fingers between your thighs with an abrasive hum that reverberates through his belly, tickling your palms. 

“Tired o’waitin’,” is what he says when your head jerks up, eyes widening in shock. Terror. Horror. “Don't look so surprised,” he huffs, dryly. Voice a rough scrap over your cheek. “What'd y’think was gonna ‘appen?”

“Wait—” but he doesn't. 

His fingers twist, pushing through your folds to graze your clit. It isn't gentle. It's sudden, quick. You gasp more from shock than pleasure; the rough slide of leather feels strange on your flesh, and your head is too muddled to separate fear from bliss.  

Despite that, your body heats. Reacts to his touch. Your lower lip wobbles. You bite back another sound that crawls up your throat when his knuckle catches on your clit again, the pressure just shy of too much. 

The burn, the fever, melts the unease. Shallow gasps spill out. Your cunt clenches, fluttering around nothing—throbbing, growing sticky, slick; achy and empty—when he starts to glide his digit between your folds. Little sawing motions drag each groove and stitch of his gloves over your pebbled clit, each thrust of his hand between your thighs making heat pool between your hips. It's done so clinically, so detached, like his hand rubbing over your leaking pussy was nothing to him. An action to get done, a task to complete. 

It's the shame of that, the embarrassment, that makes you want to weep. Your fingers dig into his chest, nails pulling uncomfortably on the pleated bumps of his jacket as you grip the fabric right between your fists, clinging to him like a newborn fawn—all wet-nosed, teary-eyed; knobbly knees threatening to buck. 

“S–stop—” you mewl when the monotonous rhythm melts into something harder, more intense. Heart thudding in your chest, heat burning you up as he turns his hand, palm up, between your sticky, shaking thighs. He rubs his hand back and forth, curling his middle finger up when he passes your hole, tip pushing against your leaking rim. 

The friction aches. The stretch stings. The leather feels strange, foreign when it pries your folds apart and dips inside of you. 

You don't like it. It's too much—

He makes a sound—a tut—when you pull away from him, standing on the tips of your toes until the blunt curve of his finger slides out of you. He sucks his teeth in a mockery of disappointment before digging his fingers, hard, into the sides of your neck. A warning. You whine. Whimper—

It goes unheeded. And when you press your thighs tight together, shivering at the slip-slide of your skin rubbing against each other, he growls. The noise is inhuman. Animalistic. 

Your act of deviance comes with a swift, bruising punishment. 

His fingers tighten on your neck once again. A warning squeeze as he reaches down with his other hand, grabbing your hip. It keeps you still, immobile, as he bullies his boot between your feet, kicking your legs apart. You're not expecting it. When you stumble, he huffs in amusement. Can't hold yourself up? Want me that bad, huh? Needy fuckin' thing, ain't you?

You don't get a chance to respond. His palm splays wide over your hip, leather creaking as he flexes, stretching his fingers out, tapping some soundless beat out against your skin. Touching you like he's owed the privilege. The right. And in many ways—

Go’ a problem, you an’ I

—he does. 

Brute strength, and an unmatched, almost laughable, dearth in your physicality ensures that he has the upper hand—even without the gun he left on the mattress; darker and flat, a full matte compared to what you were expecting. 

(They're always so shiny in movies, aren't they?)

The threat of it—dull as it might be—roots you to the spot as he slides his hand down, thumb brushing over your belly button, dipping in; pressing until your stomach starts to ache—

It peels away when the whine wells up, sloping down, down. Teases your mound with the tips of his fingers, gentle swipes along the sensitive seam of your belly and pelvis, the sensation is an odd tickle that pulls at your navel, pulses at the apex of your thighs. You mewl—a slow, soft thing that barely makes it out from between your teeth—and he lets his hand drop. Palm flat against the soft flesh of your mons, fingers reaching, spreading, until they curl over your folds. Index and ring finger tucked tight into the hollow bend of your pelvis and thigh. The tip of his middle rubs gentle strokes over the skin above your clit. It's a whisper of pleasure. The idea of a touch. 

Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—

“Needy.” 

It cows you. Douses you in icy shame. There's barely any mockery in his even, observant tone, but you feel it unfurl over your shoulders all the same. 

He doesn't give you a moment to think, to let the ripples of humiliation take over, forcing you to pull away, hide. His fingers trail over your hood, the pebble of your clit. The sensation, the cool undertone in the leather of his glove, is unlike anything you'd felt before. The thick stitches in the fabric catch on your flesh, nerve endings flaring in pleasure. Heat blooms in your belly. 

It feels good. 

You gasp, head tipping back. His hand winds around your waist when your knees buckle, catching you with a rasping huff—

“Feelin’ good, ain't you?” He pulls you tight to his chest, finger rubbing circles around your throbbing clit. Your cunt clenches, empty, and you whine, needing something more. Something to fill the ache inside of you—

His finger slips. Slides easily between your folds, parting your lips around the thick of him until he reaches your drenched hole. The sounds it makes when he taps his finger against your fluttering core makes your toes curl. Has heat blistering over your cheeks, down the slope of your neck. 

It makes him groan. The low growl makes you throb, clenching in needy little pulls, pulses, as his finger dips into the slick dripping out of you. 

“Suckin’ me in,” he grunts, and pushes his finger inside, thrusting up to the last knuckle. Palm tapping against your folds as his index and ring finger close to give him more room to sink deeper into you. The messy, slick squelch is loud, rolling over the mewling gasps that tumble from your lips. 

Heat floods your belly at the belly-deep groans he lets out when you squeeze around him. 

“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—” 

He leans down, knocking his forehead against the side of your face. It's more intimate than you were expecting. Jarring. The proximity plays a twisted game inside your head—the urge to run, to roll over coalescing into a paralyzing tailspin. Rooting you to the ground when the warm, damp knit of his mask grazes your cheek. 

The intimacy of his head on yours is eclipsed when you can feel the shape of his mouth through the fabric. 

It's softer than you expected. A plush, fleshy give when he presses his lips against your skin. And—

A gap.

On the side of his mouth, there's a gouge. A pockmark. You feel the gap, the absence, of his flesh when he rolls it over your cheekbone. You try to read the asymmetry of his face—mapping all of these misshapen parts; his mauled lips, the crooked nose that digs into your skin and leaves behind a tacky smear of condescension when he breathes out through his nostrils in a heavy puff of air—and convince yourself that you're doing it so you can bring these patchwork pieces to the police later. 

Survival, you think, your head tilting back as he noses down your neck, tickling along your skin. 

(And when your cunt flutters around the rough, thick drag of his finger petting along your walls, you add: a bodily reaction. That's all it is.)

He takes another lungful of your scent before he rocks back on his heels, pulling away from you. Straightening up. Looming above you once more. 

“Now—”

He pulls his finger out of you slowly and you try not to whimper at the empty feeling that brims up. The way your hips rock toward him, seeking and eager. Wanting.

Needy, just like he said. 

Just a bodily reaction—

He holds his hand up to the dim light flickering over his head, fingers spreading apart as he takes in the glossy shine of his middle finger. 

The gleam of it makes your ears feel hot. Shame pools in your belly as he makes another noise—a groan, deep and low, in the back of his throat. Eyes darkening as his pupils bloom, eclipsing his irises in an endless pool of black. They flicker toward you, listing half-mast in a way to leonine, so predatory, that it shudders through your bones. Run, run—

His hand flexes around your waist when you twitch. A warning. A threat. You tremble when he leans in, masked lips brushing over your cheek once more. Breath ghosting through the fabric, tickling the inside of your ear. 

He smells of war. Of fire and brimstone. Napalm and nitroglycerine. You want to close your eyes, look away, but you can't. His proximity alone roots you to the spot. Turns you into a prey animal, frozen on instinct alone as he prowls around, creeping closer. Maw stretching wide, drooling dripping off razor-sharp canines—

“Let's see if y’worth all the trouble.” 

—and he bites.

Knocks his palm into your sternum, roughly shoving you down on the mattress.

His hands fall to the button of his jeans. “Ready?” He asks, but doesn't seem to care about your answer. Opts, instead, to fall to his knee beside you. It pulls on his zipper, tugs it all the way down with a sharp, metallic sound that cuts through the stagnant air as each ring of teeth is pried apart. 

You can't help it. You look. Dragged there by something primal, magnetic—the morbid curiosity to see the monster for yourself as it tries to take a bite. 

And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't. 

The spread of pale skin, dark curls jutting out from the split of his jeans, makes everything feel more real, and moving fast. Whiplash quick. Happening in a blink:

The shift of fabric as he pulls the mask up over his lips, letting rest on the crooked bridge of his nose. A flash of his mouth, mangled. Mauled. Full of ugly, pale pink scars. A gap where tissue once knit his upper lip together. The bite of crooked teeth as he brings the sticky, wet tip of his glove to his mouth, sinking in. Pulling. Tugging. The roll of skin—a rose, a gun, a skull—all encased in barbed wire; thick rivers of blue-green veins. 

Another pull and it's free. Dangling between his teeth for a moment as he reaches up and shoves the jacket off his shoulders. Rolling and thick. Wide. A broad chest. Soft belly. There's an inch of flesh around the expanse of him—biceps, thighs, calves, chest, stomach, shoulders—but it's a buffer for the corded, streamlined muscle beneath. A layer of fatty tissue. 

Like a tiger, hiding its dizzying musculature beneath a thick, loose pelt. 

When he moves, it flexes. His shoulders roll; muscles bunching together, pulling taut under soft skin. The jacket slides off. Falls to the ground behind the mattress. Forgotten, discarded. The glove is next to go. Dropping from between his teeth, landing just beside your ankle with a muted thud. 

He follows after it. Ink spilling over his lashline as his eyes drop, staring at the roll of his skin tucked on the outside of your thigh. Trailing up to your knee. Your hip. The split of your cunt beneath your other leg; knee tucked to your chest. 

A flash of something, a flicker, is the only warning you get before the back of his hand is nudging the glove off of your skin, replacing it with the rough, calloused grip of his palm. 

You jerk at his touch, flinching back—

He's intimidating above you like this. Leaning back on his haunches but still as tall as you are standing up. The sheer absurdity of his height—his width—is dizzying. Gives you vertigo when you look up. 

His throat shifts when you move. A swallow. Coarse stubble grows down the column of his neck, dusting over his lower jaw, chin. The rest is swallowed by the balaclava bunched around his crooked nose. 

He's not—

He's not handsome. 

A smattering of crisscrossing scars, burns, skin pocked and gouged out in deep pockets along his flesh—the slide of a knife carving away at him, you think; digging down to his marrow—all take away from any sense of modern attractiveness you might feel for him with his broad, jagged nose and full lips. 

But there's something rugged about him. Untamed. Wild. Appealing in a dangerous way. 

You don't know if you would have let this happen under different circumstances. If this minacious beauty of his would have worked on you enough to want it outside of this awful, almost unfathomable trade. 

He's too big. Wouldn't even fit inside of your house—

The graze of his thumb on your angle knocks the thought loose, and you're dragged back to the heat of his hand. Rough and coarse; palms slightly damp from the glove. It tugs on your flesh as he draws it up, a rubbery sort of pain as it catches on the soft, dry skin of your ankle. Your shin. 

He follows behind a second later, pulling himself into the mattress with a huff, knees shuffling forward as he crawls over you. The jostling rocks your body. Makes your breasts shake as he lumbers on the bed, hand still sliding up, up, until his fingers curl over the bend of your knee. 

The bed dips under his weight. Your body sagging, rolling into the divot beneath his knees. Tucked under him. Loomed over. He stares down at you through the cutout of his mask, eyes liquid in the gloam. Pools of melting, dripping obsidian. Black holes. Event horizon—

You look away before it drags you in. Submissive. Softened under the harsh burn of his flat, wide stare. He chuffs when your nose brushes over the thin skin of his wrist, mouth sliding over the thick, pulsing vein stretching down from his inner arm and curling into the bend of his hand. Your lips purse, and he makes that noise again. 

Quietly amused, and—

He shuffles forward until the backs of your thighs are pulled over his, spread out on his lap. Bare. Open to him. 

And he looks. 

And looks. 

Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—

The notion is wrenched out of your head when he shifts his weight. Watches the folds of your pussy open for him as he pulls your knees wider apart, head dropping between his massive shoulders, gaze drilling into the split of your thighs. Gasping at the sting, the sudden stretch, does little to deter him from shoving your leg down until the outside of your knee touches the bed. Muscles straining. Pinching. It hurts; hipbones twinging in agony. 

But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain. 

You're spread open under him. Bare. Legs tangled around his waist, stretched wide around the width of him. Ankles knocking into the hard plains of his lower back each time he shifts. 

“Fuckin’ hell—” he grunts. Snarls. The word ripped up from the back of his throat, forced through the twisting channels of his nose. Nasal and ugly when it scrapes out between his teeth. “Gonna ruin this pretty pussy, birdie.”

It's a threat. A promise. You twist, mouthing your protests into the warm skin of his wrist. 

There's something about his voice—that airy, brassy tone—that strikes a chord deep inside you. Makes heat pool between your thighs, leaking out in a syrupy mess—

His hand peels away from your knee, sliding down your sticky, damp inner thigh until his knuckles graze the sensitive slip of skin sitting between your outer lip and hip. That ticklish, belly-fluttering sensation blooms in your groin as he rubs his scarred knuckles over the crease, catching the slick gathered there on his thick, meaty thumb. 

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he groans, shifting his fingers until they cover the whole of your cunt, cradling you in his hand. He holds you like that for a beat, eyes locked on the way you're swallowed up by the broad stretch of his palm. 

The rough drag of his skin over your folds feels good. An all-encompassing heat spreads over your tender flesh from the curve of your ass to the bump of your mons where his middle finger rests, almost touching the strip of skin between your loins and your belly. Held in his grasp. Cradled in his palm. 

Your thighs twitch. A shallow jerk as your knees try to bend over his hand, but you can't. With his thumb and pinkie tucking into each crease between your outer lip and leg, it keeps you from closing your legs. Hinged by the wide, flat cup of his palm. 

And it shouldn't bludgeon through you the way it does. All heat. All want. Need. A growing ache you can't think around. 

(bodily reaction, you think even as the image of his hand—big with thick fingers, scarred knuckles; streaks of faded, ashy ink etched into milky, veined skin—laying over your pussy, swallowing it whole, sears into your mind—)

“Can feel your little cunt,” he grunts, feeling the pulse, the little throbbing pulls of your muscles as they twitch at the sight. The feeling. Clenching down around nothing. “Greedy little thing, ain't you, birdie?”

Anger paints his words as he rasps them out. A teeth gnashing, jaw clenching frustration that needles into the scorn, the fury, forced out between the tight seam of his crooked teeth. 

You don't understand it. Can't, maybe. 

But it's tucked away as quickly as it appeared, shifting into an ugly, mocking derision. Dry. Acerbic. His teeth flash, lip pulling upward in a sneer—a snarl—before he hums, sliding his hand down. The drag of his damp, rough fingers over your swollen folds has your knees falling open wider around his thick thighs, baring yourself willingly to him. 

Want it bad, don't you? He mocks, and the sound of his voice alone has your pussy clenching tight, belly fluttering around the abrasive scrape of his tone. Brassy and full. Gritty. You whine, hips inching up—

His hand peels off of your slit. The rush of cold air drags another whimper out of you, hips pushing up to chase the heady, molten feeling of his skin on yours. And he's amused by it—a laugh echoes out, crackling in the hollow of his throat at your desperation—but you're too achy, too hot, to feel the simmer of humiliation nipping the apples of your cheeks. 

He's not even making a real effort to pleasure you, to make you feel good, and yet—

Your hips twitch toward him in needy, mewling cants; please sits on the tip of your tongue, cradled between your teeth. Slips out on a shaky, breathless gasp when he meets you on the next buck of your hips, palm slapping over your wet slit. 

The crack echoes through the room. Rough, dry skin on soaked flesh. 

And it shocks you more than it hurts. The sting is there, of course, but it's just an afterthought to astonishment. An eye-widening disbelief masking the way your cunt smarts, throbbing from the slap. Nerves muffled behind the burn in your eyes, the searing heat pooling in your sinuses. 

Wrenched open, unblinking as you stare up at him, your eyes begin to sting, to water. You blink, and feel something hot trickle down your cheek. A tear. His eyes snap to it. Pupils narrowing to a pinprick as he watches it slide down your face, little droplets clinging to your jaw. 

“Poor baby,” he mocks, tilting his head as he tracks the teardrop. “Better behave.” 

Behave. Like he's admonishing a child and not an adult. 

It morphs; rots. Becomes yet another thing you shouldn't feel feverish over. The slick, sticky feeling grows between your thighs as your cunt flutters at the humiliation of it all. 

And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—

(Punishment is affection in its own, special (awful) way and you've been aching for something just like it, haven't you—)

It's pushed down. Swallowed. And you know in the back of your head that if you keep eating these feelings, you're going to be sick. But you can't stop. Barely breathe around the idea of them sometimes—

“Tha’s’it,” he coos like he knows. Sees them bright and burning behind your irises. Little flickers of need, a smouldering want that you'll never grasp at yourself. 

So he gives it to you. 

The rough slide of his hand, all scarred and dry and calloused, scrapes over your slit once more. A full, flat stroke upward until your clit bumps into the ridge of his palm. Then down, down—

His fingers spread. Ring and index prying your folds apart as he pushes up once more, opening your seam to slip his middle finger through the slick, sticky mess that drips out of your burning cunt. 

“Gonna be good f’me?” 

The slide of his fingers drags the tip up to the bump of your clit. You stare down at it, fixed on the jut of his ink-black knuckles threading through your folds. The crease of his nail as he slips his fingers up higher, pad pushing over your pebbled clit. They're dirty. Grey-black under his nails. Congealed with dirt. Blood, maybe. 

Your stomach churns even as your hips lift. Eager, searching. Hating yourself each second of it. It's gross. Disgusting. 

You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—

“When I ask a question—” the tip circles over your clit. A shallow roll that pools heat between your thighs. “I expect an answer.” 

“Y–yes,” you stammer out, hips flexing against his hand. Seeking more of that white-hot bloom of pleasure he brings with each pass of his finger. 

“Good girl—” and you hate how it burns you up from the inside out. “Wasn't s’hard, was it?”

The retort is bitten back with the slow swipe of his finger drawing tight, small circles around your clit. His fingers are rough, scarred. Too dry. The abrasive drag over your soft sensitive flesh makes you whine—a drawn-out whimper nestled between clenched teeth. 

It's too much. 

Too harsh. Too sharp.

He rolls your clit under the pads of his fingers in jerking half-circles. Puts too much pressure on the bundle of nerves than you ever would—your touches are always soft, sickeningly sweet; gentling your flesh until you cum—and the sting, the burn, of it makes your toes curl. Body burn. 

It's good. 

And that's the problem. 

It shouldn't be. His touch shouldn't make you so wet, growing slick and sticky between your spread thighs, bare to his hungry, prying gaze. Shouldn't make you moan. Hips twitching with each stroke of his fingers—

And then he peels away from you, but the time to mourn the loss of his touch, the fear of losing this trembling ember pleasure, is snuffed out when he presses his wet, slick fingers against the inside of your knee. The touch is intentional. Insistent. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat before pushing it down to the mattress. The twinge of pain swallowed up as quickly as it forms when he drops to his elbows between your thighs, forearms curling under your legs, and tugs you sharply into him. 

Heat floods your belly when the backs of your thighs press tight to his broad, muscular shoulders, but it's nothing compared to the sight of him on his knees between your legs. It's so obscene you nearly weep—

And then he leans down and licks a long, broad swipe of his tongue over your cunt. 

You hadn't expected it, maybe. His mouth on your pussy, his broken, jagged lips sealing over your pebbled clit. Going down on you seemed too intimate for what he was after. His end goal. It does nothing for him at all—

You realise your mistake when he dips his tongue into your hole and his hips jerk forward. Unconscious. Eager. Seeking. The shifting drags his jeans down his hips, and his cock slips free. 

Most of the cocks you've seen—in porn, pictures, art—jut out from the person's groin. standing at attention, the nasty comments used to say. Jokes whispered on the playground. But his falls. Droops down between big, folded thighs. Skin marbled in shades of red, peach. Deep gouges dot his upper thighs, some sinking deep enough to reach bone. More scar tissue than flesh. 

—than man.

It looks raw. Fresh. Some injuries not too dissimilar to the Wagyu hanging in the front of the storeroom, on display and oh, so out of place in a town where the richest man must be just a hair above the poverty line. 

On paper, anyway. 

You swallow, avoiding his gaze as he pauses, dark eyes watching you with his mouth pressed against your seam. Unmoving. Still as a predator between your thighs, cock visible between the bow of his torso, jutting sickeningly from mangled legs as you gawk at this hideous thing that makes several, half-hearted attempts to spring up towards you, spitting clear, milky liquid all over with each jerk. Tugged down by its own weight. Too heavy to fight against gravity like the rest of the cocks you've seen have done—

Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook. 

His is anything but. 

Ugly, you think again, stomach churning. Roiling. Obscene. An odd thing considering what you're looking at but all too fitting with the way it droops, big, flared head drooling pre-cum all over the bed in long, dangling stands that prickle over your jaws—half nauseous, half hungry, too. Saliva pools in your mouth even though the sight of his cock scares you. Fills your belly with dread. Misery. 

It looks like a bruise. Skin smeared with purples, reds. Patches of pink. Long, thick veins run up from the fattened, full base to the divot of his frenulum. Thick. It hangs low. Drips. 

He raises slightly and shoves his hand down between his thighs, big hand curling over the fat base of his cock. His grip is tight around himself, and he strokes up, from base to tip. It squeezes more precum from the flushed, fat head, and dribbles between your spread thighs in a thick, pearlescent puddle. 

It makes your mouth dry. That twinge in your jaws coming back. Festering. You wonder if he'll make you take that thing in your mouth. Choke you on it. Taste his precum—

“Fuck,” he snarls into your cunt, hand jerking over his cock. “Keep lookin’ at my cock like tha’, birdie—”

You gasp at the rough grunt, the way it seems to tremble through your sensitive flesh. More, though, from the way he sounds. His voice brassy, rough. Unkind, but the words bloom a fresh heat behind your navel. 

His voice does things to you. Things you're not allowed to like. 

Those thoughts are knocked from your head when he bows down again, eyes still fixed on you, and seals his wicked mouth over your cunt. It's hard to compare it to anything else other than being devoured. Eaten in the truest sense of the word. 

His tongue splits down your seam, tip digging into your slick hole. A groan bubbles up at your taste—the soft, fluttering clench of your body trying to drag him in deeper. Needing him deeper. A huff of air ghosts over you, dipped in the same derision as earlier but the harsh slap of skin on skin, his hand working furiously over his cock, makes you acutely aware of how much this affects him. 

“Taste good, birdie,” he grunts, and then sucks your fold into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and teeth until the skin is tender, swollen. “S’fuckin’ good—”

Your breath catches when the crooked arch of his nose presses taut to your clit. Pleasure twisting in a dizzying pirouette inside your belly, winding tighter and tighter—

His nose jerks up on your clit. Lips moulded to your seam, you hear him rasp eyes on me, birdie. Don't fuckin’ look away—

The rough snarl trembles through your body, sinking its teeth into the coil until it snaps under its jaw. Your knees snap around his head as your release locks your joints tight. His name, Simon, a hoarse cry on your lips. You barely have time to bask in the ripples of pleasure throbbing through your body before he rips away from you with his teeth bared, and his chin wet. 

“Fuck—!” he snarls again, shoving your knees apart as he lifts his massive body up from between your thighs. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gotta be inside your tight cunt—”

He towers over you, grinding his cock into the apex of your thighs. The drag of his cock—a little damp from being stuck inside his jeans all day; balmy—against the dry skin of your belly makes you shudder. Shivering beneath him as he huffs through the mask. Head bowing. Dipping to look at the way his cock slaps down on you. Cockhead nudging above your belly button, dribbling a small puddle of pre-cum that gets smeared into your skin when he rocks back on his haunches. 

His hand wraps around the thick base of his cock once more, squeezing tight as he grips himself above you. It makes the head swell, engorged with blood. Thickening in his hand as globs of pre-spend leak out onto your belly. That feeling in your jaws comes back—nauseous and wanting. 

He leans back with a hum. “Like my cock, eh, birdie?” 

The crass words bring a fresh bloom of heat simmering in your veins, creeping up your collar. Like doesn't really cover what you feel when you stare at it—his inked hands running along the long, veined shaft—and the unsettled feeling in the pit of your belly rears when he nudges forward, the weeping head of his cock bumping your mound. 

It's humiliating how much want floods through you just looking at it. At him. Disgust, dread, desire. 

You don't answer. Not that you really need to—

Your silence is loud enough. 

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, the rasp thick in his throat. “M’gonna give it to you, pet—”

And he does just that. Slips the head of his cock down the slope of your mound, letting it graze your clit until you're panting, whining softly for more, and pulls it over your slit until his pre-cum is smeared over your drenched folds. You know exactly what this is even without glimpsing the ugly burn of his possessive desire smouldering in the back of his eyes—ownership. Greed. Hunger. It revels in the stain on your skin, from belly to slit; his, all his. Outside and soon—

In. 

It shocks a creeping sense of worry into you. “Wait, what about a condom—”

He snorts, ugly and caustic. “What about ‘em?” He taunts, and it's flat. Playful. 

“You should—”

He drags his gaze away from the pearlescent smear of his spend on your folds, your clit, and the even, placid look in that stagnant lake tells you everything you already knew. 

“I've never—” you start, wincing at the kernel of fear lacing your hoarse words. “Not without a condom—”

It's the wrong thing to say. Near cataclysmic. He drops his head back with a groan that rumbles out of the slope of his throat, sounding like the rip of a chainsaw. 

“Firsts for everything,” he purrs, and he nudges your entrance with the bare, weeping tip of his cock. 

“But—”

His hand lifts, catching your jaw in the too-wide span of his palm. The force makes your teeth clack together. 

“Need me to gag you, birdie?” 

You swallow. It's not much of a choice. Gagged and fucked raw, or—

Just fucked raw. 

No gag. No condom. You fight back a shiver and wish it was all just from fear. 

“No,” you murmur, like you have a choice. “No gag.”

“An’?” 

“Um. No–no condom, either—”

It's not enough. "What are you gonna let me do to this pussy, birdie?"

You know what he wants. What he's angling for. But there's a line, you think. A delineation between unwilling participant, coercion, and giving into the need that slinks down your spine, and rots inside your belly.

(Being forced to ask for it isn't permission, but what happens when you want it more than your next breath?)

The shame can come later, you think, and feel yourself give in. 

"Cum—cum inside me—"

“Good girl, birdie.” 

You hate what that does to you. How eagerly your body reacts to the dark possessive curl in his eyes when you do something he likes. 

He nudges your entrance again, this time with purpose. Intent. A heavy pressure pushing on your rim. Too tight, you think, and the sting of the first inch he feeds—forces—into you burns, pulsing behind your navel. His tip isn't even in yet, and it's already too much. 

You think about telling him so, offering up your mouth instead, but he leans down on his forearms, and catches your lips in a bruising, biting pantomime of a kiss. A blood-soaked parody with more teeth and tongue—sinking into your lips, nipping hard until the skin splits; catching all that spills with his tongue. 

With his weight pressed against you like this, there's nowhere to run when he cups your throat in his hand, winding the other up above your head, forearm tight on your crown to cage you in. And then he shifts. Bears his hips down on yours until the fat head of his cock pops inside of you. 

Your squeal is chewed up between his teeth, swallowed down with a rumbling groan. 

Caught beneath him, trapped, he works himself into you demanding, heavy thrusts. Each inch burns more than the last. A stinging stretch that brings tears to your eyes. It's already too much and it's not even half. Barely even the tip.

“Can't—” you slur into his wet, demanding mouth. “No more. I–I can't—”

The breath rushes out between his teeth. Your watery eyes drop to the divot above his canine. A permanent snarl. A condescending sneer. 

“You can,” he says decisively, words ground out from between crooked teeth. He presses them to your cheek, nipping at the skin under your eye. Possessive and wanting—

(Hungry for something you can't name—)

“And you will.” 

—Or maybe you just don't want to. Can't look at the thunderous need draped over his mangled, battered face without thinking of the rumble in your chest that echos back against his thundering call—)

Stupid, foolish thing—

The dark promise of his words isn't a threat until his hand tightens around your neck, nails grazing your skin, and he adds, all of me, birdie as he grinds his hips into yours shallowly. Broad chest expanding with each ragged inhale. Cementing his taunt with a steel edge as you try not to come undone beneath him. 

You'll take every fuckin’ inch—

He pulls back until only his glands stretch you open, and you know what's coming when his fingers grip the sides of your neck tight. Holding on. Anchoring you to the bed as he nudges his forearm tighter between your skull and the wall, a protective hold. 

Before you can tense up, bracing for it, or even cry out no, please, don't, you can't take it, he huffs, and then slams his hips forward, splitting you open on the fat stretch of his thick, too heavy cock. 

Maybe it's hysteria, delirium, but the blunt press of his length against your tender, sore walls balms the ache, the sting. The deeper he pushes, the less it hurts. A paradox that leaves you whimpering under his hand, heels digging into the broad stretch of his waist as you struggle to decide if you want to kick him away or pull him closer. 

A war you don't have the power to win when he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt with a growl that shakes the fragile tendons surrounding your heart. Fear, misery. Pleasure, pain. It admixes. Coalescing into a dizzying sense of fullness, unbearable pressure. Catastrophic in its heaviness as your mind reels, struggles to come to terms with the gut-wrenching, heart-aching uncertainty of how you're supposed to go on without having him seated as deep inside of you as he can get. You've never known emptiness before him. Before now. Mere seconds ago. 

And now, the thought of it leaves a palpable hollowness itching behind your ribs. Festering. Rotting tissue and bone. 

“Simon,” you choke, sobbing his name out under the firm press of his hand. “Simon—”

But he knows. 

His arm curls over your head like a crown, and you can easily forget the pinch of each thorn when he holds you tight. Protectively. Possessively. Securing you in his arms before he lifts up, palm sliding over the mattress, touch tender against your cheeks, and then settles it on the indent of your knee. Widening you for him as he spreads his thighs under yours until you're opened up for him. 

Those dark eyes are dragged down to the split of your legs where his cock disappears into your slick, swollen cunt. You follow it down, gazing at the impressive width of his stomach bowing over you until they land on the jut of skin pushing out from a messy smatter of damp curls around the base of his cock. 

The coarse hair of his groin unfurls as it sticks to your wet lips, and he rolls his head back over his shoulders he heaves through the too tight stretch of your walls over his length. You feel the pulse of him inside of you, thudding like a heartbeat. It blooms molten under the feverish weight of his lidded, dark gaze. 

“Fuck, birdie,” he rasps, and it's scorched. Charred. “Look at you—”

As the world is condensed, narrowed down to nothing but the near impossible stretch of his cock seated as deep inside of you as he can get, he leans down, scarred, mangled lips brushing cruelly over your ear, and whispers, see? Told you'd take me. 

Every fuckin’ inch. 

Your hand jerks to your belly, fingers dancing over your navel as if to feel him there, bulging from under your skin. Nearly hysterical as you try to come to terms with the pulsing, white-hot ache of him inside of you, slowly acclimating to his girth, his length. 

He grunts when he sees what you're doing, eyes flaring as your fingers skirt around your navel. 

“It's—” you shudder, gasping for air. “It's too much, Simon, I can't take it—”

He rolls his hips with a groan. “m’cock too big for you, birdie?” 

His usual cadence is flat, droll, but an unmistakable sense of masculine pride, a deep, egotistic sense of satisfaction, drapes itself over his brassy words. Glueing to the scorching rasp of his voice in a way that makes you unerringly certain that he likes it. Likes that his cock is too big for you. That it hurts. 

“Y’can take it,” he prompts, forcing more of himself into you until something snaps. Splits. Makes room. Carves out a space for him to fit. 

The brief flash of pain is soothed when he's seated deep. That same paradoxical balm making itself known as he flattens his hips into yours with a noise—half a grunt, or a growl; a lazy, pleasure-soaked snarl. You're not sure what it is, but the sound knocks the air from your lungs, igniting inside of you like a spark inside a tinderbox. 

It's only when his balls are flush against you that the same masculine pride brims up again. Primal. Animalistic. The urge to present your soft belly rears up suddenly, and it's only stifled when he grunts again, looking down at you with lidded, black eyes. 

“Now, be good and let me fuck your tight cunt.”

He's not looking for assent. Nothing you could say at this moment will sway his mind one way or the other. There's a nasty spool of determination welling up like blood on a pricked finger. Beading up to the surface in a clean, neat droplet as he rolls his broad shoulders, and shuffles into a comfortable position on his haunches between your spread thighs. The motion jostles his cock in a way that makes your breath hitch with each jerk. 

It's not painful. Not particularly. But you're overwhelmed by the sensation of utter fullness in a way you've never experienced before. Each grind of his cock against your overly stretched walls deeping that incipient feeling of anxiety brewing in your belly that one wrong move and you'll tear. He's just—

Too big. 

And despite his claims—or rather, in spite of them—you don't think you can do it. Don't think you can take him. It's too much. It feels like being turned inside out and then put back into place. An uneasy sense of discomfiture blooms with each too-tight, too-sharp tug of his cock pulling taut on your rim. 

Almost deliriously, you think you can feel the pulse of his cock inside your goddamn throat. 

“Simon—” you start on a tremulous breath but he cuts you off with a hum. 

“Relax.” 

You can't. Can't—

“Fuckin’ hell, bird,” he rasps, leaning down suddenly until his face was pushed tight into the curve of your neck, breath shallow on your thudding pulse. “Stop squirmin’ ‘round me like tha’ or I'll cum right fuckin’ now.”

Your heart stutters. Gallops painfully in your chest. His words make you dizzy because for as much as this feeling of him, his cock, inside of you dances on a delicate precipice of being more than you can feasibly handle and somehow the most incredible thing you'd ever experienced before, you hadn't considered how he'd feel. 

Inexplicably, it pleases you. 

There's something so strange—so extraordinary—about bringing a man like him, like this, to his knees. Pleasuring him by just heaving through the white-hot stretch of his cock inside of you. Making him bury his head in your neck, groaning about how he was gonna fuckin’ bust, pretty thing, fuck—

It was a powerful feeling. 

Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, and you feel his throat work around a thick swallow. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gonna fuck this pretty cunt so fuckin' hard until you beg me stop—”

And he does just that. Rears back from your neck, and settles again between your thighs—quicker this time. With an urgency that makes you whimper when his cock grinds against your walls hard enough to bruise. 

When he finally pulls out until only the flared head of his cock remains, you knot a fist into the thin pillow, clinging on, and latch the other onto his hip as if that could somehow stop the vicious promise in his eyes about poundin’ you into the goddamn mattress. There's a flash, a brief flicker of his eyes, and then he thrusts back inside of you with a grunt that makes your belly clench, and your back arch. 

True to the promises he gave, it's brutal. Violent. 

Any pleasure you feel is leached through osmosis. A tether bound around his own. 

His arm is shoved under your back, angling your pelvis up. Thighs dangling over the thick spread of his own, ass seated in his lap. He drives into you, thrusts deep—grinds his hips until your moans break into hoarse screams, whimpers. Makes your eyes roll so far back, all you see is black even when you blink your eyes up at him. 

He carves a spot deep inside of you with each delirious piston of his cock, pounding into you with brutal thrusts, and then holding tight when his balls slap against your ass. Digging the head of his cock into the seal of your womb until it aches behind your navel. Each breath feels like glass in your lungs—

“Tha’s it,” he slurs in your ear, mouth damp against your skin. “Take my cock so good, pretty birdie. Little pussy was made for it, weren't you? Tight cunt all mine—”

His gruff words tug on that tether until you're wrapped around him like a bow. Following him down this endless spiral as he slams inside of you over and over again, cooing in your ear about the sounds you made for him, pretty cunt so fuckin’ wet f’me, birdie, hear tha’? all f’me—

“Cum f'me, birdie. Want this pussy cummin’ ‘round my cock—”

“Can't—” you gasp, arching into him, desperate and needy. It rides a line between pain and pleasure; a needlepoint you wobble on. “Need—”

You try to reach down, to touch your clit, but grinds his hips into yours with a snarl. “Cum ‘around my cock, birdie.”

“Touch me—”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

It edges on too much. Pain and pleasure teetering on a knife's edge, split apart by a line the width of a razer. Looping and tangling around each other until you can't differentiate between the two. But it makes sense, you suppose, staring up at him arched above you like a black cloud of smoke. All hunger and fire. Consuming, devouring, everything in its path. A wildfire. 

Butcher, you think again when his hand wraps around your throat. A mimicry of what he did in the truck, forcing your eyes on him. Your life tucked neatly against his palm.

These hands take lives. It's what they're made for. All scarred, and thick. Scar tissue and bone. Muscle and cartilage. Meant to render meat of cattle. Slaughterhouse in the shape of a man. Consumption personified. 

But where there should be fear, all you feel is an echoing sense of hunger. Leatherbound to each other, maybe—

The look that passes over his eyes as he stares down at you, cupped in his palm, seems to fit perfectly into the fractured gaps inside yourself you try so hard to ignore. And what doesn't—

Well. 

He'll make room to fit. 

You reach up, curling your fingers around his thick wrist. His eyes flash, but he doesn't slow his thrusts. Doesn't stop. Just watches as you peel his hand away from your neck, bringing it up to your mouth. 

On his palm, there's a piece of skin that's unblemished compared to the rest of his worn, burnt hands. A strip just big enough for you to sink your teeth into. 

And you do. 

“Fuck, Birdie—!” The snarl is ripped from his throat. His thrusts grow harder, sloppier. Each bit of strength in his muscled hips and thighs is used to pound into you until your vision blacks out. It hurts. Aches. Your heels slip down, catching on the broad expanse of his lower back. And you tighten them around his waist, pulling him closer. Deeper. “Fuck, Birdie, fuckin’ cunt was made f'me, wasn’t it? So cum on my cock. Now—”

Whining, you shake your head. “Can't. I can't. I need—”

You don't get to finish. With a huff of anger, he rips his hand off of the mattress, leaning back on his haunches, and shoves his hand between your thighs, scarred fingers stroking over your pebbled clit. It's rough. Sloppy. His anger hums through his body, skewering into you as he glared down, gaze swinging like a pendulum between the split of your thighs where his cock disappears into your swollen cunt, his fingers rubbing over your clit, and back up the hand around your neck, the tears staining your cheeks. 

There's an edge to his thrusts. A viciousness in the way he pistons his hips into you. Dark eyes catching every flicker—each wince, gasp, moan, whine all meticulously catalogued and exploited. He finds the spots that make your hips jerk, twitching both toward and away from him. Angling into the ones that have your eyes rolling back into your head, drool dribbling past your slack lips as you gasp his name out into the dank, humid air. 

It smells of sweat, sex, and him. Something brutal, bloody, and dark. Rotten leaves. Charred forests after a rain shower. Dangerous. Tinged with a slight acrid, chemical stench—benzene, oxidizing iron. It drips down your throat, and drenches your lungs. Staining you from the inside out. 

And he exploits that, too. Leans in, and breathes heavily against your upper lip, your cheek. Drowns you in his scent. His sweat beads along his jaw, droplets raining down over your brow. Soaked in his essence. Unable to see, smell, or touch anything that isn't him. 

With his hand over your mouth, teeth sunk into his palm, all you can taste is him, too. Leather. Gun oil. Blood. 

The ravenous look in his eye sharpens, turning into deadly points. 

“Such a pretty fuckin' bird.” He rasps, the words shattered, mangled in the back of his throat. They carry the scent of blood when you breathe them in, and you wonder if he forced them through glass. Pushed them out with his bloody fists. 

You bite down harder in response, keening through the white-hot pain of his cock spearing deeper than before, stretching you past your limits. The taste of blood on your tongue, the rasping snarl pulled from his chest, his fingers toying with your clit, push you over the edge once more. Again and again, and again, and—

His hand peels away from your oversensitive clit, dropping down to the mattress beside your face. He follows quickly after several impossibly deep thrusts that shove you higher up on the mattress, pressing in until his balls sit flush against your ass, cockhead battering against your cervix, and he groans—deep and liquid—when he comes, spilling inside of you. Rooted deep, cock twitching, Simon drops to his elbow beside your head, smothering you under his weight as the tension in his body bleeds out. 

Your teeth stick to the divots in his hand, and the sensation of ungluing them from the wounds you gave him makes you shiver. Slowly, you roll your tongue out, chasing the drops of blood, and breathe heavily through your nose as he burrows deeper inside of you, chest shuddering over yours. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, hips jerking into yours with a slap that echoes through the room. “Little tease, ain't you?” 

Even with his cock softening inside of you, it's still thick. Fat. Stretching you open as he yawns out above you, bloodied hand dropping down to cup your neck again, forearm resting heavily between your breasts. He raises slightly on his elbow, black eyes glinting in the shallow dark of the room. Piercing as they drill into your sweat-slicked face. 

It aches when he moves. When he presses his hips harder into yours, the muscles in your legs throb as his broad waist splits them apart. Your feet dangle, sliding uselessly down his back, over his ass, before coming to rest curled around his thighs. Melting into the mattress, tender and sore and all chewed up—

You feel like a massive contusion instead of a person. A pestle. His. 

The thought makes you shiver, and his eyes flash in triumph like he knows. 

The feeling of him pulling out of you draws a whimper from your lips. The drag on your sensitive, bruised walls is a strange mix of tender pleasure and pain. He chuckles at your mewl—dark and low; the sound of nightmares, you think. Crackling sap on charred wood. 

You try to pretend it doesn't make you shudder, but the way he hums in response dashes the feigned oblivion before it can form. All you can do is heave on the bed, and watch him through narrowed slits as he leans back on his haunches once again, head cocking to the side. His dark eyes fixed on the split of your legs. The ache in your cunt growing sharp under his molten stare. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, the shallow groan pulled out from between clenched teeth. You wonder if the mangled curse was unintentional. Ripped from his throat before he could clamp his jaws around it—a crack in the facade. A hairline splinter in the indomitable mask he wears. 

Your heart lurches. None of this makes sense, but your head is too muddled, too syrupy, to think much at all. A quandary for later when he throws you from his bed with a harsh slap on your ass and a and don't think about doing this ever again. 

But you don't think you can move. “Give me a minute,” you start on a trembling breath. “And I'll—”

His brows move but his eyes stay fixed on your sore cunt. You can feel him leak out of you, spilling on the mattress in thick globs. The sensation makes you shiver. 

“You'll what?” 

It looks like he has to forcibly tear his eyes away from you, reluctance forming a cold, angry crater between his brows. The brunt of his ire—white, burning—makes you want to supplicate yourself at his feet, roll over on your belly and show the beast you mean no harm. 

(Run, and run far—)

He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”

It takes a minute to find your voice through all the panic clogging your throat. “I'll leave, um—”

He peels away from you with a loud, rough snort, and drops to his his elbow beside you. Hands curling possessively over your waist, fingers tight. Unyielding. 

“Not goin’ anywhere, birdie. Told you, didn't I? You're mine.” 

“I'm—”

“Go to sleep.” 

He pulls you roughly to his chest until your head is pillowed on his shoulder, and then rolls on his back, keeping you cushioned at his side. You try to move, but his arm wedges under your neck, curling over your shoulder. Trapping you to him. 

The panic wants to come now. To rage against the shackle of his embrace, to run home and scrub your skin until it bleeds. But the exhaustion collapses over it all until your eyes feel too heavy to hold open. Too painful.

As you drift, aimless and dreamless, his voice cuts through the fog. “Gotta learn ‘ow to cum with nothin’ but my cock inside of you sooner or later, birdie. Or you won't be coming at all—”

It sounds like a threat. A promise. You fall asleep with the words echoing in your head, his arm an anchor around your waist. 

He wakes up hungry. 

A gnawing in his belly pulls him from the thin doze he fell into after fucking you three more times—with your face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air for him to rut against like a beast; teetering over his hips, the spread of them too wide for your thighs to split over leaving you precariously unbalanced and shifting your weight above him as neither knee sat comfortably on the mattress; and on your belly with him crushing you to the floor under his bulk. The memory of which makes his spent cock stir, twisting limply against his damp, sticky thigh. Matted down with drying cum, sweat, the slick wetness of being buried inside your messy cunt. 

Filled now with his cum. 

He groans low in his throat as he thinks about it. The sloppy way you let him take you over and over again until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, passing out before he finished. Letting him fuck his cum inside of you as you whimpered in your sleep—

Perfect little thing, aren't you? So good to him.

Simon can't remember the last time he fucked someone, much less when it was this enjoyable (an understatement, of course; in the back of his head, wheels spin round and round as he tries to come up with a plan to keep his cock buried inside of you at all times while still doing his work—), and the overflow of unquenched lust churns in his belly. A hunger he can now slake on your willing body. In the silence, he purrs—

But the effort, the exertion, dredged up a different need inside him. 

Simple hunger. An appetite. 

He could eat—

his eyes slant toward the top of your crown in the dark, and he amends it, quickly, to: in more ways than one. 

He'll go home in a minute. Make himself a steak from the prime cut he butchered a few days ago, leftovers that no one had any qualms about when he took several pieces home with him. 

(and really, why would they argue with the butcher who keeps their wallets fat and their bills paid?)

It was left on the counter earlier before he got the call that your brother was making another move. Now a perfect room temperature as it waits for him to come back. Cook it the way he likes—

Rare. 

The perfect grill is a nice char on the outside, but bleeding red on the inside. Basted in duck fat and garlic. A sprig of rosemary in the pan, but not touching the meat. Just enough to give the juice that earthy, sweet flavour. Let it rest for ten minutes under foil with the rest of the fat poured over it from the pan. Served as is with maybe a dash of salt and pepper on the side. 

Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds. 

Everyone tries to make it fancier than what it needs to be, but at the end of the day, meat is meat. And going from picking scraps from the garbage outside of the Italian butcher on the corner to ordering his own pretentious filet mignon still gives him a sense of unease. Whiplash, perhaps. Nothing to something—how about that, Tommy? 

Maybe that's why he prefers to raise and butcher his own cattle. A never-ending supply of meat for him to sink his teeth into even if this whole thing goes belly up and he's back to begging for morsels on the corner. Tommy hiding in the shadows with a baseball bat waiting to ambush the richer men who happen to feel altruistic that day. 

This practice bled over into his current occupation, too. The basement of that same Italian butcher shop he used to sneak expired sausage from out of the bins is now his home base of sorts. A money laundering front of the 141. Headquarters for them to congregate in secrecy upstairs. And here—

A torture chamber for those who tried to cross them. Strung up on meat hooks like the cattle they eat, the ones he feeds them, until he makes up his mind on what he wants to do to them. 

It's where you should have been, he supposes, thumb brushing a spot of dried blood on your shoulder, right below a nasty bite mark on your forearm. The ring nearly black from the clotted blood pooling in the indents. It matches several others on your thighs—top, insides, back—and neck, belly, collarbones, sternum. All chewed up. Marked by the butcher. 

In working for the old Italian man who ran the shop when he was eighteen, he learned that most of the butchers preferred to mark their carcasses when they came in. A little x on the fat to signify they'd be the ones carving up the prime meat. 

He didn't think you could handle his knife, so he gave you his teeth instead. But the implication is clear. 

His. 

It's overkill considering his reputation, and the claim he already had on you. Because even before this, back when he saw you through the window of his shop as he was moonlit as a legitimate butcher and businessman instead of the enforcer, the brute, everyone already knew he was, his interest was clear. You were off-limits. His to deal with. 

And while Price refers not to get involved in small-time street dealers, the warnings Soap and Gaz impressed onto your brother should have been the end of an irritating situation and not the beginning of a fuckin’ headache. But no. He had to push. And push.  

Until Price gave the order to take care of it. 

And that he did. 

(With the added benefit of killing one bird and keeping the other in a pretty cage.)

Price probably won't like his solution, but Simon racked up enough favours to keep a little pet of his own. Been a good boy for a long, long time now, and he supposes he's owed a bone. 

Or a sweet thing tucked tight to his side having passed out some two hours ago after he slaked his dizzying thirst on you over and over again even though it doesn't feel like it's been enough. 

It's rare that he has an appetite for people. Even rarer that he lets this meagre hunger consume him like this. But there's something about you that makes his teeth ache in the same way they often do whenever he's hungry for meat. 

He wants to devour you. Consume you. Eat you alive and save nothing for anyone else to taste. 

(So—

Price will just have to let him keep you, won't he?)

The mattress vibrates under him. His phone buzzing with an incoming text. He reaches over, pulling it close enough to read the notification on his screen. It's from Soap.

All her stuff is on your porch. 

He hums, but doesn't reply. Simply opts to drop his phone on his belly, and tug you closer to his broad chest. He'll wake you in an hour, and the stirring in his groin tells him it'll be for another round. Maybe he'll take you in the freezer. Make you cling to the hook hanging down from the ceiling as he fucks you like that. He has a pair of ties for ox, lamb legs, that he can loop around your wrists and heft you up on. 

It'll hurt, he's sure. The binds weren't designed with comfort in mind, but he can easily bear your weight as he pounds into you from below, your pretty legs wrapped tight around his waist. 

The image, the thought, alone has him thickening against his thigh. He reaches down, gripping the base tight in his hand as he pulls you even closer, burying his nose in your crown. 

At the very least, he wouldn't be lying when he told Price he strung you up. 

Three rounds—on your back, your hands and knees, perched above him like a pretty goddess he stole away from a temple—and he still isn't satisfied. Fuck. He breathes in your scent and doesn't think he ever will be. 

He'll get you out of here, take you home. Make you the steak he likes for a late dinner, rare and simple—the same one he gave your brother weeks ago when he dragged him into the shop, strung him up on a hook, and demanded payment for his disrespect. 

Who'd have thought that his payment would be you? 

(fitting, though, since he'd had his eye on you for a while now—)

He nudges you when his phone chimes again with another message doubtless from Soap telling him all your things have been tucked away. Matters dealt with. 

“C’mon,” he grunts, running his hand down your spine. “We’re leavin’.”

You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “Get dressed.” 

You're quiet as he turns, reaching for his jeans left in a heap beside the mattress, but he hears the hitch in your throat. The click when you swallow. Unbothered by it, he turns, giving you his back as he wedges his feet inside the trousers, pulling them up his legs. 

The bed shifts behind him. “I—I can walk back to my brother's—”

The hope in your voice is a delicate thing. Fragile like fine china. A pretty, vulnerable tchotchke meant to be seen, admired, but not touched. Not handled roughly. 

Unfortunately for you, he's never had much of a gentle touch. 

When he throws a glance over his shoulder, he's not surprised to find your arm folded over your bare breasts as you kneel on the mattress, your palm resting flat between your parted thighs, wrist and forearm covering the slip of heaven between them from his greedy, prying gaze. 

It paints a startling picture, he finds. One with you looking thoroughly ravaged. Taken. But presenting it in a soft sort of sensuality meant to make a man feel both hot under the collar and like an unrepentant voyeur. 

Pretty bird, he thinks, and feels his cock stir. 

He rises swiftly, hiking up his jeans around his thighs as he goes, and then turns to you with a heady desire to crush that gossamer of hope between his greedy hand like a silken cobweb that will stick to his fingers. 

“Not goin’ to your brothers,” he says, pushing his tongue against his cheek to stem the ache burning in his muscles. 

You shiver, eyes growing wide, frenzied with fear as you stare up at him. The shift of your throat when you swallow makes pre-cum dribble out of his fattened cock. He's never really had much of a taste for it, but he's overcome with the urge to see you cry—

“Where are we going?”

Amid the ache in his loins, the flickering fantasies of your pretty, lachrymal face gazing up at him helpless, hopeless, and needy, he catches the edge of panic when you speak. The razor-sharp tremble of fear. 

But buried amongst it, hidden in the bruised look you give him as he towers over you with his cock bulging in his slacks and his eyes burning with want, he finds a keen sense of eagerness amongst the rubble. Agog, almost. 

And fuck. If that doesn't do something awful to him. 

“What?” He taunts, cocking his head to the side as your breath grows shallow and your eyes wide. “Did you think that was enough to pay your debt, birdie?”

“What? You can't—”

“Don't like it—” he lifts his shoulder up in a cool, indifferent shrug, enjoying the dismayed expression that falls over your brow more than he should. “—go to the police.”

“The ones on your payroll?” You spit, eyes flaring wide like an angry cat. “You—”

Several things might have continued in place of your choked, angry sob, but it's swallowed down as pragmatically as it was the first time he cornered you earlier today. And as beautiful as your ire is, he finds the cornered look on your face to be much more pleasing. Prettier. 

“C’mon, bird,” he mocks, holding his hand out toward you with a tick of his lips. “All your stuff is at home. Don't be stupid.” 

“Stupid?” You gasp in indignation, but there's a bruised look in your eyes. A wounded thing that makes his breath hitch in his lungs for reasons he can't really ascertain, but just knows that he likes it. Likes it a lot. “This is—insane.”

Again, he shrugs, but the indifference this time isn't the same manufactured callousness meant to inspire fear. The conversation is stale already. Grating on him. He's not used to having his orders ignored or questioned. What he says usually goes—either through association or reputation, or just the fact that no one has ever come close to filling the same measure of space as he does—and questioning him like this makes him feel too much like a boy, and not enough like the living ghost he pretends to be. 

“You can't do this. It's not right.”

An appeal to his humanity. Cute. He huffs, reaching down to fasten the button of his jeans. The sound the zipper makes cuts through the room. “You're mine, birdie. Better get used to it.” 

Catching your eye as he says it was only meant to reignite the kindling fear you have of him from extinguishing. A scared prey animal was a better pet than an angry one. But the look on your face catches him off-guard. 

It reminds him of a flightless little bird shivering in a child's shoebox. Tiny broken thing his mum warned him not to touch or its mother would abandon it to die on its own. 

“Until the debt is paid off.”

A statement, not a question. He shrugs, but doesn't respond. Tilts his head toward the door. “Let's go.” 

His lack of reassurance doesn't soften the flint in your gaze, but the prospect of recompense seems to spurn you on. Another wishbone of hope to cling to. And despite himself, he lets you keep it. Lets your little finger wrap around the delicate bone for comfort because as much as you might think there's a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bigger piece, he has no intentions of letting something like that get in the way of his appetite even if you do. 

(And his hunger has always been particularly voracious, hasn't it?)

“Come, birdie. Gotta get you home, and fed, don't I?” 

[monstersflashlight]

Patreon commission for Elise

Request: Male Boss Minotaur x Fem Skinny Friend x Fem Chubby Reader: So basically the Reader and her Friend both like their Boss but the Reader doesn’t think that their Boss likes them. But what the Reader doesn’t know is that both the Boss and her Friend want her (and their Boss wants both of them). Sorry this is kinda short but this is the idea I hope this is okay. 😁

Are you stupid?

Minotaur x fem!human x chubby fem!reader || body worship, oral sex, sharing is caring, MFF threesome, spanking (lowkey), soft sex || tw: internalized fatphobia

“I want to have dinner with you,” your boss said as he approached the table where you and your bestie were eating lunch. You looked directly at her, obviously he liked her, why wouldn’t he? She was skinny and pretty and everything any human or monster would like (even you). Of course he would ask her out. You tried not to be hurt about it, you both liked him, and he made his choice (the obvious choice, you thought).

“Okay, when?” Your friend instantly asked, hiding her excitement and surprise as if it meant nothing that the hottest and most amazing minotaur just asked her out. But you knew her better, you knew the tilt on her eyebrow meant she was surprised. You knew her better than you knew yourself.

“Tonight. Wear something casual,” he told her. “And you…” He looked straight at you when he said it: “Wear something tight.” You gaped at him, confused. What the fuck did he mean?

“What? Me?” You asked. And then it clicked, he wanted you there so it wouldn’t be weird when he finally asked her out and they made out, you were the buffer. It made sense, but why would he ask you to wear something tight?

“Yes,” he answered curtly and left, leaving you looking at his back with a gaping mouth. What the fuck just happened?

“Yas girl, we just got ourselves a hot date!” Your friend rose her hand to high five you, and you did without thinking, not fully processing what just happened.

You laughed at her, dark thoughts crossing your mind. “You got yourself a date, I’m just the buffer,” you clarified.

Your best friend looked at you like you were stupid. “What the fuck are you saying? He has the hots for you,” she sounded so sure that you almost believed her. Almost.

“No he doesn’t. He likes you, and I get it, you are… perfect.” Your soft tone let out a lot of truths that you weren’t ready to release out in the wild yet.

Again with the incredulous eyes as she almost spit out: “What? Are you insane? You are funny and all soft and pretty and have the greatest tits in the universe.” You looked at her confused, what the fuck was she talking about?

“I- What?” You asked, completely thrown back by her words. Did she really think that about you?

“We got ourselves a date, both of us. Stop arguing,” she added as she got up and left you there, even more confused than before.

You couldn’t think about anything else for the rest of the day, anticipation and dread building inside of you at the same time.

You were back at home (you shared a house to save some money on rent) when she entered your room. “Put this on,” she ordered, giving you a piece of fabric that probably wouldn’t cover your ass cheeks.

You looked at her with skepticism, but you put it on just to shut her up. It fitted you like a second skin, your tummy and ass squeezed with the fabric. Your boobs looked fantastic, though, but it wasn’t you. You looked at the mirror and almost didn’t recognize yourself in that kind of outfit. You couldn’t bend down without exposing your whole pussy and ass, it was that short. And you… kind of liked it.

“I can’t go out like this!” You told her exiting the bathroom, trying to pull down the hem but there wasn’t enough fabric to cover you anymore.

She gaped at you, her eyes big as plates. “You look… You look phenomenal,” she let out after a pause, licking her lips as she checked you out slowly. “Come here,” she asked, and you complied, still self-conscious about all the rolls the dress showed. “You look perfect, he’s going to lose his mind the same way I just did.” She grabbed you by the waist and plastered her body to yours, her face millimeters away from yours.

You looked at her with a tiny smile, thinking she was just playing. “What are you doing?” Your tone was amused.

“I’m kissing you senseless so you stop thinking you aren’t the hottest girl in the whole world,” she said before she closed the distance and attacked your mouth with desperation.

You were shocked for a total of two seconds before you were responding the kiss with equal fervor and need. She parted and squeezed your ass, the tip of her fingers caressing the lower part of your ass cheek, the dress was definitely way too short.

“Why did you do that?” You asked, dizzy.

“Because I’m tired of pretending I’m not in love with you and want to bury my face between your tits until I suffocate,” she let out. You stared at her, gaping like a fish and probably looking stupid, but you couldn’t stop.

“I- I…” You didn’t know what to say. “I love you, too,” you finally let out, baring your heart to her and feeling like a thousand kilos lifted from your chest.

“Now come on, let’s blow his mind so we can be a power thruple,” she joked to reduce the tension in the air. But you didn’t laugh.

“He wants only you either way, he only invited me because I was there and it would have been weird otherwise,” you said with a self-depreciating laugh.

She turned around and looked at you with anger flaring in her eyes: “Are you stupid? Do you like being stupid?” She asked, her tone accusing.

“I only tell the facts.” You were sure of it, there was no way your hot as hell best friend just kissed you because she liked you AND your hot minotaur boss also liked you, you couldn’t be that lucky, not a chance in hell.

“Okay, dummy, if he gapes at you like a fish when he sees you in that outfit I get to spank your ass tonight,” she threatened and you shivered. A whole body shiver.

How did she know you were into spanking? You never discussed your sex life with her… Or maybe you did when you were drunk at the last Christmas party. Shit, you definitely did tell her that. Oh goddess, you were going to die of embarrassment.

“And if he doesn’t?” You asked, your face red as a tomato at that point.

“If he doesn’t, you get to tell me I told you so.” You did love to tell her that when you were right.

“Deal.” You were going to win for sure.

But she was right, and you fucking lost.

He not only gaped at you, but as soon as you entered, he reached to grab your waist and pulled you to his body to devour your mouth. As your friend (girlfriend?) cheered and patted you in the back, his roaming hands groped your ass until your panties were wet and uncomfortable, and your heart was about to explode from your chest. He pulled back and grabbed your friend in the same way, kissing her senseless until she was groaning and you were dripping wet just looking at them.

He was breathing hard when you three pulled apart. “You both look fantastic, I’ve been waiting to do that since you were hired,” he confessed in a low tone.

“But you… You are the boss,” you told him, dizzy from arousal and confusion. Your brain didn’t know what to think, what to feel. Was that really happening? Good goddess, were you dreaming? Was all that a dream? Were you in an accident?

He didn’t even blink before saying: “Which means we all should visit the HR department tomorrow morning.”

“Why?” You asked, still not knowing what was happening.

“Because you two are now mine,” his growl made you shiver as you felt your girlfriend’s hand on your leg, comforting you.

Oh shit, you just got yourself a boyfriend AND a girlfriend, what the fuck?

You three joked and had fun until midnight, when he, being the gentle minotaur he was, walked you two to your shared apartment and kissed you goodbye. It was the hottest and most decadent kiss you ever received, and when he kissed your best friend you whimpered. She chuckled and grabbed your neck, devouring your mouth, too. Good goddess you loved when she got all controlling like that.

“You,” he pointed your minotaur boss (boyfriend?), “need to go home. And I, need to spank her ass because I won a bet.” She pulled the back of your dress up, exposing your ass to the night and groping you until you groaned. She smirked at you as your boss groaned like it pained him.

“Don’t do this to me, now I will have to jerk off twice before going to bed,” he whined, readjusting what looked like a huge erection in his pants.

“Have fun with your hand, big guy. We’ll see you tomorrow and if everything goes well… You might get lucky and get to spank her ass, too.” The fact that she was offering that without even considering you about it shouldn’t be hot, but you couldn’t contain the groan that escaped your mouth.

“Oh goddess, I might have to do it three times… You two are going to kill me,” he lamented without any sadness behind it, kissing your forehead and hers and going back to his car.

You two watched him go, and when you were safely back inside, you felt a hand squeezing your ass in a very naughty way. She guided you to your bedroom and spanked you until you cried, and then fucked you with your favorite dildo until you came all over yourself, your poor sheets not making it. You had to sleep with her as she complained jokingly. But it was her fault, after all.

The morning after, everything felt happier and brighter, and when you two had breakfast in comfortable silence you couldn’t avoid having horny thoughts about your girlfriend and boss going at it over the counter. She winked at you like she knew what you were thinking, and slapped your tender ass as you walked to the car. You whimpered as she laughed, you never felt more desired.

Your boss was waiting at the door of the HR department, looking handsome as hell as you walked to him. He looked like he wanted to kiss you senseless again, but he refrained and opened the door so you two could go first. You had to sign some papers about not suing the company and all that law stuff, and when everything was set, he grabbed your waist and bent you back, kissing you like in the movies and leaving you breathless. He did the same with your girlfriend (now shared girlfriend), and walked out saying he had some calls to make but he would meet you two later.

You walked to your desk in a daze and the work tasks seemed impossible for a long while.

“We have a meeting in five minutes,” your girlfriend said as she stopped next to your desk about an hour later.

“We have?” You looked at her panicked, you didn’t have any meeting in your calendar. You didn’t prepare. What was the meeting even about?

“Yes. Move your pretty ass, come on.” You were still panicking when she dragged you all the way to the meeting room, where your boss was already sitting on his big chair, legs far apart and cock out, slowly stroking himself. You almost swallowed your tongue.

“Wha- what are we doing here?” You asked, your panties already wet just seeing his huge juicy cock disappearing in his fist. It was the most erotic sight you’ve ever seen, you wanted to fall to your knees and swallow him to the root (which was very hopeful because you probably couldn’t even get half of him in your mouth without choking).

“I heard that my girlfriend didn’t think I was into her, so I decided we needed a team meeting to rectify that,” your boss-boyfriend explained, his hand working non-stop over his shaft.

“What?” You asked, confused.

“Get naked and bend over the table. Now,” your girlfriend ordered and you looked between the two.

“What?” You couldn’t comprehend anything. Did they talk about you? Did your girlfriend told him that? You felt your face getting redder and redder.

“Now, darling,” he repeated in a softer tone.

You complied, still confused about what was happening. When you were face down on the table, you heard them whispering behind you, not sure about what they were saying. Soon after you felt rough hands caressing your sides and your ass, such a soft touch that you shivered. Two softer hands joined, touching you everywhere. It was like a combined massage and you were rapidly losing your mind.

A hand pushed your legs apart, and a tongue found your center. You wanted to look over your shoulder and see who it was, but they didn’t let you, a hand in your back pressing you against the table. The tongue was replaced with another, and then both of them were licking your pussy in tandem, worshiping you as they groaned. Their hands were groping your ass and tummy, you could feel them everywhere.

“Please…” You begged, almost there but not quite. They were playing with you, getting you almost to orgasm and backing down. You were desperate.

“I know darling, I know… Just let go.” Your minotaur said, a finger entering your pussy slowly and tenderly. You groaned again, and let yourself surrender to pleasure.

They were everywhere, they surrounded your body with caresses and kisses, hands roaming everywhere as you laid there, unable to move as they worshiped your body. It was the softest and most intense experience of your life. The orgasm kept building, slowly and surely, and by the time you were about to come, a harsh hand landed on your ass, making you cry out as you fell apart under their attention.

You were still panting when your girlfriend whispered against your ear: “You did great.” She kissed your cheek and caressed your hair softly.

“Such a good girl for us,” your boyfriend added, kissing your forehead.

“I don’t think I can walk,” you responded, half joking, half telling the truth.

“Good thing my penthouse is right at the top of the building,” your boyfriend said, taking your body off the table like you weighted nothing. You were about to protest that you were too heavy when he talked again: “If you say you are too big, I’m going to spank you until you can’t sit in a week,” he threatened.

“Don’t tempt her, she’s a good girl, but she loves to be a good slut, too.” You blushed hard, hiding your face against your boss’ neck as they both laughed.

“Let’s go to my house so we can finish what we started,” his tone was rough and deep, like the sea at night.

“What?” You asked, as the same time your girlfriend said: “What do you mean?”

“Oh, darling, if you think you aren’t going to be full of cum when I’m done with you, you are heavily mistaken. And that goes for both of you,” he added, bending down to kiss your girlfriend’s open mouth.

[krirebr]

Luck Be a Lady

Pairing: soft!dark Curtis Everett x female reader

Word Count: ~10.1k

Summary: Desperate for money, you accept a job as a cocktail waitress at an underground casino. You think you know what you're doing, but when you meet Curtis, will you realize you're in over your head?

Warnings: Mob AU, violence, allusions to murder, explicit language, dubcon touching, noncon touching (not Curtis), willfully oblivious reader, SMUT - facefucking, dirty talk, light d/s dynamics, praise kink, other explicit sexual content. This is definitely on the darker end of the soft!dark spectrum, so proceed with caution! All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by @thecutestgrotto

Masterlist

A/N: And here it finally is! This is my first real attempt at soft!dark. I hope I did it right! 😂

This was inspired by two things: 1) me going to a rep screening of Goodfellas and spending the entire time wondering why I hadn't done a mob au yet and 2) @bigtreefest saying "enforcer!Curtis Everett and mob boss!Andy Barber" in my general direction. Thanks for the inspo, friend!!

And big thanks as always to @paperweight91 who not only came up with Curtis's name for reader but also offered heaps of encouragement and was a great sounding board. And thanks to @stargazingfangirl18 for helping me figure out how exactly we'd get to the smut. Thanks Siri!

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. Please come scream at me about this! 😄 As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

You fruitlessly tug down your very short skirt as Holly talks at you. You’re both standing in the corner of the bar’s basement waiting for the night to start in earnest—your first night.

“Lloyd’s not so bad,” she says of your boss, the man who runs this little underground gambling ring. “You’ll have to split your tips with him at the end of the night, but he doesn’t take that much, and you’ll make enough that you won’t really notice. As long as you do that, he’ll mostly keep his hands to himself.”

You nod along, glancing at the mustachioed man conferring with the bouncer at the door. The interview process for this job had boiled down to a thorough once-over that’d made you feel naked in your jeans and t-shirt and a “You’re not too stupid to take a drink order, are you?” and then you had the job.

Holly had vouched for you. Neighbors for almost half a year, she’d come home early one morning last week and witnessed you trying to convince the landlord that you were good for your past-due rent. She’d taken you for coffee and told you she might be able to help if you were good at keeping your head down and mouth shut. And now you were here.

“The customers, on the other hand,” she continues, smacking her gum, “you’ll have to let them touch, at least a little bit. Within reason, you know? But if anything gets out of hand, you can just tell Jake at the door and he’ll take care of it.”

“Within reason?” you ask, voice shaking, just the littlest bit, as the pit that started forming in your stomach when you agreed to this grows a little more.

The look she gives you verges on exasperated. “Well, you want to make money, don’t you?”

Yes, you do. Very much so. It’s a need, not a want. So you nod and try to listen as she keeps giving you the rundown. 

Before you’re ready, the first patrons start trickling in and then you’re off to the races. It’s not too bad. No one’s orders are too complicated, mostly just bottles of beer and glasses of straight whiskey. The bartender, Colin, is friendly enough, although you learn that he’s another person you’ll need to split your tips with. 

As for the touching, there are hands on your hips, pats to your ass. But you’re rewarded with folded-up bills held up between fingers or tucked into the strap of your top. Or, twice, slid behind the waistband of your skirt. Once you realize that the majority of these bills aren’t ones or fives, but twenties, you care about the touching that comes with them much less. Plus, you’re too busy to really think about it that hard. 

You can’t believe how busy it is for a random Tuesday night, multiple games of poker, craps, and who knows what else all going at once. But when you mention that to Holly, she just laughs and shakes her head. “This is nothing,” she says. “On the weekends there’ll be three more of us and another one of Jake. Things get wild.” 

You don’t have time to decide whether that makes you nervous or excited before someone is signaling for your attention again. You manage to suppress your grimace when he slides his arm around your waist to tell you what he needs from the bar. You’re rewarded for your troubles by a wad of twenties. You aren’t sure who these men are to tip so freely, but you know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It’s an hour or two later that Lloyd calls you over to where he’s speaking to a large, impossibly broad man, dressed in a soft-looking henley under a leather jacket with dark jeans. There’s dark ink all over his hands that disappears up his sleeves and reappears on his neck in intricate lines. He’s got close-cropped hair and a full beard that’s neatly trimmed. His deep blue eyes drill into you right away and you do your best not to shiver.

“Got a new girl tonight, Everett. Still learning the ropes, but she’ll take good care of you, won’t you, Cupcake?” 

“Yes, of course,” you say, before Lloyd wanders off to check on one of the poker games.

The man, Everett, lets his eyes rove over you. “Cupcake, huh?” His voice is deep, gritty, but there's something there that's much gentler than you expected.

You give him what you hope is a coy smile. “Sure. If you want.” Lloyd was treating him like he's important. You hope important means deep pockets.

He hits you with a penetrative stare, so strong you almost have to take a step back. “No,” he finally says. “I don't think so. I'll find something more fitting.” Then he turns and starts to walk away, before calling over his shoulder. “I'm gonna get dealt in. Bring me a whiskey once I'm settled.”

You watch him go for just a moment, and then head to the bar, asking for a whiskey. 

“This for Everett?” the bartender, Colin, asks. When you nod, he grabs a fancy bottle off the top shelf. “This is all he drinks. And he doesn't pay for it, alright? Don't ever think about giving him a bill.” 

You look back at the man in question, seriously looking at the cards he’s just been dealt. Who is he???

You collect his whiskey and move back to him. As you set it down, he turns to you. “How about this?” he asks as he holds up a crisply folded hundred-dollar bill between two fingers. Your eyes widen at the money. All you’ve done is bring him one straight pour. “There’s another one of these in it for you if you make sure I never see the bottom of this glass tonight. Sound good?” And then he folds the bill one more time in his thick fingers, before sliding it under the low-cut neckline of your blouse. Your skin tingles where he brushes against it.

“Yeah, you got it,” you just breathe out, a little shocked you’re able to form words. He gives you a smug smile that you can only describe as shark-like before turning back to his cards, and you understand it as the dismissal that it is. 

You move around the room, collecting empties, getting refills, trying to goodnaturedly accept unsolicited touches. The whole time you feel eyes on you, but whenever you glance Everett’s way, he’s focused on his poker game.

Eventually, a down moment finds you catching your breath against the wall. The moment Holly sees you standing still, she’s quickly making her way to you. “You need to be more careful around Curtis,” she hisses, lowly.

You look at her, confused. “Curtis?” Jake’s at the door. Colin’s behind the bar. You don’t know a Curtis.

“Curtis Everett!” You glance at the man at the poker table. He’s running a poker chip across his knuckles mindlessly. Then he looks up and you briefly make eye contact before you quickly look away. Holly is staring at you and she looks worried. But the name still doesn’t mean anything to you, so you shake your head and shrug. She groans as quietly as she can. “He’s Barber’s top enforcer!”

This whole conversation feels so out of the blue that it takes you a minute to catch up. Barber. Andrew Barber. The most feared mob boss in the city. Probably the state. Maybe even more. Ruthless and exacting was how the papers described him. He’d been the subject of multiple stings and taskforces and whathaveyou but nothing ever stuck. “He works for Andrew Barber?” you ask, shocked and a little appalled.

Holly stares at you in a way that you can only describe as dumbfounded. It takes her a few moments to find her words, then, “Bitch, you work for Andrew Barber!”

Everything stops. “What?” you gasp.

“Oh my god,” Holly groans. “This was such a mistake. It’s an underground card game in his city! Who did you think was running things?”

“I– I don’t know,” you stutter, stupidly. The god’s honest truth is that you’d never really stopped to think about it. You’d been staring down an eviction, struggling to afford groceries. Unable to make ends meet no matter what you did. When Holly told you about this job, all you saw were dollar signs. You didn't think about anything further. Of course, you’d known these games were illegal, but it seemed so minor in the grand scheme of things. You hadn’t connected it to anything bigger because you just hadn’t wanted to.

But now– Now that you know the truth, what are you going to do? You know what you should do. You should walk out the door right now. You should find some other legitimate way to pay your bills. It’ll be safer. It’ll be better. It’ll be so much harder.

As you bite your lip, trying to process all of this information, Holly continues. “Listen,” she says, “still get him drinks, be friendly, whatever you need to do. But keep your distance however you can. Don't encourage him. He's just– He's really dangerous. They don't call him Barber’s attack dog for nothing, ok?”

“Yeah,” you say. You start to look back in Curtis’s direction but stop yourself. You think about the hundred you already have and the one promised to you at the end of the night. You think of how empty your pantry is. But then you see the genuine fear in Holly's eyes. You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I got it. Thanks.”

“He doesn't even come in here that often. I'm surprised to see him tonight, so I'm sure it’ll be fine,” she says, but you can tell she’s nervous.

You nod, absently, finally letting yourself glance over at him. His drink is getting close to the bottom. “Shit,” you mumble. “I gotta get him his refill.”

“Do you want me to do it?” Holly asks. 

You should let her do it. You absolutely should. But you just can’t give up on that tip. You shake your head. “No, I’ll be fine. But thanks.”

You head back to the bar and grab Curtis’s top-shelf whiskey of choice from Colin, then make your way to his table. You set it down next to him, hoping to move away without him even noticing, he’s so engrossed in the game. But as you take a step back, his hand shoots out to grab your wrist. He holds it tightly until you meet his eyes. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and you can’t help the sharp intake of breath or the way you feel his words in your knees. He strokes his thumb down the inside of your wrist, then abruptly lets go, pushing his chips to the middle of the table. You step away, gathering yourself as subtly as you can, and get back to work.

The rest of the night goes quickly. The crowd gets a little rowdier as they drink more, but you find that it’s nothing you can’t handle. The reality of who these people are, what they’re connected to, never leaves your mind. But really, they’re not so bad. None of this feels so bad at all. And soon, people start heading out. You’re beginning to clean up, when a recognizable voice rings out, “Bambi!” You turn and lock eyes with Curtis. He crooks two fingers at you and you quickly make your way over to him.

“Bambi?” you ask.

He grins at you and it feels more than a little predatory. You’ll never admit how much you like it. You try to keep Holly’s warning at the forefront of your mind. “Wide eyes and just getting your legs under you,” he says. You instinctively duck your head at that, which earns a dark chuckle. “Here,” he continues, as he pulls a genuine, fat money clip out of his back pocket. You’ve never seen something like it in real life before. He peels off two bills and holds them out to you. “This is what good girls get,” he says, a low rumble in his voice.

You swallow as you take them from him. Two hundred dollars. Twice what you were expecting. “Thank you,” you say quietly. 

He shakes his head. “You earned it.” Then, after one last long look at you, he turns around and leaves.

You stand and stare after him. You don’t doubt anything Holly said, but three hundred dollars, just for bringing him drinks. He doesn’t seem that bad, not really. A little intense maybe, but there’s some sort of interest there, and it can’t be that bad to encourage it, just a little if it earns you these sorts of tips, can it??

Any hesitance you have about this entire endeavor completely disappears as you count your money at the end of the night.

Your first week flies by. You're starting to get the hang of the job. You get along with your coworkers. You get to know the regulars. You like it. Even Lloyd isn’t so bad as long as you give him his cut at the end of every night.

And you’re making so much money.

In your downtime, you pay your landlord what you owe him. You go grocery shopping without scouring for coupons first or calculating exactly what you can afford beforehand. You make a Pinterest board of what you want your apartment to look like now that you might actually be able to buy things to fill it. For the very first time, you’re thinking about things you actually want, not just desperately trying to figure out how you’ll pay your bills. You’ve never felt this calm, this relaxed, this free before. It’s an incredible feeling.

And Curtis. Despite Holly’s reassurances that you wouldn’t see him much, he seems to be there whenever you are, trying to capitalize on his winning streak at the poker tables, you assume. His tips are still insanely generous. You don’t think he carries anything less than hundred dollar bills. 

And there’s just something about him. The way he looks at you. The way he touches you. It’s not like the other men here. His touch is like fire, warming from the inside. There’ve been times when his hand on your hip has almost made your knees buckle. That doesn’t happen with anyone else here.

But you’re being smart and you’re being safe. You are. You’re going to set a savings goal, you think. And once you hit that number, you’ll be out of here, onto something more legitimate. And until then, you’ll just keep your head down and mouth shut, like Holly said. You haven’t even really seen anything. It’s a good plan. It’ll be fine.

She’s right that the weekends are wilder. Even with three additional girls working the room, you’re kept running. You do your best to keep an eye on Curtis’s drinks, but it’s much harder than on weeknights. And you aren’t really able to pause when you drop them off. It’s one of these times, as you’re pulling away from the table as soon as you’ve set his glass down, that you’re stopped short by his hand on you. He pulls you back in by the wrist and says, “They’re just running you ragged tonight, huh, Bambi?”

You smile and shrug. “It’s busy.”

He holds out a bill and you try not to smile even wider as he slips it into the waistband of your skirt. “For all your hard work.”

You bat your lashes a little. “You spoil me.”

“I like spoiling you,” he says, lowly. 

“You’re too sweet,” you say softly. Then, pulling your arm away with a wink, you add, “Gotta run,” and you’re onto the next table.

You’re getting good at this, figuring out what level of harmless flirting is just enough to keep the money flowing. And you’re having fun. You’d never expected that.

Holly and two of the other girls, Jane and Kristi, are congregated at the end of the bar, waiting for drinks, when you join them. They’re all watching you warily. “So, uh,” Jane starts quietly, “you seem to be getting pretty cozy with Curtis.” 

Before you can respond, Holly scoffs behind her. “I’ve tried to warn her but she won’t fucking listen.”

You roll your eyes. You’re tired of hearing this. “I seriously don’t get what the big deal is. He’s nice and he tips well. It’s harmless!”

Kristi just gapes at you. “He’s nice?!”

Holly slams the drinks she was waiting for onto her tray. “Whatever,” she grumbles. “It’s her fucking funeral.”

You shake your head as you watch her go. It’s fine. You can take care of yourself.

The rest of the night goes by in a blur. You don’t get much of a chance to talk to Curtis, but you feel his eyes on you before he disappears a little before closing.

At the end of the night, once you’ve helped clean up, you cash out with Colin and Jake and then go to find Lloyd in his office. You think it’s kind of ridiculous that you’re basically paying him to work there, but it is what it is. And Holly was right, you’re making so much that you barely even notice. 

Lloyd is sitting at his desk, looking a little more disheveled than you’re used to. He startles at your approach, which is also new. 

“Oh, hey,” he says, with slightly rounded eyes. “What can I do for you?”

You look at him, a little confused. “Just here with your cut,” you say as you hold out his money.

His hands immediately fly up to his chest, palms out. “No, no,” he says. “You made that fair and square. You just– you keep what you make from now on, Cupcake. Sound good?”

You swallow and nod, preparing yourself for whatever other price you’ll have to pay for keeping your job, mentally calculating what you’re willing to do. But Lloyd doesn’t do anything, doesn’t make any move to get closer to you. Just stays there at his desk, turning back to his work. “You have a good night,” he says, clearly dismissing you. 

You leave confused, but richer, telling yourself not to question it too hard.

Things go so smoothly for a few weeks that you’re a little shocked when the bubble bursts. 

It’s a relatively quiet weeknight. There are a few games going, but nothing compared to the weekend. The pace of the night feels leisurely. It’s nice.

It’s maybe the first night you haven’t seen Curtis there. It feels weird. He’s become such a part of this place for you. A fixture, like the bar or the carpet. Just one of the elements that make it what it is. But it’s fine. Of course, he doesn’t come every night. He probably has a whole life outside of this. He must’ve gotten bored of playing cards. Oh well. It was nice while it lasted.

You’re passing the time talking to one of the regulars at the bar, Vinny. He’s in his fifties, you think, with gray hair and laugh lines. He’d gone bust at the poker table (or maybe it was craps tonight) earlier and then had moved to the bar to drink away his sorrows and bad luck. That was how his nights tended to go.

He’s sitting on a barstool, his arm around your waist where you stand next to him. He’s a little close for comfort, but he’s always just been a friendly guy, so you’re alright. Which is why you’re so surprised when, in the middle of a story about the good old days of the Copa Cabana, his other hand suddenly finds its way between your thighs. You freeze. For just a second. Then you force out a laugh and try to push his hand away. “Bad boy,” you try to tease, your voice shaking. His hand will not move. What is happening? “Come on, let’s keep our hands to ourselves.”

Instead of doing what you’ve asked, his thumb briefly brushes the inside of your leg and then his whole hand begins moving higher. You stop breathing. You push again but he won’t budge.

“You’re such a pretty doll, aren’tcha?” he says. 

Tears start to gather in your eyes. You look around wildly to see if anyone’s noticing what’s happening. Colin’s busy making drinks. Jake and Lloyd are talking by the door. Everyone else is engrossed in their own business. “Vinnie, stop, please,” you whisper. You don’t know why you can’t get your voice to work, can’t get your body to move.

“Come on,” he cajoles, “I’m being nice, aren’t I?” 

Then his thumb brushes against your panties and your entire body jolts into action. You wrench your leg out of his grasp and take several steps away from him. Your whole body is shaking now. “I gotta–” you start, trying to keep your tone casual and failing miserably. “I gotta get back to work, Vinny.” Then you grab your tray off the bartop and walk away as fast as you can.

You don’t really have a destination in mind. You pick up a few empties as you wander between tables. You can feel his eyes on you, following you. You try to take a deep breath, calm yourself down. It isn’t very helpful. You look up to see Jake by himself now. You make your way over to him, Holly’s words on your first night in your ears. That was out of hand, wasn’t it?

He looks up as you approach. His big golden retriever smile on his face. “Hey, what’s up?” Then he actually takes you in and his smile drops. “What happened?”

“Um, Vinny, he, uh–” You feel a few tears fall down your cheeks and you just shake your head.

Jake’s face darkens. “Did he hurt you?” 

“No, uh, he– he just–” You shake your head again. “No, he didn’t hurt me.”

Jake doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at you. There’s something about the way he does it that makes you think he understands everything you just can’t say. He nods once. “Alright. I’ll take care of it. You go take your time in the back. Do what you need to do. He’ll be gone by the time you’re done.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay, thank you,” you say so quietly. Then you get yourself to the back room as quickly as you can.

It’s really more of a hallway than a room, small and narrow. All of the storage space for the building is in the legitimate bar upstairs. But there’s enough room for you to crouch down, your knees pulled up tight to your chin. You bury your face in your thighs and let the tears you’ve been holding in finally fall. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re fine. 

You don’t know how long you’ve spent trying to calm yourself down when a large shadow suddenly looms over you. It takes you a moment to gather your strength to find out who it is. You hope it’s Jake telling you Vinny’s gone. You’re afraid it might be Lloyd, here to tell you to get back to work. There’s a slowly building terror that it might be Vinny himself.

After a deep breath, you look up to find Curtis staring down at you, concern on his face and fiery anger in his eyes. “What happened?” he growls.

You shake your head and turn away. He crouches down in front of you. “Are you alright?”

A humorless, uncontrolled laugh escapes you. Once you finally stop, you ignore his question and ask your own, “Why are you here?”

It takes him a very long time to answer. He just looks at you seriously for several moments. Then, finally, “Jake called me.” While you try to figure out why on earth Jake would do that, he continues, “I'm sorry I wasn’t already here.”

“Why?” you blurt out without thinking. 

He looks away without saying anything. You both just sit in the silence for a few moments. Then, you try to change tactics. “Where were you?” you ask out of morbid curiosity. You can't imagine what his life is like outside of here.

“Working,” he says curtly. He plays with a ring on his middle finger and the movement draws your eyes to his hands, specifically his knuckles. They're scraped and caked with dried blood. 

You swallow and you catch how his eyes track the movement. His eyes are always on you. He catches everything. 

“Someone touched you?”

“Lots of people touch me,” you say, flatly. “It's part of the job. You touch me.”

His eyes narrow at that. “But this was different.” It isn’t a question.

You look down at your hands in your lap and don't say anything. 

“Tell me who it was.”

“No,” you say instinctively, something about the moment feeling incredibly dangerous. 

He huffs in frustration. “Are you trying to protect him?”

“No!” you say, sharply. “I’m protecting myself.”

“You don’t have to do that. Not from me. Not ever.”

You don’t know how to tell him that every atom in you knows that that isn’t true. You can’t explain it, and it wasn’t until the moment he joined you in this little closet, but you’d swear that he’s a danger to you. You just can't articulate how, but you feel it in your bones. And still, here you stay.

At your silence, he grits out, “If you don’t tell me who it was, Jake will.”

Jake probably already has, that’s what you’ve figured. “Great,” you say. “Then you don’t need me to say it.”

“Bambi,” he lets out in an exasperated growl. “I'm trying to help you.” 

You just look at him and then figure you may as well ask the main question that's on your mind. “Why did Jake call you?” 

He ignores you and stands up. “Come on,” he says and extends his hand, “I'm taking you home.”

You just blink up at him. “My shift isn't over.” 

He shakes his hand at you impatiently. “It is now. Come on.”

You shake your head. “Curtis, this is my job. I can't just– Lloyd will–”

“I'll take care of Lloyd. Let’s go.”

You think about going home. About sitting alone in your small apartment. At least here you'll have something to do, things to focus on, to keep you busy. At home, there'll be nothing to think about other than that hand between your legs and– “No,” you say as firmly as you can manage. “I'm staying here. I'm finishing the night.”

His jaw ticks but he doesn’t say anything, just tries to stare you down. You stare right back. You will not concede this. 

Finally, he exhales through his nostrils, then growls out an unhappy “Fine. But I'll–” He's interrupted by his phone ringing in his pocket. He takes it out and glances at the caller ID and sighs. “I have to take this.” He steps away as much as he can in the tiny area and answers with a curt “Everett.” There's a slight pause. “Yeah, I took care of it.” Another pause that has him glancing at you. “No, something else came up.”

You don't wait to hear the rest of the conversation. You take the opportunity to go back to the main room and get back to work. 

You don't see Curtis again that night. You don't spare much thought to where he might've gone. You're too focused on getting through the remainder of your shift. When it's done, Jake insists on seeing you home. You don't ask why. You already know who's behind it.

The next few days are fine. You try to put what happened behind you, doing your best to ignore it. But that becomes impossible when three days after the incident you watch Vinny walk in. You can’t help the little burst of panic you feel as you warily watch him sit down at his usual table and get dealt in. 

As subtly as you can, you make your way over to Jake. You don’t even say anything before he’s looking at you, chagrined. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I had to let him in. I promise it’s all going to be taken care of. It’s just– You can ignore him tonight, ok? Just trust me. You don’t need to worry about him. I promise.”

“Ok,” you say reluctantly, trying to resist looking back at Vinny. “I just– I didn’t think I’d have to see him again.”

“I really think that after tonight you won’t,” he says sincerely.

You don’t really understand what that means, but you nod anyway. “Ok,” you say. “I, uh, I should get back to work then.” 

He just nods after you, looking a little concerned and a little sad. But the room is filling up, so you don’t have time to delve into it.

Sometime later, as you’re taking a brief moment to idle by the bar, a strange hush descends over the room. You’re facing away from the door, away from the rest of the room, but you see Colin take in whatever it is that’s caused this. His face pales and he lets out a quiet, urgent, “Shit.” 

You turn around to see what on earth could be going on and you immediately freeze. Curtis is here. But that’s not what’s garnering all of this attention. Well, not all. Because he’s not alone, there’s a man with him. A little shorter, not quite as broad. But you’d be able to feel the power radiating off of him, even if you didn’t recognize him. Soft dark hair, thick beard, an immaculately tailored suit. You’ve seen him in the papers, on the news, but in real life, he’s even more intimidating. Andrew Barber.

Barber leans in close to say something to Curtis, who nods, eyes scanning the room until they land on you. Your breath catches, but luckily Colin calls your name behind you and you have an excuse to turn around. He places two glasses of dark liquor on the bar. “Everett,” he says, gesturing to one, then “Barber,” while waving his hand over the other. “Got it?” You nod and place them on your tray. They’re identical to your eyes except for the fact that Barber's has a muddled black cherry at the bottom of the glass.

You carefully bring them over, trying to force yourself to breathe. Curtis intercepts you and grabs the drinks when you're a few steps away. “Thank you, Bambi,” he says, lowly. 

Barber perks up. “This is Bambi? Really?” He extends a hand and you have no choice but to take it. “Andy Barber,” he says with a disarming smile. “It's a pleasure to meet you finally.”

His handshake is firm, demanding. He is terrifying in his friendliness. And he knows who you are. Has known, for who knows how long. You glance at Curtis, but he's just calmly drinking his whiskey. You don't know what to say, what are you supposed to say?? So after too long a pause, you practically whisper, “Thank you, Mr. Barber.”

He chuckles lightly as he takes back his hand. To Curtis, he says, “You're right, Bambi does suit her.” Then he turns back to you and adds, “Andy, please.”

“O– Okay, Andy,” you say, with what you desperately hope is a benign smile. You look over at Curtis, you’re not entirely sure why, but out of these two dangerous options, he, at least, is familiar. “I should get back to work.”

Curtis is staring at you, but it’s Andy who answers. “Mmm, and we have a game to join, don’t we?” Curtis nods but still doesn’t break his gaze. Andy smirks, “No rest for the wicked.”

You have no idea what to do with that sentiment, so you take the opportunity and get out of there. You walk through the tables, checking to see if anyone needs anything, but the mob boss’s physical presence seems to have ground all action to a halt. The room is collectively holding its breath. 

You go back to the bar for want of anything else to do. Colin is standing ramrod straight, coiled in case he needs to spring into action. Lloyd is sitting down at the end of the bar, drumming his fingers, eyes moving all around the room. You settle next to Holly, who looks just as scared as she did that first night when she was trying to warn you off of Curtis. “Is this,” you start to ask, your voice shaking. “Is this normal? Does he come here a lot?”

“No, never” she shakes her head. “Why would he come here? He has real clubs and restaurants. He doesn’t need to hang out in a shit hole like this.” She shakes her head again. “He’d only come here for a reason.”

You turn your head back to the room and find that Andy and Curtis have settled at Vinny’s table, joining his game across from him. Your heart lands in your throat. That can’t– No. You’re just some cocktail waitress. Even with Curtis’s obvious interest in you, you aren’t important enough to bring the most powerful man in the city here. You’re nothing. He must have other reasons.

The room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop as everyone waits for something to happen, which is why when Andy does start speaking, you don’t have to strain your ears to pick up every word.

He looks at his cards carefully, then over at Vinny. “You know, Vinny, you’re a hard man to track down.” His voice is so calm, it sends a chill up your spine. “You don’t go home, we can’t find you at work. I was starting to get worried.” He runs a few chips through his fingers before tossing them into the center of the felt. “That’s why, when I heard you were showing up here, I sent my best man to investigate,” he nods towards Curtis, “just to make sure you were ok.” 

You don’t have a great view of Vinny from where you’re standing, but you can see how stiff he is, how silent. But he still calls when it’s his turn.

“You can imagine my relief when I found out you were alright. Except,” he raises again, a few more chips into the pot, “you’re losing a lot of money, aren’t you? Now, this upsets me. Not because you’re losing your own money. But because it’s mine, isn’t it?”

Vinny finally tries to pipe up. “Andy, hold on. I can ex–”

“You owe me $150,000, Vinny. With interest, that total’s climbing every day. And yet, you sit here and you just keep losing, don’t you? At my own game. What would you do if you won, huh? Would you really try paying me back with my own money? I thought maybe you’d at least have the smarts to cross the border and try this at one of Roger’s casinos. Huh? Paying me back with my enemy’s money, at least that I could respect. But no, it’s only me you think is stupid enough to fall for your bullshit. So now I’m here to give you the chance to fucking do it to my face.” With that, he violently pushes all of his chips into the center of the table. 

Everyone else has folded. It’s just Barber and Vinny now. You’re not sure Curtis even actually played. He’s just staring Vinny down, although occasionally his eyes will flick up and meet yours. You hate feeling like you’re a part of this, but you don’t know what else to do besides watch it play out.

Vinny is just spluttering, while Andy calmly looks on. It’s all the expected, cliche stuff you’ve seen in gangster movies. He’s got the money, he swears. He just needs a little more time. Andy has to know he’s good for it! You want to roll your eyes right along with Andy.

“Call, Vinny,” Andy cuts him off, sternly. “That’s $150,000 I just put in the pot. Call. And if you win, we’re even. Your debt’s erased. But if you lose, well then that’s $300,000 you’ll owe me. And you know I won’t be able to tolerate that. So call. And let’s find out where we stand.”

You can’t see what Vinny’s doing, but you can imagine the way his fingers must be hovering over his chips, his eyes moving down to his cards to check, one more time, if they’re as good or bad as he remembers. You know there’s no way out for him either way. He’ll have to call. He’s just delaying the inevitable.

You feel like you can't breathe as you wait for him to just finally do it, but Andy cuts in again. “The thing I can't understand, Vinny, is why you kept coming here after Curtis showed up. Either you're very stupid or really fucking greedy.” He looks at Vinny carefully. “Maybe a little of both. I hear you've been touching something that doesn't belong to you.”

You gasp. No one notices, but you do. He can't be talking about you. He can't. He can't. 

Vinny seems even more confused than you. “What are you talking about? I haven't touched anything!”

Andy continues to ignore him. “So you're stupid and greedy. That's why you aren't afraid of him like you should be. They call him my attack dog, did you know? Have you heard that? Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you think he’s some puppy that follows me around. You’d be stupid to underestimate him, underestimate me. But maybe you only do that because you've never seen my dog off his leash.”

Curtis springs into action, lunging across the table to grab Vinny by the collar, and then slams his head into the felt. Before there’s even time to react, he’s stood and he's picking Vinny back up and hurling him onto the floor. Curtis comes around the table to stalk after him and the look on his face has you gasping for breath. You've never seen Curtis like this. There's a glint in his eye that might be the scariest thing you've ever seen. Who is this man? What is he capable of?

Vinny is dazedly trying to crawl away, but Curtis catches him easily. He grabs Vinny’s collar and hauls him back up, delivering two punches to his face in quick succession. The sound it makes. There's no other sound in the whole room. No one's saying anything, no one's doing anything. Everyone's just watching, hypnotized. You turn away, your stomach churning. Your eyes catch on Andy, sitting back in his chair, placidly drinking the whiskey you brought him, completely relaxed, like he's watching anything else. You can't look at him either. 

The room is completely silent except for the crunching of bones, Vinny’s whimpers, and Curtis’s grunts. You look up again to be startled by eye contact with Curtis. His eyes are wild, unhinged. Feral. But there's something else in it, like all of this is for you. That all of you are there, everything is happening, because Vinny dared to touch you. It takes your breath away. It’s mesmerizing.

Andy finally stands and strides over to where Curtis is holding Vinny up in the middle of the room. He looks down at Vinny, then spits in his face. “I'm tired of trying to draw blood from a stone,” he says. Then he turns to Curtis and finishes, “Get rid of him.”

Curtis gives you one last long look, his face unreadable. You feel it in your knees. Then he drags Vinny out, leaving a bloody trail behind him.

The moment they're gone, it's like the entire room can breathe again. “Lloyd,” Andy calls out. “How ‘bout a round for everyone? On me.”

Lloyd nods to Colin who hurriedly starts pouring drinks. And you, so grateful for something to do, instead of just standing there, shaking, start loading the glasses on your tray.

As you begin to pass them out, Andy of all people, pulls you aside. “Bambi,” he says quietly, “I hope you know now, we take care of our own.”

You gaze at him, shocked. It feels like a comfort and a threat. But why? It's not so much the implication that this all had something to do with you, but you can't for the life of you imagine what you've done to get yourself to a place where Andy Barber might consider you his, however distantly. It can't just be that you work here. You can't picture him doing something similar for Holly or Colin. Once again, this all feels so incredibly dangerous. 

While you're struggling to come up with anything to say to that, he grabs a drink off your tray and downs it quickly. Then, with a wink, he turns and leaves. You’re left staring after him until someone calls after you and you're scrambling to pass out drinks again. 

The night ends quickly. No one seems eager to stay and drink and play after everything that's happened. Not when there's still blood on the floor.

You do what you can to help clean up, but when you stare at the stain helplessly, Lloyd tells you not to worry about it. He's got a guy.

Colin walks out with you so you aren’t in the parking lot alone. You're grateful. You're still so shaken. As you approach your car, your beater that you still don’t quite have the money to replace, you see someone leaning against it. You stop short, looking to Colin for help, but he just keeps walking to his own car, his head down. That’s when you know it’s Curtis. 

You take a deep breath and then force yourself to keep walking towards him. You can't begin to parse how you feel to see him now. Your keys are ready in your hand like you might just get in and drive off without speaking to him. You know you won’t.

When you reach him, his voice is rough as he asks, “Are you ok?” He’s cleaned up. There’s no more blood on his hands, his clothes have been straightened.

You open your mouth to answer, even though you have no idea, so instead what comes out is “Did you kill him?”

“Did you want me to?” is his immediate reply.

It stops you in your tracks as all sorts of feelings come bubbling up, ones you can not, will not examine. This is about his propensity for violence, how terrifying he became, not– No. “Did you?” you insist. 

He looks at you carefully then shakes his head. “I don't think you actually want me to answer that.”

“But you've killed before?” You can't stop yourself from pressing, from pushing. You don’t know why. 

He just sort of smiles, gently almost, in a way that is deeply unsettling. “You need to stop asking questions you aren’t ready for me to answer, Bambi.” And it’s the way he says the nickname, like you really are that babe in the woods, just born with no knowledge of the world around you, that has your hackles rising.

“Andy called you his dog,” you say, like he should be offended.

To your surprise, he laughs, his head thrown back. Then he takes a step closer to you, and you take the opportunity to sneak in behind him, get to your car. You realize your mistake immediately when he turns back around and cages you in, your back pressed against the driver’s side door. “Everyone calls me his dog. Because he’s the civilized man in the designer suit, and I’m the animal just begging for a reason to slip my leash.”

Your heart pounds wildly in your chest. You should get into your car. You should drive away as fast as you can. You should never come back. But you don’t. “You did it for him,” you say, mustering all the strength into your voice that you can. “You didn’t do it for me.”

He leans over you, the space between you shrinking rapidly. “Yeah, he asked me to do it,” he nods. “But if he hadn’t, I still would have done it. For you.”

 You try to shake your head, to tell him that that can’t be true, even as a wild, loud part of you starts to rise up and claw out of your chest. You try to tamp it down, deny it, but before you can, Curtis is leaning in further, his whole body pressing against you, and then he covers your lips with his.  

There’s a heat that comes up out of him that fills you, the instant his skin touches yours. His hands are on you, your neck, your hip. You can’t keep track, can only say that his hands are there, everywhere, that his body touches all of yours, that his lips and his tongue are demanding, unrelenting. You are burning up from the inside.

Too soon, but ages later, he pulls away. His eyes are on fire as he looks at you. Then he tears his gaze away, and hits the roof of your decrepit car twice, looking at it disdainfully. “You get home safe,” he says, then steps back to allow you the space you need to get into your car.

You do what he wants you to do. You get in your car, sit in the driver’s seat, and then stare blankly out the windshield. You’ve never felt so out of control in your life. How did this happen? You were flirting for tips, that was all! You encouraged it for money, that was it, and now– You press your thighs together, trying not to pant. You will not be unmoored. 

A slight movement in your periphery makes you notice that Curtis is still standing just to the side of your car, watching you. You turn your keys in the ignition and shift into drive.

It doesn’t mean anything it doesn’t mean anything it doesn’t mean anything, you chant to yourself all the way home.

It’s your next shift back, and everything seems to have changed. You don’t understand it. You keep doing laps of the room, keep sidling up to regulars you were so friendly with just a few nights ago, but now, they won’t even look at you, let alone touch you. No one’s ordering anything.

Or at least, they aren’t ordering from you.

Holly has been running around nonstop all night, basically having to take care of the entire room by herself. You watch man after man after man slip her little bundles of money. 

You want to scream. What the fuck happened? What did you do? What are you going to do?

You go to stand by the bar to wait for something you can do. Colin gives you a brief nod of acknowledgment but that’s it. He’s been cold, too. No. Not cold, distant. You don’t understand what’s changed.

You take a deep breath. It’s one weird night. Things will be better tomorrow.

Things don’t get better. The next night is the same. You’re starting to panic. This job was supposed to be your lifeline. Without it, without the money you were making, you’re not sure how you’ll survive.

Curtis comes in after a couple of hours of nothing. You could cry you’re so happy to see him. But terrified too. If he gives you the cold shoulder, this job really is over. But you have no idea how he’s going to act, not after what happened last time. You’re not sure how you’re going to act either. You can still feel his lips on yours.

You bring him his whiskey immediately and he greets you with an arm around your waist, pulling you in. “Hey Bambi,” he says quietly. Then he gets a good look at you. “What’s wrong?” 

You look at him carefully, not sure what to confide. You aren’t even sure what the problem is. You shake your head. “Not my best night,” you say with a tired smile. “But I’m fine.”

He stares at you for a moment, then stands up. “Come on,” he says, grabbing your hand and leading you to the little back room. You feel eyes on the two of you the whole way there.

Once he’s closed the door behind you both, he asks again, “What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “The last two nights have been weird here. I don’t– I don’t know. I’m just worried. I don’t know what happened but I’m not making any tips. No one’s treating me like they used to.”

“Mmm,” Curtis hums thoughtfully. “I think,” he says as he takes two steps closer to you, which in this small space is significant, “everyone else here has figured it out.”

It’s suddenly a little hard to breathe with him standing over you like this. His presence, his attention is always so much. “Figured what out?” you ask, confused.

“That I have lost my patience for watching other men touch you.” 

It hits you like a freight train. “What?” It comes out in a whisper.

“I’ve let this go on for too long,” he says, his voice is calm, casual. “I don’t want you working here anymore. This is done.”

“I– What? Curtis. What?! I have to work! I have to pay my bills! I don’t understand. I don’t–”

He takes one last step forward. You feel the heat coming off of him. “Shh,” he soothes, cradling your cheek in his hand. “It’ll be alright. I’ll take care of you. I take care of what’s mine.”

You pull your face away, even as the urge to nuzzle into him is so strong. You feel like you’ve missed something, a thousand things. You feel too many steps behind. “Curtis, I’m not– I’m not yours.”

Something comes into his eyes and you’re reminded of him standing over Vinny, covered in blood. His hand travels down from your cheek. He strokes your throat once, and then his hand closes around it. “Look me in the eye,” he growls, “and say that again.”

His hand is firm, snug, but it doesn’t tighten. But you can imagine so easily how it might. You look him in the eye. You open your mouth, ready to say it again. But then– then you see it. In the way he looks at you, the way he’s always looked at you. You feel it in his grip on you, now. You can’t deny it anymore. 

Curtis shoves you into his bedroom. You’re panting already. You need his hands on you, right now. You don’t have to ask for it. He gets you to the center of the room and yanks down your skirt, tearing it in the process. You step out of it and take your blouse off, throwing it on top of your skirt. Curtis’s eyes are cataloging your body, the swell of your breasts spilling out of your bra, your soft tummy, thick thighs. His gaze, as always, takes your breath away.

You reach out for Curtis’s shirt, but he grabs your hands. “I want you on your knees,” he growls and you immediately kneel for him. He throws off his shirt, revealing the expanse of his chest, the muted blacks and grays of his tattoos. You’re desperate to run your hands over them, trace the art, but instead, they just twitch at your side. He'll tell you what you're allowed to do.

He begins unbuttoning his jeans and your mouth drops open. He chuckles darkly. “Perfect little slut.” He takes his phone out of his back pocket and aims it at you, taking a picture as you gaze up at him under your lashes, your mouth wide open. “I've been dreaming of getting you on your knees for me.” He puts his phone on his dresser, then continues taking off his pants. “You ready to choke on my cock, baby?”

“Please,” you whine. You're practically salivating now. His bare thighs are as thick as tree trunks, the muscles corded. His abs ripple as he moves. His shoulders, his back. You want.

He frees his cock and rolls his black boxer briefs down his legs, stepping out of them. It's long and thick, just like the rest of him. Your breath catches. You don't think you've ever taken something that big before.

He takes a few steps so he's completely in your space, his cock bobbing right in front of your face. He takes it in one hand, the other firmly on the back of your head and slowly feeds the tip into your mouth. You taste his musk on your tongue. As he rocks into your mouth, going a little further each time, your hands come up to grasp his thighs. On his next thrust in, you run your tongue along the underside of his dick. His movements stutter just a little and then he looks down at you, a smirk overtaking his face. It's just a touch mean, in a way that has you soaking your panties. “You ready?” he asks, his voice rough. And then without waiting for the answer, he thrusts in all the way, making you take him deep in your throat.

You flail, slapping his thigh as you try to swallow around him, breathing frantically through your nose. After holding you there for a moment, he sets a brutal but steady pace. It takes you a moment, but you find your rhythm, your panic subsiding. Once you feel steady, you lift one hand from his thighs and bring it up to cradle his balls. “Fuck, Bambi,” he grinds out. “You're gonna– I– fuck!” His hand moves from the back of your head down to the back of your neck, which he grips firmly, pulling you off his cock. As you cough and splutter on the floor, he growls, “The first time you make me come is gonna be inside that perfect cunt.”

He helps you stand on wobbly legs, then shoves his hand between your legs, cupping your pussy over your panties. “Shit, fucking soaked just from deepthroating me?”

You let out a needy little whine, trying to push further into his hand, but he withdraws it, instead settling on your hip. “Well,” he grins, “if they’re ruined anyway…” then uses that hand to rip the black lace down the side, letting them fall to the floor. He makes quick work of your bra as well, then takes a step back and sighs, “Shit, Bambi, look at you.” It’s the reverence in his voice and on his face that has you launching yourself at him, unable to keep from kissing him any longer. He lets you, quickly taking control, letting you feel all his hunger, the want he’s kept barely bottled up since he first laid eyes on you. You understand it all now. His erection brushes against you, and now it’s his turn to whine, just a little. 

He pulls away, brushing a hand down your cheek, then says “Get on the bed, on your stomach.” You quickly comply, laying in the center of the bed with your knees pulled up and spread beneath you. He brings his hand down on one asscheek harshly and you can’t help the lewd moan that escapes you. He chuckles, “Oh, I will definitely remember that for later.” He grabs your hips and cants them up, then whistles at your exposed cunt. “I knew it. Absolutely beautiful.” Then he unceremoniously shoves two fingers into your hole and you choke on nothing. “Shh,” he coos. “You can take it. My cock’s gonna be a lot thicker.” 

As he starts scissoring his fingers inside you, you can’t hold it in any longer and start babbling. Mostly a combination of “please,” and “Curtis,” and “I need,” over and over.

“I know, baby,” he says as he pulls his fingers out of you. “I’ve got what you need right here.” You have a brief moment to feel the tip of his cock on your pussy lips before he’s thrusting it into you, as far as he can go without making it hurt. 

“Oh my god,” you cry, pressing your forehead into the mattress and balling his dark blue sheets in your hands. You feel so full. It’s so good. He’s working himself into you as quickly as he can, desperate now. You both are. Once he bottoms out, fully seated in you, he pauses. Then with one hand on your stomach and the other around your neck, he pulls you up onto your knees, your back flush to his chest. You cry out at the new angle; he’s somehow even deeper now. He starts thrusting up into you at a punishing pace. You’re bouncing up and down in his firm grasp. The hand on your neck turns your head to face him, his lips brushing against yours. He holds eye contact with you as the hand on your stomach snakes down your pelvis so his thick fingers can begin circling your clit. “Fuck! Curtis, please!” you shout. 

“Yeah, come on,” he breathes, “you can let go. You can do it. Come for me like a good girl.” It’s those words that send you careening over the edge, your cunt pulsing around his cock, squeezing him until he’s coming too with a grunt, filling you up until both your cum is leaking out around him. 

He holds you there, on your knees, as you both come down, your twin pants all you can hear.

You wake up slowly, the sun shining on you through the soft drapes. You start to shift then groan at how stiff you are. The night before comes back to you. Curtis took you two more times before you both collapsed in satisfied exhaustion. He’s still out like a light beneath you. 

You take a moment to look at him. It’s odd to see him so peaceful, so still. There’s nothing of the feral predator he projects to the world. It makes you feel oddly close to him, seeing him like this.

You carefully get up without disturbing him and begin collecting your clothes. You put on your bra, but there’s no saving your panties. Same for your skirt; it’s ripped along the seam. So instead you pick up Curtis’s t-shirt from last night and put it on. It smells like him. You breathe it in shamelessly knowing there’s no one to witness it.

You savor the soreness as you move out of the bedroom. It’s like you can still feel him inside you, how much he wanted you, needed you. It makes you feel a little powerful, having that effect on a man like him.

You make your way into his living room. You didn’t really have a chance to look at his house last night, as determined as he was to get you into the bedroom. If you’d ever thought to picture it, this wouldn’t be far off. It’s all rich blues and greens and grays, leather and dark wood. Masculine. It suits him. 

As you’re admiring the room, you hear footsteps behind you and then two big arms are encircling your waist, pulling you into him. “Good morning,” he rasps. 

You turn your head to him. “Good morning,” you say with a smile.

“Fuck, Bambi, you’re even hotter in my shirt than you were last night.”

You smirk at him even as your face heats. “Mmm,” you hum. “It’s comfy. You might not get it back.” He nuzzles into your neck as you continue. “I was hoping you might have something I could wear for bottoms, too. You destroyed my skirt.”

His beard roughly drags against your skin as he asks, “Why the hell would I let you wear bottoms?”

You laugh. “Because I have to leave the house, Curtis.”

“No, you don’t,” he says as his hand begins to move between your thighs.

You playfully swat him away, even as you feel yourself getting wet again from his attention. “I have to go home.”

“Why? You’re staying here.” It’s how certain he sounds that has you turning around in his arms.

“What?”

“I don’t like your building. It isn’t safe enough. Now that I finally have you, of course, I’m going to keep you here with me.”

Once again, you feel too many steps behind. You just blink at him, confused. How does he even know where you live??

He takes your chin in his hand, his fingers gentle. “I told you, Bambi, I take care of what’s mine.”

Tag list

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[elliotshrine]

elliot’s leaked email to his dad

Dear peter,

Guess who? It’s your son! Yes, you have another son, and a literate one at that. Search your feeble mind and i’m sure you’ll remember. Cringe your face and crease your brows if you have to. It has been quite some time since we last spoke, and I have much to say.

Now are you daft or just thick-headed? I suspect both. You actually think my mother is using me for money... well, I always thought you were a bit stubborn and stupid, but I didn’t expect this folly from you. Let me enlighten your obstinate mind to some truth, if thats possible... though I guess it doesn’t hurt to try.

After reading the email you sent yesterday, I seriously cannot help but wonder what twisted conceptions have been planted in your head. This reeks of Soumaya’s (his step mom) manipulation, to be sure. But that is just a suspicion. I would not be surprised though, because from my experience with you and her, she has to but say the word and you turn into her raging dog. Ok now you are going to start ranting about how much Soumaya loves the family and how much she has helped you, yes yes yes. Of course she has given her fair share of aid to the family, who wouldn’t? But she has been an utter bitch towards me throughout the years. You just cannot realize it because she has such a strong hold over you. Honestly, I do not know what you even see in that woman, you cow down to her every whim... is she even a good lay? Hah, from the way she supposedly walks around the house naked all day I’de say she gives you quite a tease. Though her naked body wouldn’t be much to look at. Oh and every summer she flies off to Morocco and spends all your hard earned money, leaving you in a cold empty bed. Not the kind of wife I’d want, let alone worship with unrelenting vigor.

Well, I’m going to leave it at that. Think about what I’ve said, sweet father, it will do you good. I could tell you more of the things your wife has done; I could give you more examples how much of an obtuse cuckold you are being, but it won’t be any use, will it? Because of the sole fact that you are an obtuse cuckold. I’ve probably wasted my time bothering with you since the only person you listen to is your wife who you worship so much, and you’ll just disregard my email like you did all my other emails. But as I said in the beginning, it doesn’t hurt to try. I wish you good health (which is something you probably lack, having to deal with that woman all day) and a very happy belated birthday.

Elliot

[masonmontz]

hellooo everyone :) hope you like it

REMEMBER: english is not my first language

angst word count: 9,5k

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

“Y/N has a new boyfriend” Declan spoke and silence was the response he received. Mason felt his heart skip a beat and then fall to the floor, causing Mason to get a lump in his throat.

He just stared at Dec, trying to swallow the food he had put in his mouth before hearing the news. It took a lot of effort to swallow.

“I’m not hungry anymore” Mason pushed the plate away, feeling the strange sensation in his stomach, the same feeling that kept him awake at night. 

Lauren looked at him with pity and Mason felt like an idiot. Declan cleared his throat, realizing he shouldn't have told Mason the news, but what could he do if you were friends with him and Lauren too?

“Sorry mate, I shouldn't have said that” Declan apologized to Mason, but he shrugged it off, not placing the blame on Declan. 

“Who is the guy?” Reece asked, because after all he is also your friend. The restaurant seemed silent with the awkward atmosphere that remained at the table and Mason just stared at the plate he barely touched. 

“David. They work together” Lauren spoke and Mason looked at her, but Lauren was already looking at him waiting for Mason's reaction. Mason looked down and felt everyone's eyes on him, Dec, Lauren, Ben, Reece, Aimee and Henry. 

Mason felt like he was a bomb about to explode and everyone wanted to see the moment it happened.

“Sorry guys, I’m going home” Mason got up quickly and without looking at his friends, ‘cause he already knew that everyone noticed how affected he was by the news that you were dating, but he didn't want to see the pity in everyone's eyes. “Declan, pay my portion and I'll give you the money later.”

Mason left the restaurant quickly, but he heard Aimee's heels behind him and he sighed, knowing he wouldn't be able to outrun the stubborn woman running after him. 

“Mase, wait-” she called him, and Mason only stopped walking when he felt the cold air on his face, needing some fresh air. “Hey.”

“I can't take this anymore, Aimee. I can't” Mason's voice was cracked, and the state he had been in for almost two months was deplorable. “She left me in the shit.”

Mason knows that Aimee is your best friend and he knows that you two talk daily, but he needs to talk to someone ‘cause Mason feels like at any moment he will reach his breaking point. 

His eyes filled with tears, and he was looking out into the cold night but Aimee could see his eyes were wet. 

“I'm so sorry, Mase. I tried to talk to her about it but she won't let me” Aimee hugged Mason from the side, putting her arms around his shoulders, even though he was taller than her. 

Mason looked at her devastated, and Aimee felt her own heart ache at the sadness on Mason's face.

“I really can't take this anymore, it's too much for me, Aim” Mason sighed and brought his hands to his face, because he still felt his heart tighten in his chest, he wasn't hungry and he felt like he could vomit ‘cause of the emotions that were going through him.

He missed you.

He was sad.

He was alone.

And you left.

“You know you can talk to all of us, right? We're your friends, Mason, and you can run to us whenever you need to. You don't have to deal with all of this alone” Aimee held his hand and Mason nodded, but he knew Aimee had been busy lately because she was planning her own wedding with Henry, but she was so nice that she offered to be Mason's support since you left.

“I know, thank you” Mason tried to smile, but he knew he gave the saddest smile anyone had ever seen. “Tell them I apologized for ditching dinner.”

“Don’t worry, but please, take care of yourself.”

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

You and Mason have been friends for years, you met in school and you had some friends in common. Everyone knew that Mason had been in love with you since you were a teenager, but you were never able to see him as anything more than a great friend. Not since the night you kissed for the first time.

You also knew that Mason was in love with you, but sometimes things don't happen the way we want, and even though he always treated you much better than your boyfriends, there was nothing you could do if you didn't like him back.

The night you were celebrating your twenty-fourth birthday in a place where all your friends were was when Mason decided to make the first move. 

He asked to deliver the gift he bought for you away from the others, and he gave you the most beautiful bracelet you had ever seen, it was gold and had your initial as a pendant, but it also had shells and stars, books, teacups and everything you liked the most. It was so delicate that you were moved when you realized how much Mason knew you.

When you hugged and thanked him that's when Mason kissed you, and that's okay, at that moment you didn't care and kissed him back. It was terrible to realize that that was the best kiss you had ever had, no one had ever kissed you so intensely, with so much love and passion.

Your mistake was going home with him after the party, ‘cause Mason was all over you the whole night and everyone could tell something was up, and you were also wrong for kissing him back every time, maybe giving Mason hope that it all meant something. 

At first it didn't really mean anything, but after weeks of having sex with him, even you who had an impenetrable heart found yourself attracted and in love with him. Mason made you smile, Mason treated you well and always put you first, and when you realized that, you also realized that you never put him first. And you never would.

You were working so hard at work to get the job the company was offering in Australia that it wouldn't be fair to him ‘cause you wouldn't be able to give him what he deserves if you had to move. 

Mason didn't accept staying away, so he said he didn't care if you didn't give a name to what you had. You weren't just friends but you weren't dating either, you knew his parents but not as his girlfriend, and Mason accompanied you everywhere just as... someone you were sleeping with. That was it.

For months it was like this. It was your house that Mason went to after games, it was you he called when he lost a game and wanted comfort from someone he loved or when they won and he wanted to celebrate with someone. You, always you, no one else. 

Mason loved you so much that he felt his heart jump with joy every time someone said your name or when he saw a message from you on his phone. Everyone thought you were his girlfriend, but Mason was too embarrassed to tell you that you weren't his girlfriend. Even he couldn't understand what was going on between you, so imagine telling others.

But your time was limited, and everyone knew it.

Almost a year later you received the proposal you had dreamed of for so long, and you were so happy that the idea of ​​leaving England wasn't scary at all, it was wonderful. You only told your parents at first, then Aimee ten days before you left. 

You didn't know how to tell him that you were moving, especially since you knew Mason wouldn't handle it very well. He was injured and had some problems with his Chelsea contract, and Mason was looking to you every day for comfort to feel good. 

He found out before you could tell him, and only because you left the plane ticket where he could see it, but it wasn't intentional, you just forgot to put it away. You still remember his face when Mason turned to you with the ticket in his hand, and you felt your heart skip a beat as you realized the argument was closer than you thought.

“Why do you have a plane ticket to Australia?” He asked quietly, but deep down you knew Mason knew what it meant. 

You couldn't lie to him anymore and you had to be honest, no matter how much it hurt.

“Cause I’m moving to Australia” Mason looked at the paper in his hand once more, probably wanting to see the date. The day you would leave.

“In ten days?” You just nodded, sighing when you saw Mason’s lip tremble. He put the paper back where he had found it and stared at you. “And when were you going to tell me? When you were getting on the plane?”

“I was planning on telling you right away, you weren't supposed to find out like this.” 

“It wouldn't hurt any less if you had told me sooner. How long have you known you were moving?”

“Almost two months” Mason agreed and you could see a piece of his heart break, then another and another. “C’mon, let's talk about it.”

You held out your hand to Mason, but he didn't take it and just stood there staring at you. You walked over to him and grabbed his hand, pulling him onto the couch with you. Mason sat on the couch and you knelt on the floor in front of him, resting your arms on his knee as he stared at you in so much pain that you felt your heart clench.

“Mase, you know how much I wanted this job, I worked really hard for this transfer and I finally got it” you explained to him, gently stroking his leg. “Don't be mad at me, but we knew I would have to move if I got the job.”

“It's not that I didn't want you to get the job, I just didn't think it would happen, it seemed so far away and you didn't tell me. I'm the last to know” he spoke, staring at his hands without looking at you, but you brought your hand to his chin and made him look at you. “And we both know that our relationship isn't going to work out.”

“We just don't date because you don't want to, if it were up to me you know you'd be my girlfriend” he spoke softly and you sighed, knowing it was true.

“Mase, I know you have a crush on me and yeah, I have a crush on you but-”

“Y/N, I don’t have a crush on you, I’m in love with you. I love you” he said and you felt your heart race ‘cause you never let Mason confess his feelings to you, and you knew that what he felt was much bigger. “How can you say that I have a crush on you when I've been doing everything for you for almost a year? It's not fair to me.”

“Well, I never asked you to do anything for me. Mason, I'm sorry, but I also never promised to offer you more than I already do” you got up from the floor and sat next to him, but Mason continued to stare at the floor in front of him.

“I love you and I've loved you since before I kissed you for the first time, how funny is that? And even after months of sleeping next to you, having sex, wanting to be good enough for you, you don't feel anything for me? How can you be so cold?” 

“I never wanted this relationship to go ahead ‘cause I always hoped to go to Australia. You've got Chelsea, you've got enough women to last you the rest of your life, live it, Mason.” 

“I don't want any other woman, it's always been you, Y/N. It's always been you, and you acting like it's nothing is what hurts me the most” a tear ran down Mason's face, but he quickly wiped it away, which was in vain because he couldn't stop other tears from falling, and before you knew it Mason was crying, sobbing. “Why are you doing this to me?”

You didn't know how to respond, so you stayed silent as you watched Mason cry. And the scene was sad, because there was nothing you could do to comfort him, what was done was done.

“I will wait for you to come back” he whispered, and then turned his face to look at you.

“Mason, that’s the point. I don’t know if I will ever come back. What if I like Australia? Or if I find someone there?” At that moment Mason felt like he was going to have a panic attack, and he was sure he was running out of air to breathe. “Go and live your life and forget about me, that's what I'm asking.”

“I can’t do this, Y/N. I can’t. I love you and I have loved you since I was eighteen, how can you ask me to forget you? How can you ask me to forget you after sharing so much of myself with you?” He stood up, putting his hands in his hair and breathing quickly.

“Don't forget me then, but I won't promise you that I'll come back.” 

“How can you pretend you don't feel anything for me? You can confess it, no one has to know.” 

“Because I don’t love you back.” You said it, and even Mason knew it was a lie, but it still hurt.

“You do. Don’t lie. If you don’t love me you shouldn’t act like you do” he said between sobs. “Don’t do this to me, please. I’m begging you to stay.”

“I already made my decision long ago, you're not going to change that Mason” you spoke with a lump in your throat, wanting to cry but refusing to cry in front of him and making things more difficult. 

“Just say you love me back” he begged, and Mason looked like the saddest man you'd ever seen.

“I'm not going to say anything ‘cause things can't get any harder than they already are. Everything it's over between us, Mason. In ten days I'm going to Australia and you're going to stay here and conquer the world. Without me.”

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

Mason sighed as he entered his quiet London flat. It was strange to return to a place that had once been the place he considered home, but now London was no longer his home, and neither was Manchester. 

Because the place Mason considered home for a long time was in Australia, and now it was someone else's home.

Mason was going crazy and he was sure of it, but he swears that when he threw himself on the bed where you used to lie he smelled your perfume. That's where Mason broke down.

“Why did you do this to me, Y/N?” He spoke to himself, closing his eyes and feeling the tears run down his neck ‘cause he was lying down. A sob escaped his lips, it was the first time he had cried since the last time he saw you and Mason realized that he didn't know how to deal with the things that were happening in his life.

His contract with Chelsea ended and Mason joined Manchester United, but he was far from a happy man. Even with so many insults and threats, he didn't cry once, and every smile he gave when he went to Manchester United was fake. 

Mason was just surviving and doing whatever he was told to do, ‘cause all his thoughts were about you, from the moment he woke up in the morning until the time he lay down to sleep. 

And Mason even had the false idea that you were also thinking about him, but no, because now you have a boyfriend. Mason feels his own body heat up with anger when he thinks about another man touching you, kissing you in the same way he did. 

Mason's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he sighed because he didn't want to look at the message. And it was something that had become a habit for him, if no message was from you, why would he be excited to receive one?

But he still picked up his phone to check and was not at all surprised to see Aimee's message.

Mason threw his phone on the mattress, looking around the room and seeing that you hadn't left anything there, not even a sock, and it was as if you had never entered that room. 

The worst part is that every time Mason saw Aimee he remembered that you two were always together too, because you were like twins, you were always together and did the same things. He also heard that you and Aimee had a falling out over your decision to move to Australia, but had talked things through before you traveled.

Y/N has a new boyfriend. Declan's voice crossed Mason's mind again, and that phrase had been haunting him ever since he heard it. 

Mason knew you loved him, he could see it in the touches, the looks and even the secrets you shared with each other. You were too stubborn to tell him that, and Mason knew it wasn't fair to ask you to give up on a dream, but he wished he could have heard at least once the three words he always wanted to hear from your lips. Just once was enough, because then Mason would know that all those months together had been worth it.

Mason can't understand how you don't miss him, someone you shared everything with until months ago and now he's a stranger. How can you not miss him when Mason has been missing you even when he's sleeping? Don't you miss him when you're taking a shower with your new boyfriend? The thought makes Mason want to vomit.

But now you have a boyfriend and it's him you say I love you to, it's him who asks to hold your hand, it's him who admires you sleeping.

Mason didn't know it was possible to feel so jealous of someone while having a broken heart. It's been five months since you left and Mason feels like his heart hurts more every day, and he doesn't know how long it will take for him to heal.

He needs to forget you ‘cause you've definitely already forgotten him, but he doesn't know how. Mason discovered that he needs you the same way he needs air to breathe. 

But you moved on and Mason moved on with a broken heart, in a helpless state, and even though he'll never open up to anyone the way he did to you, at some point that pain has to pass.

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹ 3 months later ✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

“No, I didn't forget the dress, mum” you said in a phone call walking through the London airport while talking to your mother. She was traveling to Ireland and wouldn't be back until next week, so you were alone for the next few days. “Yes, I will wait for you to come back, you know I will stay in England for twenty days. I know. Yes, I will. Bye, I love you too.”

You almost groaned at the amount of people walking around London airport, and it would be much harder to find Aimee than you thought. After eight months, you are back in the rainy, cold weather of England, and you missed it so much that you felt like you could cry at any moment.

Aimee and Henry's wedding is in three days, and that's why you've brought yourself back to England, ‘cause you wouldn't miss it for anything. 

Australia is a great place to live and you love your job there, you've made some friends but... Australia is not London. 

“Y/N!” You heard Aimee's voice before you even saw her, and your eyes filled with tears when you saw her waiting for you at the airport exit. It was like a scene from a movie, but you ran and hugged each other while you cried.

“How can you go and live far away from me? My God, I hate you, I was dying missing you” she cried, and you didn't let go of each other for long minutes. “Did you miss me?”

“Of course I missed you” you wiped the tear from your tear-streaked face, and it was impossible to stop smiling when you knew you were home again. “You look so beautiful. How is everyone? Are you looking forward to the wedding?”

“I can't believe I'm without my best friend when I get married, let's start there. And yes, everyone is fine, everyone is excited to see you again” you and Aimee walked towards the airport exit carrying your bags, and the reception you received was heavy rain at the exit. Nothing better than being in England.

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

“I heard you have a boyfriend in Australia” Henry said with a smirk on his mouth, and you blushed. “Why didn't you bring him?”

“First, we’re just having sex, he’s not my boyfriend. Second, why would I bring him to your wedding?” You put a piece of pizza in your mouth, wanting to ignore what they were talking about. 

Josh wasn't really your boyfriend, you worked together and enjoyed being together, but he was in love with someone else and you knew it, so you never wanted anything from him. Your heart was only half in Australia too.

“And what was that photo you posted on Instagram months ago?” Aimee asked and you looked angry at her. They were nosy and wouldn't change.

“He mentioned me in his stories, what could I do?” You shrugged it off, because it really wasn't that big of a deal.

“Everyone saw it” Henry said, and he emphasized when he said “everyone”. 

You looked at him and thought of Mason. In fact, Mason hadn't left your thoughts for months, he was what you thought about twenty-four hours a day. You looked at the table without looking at the two of them, and even though you didn't want to show that you cared about Mason, they were able to read your face like a book.

“You know he's coming to the wedding, right?” Aimee asked and you agreed. “It's the international break and he has a few days off, he'll be in London during those days.” 

“I know.” 

You were nervous about seeing Mason again after so long, even more because you left without saying what he wanted so bad to hear. 

It wasn't fair to confess your feelings when you were moving to the other side of the world. It wasn't fair to him and it wasn't fair to you, that's why even after so many months with him and knowing how much he loved you, you refused to tell him how you felt about him, because you knew it would be worse.

Deep down you know that if he brings someone else it will hurt, but you can't feel hurt when it was your decision. Maybe, just maybe, if Mason is over you it means that going back to Australia and moving on is the best option, even if you feel incomplete. 

God, it's so hard to love someone and want to do the right thing.

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

“Should I wear red lingerie?” Aimee asked and you looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“You’re not supposed to have sex until the wedding” you looked at yourself in the mirror, admiring your bare legs in the long-sleeved black dress. “Do I look hotter or is it just me?”

“You are hot, baby.” 

You and Aimee are getting ready for her bachelorette party at a club in London, one you used to go to as teenagers. She's invited her bridesmaids and other friends, and it's sure to be an amazing night.

You can't believe your best friend is getting married. 

The club was full of people, the music was lively and soon you found the place reserved for Aimee's bachelor party, because there were balloons, glitter, feathers and lots of pink and white.

In Australia you made some friends but it was different being with the people you grew up with, who know you inside out and like the same things as you. 

Aimee cried every fifteen minutes when she remembered that she was going to marry the love of her life in two days, and in the end someone always cried with emotion with her. She and Henry loved each other since they met, it was incredible to see how well they worked together, how much Henry treated her well or did everything for her.

You always wanted someone like that by your side.

As you watched Aimee talk to Kylie, probably about the wedding or about Henry, you remembered that you had a person like that for you.

And you ruined everything. 

You felt your heart skip a beat when you thought about Mason again, and even after the drinks you had already had, you felt sad when you remembered that besides pushing Mason out of your life, you were also alone.

A few months ago, before you moved, you asked your mother how she knew that Richard, your stepfather, was the right person for her. She and your father had a bad marriage and she was not happy, and you and your sister suffered the consequences of that failed marriage, but with Richard she was glowing with happiness.

“It needs to be someone special.” 

Someone who doesn't argue with you, someone who celebrates the little things, someone who makes you happy most days. Happiness isn't eternal but it's moments, and if someone makes you sad more than happy, there's something wrong.

You had someone special, and you realized it when you stared into that empty, silent apartment in Australia, far from everyone you love. 

You were lost in thought, but you came back to reality when Aimee screamed and pointed behind you, and then you heard male laughter.

A laugh that you could recognize anywhere.

You smelled Mason's scent before you even saw him and your legs went weak as you realized what was happening. 

“Hi boys” Aime squealed, cheering as Henry walked up to her and kissed her in front of everyone, causing the girls to clap. You’d have smiled if you weren't feeling Mason's gaze on your back.

It was ridiculous that you were afraid to turn around and look at him, but you were scared to death. You turned so you could look at his face, even if it was the only time that night. You couldn't help yourself ‘cause you needed to look at him, so you turned around.

You met his eyes before you could react, because you knew he was watching you, his gaze heavy on your back. His face was serious now, and the worst thing was that you noticed that his eyes no longer had that sparkle they had when you were together.

You were the one most to blame for this.

You couldn't look away from him but you couldn't say anything either, you were just taken out of your thoughts and had to look to your side when Declan shouted when he saw you. You smiled at your friend, happy to see him, because Declan was your family too.

“Hello, D” you hugged him, closing your eyes and feeling emotional. You don't know how you managed to go so many months without seeing them. “How are you?”

“I'm fine. And you? Did you realize that England is your place?” Lauren walked over and Declan wrapped his arms around her neck. “This woman has been talking about you every day since you moved in, I couldn't take it anymore.”

“That’s not true” she complained and rolled her eyes smiling, because Lauren was also one of your best friends. “By the way, we missed you, Y/N.”

Mason was standing in the same spot and you finally turned to him after talking to Declan, and you almost rolled your eyes when you saw them all move away purposefully. It was like seeing a ray of sunshine after a storm, and you felt like nothing else mattered when Mason had his eyes on you like you were the only woman in the room.

It was ridiculous to try to explain how handsome Mason looked. He was wearing black pants, a black men's tank top, a white wool coat and Converse. 

“Hello Mason” you said, and even with the loud music he would hear, because it seemed like there were only the two of you there. 

Mason scratched his throat before answering you, he seemed as nervous as you were, and deep down, you were glad for that.

“Hello” he mumbled but you could read his lips. Oh, how you missed his voice.

You took a step towards him, ignoring that everyone was looking at you, and you were lost with the Mason colony around you. 

“You good?” You asked and Mason just nodded, but then Reece appeared hugging Mason by the neck and breaking the bad mood between you. He was drunk and you noticed, he was laughing at nothing and holding onto Mason. You smiled, because you had missed him too. 

“Oh, did you remember you have friends?” You rolled your eyes and hugged him, feeling Mason's gaze on you. “I missed you, Y/N.” 

“I missed you so much, Reece. There is no one like you in Australia.”

“Mason missed you too, but he doesn't tell anyone” Reece whispered in your ear and you smiled, not looking at Mason so he wouldn't realize his friend was talking about him, but before you could do anything, Mason left and went to Declan and Lauren. “He's been a complicated boy these past few months.”

“I fucked up with him and he hates me now” and it was true, Mason probably started to despise you after you were such a bitch to him. 

“He loves you, but he is so stubborn ‘cause you hurt him.”

Mason was now on his back, and God, you just wanted to hug him and feel safe again as you felt his arms around you. 

Mason ignored you perfectly for a long time, you couldn't get close to him and you didn't know how either. Was it fair to want to talk to him and then leave again? Maybe Mason is just protecting his own heart because you already broke his heart once, it's not right to break his heart again after so many months.

Henry said that he had decided to come to the same club as Aimee ‘cause he wanted to have fun with her and the boys, and you smiled at his confession. Aimee knew he was coming and hadn't told you anything, who thought it would be a girls' night. 

“Where's your boyfriend, Y/N?” Declan asked hours later when you were both sitting on the beanbags, the music lower now and you could talk without shouting. 

Before you could answer Mason stood up, saying he was going to get a drink from the bar even though the table was full of drink options. You looked at him disappointed ‘cause you wanted to be able to talk to him or tell him that you don't have a boyfriend, and he preferred to leave than hear you talk about another man.

“Our boy Mason is jealous” Reece laughed and you decided to go after Mason, without answering Declan's question.

It wasn't hard to find Mason, he sat in one of the chairs at the counter and had his back to you, so you quickly sat next to him. He noticed when you sat down next to him but didn't say anything, just continued to stare at the untouched drink in front of him. 

“Running away is not something you usually do” you said and Mason finally looked at you, raising his eyebrows.

“I used to do a lot of things that I don't do anymore” not that you deserve Mason being rude, but it's clear that Mason still resents you. 

“And that's why I know things between us aren't resolved yet” you saw Mason sigh, and you wanted so much to be able to hug him, but if you asked him to he would probably run away from you.

“Yes, everything is resolved. We resolved it when you decided to leave” Mason held the glass and threatened to get up, but you grabbed his arm and stopped him from leaving. “Please let me go, don't make me suffer again.”

“I don't want to make you suffer, Mason, I just want to talk to you for a while” you practically begged him, but Mason was still trying to pull away from you. 

“Talk about what? About how my life went to shit after you left? That I was here suffering while you started a new life in fucking Australia? You wanna know about that to laugh at me because I was an idiot?” 

“Don’t do that, please” you whispered, because Mason had no idea how much you suffered away from him. You never told him, of course he doesn't know.

“I gave my all to you, Y/N, and that's the worst ‘cause I still love you so much that my heart feels like it's going to jump out of my chest” he said looking at you and you felt your own hands tremble, Mason always had that effect on you. “You can't just leave and come back wanting to talk to me like everything is fine, because it's not.”

“Please don't act like it wasn't difficult for me too” You felt your eyes water and Mason shook his head in disbelief.

Because it was really difficult. You spent weeks thinking if you did the right thing, if leaving everything in England was the best option, if ending the best thing that had ever happened to you was the best choice, and there was only one answer in your head. 

“Yeah, I know. By the way, where's your boyfriend? Is that why your life was hard in Australia?” Mason asked and drank all the last drink he had ordered. “I went to hell after you moved out, and while you were there enjoying your new life I stayed here because I was dropped off without notice. Don't feel rejected because I don't want you to fuck me again, you rejected me first.”

Mason turned his back and left the club without saying goodbye, leaving you alone with the guilt and regret consuming you.

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

You took at least five deep breaths before ringing the bell on the white door in front of you. You also don't know how or why, but your fingerprint was still registered at the entrance to the building where Mason has a flat in London, and after convincing Aimee to tell you if he was there, she finally said yes. 

You regretted it the second you rang the doorbell, especially since it was only seven thirty in the morning, but you had been up all night and would go crazy if you didn't go there. You raised your finger to press the doorbell again but heard a grumble coming from the other side of the door, and you hated yourself ‘cause you probably woke Mason up.

He opened the door wearing only underwear and a crumpled face. You swallowed hard.

“Y/n?” He spoke in a hoarse voice, and before he could tell you to leave, you entered the apartment cause you needed to talk to him. “Is there something wrong?”

Mason closed the door and looked at you, waiting for you to answer. You took another deep breath, but it still wasn't enough to make you less nervous.

“It was difficult for me too, it still is” Mason raised his eyebrow. “Don't think that just because I never said what you wanted to hear, I didn't feel anything, I just knew that our time together had an end date and there was nothing to change that.”

“Look, I don’t want to-”

“You’re gonna listen to me, Mason” you stopped Mason from speaking, and then he kept looking at you. “It's not fair for you to say that I didn't suffer, because no one was in Australia with me to know that, you don't know how many nights I cried on the phone with Aimee wanting to give up everything to go back to England and to you.”

“And I don't care if you think I don't care about you, but know that you were one of the best things that ever happened to me and you can't treat me badly like you treated me yesterday, it's not fair to me either” you stopped for two seconds to breathe, and Mason looked at you without saying anything. “You know how much I always wanted this job, Mason, and you can't imagine how much it hurts me to realize that I'm gone and I was much happier here than I am in Australia.”

A tear fell from your face and you wiped it away, Mason brought his hands to his face and sighed, taking a step towards you, but you stopped him from getting closer. 

“I'm not here to ask you for forgiveness, I just needed to say a few things.”

And you were gone as quickly as you arrived, leaving Mason and his own thoughts alone.

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

Mason felt like shit for the rest of the day, mainly ‘cause he knew he treated you badly. The problem is that Mason gave you everything, and when he least expected it, you broke his heart into pieces.

Those were terrible months, Mason was training, he was irritated with everyone and especially on the field, which caused him to be sent off and made the coach discuss with him. Mason spent months without sleeping through the night, got drunk at every party he went to, and even spent weeks without talking to his own family so no one would ask about you.

Aimee and Henry's wedding is tomorrow and Mason would rather be anywhere but there. He can't even imagine what it's going to be like to see you so beautiful and in a relationship with another man who's oceans away, but Mason knows it's going to be very difficult.

“Why do you have such a shitty face?” Declan asked as he took the beer Mason handed him, and Mason had been quiet for minutes while they were watching an old football match that was on the television.

“Y/N came here this morning” Mason spoke softly and threw himself onto the couch, sighing as he remembered the words you spoke to him. “I feel like shit again, bro.”

“You've been feeling like shit for eight months, my friend” Mason rolled his eyes, but he couldn't disagree. You came back and turned over all the feelings that Mason thought were gone, when in fact they were stored and emerged to squeeze his heart again.

And he knows that in a few days you'll be gone again, he knows it'll be shit again and it'll be another eight months to forget everything. 

“I feel like we haven't ended things between us yet, but I'm not ready for that. Man, I love her so much, she's gonna kill me again” Mason confessed, and for months he hadn't talked about you to anyone but Aimee. His mother would always ask, but Mason wouldn't talk about it to her, or anyone else. 

The funniest thing was that even the fans said that there was something wrong with Mason, but he always said that everything was fine while putting that sadness deeper in his heart. 

“Don't let her bring you down again then” Declan said it like it was obvious, but it was easy for him because he had Lauren, Jude and he was happy.

“It's not that simple.” 

“Make it so.”

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

“You look so pretty, I'm gonna ruin my makeup from crying this much” you said as you shook your eyes to stop crying as you looked at Aimee in the wedding dress. “I have never seen such a beautiful bride.”

“Please, stop, you're making me emotional and I can't cry” Aimee said looking at the ceiling, and then you approached and hugged her, saying once again how beautiful she was. “You look beautiful too, that color looks wonderful on you.”

“I know, I really look good in blue” you joked, and she laughed as the two of you checked to make sure everything was ready for Aimee to get married. “Let's check if we have everything.”

Aimee agreed and went to the window to see the place where the ceremony was taking place. All the guests were already there and in a few minutes it would be her turn. The day was beautiful, and everything was perfect. You walked over to the window, looking down at where the guests were sitting, and even without meaning to, your gaze quickly found the person who had been your thoughts for months.

Mason was laughing with Declan and Reece, and he had no way of seeing you there but you could even see his eyes closing as he laughed. He looked so happy, he didn't look like the same sad-hearted man you'd met two days ago, and for a moment you felt good that Mason was smiling.

“Did you talk to him?” Aimee asked, and you nodded.

“He hates me” you shrugged because it's the truth. 

“He doesn't hate you, don't be silly, Mason loves you so much, he just didn't know how to deal with you leaving.” 

“It doesn't matter now” you wiped away a tear and turned to Aimee, smiling at her. “So, something old?”

“My grandmother's earrings” Aimee pointed to her grandmother's gold earrings, and they really were beautiful. 

“Something new?”

“My dress.”

“Something borrowed?”

“My shoe.”

“Something blue?”

“The sexy lingerie I'm wearing underneath.”

“Oh, spare me the details” you rolled your eyes, and then smiled nervously ‘cause the time was finally coming. Aimee's father came in to call her and you finally left, but not before wishing her good luck.

You went down to where the ceremony would be and greeted a few people, some surprised and happy that you were back in England. Lauren waved and called you over, so you quickly walked over to her, sighing because Mason was there too. You felt your hands sweat as you walked down the hallway, as well as your heart racing.

“Hey guys” you said and almost groaned when you saw that the empty seat Lauren had saved was next to Mason. “Is this place for me?”

Mason looked at you and you almost forgot how to walk, because he had this effect on you, making you nervous with just a look. He was so handsome, he looked like he was ready for his own wedding. You quickly looked away from him, but Mason didn't stop looking at you for a second.

“Sure” Lauren smiled and you wanted to kill her. You sat next to Mason, controlling your breathing, and even so he didn't stop looking at you, leaving you blushing. 

“You're drooling man, control yourself” Reece spoke softly to Mason, and Mason cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, making RJ laugh. You were talking to Lauren because you had nothing to talk about with Mason, but his cologne was all around you, making you drunk by the smell of the perfume he had been using for years. 

Everyone cried or got emotional when Aimee walked in, especially Henry who cried like a baby when he saw her walking towards him. You and Lauren were almost sobbing throughout the ceremony, and Declan was already laughing at you. 

When they said their vows was when you and Mason looked at each other, and a racing heart because of his deep gaze on you made you come closer and hold his arm, leaning your face against his suit in a loving way, and it was the closest to love you had come in eight months.

Because Mason means love to you, and not even so many months apart have changed that.

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

“I'm nervous, I forgot the speech paper” you whispered to Anthony, Aimee's brother, and he shrugged with a laugh.

“Not my problem, Y/N, I've already said my speech.”

“Okay, I can do this” you took a deep breath and he helped you climb onto a chair. Everyone had already eaten dinner and everything was so spectacular, it would be a wonderful night for your best friend. 

You trembled as you saw all the eyes on you, but you held the microphone and smiled to pretend you weren't nervous.

“I wrote some words on a piece of paper but I forgot the paper at home, so I'll have to improvise, I hope the bride and groom don't mind” everyone laughed at what you said and you felt your cheeks heat up, speaking in public wasn't very easy, speaking at a wedding was even worse. “I remember the day Aimee came to me when we were in college a few years ago and said she met the coolest guy in the world and I said "impossible, no man is the coolest in the world" and yet she said he was.” 

“In fact Henry, you proved that you are really a very nice guy and Aimee was right, ‘cause she shines when she looks at you, just like we can see in your eyes how much you love her. I could tell you all about some of the embarrassing moments of the two of them, but I prefer to talk about love cause I think everyone would like to hear it.”

“I once asked my mom how she knew my stepdad was the right person for her and she told me it had to be someone special. It's a person who doesn't mind being silent by your side because they know that everything is fine even without talking. It's someone who makes you happy just by remembering that person for a minute of the day or the whole day. It's someone who doesn't judge you, doesn't embarrass you or devalue what you feel.”

Even without wanting to, your gaze fell on Mason, and he was staring at you on top of that chair with a microphone in your hand. He was paying attention to every word that came out of your mouth and you almost lost focus because it hurt so much knowing that you would never have him in your life again.

“You two are each other's special person. I'm sure everyone here has someone special, and it's worth dropping everything when you know you have someone by your side to love you and go through everything with you, because that's how love works.”

Your eyes filled with tears and you had to stop looking at Mason ‘cause even he got teary-eyed listening to you. You looked at Aimee and she was crying and trying not to ruin her makeup as she ran her hand over her eyes, and Henry next to her smiled as he wiped a tear that ran down his face too. 

You also had to wipe away the tear that ran down your face. 

“Here's to Aimee and Henry. May their lives be wonderful” you raised your glass of champagne and everyone raised their own, toasting to their new life together. Anthony helped you down from the chair and you quickly went to your seat, but in reality you wanted to go out and cry.

Mason didn't take his eyes off you and you started to feel suffocated, especially since he hadn't even wanted to come near you for two days and he still left you in pieces when you tried to talk to him.

“I've never heard such beautiful words, Y/N” Aimee Aimee hugged you and you smiled, still with tears in your eyes. “Thank you for coming, thank you for being my best friend. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Aim.”

You didn't even make it to the table because everyone stopped to congratulate you on your beautiful speech, and when you finally got there, Mason was no longer there. 

“Where is he?” you asked RJ, and he said that Mason had gone to the bathroom, before anyone could stop you again, you went to look for him. 

You waited a few minutes before Mason came out of the bathroom and saying that he was surprised to see you waiting for him was nothing new. You stared at each other for a few seconds before another guy came out of the bathroom and you and Mason had to break contact, so you pulled him by the hand and walked down the hallway until you found another door. 

Mason didn't say anything as he followed you, and when you saw that it was a warehouse and there was no one there, you went in and pulled Mason with you, pushing him against the wall.

“I love you” you whispered and Mason's eyes widened, shocked because he finally heard the three words he wanted to hear so much. Maybe it was too late and you would never be together again, but at least you got your feelings off your chest and told Mason. “Oh my God, I love you.”

“What?” Mason put his hand over his mouth, not wanting to show his smile, but he was smiling so much it was impossible to hide it. “I didn't hear.”

“I love you, I love you, I love-.” You had never felt such relief when Mason reached out and pulled your mouth against his.

Kissing Mason is like Christmas morning, or the morning of your birthday or the birthday of someone you love. Feeling Mason's arms is like feeling like nothing in the world can bring you down ‘cause you have someone protecting you from everything and ready to fight with you. 

“Does he ask to hold your hand?” Mason whispered and then kissed you again, and you couldn't respond because you were busy feeling the wonderful taste of his lips. “I bet he doesn't kiss you like I do.” 

Mason held you with both hands on your neck, and then he brought his hand to the back of your neck and grabbed your hair, making you pull your mouth away from his and look at him.

Why did he have to be so handsome?

And that stupid blond hair, that made you want to take his clothes off completely.

The look on your face was probably desperate with desire ‘cause Mason smiled and ran his tongue over his lips, staring at your mouth. 

“No” you confessed, feeling Mason smile. “You're the only one who knows how to touch me and how to love me.”

Mason smiled when you responded and pulled your mouth against his once more, wrapping his arm around your neck and holding you against him. It was okay, you didn't want to be anywhere else but in his arms.

Mason pushed you against the wall and you gasped ‘cause his body against yours gave you protection. How did you manage to go so many months without him? You only knew one home, and that was next to Mason. 

You'll never be able to live in Australia alone again. 

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

“Are you ready for a wedding?” Mason asked as he kissed your skin, and he whispered it because of the blue panties you were wearing. You weren't discreet when you left the wedding together and you heard your friends cheering when they saw you get into Mason's car, and you hadn't been able to stop smiling for hours, ever since he kissed you for the first time. “Something blue…”

You sighed as Mason showered you with kisses, you were numb with his body on top of yours. You didn't know how much you had missed this, these moments with Mason where you completed each other like soulmates, because only he knew how to drive you crazy. 

“There is still something borrowed and something old missing” you said, closing your eyes and bringing your hands to Mason's hair. His breath was on your groin and you almost moaned, because you were tired but you needed Mason so much that you felt like you were going to explode. “But we can think about it.”

“I don't want you to think about anything but me right now, love.”

✦‎۟    ࣭   ⊹

It's been a month since you got back to Australia and you and Mason have been trying to keep things at arm's length, but it's really hard because when you're waking up, Mason's going to sleep or when you're working, Mason's waking up.

But ever since you set foot in England again, you knew that this was where you belonged, and when you returned to Australia, you didn't think twice when you asked for a transfer again.

Your boss agreed and said that you could get the same position in England, but you would have to wait a few weeks for all the paperwork to be ready. No one knew you were  coming back because it would be a surprise to both Mason and his mom or his friends.

And at that moment you were at Manchester airport ‘cause the first place you were going was home. Mason. You don't even know if he's at home, if he's training, he might even be with someone else there and you feel like you might faint when you think about it.

It's already getting dark and cold, but you’re at an Uber with the only two suitcases of stuff you'd taken to Australia with you. The car dropped you off in front of Mason's house and if you weren't so nervous you would roll your eyes at the size of the place. 

You rang the bell at the gate and after a few rings you heard a bark and raised your eyebrows, because you didn't know Mason had a dog. 

“Hello?” His voice was hoarse and you almost cried, you were missing him so much it was making you sick.

“Hi, were you the one who asked for a girlfriend?” you were smiling and everything was silent for a few seconds until you saw the door to the house open quickly. Mason ran barefoot on the wet grass and you couldn't stop the tears from falling down your face. 

“What the fuck? Are you insane?” Mason pulled you against him, lifting you off the ground as you jumped against him and wrapping your legs around his hips. “I thought you were in Australia, my god I missed you so much. I love you, I love you” Mason whispered and squeezed you, without letting you go. 

“I love you, I'll never leave, never again” you cried as you hugged him, trying to hold onto Mason everywhere so he would never let you go again. “You are my home Mason, I'm sorry for everything, I know I don't deserve it but I just want to be with you forever.”

“I can't believe you're back, I'm dreaming” Mason finally let go of you and put you on the ground, then he pulled you in and kissed you after more than a month away from your lips. “You're still going to kill me by doing these things to me.”

Mason pulled your bags and pointed to the entrance of the house, and you walked as he pulled your things. You stopped when a puppy ran out of the house towards you, and you bent down to pet it.

“Oh my God, we already have a child?” you joked and Mason just smiled and crouched down to be close to you. The puppy jumped on your legs and then ran to Mason, who petted his fur.

“This is Ace, he’s a boy and he has been my new company since you left me alone.”

“Ahh, poor boy, he had to put up with you crying for long weeks.”

“His mommy is home now” you stood up and looked at Mason, kissing him once more. 

“My home is wherever you are.”

[onlyhyunjin]

𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒!

(♡) - my personal favorites (🔞) - CONTAINS NSFW CONTENT

NEW BEGINNINGS - @ikeuverse (flirting with your brother's brother-in-law wasn't in your plans after returning from studying abroad. it wasn't something you were going to stop either since heeseung was the epitome of beauty. but when there's another woman's name in the story. what happens? you don't want to be caught between a betrayal… or so you thought.) (♡)

MARRY ME - @ikeuverse (ever since you met lee heeseung, he told you that the two of you were going to get married. all the time, at every opportunity, he reinforced it until one day, drunk, you accepted. was he dreaming or did it really happen? it wouldn't be so bad to fall for his jokes for once.)

TIDES OF REGRET - @pprodsuga (in the year since heeseung first rejected your love confession, you've tried everything to get over him. a trip to europe makes you realize you miss your former best friend more than anything, and it makes heeseung realize he's got it all wrong.) (♡)(🔞)

HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER - @i2sunric (your daughter asks heeseung to tell the greatest love story of all and he takes the chance to narrate how he met you, the love of his life.) (♡)

JUNE BLOSSOMS - @soobnny (synopsis. as the month of may ends, you wonder what june holds for you and heeseung (especially with no more need to fake date.)

LATE SUMMER LOVIN' - @4am-enha (you desperately want to spend your last summer here in town with your friends, only to find out almost all of them are away on vacation. that is, all of them but heeseung. the one friend you’d never really been that close with.)

BITE ME - @drunkhazed (“I’m kind of confused still.” You admit, anxiously shuffling to sit without making eye-contact. Heeseung chuckles plopping down by your side, arm slinging back over your shoulder to keep you pressed against him.)(🔞)

COFFEE & CREAM - @ham-st4r (one chilly night after a long work shift, you’re unfortunately forced to walk home. Cause you left your bag at work, half way through your journey you stumble across a homeless man who you naturally offer money to, and he though he refuses. You give it to him anyway, and down the road, you’ll find that those two dollars changed not only his life but yours as well.) (🔞)

IT'S CUPID, STUPID - @mygnolia (To hell with Lee Heeseung, you couldn't find someone you hated more than the boy who's by your side no matter what. You figured that maybe the summer before university would be the best way to finally let go of him, and to leave the hate you have in your childhood- but no. What do you mean you have to spend ALL summer with him?)

FUCK BUDDIES - @hajunzi (y/n and heeseung and fwb after heeseung win in his football match y/n gives him the best reward)

TEETH - @gyuuberryy (you were not thrilled about the move in of your new neighbour. mostly because he was so strange and seemed to be hiding something dark. and partly because you couldn’t stop yourself from getting closer to him because of your unwanted attraction. you were determined to expose his dark secret and get rid of him once and for all. but, it was proving to be a difficult task because he was just so irresistible..and needy.)

PLAYER RANK: PLATINUM - @simpjaes (You’re not sure what’s worse, your sister’s boyfriend or your sister’s boyfriend’s friends. What you thought would be a great deal in living with her throughout college turns into a major game of cat and mouse, where you’re unsure if your moral compass is pointing in the right direction solely because you suspect someone is wearing a giant sex magnet to throw it off.) (🔞)

RUDE - @4wkjun (heeseung has never loved anyone as much as he loves y/n. y/n’s father has never hated someone as much as he hates heeseung. but it doesn’t matter, heeseung’s gonna marry y/n anyway.)

I OFFER YOU MY EVERYTHING - @heegyukeluv (You never cared about sex, until you did. You grew too afraid of it, scared of disappointing the other person or showing your inexperience. But then you met Heeseung, the hot basketball captain that stole your heart and became your biggest fantasy. ) (🔞)

VERBOTEN - @heesbaby (a bad stroke of luck saw lee heeseung, your dads coworker, moving into your small apartment until he found his feet again. emotionally unavailable and a workaholic, you were going to try your absolute hardest to make him loosen up. even if it meant breaking a few of the house rules he'd set out.) (🔞) (♡)

10 DAYS TO FALL IN LOVE - @luvyeni (you and heeseung used to be bestfriends as children — he even told you he'd marry you one day. but then you went to highschool and things changed , he dyed his hair and started hanging out with a new group group of friends. through all that his love never changed for you — has yours changed for him?)

RENT A BOYFRIEND - @jayujus (in which jeon y/n is desperate to find a boyfriend ASAP because she needs a date for her family's mixer. her best friend, ningning, introduces her to a website perfect for this situation!)

CHERRY CHAPSTICK - @angelwonie (ever since you met lee heeseung, he told you that the two of you were going to get married. all the time, at every opportunity, he reinforced it until one day, drunk, you accepted. was he dreaming or did it really happen? it wouldn't be so bad to fall for his jokes for once.)

[beenbaanbuun]

blood w/ poly!ateez

so i feel so sane about this… definitely no evil thoughts filling up my brain right now. none whatsoever :)

i want to write so much more about this universe and i’m literally sending the biggest kiss ever to @ateez-main-yapper to requesting this because i will be thinking about this for the rest of my life!

words - idk

genre - smut, horror (there’s a bit of gore i guess)

warnings - vampire!ateez, mafia!ateez, human!reader, smuggler!reader, blood, scarification, collars, ownership, blood, surgery mentions, nicknames (little mouse, princess, sweetheart), dancer!yeosang, security guard!mingi, ripper!doctor!yunho, mommy!seonghwa (don’t look at me like that, i had to), hand kink (mentioned), no actual sex but it’s talked about a lot, hair pulling, i think that’s all??

——————————————————————————

the scent of stale blood haunts the hallway you find yourself walking down, clinging to the back of your throat until yourself gagging on it. no matter how many times you find yourself down here, it never gets any easier to cope with; even a slaughterhouse would be more pleasant than this.

it begs the question why you’re back. by now, you’ve bled them of enough money to never have to work again, so it’s certainly not the pay. the job itself is harder than most, and not at all rewarding when you have to lie and cheat your way into success. there’s no doubt that the stress of hiding a smuggling operation behind the guise of a blood donation clinic has taken a good 20 years of your life from you. you can guarantee that job satisfaction isn’t what’s keeping you here either.

it’s only when you turn a corner and your eyes land upon them that you remember exactly why you’re still so willing to walk these halls. it isn’t something keeping you here but rather someone; multiple someones, in fact.

“mingi!” your footsteps quicken as you get closer the security guard that stands waiting outside of a heavy metal door. despite the fact that you’ve been on the other side of it multiple times, it still sends a shiver of curiosity down your spine. it’s not an anxious curiosity as it was when you first landed yourself in this position, but more of a morbid one. you know the horrors that lie behind it, you’ve experienced a few of them too, yet you still yearn to see more. “long time no see,” you offer a polite smile once you’re close enough to lower your volume from a shout, “san told me hongjoong had assigned you to pest control. is it not going well?”

mingi gives you a slow blink, his jaw set in stone and his eyes steely as he stares you down. he’s always looked far more intimidating than he actually is, although you suppose it serves to his benefit when his main job it scaring away anyone who might wish to disturb the peace. you’re only grateful to have had the chance to see behind the mask he wears; to watch his eyes melt and his lips part in the wonky grin he gets so little time to wear.

“you’ve not seen me in months and the first thing you ask me is about my demotion back to security?” he quirks a brow at you and you have to bite back your grin. in truth, you’d heard all about it from seonghwa over the past few weeks, your main contact within the clan more than happy to share life details with you as though you’re a lifelong friend rather than a mere employee. their favourite employee, sure, but still at the bottom of the pecking order.

“i just wanted to know more,” you lift your arms in defence, not missing the way his eyes flicker to the bandage on your left forearm, “like you said, it’s been a while.”

mingi hums in agreement as he examines the clean cloth. a long finger reaches out to trace the spot where the fabric meets your skin, the touch lingering and soft. it’s more the real mingi than it is the security guard mingi; it warms your heart to see.

“when did this happen?” he whispers, voice barely above a whisper.

“about two weeks ago,” you i pull your wrist back, letting mingi’s hand drop back down to his side, “hongjoong wanted to approach me about it, but i didn’t take much convincing,” actually, it was you who approached him but for some reason that’s much harder to admit, “you guys are much… kinder to me than the other clans i supply, well, supplied to. it was a no brainer to ditch them when given the chance.”

“so you’re ours?” he asks, voice dipping a little too low for the question to be purely innocent.

“i’m mine,” you confirm, “what i supply, however, is all yours.”

there’s a smirk on his lips, not as easily defeated by your sense of self worth as you’d like him to be. he knows as well as the rest of them what the mark on your arm means, after all. he knows as well as you do that there’s no getting away from them now. the moment yunho took his sweet, sadistic time carving their mark into your body it wasn’t just your business that belonged to them.

“sure you are, little mouse,” he whispers as he leans in close, his icy breath fluttering against your face. your stomach drops but you choose to ignore it. this was your decision, after all, “now, scurry along; you wouldn’t want to keep anyone waiting, would you?”

with the flip of a switch, the metal door clicks open and your immediately met with a blast of cool air and a wall of sound. you’ll never understand the clan’s need for these constant frivolities, especially when you’re on the other side of this getting your hands dirty, but you suppose it is a good way to hide their more secretive operations. no one is going to notice the door in the corner when there’s so much going on out here, right? it’s an extra layer of security, and a darn good one at that.

when you step inside, the door clicks shut behind you and you immediately get to scanning the crowd of partygoers for a familiar face. amongst the hoard of vampires, they’re harder to spot, their ashy skin and red eyes sticking out a lot less than they would next to a human. instead you look for a familiar hair colour, recalling the angry text you got from seonghwa about the den’s main bathroom turning pink with hongjoong’s hairdye. nothing sticks out at you, though, and so you’re back at square one.

your arms stretch out before you as you go to push through the crowd. it’s moments like this that you’re glad for the metal, almost collar-like band around your neck. yeosang had created it as a way to keep your pulse hidden from any less-well-meaning vampires. he’d insisted that the tag dangling from it with the clan’s emblem engraved was all hongjoong’s idea, but you recognise the same possessive glint in all of their eyes. it’s the same one yunho had given you when engraving that very emblem into your body, and the same one san had given to you when wrapping your bleeding arm up in a fluffy white bandage. yeosang is just like the rest of them, even behind his sweet exterior.

but right now he isn’t crafting some marvel of engineering out of metal scraps and a dream, but instead on the stage at the front of the room. it’s not often he’s up there instead of one of the others, but as you watch him elegantly dangle from a hoop that hangs from the ceiling, you find it hard to see why. he’s utterly ethereal, like a butterfly about to emerge from a chrysalis; one of those blue ones with the wings that seemed designed to capture your attention with their beauty. you’re entranced, much more so than the rest of the party-goers who seem to have grown blind to the creature moving elegantly before them.

his body moves not at all like a butterfly though, instead flowing smoothly like a viper along the branch of a tree. he extends his arms in such a way you’ve never seen before, silken and smooth as he reaches out to his audience. it pulls you in further, your feet shuffling as you push through the final layer of people to get to the stage. you stumble forwards, catching yourself on the edge of the raised platform. if he notices you there, he doesn’t show it; the stoic expression he wears remains steady as he gracefully shifts his body into yet another position.

you watch him like that until the end of his performance, unblinking with your lips parted in awe. even the way he tumbles to the floor and bows to an uninterested audience holds so much more grace than you think you will ever possess. to think that this is the man that spends half of his time smeared in motor oil with a puppy-like grin on his lips is strange, yet it feels so right.

“hello, little mouse,” he echoes the familiar nickname as he makes his way to the front of the stage, crouching down in front of you and running an all-too-confident finger along your jawline to your chin. he snaps your mouth shut in a way that is so far from the yeosang you know that part of you believes this must be his much cockier twin. “hongjoong is out tonight; some trouble on south side caught his attention so he wanted to clean up the mess before the police got there.”

“i’m meeting with seonghwa then?” you murmur, too starstruck for your mouth the form words properly.

yeosang shakes his head.

“seonghwa and san went with him,” the finger from your chin shifts down to the piece of jewellery that fits snug around your neck. his touch catches against the tag, the jingling sound reminding you of a bell on a cats collar. you try to ignore the smirk that rises to his face as sees you make the connection, instead shifting your gaze to the pendant around his neck that shares the same symbol. “yunho is busy with whatever sick shit gets him off, me and mingi are working which means…”

fuck.

“jongho and wooyoung.”

“clever mouse,” yeosang’s tone is venomous, despite his words being soft. clearly performing does something to his ego; inflates it until every sign of the sweet mechanic is hidden behind a thick shroud of confidence. it’s deliciously cruel, mirroring the sick sadism of yunho or the vast overconfidence of mingi, and holy fuck do you want a taste. perhaps later, once business is over.

if business is over.

“i wouldn’t worry too much about those two, though,” he continues, tugging on the tag of your collar—because despite your pride, even you have to admit that there’s no other way to describe it—until you’re face is merely inches from his own, “hongjoong promised yunho their balls if they can’t learn to control them. maybe you’ll finally be able to have a meeting with them before getting your pussy stuffed, hm?”

you feel yourself getting warmer, your face flushing as yeosang so blatantly talks about your track record with the pair of resident trouble makers. it’s not like you’ve let slip about all the times jongho’s had you sitting on his cock with your mouth wrapped around wooyoung’s the second you step into their office which means that they must have instead. it makes you wonder what they talk about whenever you’re not here, and how much each of them know about your less than professional escapades with each of them. it’s a troubling thought, and yet it’s still manages to light a fire deep in your belly.

“see you later, yeosang,” is the only thing you can mumble in response as you pull away from his touch, the tag of the collar bumping gently against your neck as it slips free of his fingers.

——————-

“you told the others about fucking me?” you scoff as you barge your way into the office where the two youngest vampires await your arrival. it’s nice to see them here already, since they usually arrive far later than the agreed upon time. although, you suppose with the delays of mingi and yeosang, you’re also late on this occasion. you let the passive-aggressive comment about time keeping slide, knowing it won’t help you right now.

“hello to you too, mousy,” wooyoung hums from where he lays on the green sofa in the corner of the room, “it’s nice to see you again! we’re doing wonderfully, by the way; thanks for a—”

you let the door slam behind you as you storm your way towards him, completely ignoring the curious gaze of jongho.

“cut the shit, wooyoung,” you grab hold of his shirt collar and lean in close. it’s supposed to be intimidating but the wide grin on his lips lets you know otherwise. “you’ve all been talking about me when i’m not here? what the fuck, man!”

wooyoung chuckles in your face, his dangerous fangs glinting beneath the overhead lights. you know he’d never bite without your permission—people have been killed by hongjoong for much less—but it still sends a shiver through you whenever you see them.

“you’re not exactly discrete yourself, princess,” the office chair creaks as jongho stands, making his way around his desk and towards you. although you keep your gaze firmly on the little rat who still sits giggling to himself, you can’t help but be hyper aware of the presence behind you. a large hand traces its way up your spine, not stopping until you feel his fingers lace themselves with your locks and tug. your grip fall limply from wooyoung’s shirt as you’re hauled back into the soft muscle of jongho’s chest, your neck craned awkwardly over his shoulder to keep you in place. “what do you want us to say when san is asking about who’s cum he’s eaten from your pussy? do you want us to lie to them?”

you squirm, wincing when his grip on your hair doesn’t loosen despite your attempts to break free. they call you little mouse and right now, you really do feel the part—you walked right into a trap of which there’s no way out.

“maybe i should let you fuck me again just so i can watch when yunho rips your fucking balls off your body!” you grunt through gritted teeth.

jongho hums in amusement, “it was hyperbole, sweetheart,” a pair of cold lips meet the hot skin of your cheek for just a second before pulling away, the softness a stark contrast to the harsh grip he still has you in, “he doesn’t care how much we fuck you as long as we get the job done. after all, he’d be a hypocrite to complain about us fucking you when his dick is inside of you twice as often, hm?”

you watch with cautious eyes as wooyoung stands from his place on the sofa, grinning as wide as the cheshire cat. it reeks of danger, yet you’ve never been the type to give into that sort of thing. you’re a human working for a bunch of vampires; danger is just a regular part of your life at this point.

“besides, mousy,” the cheshire cat purrs, “you think we’re the only ones who talk? you don’t think we know just how much you love calling seonghwa mommy when you ride him? or how much you love it when yeosang spits in your mouth whenever he’s fucking you dumb?” wooyoung brings a hand to your cheek, dusting over your bottom lip with his thumb, “you’re ours, little mouse; we can talk if we want.”

[clawsdevour]

hq charas telling u hbd hcs

wc: 0.4k content warning: not proofread, all fluff headcanons!!

note: dedicated to my mutual, happy late birthday @laid-backcamp <3

❛ 。˳ ❀˚

-the type to chalantly spoil you rotten. They're walking around trying to seek you with presents occupying their field of vision. The moment they see you, they're running at you full force with gifts overbearing their hands while yelling out happy birthday.

"BABEE!!! HAPPPPPY BIRTHDAY!!!"

charas: hinata shoyo, bokuto kotaro, nishinoya yu, oikawa tooru

─

-the type to start singing happy birthday to you loudly whenever they see you in an attempt to playfully taunt you while letting other people know it's your birthday because they want you to be treated like royalty on your special day. Of course at some point you just gotta walk up to them and slap your hand over their mouth.

"Hey hey, look it's the birthday girl!!! Happy birth-!"

charas: kuroo tetsuro, osamu miya, atsumu miya, lev haiba

─

-the type to make you small but memorable handmade items for your birthday. You're constantly at the back of their head, so what else would be perfect but a gift from the heart? They definitely worked on their little project days or maybe even weeks before your special day!

"Happy birthday love! Here's this gift I made you. It might not look like much but remember that I made you it out of love!!"

charas: daichi sawamura, akaashi keiji, kita shinsuke, tadashi yamaguchi

─

-the type to write you a little letter and give you money or lucky charm/keychain stashed in the envelope because they aren't sure what you'd like. Trust me, they do love you but they just don't know what to get you as a gift! They would believe that it'd be better off if they handed you money to get whatever you'd like or a little lucky charm/keychain.

"Happy birthday..! I didn't know exactly what to get you but I hope this could somehow make up for it."

charas: tsukishima kei, sakusa kiyoomi, kenma kozume, ushijima wakatoshi, kageyama tobio

─

-the type to make you a basket with a letter, snacks, a plushie, and things you've really wanted. In the letter, they written about why they got you a certain item, could just be because you talked about wanting it or if the item reminded them of you. They put so much thought into your birthday that they would forget about their own priorities.

"Happy birthday dear! This is for you, it's filled to the brim with your favorite sweet treats, and the stuffed animal you've had your eye on!"

charas: iwaizumi hajime, yaku morisuke, sugawara koshi

masterlist here

[hcfiles]

Of course, you can't believe everything you hear, and should not. If I write a lot of nonsense about HC on forums, who would believe that? It's simple: people lie, especially when they want to eliminate someone, they'll invent rumours to that aim. If you believe it without checking, you can easily believe in antivax and all the other conspiracy theories too! I see that there are a lot of rumours about him, but there's no proof. And of course it's always in the forums! The incident on the set of Tudor made him uncomfortable playing sex scenes because there were people around him. It must have been a gradual process. In the interviews with Amy Adams, she and the journalist made sexual references, and he was clearly uncomfortable. He realised why he was called in the films: for his looks. That couldn't help him excel. Finally, these accounts that reveal blinds do it mostly for the views.

You said something interesting: that he realized why he was called for the movies and that it was for his looks. Did he really have the illusion it was for his acting skills? Let's admit it: As an actor, he may have potential, but still has A LOT to learn and evolve. And, if surprised about the reason he was chosen, I wonder why. Wasn't he the first to sell himself as a sex symbol and to say he was on the job, for the money was good? What did he expect? As an actor, he's usually stiff (probably for being very shy and insecure). To the industry, he's great for action, hero movies. But, he needs to evolve his skills for drama and even comedy. He couldn't even let loose and relax on Boy George's video. He was clearly uncomfortable and showed that, depending on the role, he might only perform it if there's no choice and he sees himself trapped and obligated. Or he will arrange an excuse to leave or to be fired from production. But, this discussion he brought about sex scenes, as he touched on the subject in an interview for Josh, could be for feeling uncomfortable with them or TO GIVE THE IDEA HE IS UNCOMFORTABLE AND GENERATE THE DISCUSSION. People are being manipulated. And, what is curious about this is to see him bringing the discussion when it has been said his promiscuous PR is actually, a cheap porn actress. Don't get me wrong. I do believe he feels uncomfortable with sex scenes and I agree sometimes they seem unnecessary, despite appealing. But, this discussion called my attention and made me question: Why bring it? It is as if he had faced some trouble in a production because of it. So, was that the reason he left (was fired) from TW? For denying taking his clothes off and performing sex scenes? But, isn't he a jerk with women? A jerk with women wouldn't care and even would like to perform them. So, what's the truth?

[gingiesworld]

Rover

Wanda Maximoff x GN! Reader

Warnings : Just fluff

18+ MINORS DNI

Taglist : @mothertoall2 @natashamaximoff-69 @canvascoloredin @wizardofstories @louxbloom @wandanats-goodgirl @the-ox-fan20 @ladyqueenxoxo @aemilia19 @wandaromamoff69 @mfd-101 @dorabledewdroop @marvelogic @dopeyouth @karsonromanoff @bimad @reginassweetheart @machyishere @gemz5 @pawiie @duckiekong (If you want to be added to my taglist, please DM me or comment)

Y/N and Wanda were indeed the perfect couple, the two had met when they both attended the same college course. Throughout the years, the two had come up with the idea of opening up their own cafe together. It was a dream that the two of them had shared, along with starting their own family, Wanda giving birth to twins, Billy and Tommy.

“I’ll close up tonight.” Y/N told Wanda as she served her last customer. “You take the boys home and I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

“Are you sure?” Wanda questioned as Y/N nodded.

“It’s only a short walk.” They told her before helping get the two five year olds ready. “I’ll be home as soon as I finish up, I promise love.”

“Okay.” Wanda smiled before she leaned up to kiss them before taking the twins to the car. The last couple of hours of being open was extremely slow, giving Y/N the opportunity to start most of the closing chores before they locked the doors. As they took the trash out, they had heard a quiet whimper coming from beside the bins. Slowly, they moved closer towards the source of the sound, soon finding a small Jack Russel puppy.

“Hey there.” They whispered as they slowly approached it. “You look cold.” They took off their sweater to wrap it around the dog, picking it up and holding it close to them. “I think I should take you home. The twins would love you.” They smiled before they went back inside the cafe to finish locking up. Soon starting the journey home, they knew that the twins would indeed be excited about having a puppy, but they would have to convince Wanda. So, they decided that they needed to stop off at the store on their way home, getting the supplies needed for the puppy. Once they had entered the house, the twins were both sitting on the floor with their toys as Wanda was sitting on the sofa. The twins were both already ready for bed, but the sound of the door opening caught all of their attention.

“What’s all of that for?” Wanda questioned as she put her book down on the table beside the sofa.

“Well, I couldn’t just leave him there.” Y/N reasoned as Wanda rose to her feet, Y/N visibly gulping as she tilted her head. “He was whimpering and cold.”

“What did you do?” She questioned, watching as Y/N had a nervous smile on their face, removing their sweater and revealing the puppy. The twins both ran towards them excited as Wanda’s eyes remained on Y/N with an unreadable expression. “You brought home a stray?”

“Technically, yes.” They tried as they let the pup on the floor with the twins. “But look at him.” They turned her around to face the twins with the puppy. “Look at how happy they all are.”

“We can’t look after a puppy.” Wanda told them. “We have a cafe to run too.”

“Well, I can always make the office into a sort of den for the puppy.” Y/N told her. “Just for while the twins are at school, and we both know that Agatha helps some nights with either closing or opening.”

“It will cost a lot of money.” Wanda told them.

“Well, to be fair, the twins cost a lot of money.” Y/N teased, causing Wanda to laugh as she hit their arm. “Just look at their smiles, maybe this is the right addition to our family that we need.”

“Well, we could have always had another child.” Wanda told them, chuckling as Y/N shook their head.

“No, at least with the puppy we won’t need to save up a college fund for them.” They started. “Or need to pay extra because they have tried to do some sort of stunt from Jackass.”

“That was you.” Wanda reminded them, soon their attention was moved towards the laughing boys, watching as they found some of the toys that Y/N had bought for the puppy. “He needs a name.” Wanda stated as the twins looked between their parents.

“Rover.” The twins yelled in unison.

“Rover it is.” Y/N smiled before they picked the puppy up. “I am going to bathe this little guy, while the two of you go to bed.”

“But.” They both pouted.

“He will be here when you both wake up in the morning.” Wanda told them both, leading them towards the stairs.

Once the time came for both Y/N and Wanda to head to bed, Rover had joined them at the foot of their bed. Wanda rolled her eyes when she saw Y/N’s cheeky smile, they knew how she felt about animals on the furniture but this is the one time she seem to let it slide.

“I would have thought you would have had me take him to the pound first thing.” Y/N spoke aloud as the two lay facing each other.

“You were right.” Wanda smiled tenderly. “Rover could be the best thing for this family, and he could also help with teaching you and the twins some responsibility.”

“I am a responsible adult.” Y/N protested making Wanda giggle before she cuddled into them. “I have kept two five year old animals alive for their whole lives.”

“Those animals seem to be our offspring and you know very well that I did a majority of it.” Wanda told them.

“You know I don’t do well at the icky stuff, besides I don’t fancy carrying a bucket with me everywhere I go.” They told her, making her chuckle as they kissed her head. “Okay, maybe I’m not the most responsible adult but you are stuck with me.” They booped her nose before they lay their head back on their pillow, their arms wrapped securely around their wife as they both fell into a peaceful slumber.

[mehiwilldoitlater]

If it is too much trouble could you write about Bián huá grooming Yuán Fèn after a big battle

When traveling, one gets dirty, and one doesn't have much time to clean themselves

Bajie would no doubt have fun at the youngster's expense 

"It's not necessary!"

"Yes, yes, it is. You stink." You smelled a little in your armpit; your nose frowned. "And so am I."

He looked around; the fog of the hotspring didn't give him enough visual of his surroundings, and that couldn't give you both a disadvantage in a fight. But the hot water... it was tempting.

He scratched his arm, but it was the nervousness that made him do that. To be honest, all of his body was in an itching mess, especially after your last mission.

You both had been on the road for some time, and you were returning from Yellow Wind Ridge. The sun, the bugs, the sand—you both were in need of a bath, and Yuán fèn? He needed a good grooming session. You could see the small flies jumping here and there on his furr, and trying to help himself wasn't helpful.

So, when you spotted the hotspring, you had an idea... that he regretted the moment you started to remove the upper part of your clothes.

"I can't smell anything! What if someone attacks us?!"

"Bajie is around, so it won't be a problem for now."

"I can do it by myself! I don't need you to help me with a grooming session!"

"You can't reach every part! Come on, you've been bathing with your sister when you were young!"

"That's... not the problem..." He mumbled, his cheeks and ears tinted in a soft shade of pink. You kept your top, and what it was supposed to be was a pair of boxers, so you weren't completely naked, you still had some privacy, and you immerged one foot in the warm water. 

"Off your clothes now."

"Do I have it?"

"I can't clen your back with your garmet on!" You try to reach his belt, but only to meet hair when he dodges and starts to oanick.

"Okay okay! I can do it myself!"

When he finally decided to get in the water, he kept his pants on, refusing to let you see more of his exposed body. By the movements of his tail, he must have been quite nervous. Despite the protests, the complaints, and his whining, in the right moment the warm waters of the spring touched his malnourished skin, a sigh of relief emanating from him. It was true; he really needed that, but he never said that he needed your assistance!

Sitting on a rock behind him, and with the help of a comb, you started to tend to his mane and skin, trying to catch every parasite or insect that had the luck to escape from the boiling.

He said that wasn't necessary. His skin was full of scratches and deep cute from his long and sharp nails. Scabs and new cute here and there, some lnots of fur that couldn't be reached, dandruff... Unnecessary your ass! He was a mess!

"Look at you. If you needed so much, you could just ask!"

"I didn't want to delay the mission." He mumbled, trying to clean his arm from more dust and dirt. The water had some spots from what was removed from him.

"It's a noble gest, but if you end up like this, then it's not a delay at all. Here, I'll do the head now."

You helped yourself with your bowl by pouring some of the water on his head, letting him lean against your tights. You started to scratch gently with the comb his furr, freeing him from more fleas and dead hair.

"Next time, let's bring some soap. It will help. We can even take out time and stay in a bath house."

"..."

"We can even deal with the money?....I mean, how many ingested bath houses can be found?"

"..."

"... Yuán fèn? Are you listening?"

Oh, how much he needed It. To the point that he completely lost consciousness. The water, the warmth, your soft skin, the head scratch... his senses were completely out. Then, you felt something, like a small vibration, coming from...

No, it couldn't be...

You brought your head nearer, avoiding sudden movements, and you felt it.

He was purring.

You had to cover your mouth to avoid to giggles and squeals for your new find out discovery.

Since when he was able to do that?! OOOHHH, how much you wish that your phone hadn't died a few days ago. After your arrival, you would love to have some videos of him like this!

You continued the session, enjoying the fact that he was literally melting in your hands. You both were completely in the moment when

"Enjoying the evening, are we?"

Bajie's voice was cracking by the laughter of the scene. The surprise of his sudden arrival caused your fall in the water, resulting in you gasping for air and him losing his balance on your legs, receiving a head bump on the rock.

You all left the hotspring for the night, with Bajie making some remarks about the sweet scene that he had witnessed, Yuán Fèn that still massaged his head, and you wondering how to make that monkey purr again.

@sun-jglim

@sleepingdramaqueen

@crimsonflameproxy

@everlastingmoonlightsworld

@biankanoir

@certifiedsimpinggalorempinggalore

@cromboloni

@miraclecherryblossomsblog

@masksandfeathers

@cinnamonroll-anon

@justrandomlypassing

@cute-angi @luckyangelballoon

@dressycobra7 @naarra

@virtualexpertanchor @phoenixeclipse-lmkau

@szynkaaa @kirax-the-lazy-girl

@sleepydang @weaverworks

@kishimiest @marcu-bug

[latenightdaydreams]

WereWolf!König x New!Girl Pt2

Part 1

MDNI🔞

Master List ✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, forceful, transformation, oral

1.7k word count

🐺

.

.

The very next morning, König wakes up feeling invigorated. There is a peep in his step as he jumps out of bed, your scent lingers on his body. He can’t control his thoughts about you. The simple fact that he can’t be there with you right now is driving him insane. All he wants to do is rub his hands over every single inch of you.

While he usually only goes to the market once a week, he has to go back. Going straight to your home would be too obvious; too weird. The day seems to drag on until it’s late in the afternoon. He showers and quickly gets dressed to rush to the store.

You’re physically at work, but mentally miles away. On the side of your neck is a thick layer of make-up, hiding the bite marks from last night. It’s been a slow day so it’s easy to get lost in thought. When you squat down to restock, you feel a stinging pain shoot through your vagina. You tore, badly. As your eyes stare off into the distance, you accidently place toilet paper in the wrong spot.

“Y/n, hey. What are you doing?” Your uncle comes up behind you, chuckling at your mistake.

“Oh, sorry.” You snap out of it and pull the product back onto the cart. “I’m just so out of it today.”

“Are you doing okay?”

Just as you’re about to answer, the sound of a door shutting outside the store catches your attention. You stand to look over, seeing König walking towards the front door. Frank leaves your side to go greet his friend. A disappointed huff leaves your lips; you really needed to speak to someone.

“König! Did you forget something?”

“Ja, I did.” König chuckles, his eyes instantly landing on you as you walk back to the cash register.

“Well, I’m always glad to have your money.” Frank jokes.

König laughs, his eyes still on you. You linger behind the cash register now, seemingly far away. Hopefully thinking about your night together. He hates the restrictions of human civilization, forcing him to simply smile and nod in your direction as he continues on into the store; stopping where he can watch you from a distance.

“Uncle Frank, can we keep talking?”

“Yup!” He walks back to you and leans against the counter.

“Can you please listen to me without judgment?” You whisper, but König can still hear you.

“Absolutely.”

“I know you said there are no wolves around here, but last night I think one bit me.”

“What? A wolf?” Frank says loudly.

“Shh!” You place your finger over your lips. “Please be quiet. Can you please stay with me? I don’t want to leave alone.”

“Sweety, there are no wolves around here. You only think it bit you? Maybe it was a German Shepherd? Farmer Paul has one that’s a real ass—”

“It wasn’t a dog. It was massive.”

Frank shifts his weight and grabs his keys from his front pocket before letting out a sigh. He knows that you’ve been through a lot lately, but he doesn’t know what to say to you right now. König walks forward and approaches the two of you.

“I’m sorry to intrude, but did you say that a dog attacked you?”

You can feel yourself blush, feeling as if he will think that you’re crazy too. “A wolf.”

“And there aren’t any around here.” Frank says.

“No, there aren’t.” König looks at you and the worry in your eyes. If only he could reassure you that you’re safe with him. “But there is no harm in being safe. I could stay here with you while you close up.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“It’s really not an issue. I have no plans.” König gives you a warm comforting smile.

“Thank you, König.” Frank pats his shoulder.

“Not a problem.”

The last twenty minutes of work pass by quickly for you. König turns out to be a very flirtatious man, his charming smile and hypnotizing blue eyes making the fear of last night’s incident slip far away in your mind. While he may be a bit older than you, you find yourself beginning to like him in an odd way.

“It’s getting dark.” König says, looking out of the window before looking back at you. His once bright blue eyes now darkened, turning a deep yellow. The change is coming, and you’re trapped in here with him.

“It is.” You say as your back is turned to him. “I just have to go grab my keys and I’m ready to…leave.” Your voice drifts off as you turn to see König taking deep breaths, his eyes now animalistic.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you today, Maus.” König’s voice has turned raspy as his teeth grow.

“Y- y—” Words escape you as panic takes over your body.

“Don’t be afraid, please.” König slightly hunched over as you watch in horror. Skin falls from his body, replaced by the thick dark fur you remember from last night. His hands grow long claws that scratch the wall as he tries to balance himself.

A blood curdling scream bursts from your lips as König lets out loud groans of pain. Without a second thought you quickly turn on your feet and rush towards the break room door. Your feet carry you across the floor, just able to get to the door and slam it shut. Your fingers shake as you lock the door and rush to your locker to grab your keys.

From the other side of the solid wood door, you hear a loud howl. The sound makes your stomach flip. You stand still, not moving as you listen for any movement. For some reason you thought that he would give up and go hunt, but you’re proven wrong when you hear a loud banging against the door.

“Open.” König hits the door again, impatient and not wanting to play any games.

 “König! Please stop!” Your voice shakes.

“Mine. Open now.”

The next hit cracks the door, your eyes dart to the small window a few feet off the ground. While you might not fit, it's your only way out at this point. You rush to the collapsible table and drag underneath the window; watching your step you climb up and unlock the window. It opens so you turn yourself to the side and start to pull yourself out.

König continues to bang on the door, ready to break in to get to you. He knows once he can get his teeth on your neck you will calm down for him. Just then he hears a thud. His ears perk up before he turns and runs out of the shop quickly. In the dark night he looks around, spotting you running towards your car. Last time was too close, this time he has to be faster.

You get yourself off of the floor quickly, running to your car. As you reach in your pocket for your key, you realize the keys feel when you dropped from the window. “Fuck!” You should as you turn back to grab them. Just as you do, König appears around the corner and just stares at you, breathing heavily. He stands on two feet and holds a hand out for you to accept.

König looks into your eyes. As much as you want to deny him, he knows that you’re attracted to his human form and he knows you enjoyed begin fucked like a wild animal. Yet, that silly human brain wants to reject what it doesn’t understand. You turn and run. He watches you for a few seconds as you take off across the open field before taking off after you.

In no time he is right behind you, jumping to knock you off of your feet. You both crash to the ground, but he quickly recovers and mounts your much smaller body under his. He sticks his wet nose in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent again. He grabs a fist full of your hair and turns your face towards his.

“Mine.” He growls as he sits you up.

You gaze up at him as he stands. He gets closer to you, letting his erect, leaking cock linger in front of your face. A part of you is disgusted by the sight and smell, wanting to turn away and turn. There is another part of you that just wants to reach out and grab it. A small gasp leaves your lips when he grabs your hair again and tilts your head back.

König steps forward and pushes your face into his groin. The strong smell of his musk consumes your nostrils as his long cock rests along your face, his balls pressing against your mouth. You try to shake your head back and forth, to pull away; but you can’t. He holds you there longer for every moment you struggle.

“Lick.”

You part your mouth slightly, letting the tip of your tongue pass back and forth. His sweaty skin is salty, but you find yourself enjoying it. Slowly open your mouth more and let out more of your tongue to lick over his heavy balls.

König looks down at you with a pleased feeling. You’re finally giving into what you know you desire. He pulls back, dragging his cock across your face and down your tongue. A small growl leaves him as he watches your pretty lips carefully wrap around the head of his cock and sucking lightly. His hips push forward, shoving more of his cock into your mouth.

Your hands shoot to his thighs as you gag from him shoving his cock in too far. Tears begin to pool in your eyes as you try to maintain your composure. The girth of his cock causes your jaw to tire quickly, but you don’t dare try to pull away. Thick globs of spit fall from your mouth and fall on to your shirt.

When he pulls back, you cough and gasp for air. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand as you pant. He watches you try to gather yourself, feeling proud of you for how well you’ve calmed down. His arms wrap around your body, lifting you up, and walking you into the woods so he can fuck you in his den.

[trivia-yandere]

fuck it, a look into part 2 to jin's "payment plan"

coming oct. 12

“You look beautiful.”

Your eyes flicker up from your drink to Kim Seokjin. Your lips turn to a low smile at his compliment.

“You look sad.” Jin takes a sip of his wine and raises his brow. “Why is that? Is my restaurant not enough?”

You roll your eyes. 

You were disappointed - but never surprised - when you realized your husband would be missing your birthday this year. You’ve come to celebrate most things without him, but you were never truly alone.

Seokjin always made sure to accompany you and after a while, your fear for him slowly lessened. You would joke around with him just as much as he would you. You enjoyed his company even if it was outside of sex. 

Sure, you still felt terrible after it all. You were cheating on your husband, but he didn’t make it any better. Him never being around was what made it easier - but you could blame Jin for that as your husband wasn’t the one who set his own hours. 

“Of course it’s enough.” you respond. “It’s a five star restaurant that you closed tonight just for my birthday.”

This is a restaurant you could never afford to go to alone as of late. One of the many businesses Jin owned, this restaurant was a spot that was always littered with wealthy individuals and it was difficult to find a table without a reservation. You could only imagine the money lost by being closed earlier than usual.

“Your birthday is a special day that deserves to be celebrated.”

“At least one of the Kim brothers agrees.”

You take a deep breath. You shouldn’t be angered with your husband - not now. Remember that it isn’t his fault; not completely. At the end of the day, you were just as bad as him. You know what Jin wants from you - the same thing that you were giving to him willingly.

“Thank you, Jin.”

Your eyes connect with Jin’s as you take a sip of your wine. You and he were alone in the restaurant, him having sent everyone home. The meal was cooked by him entirely, an act you had laughed at when he told you. “We could’ve stayed home if that was the case” was your response to him. However, the act warmed your heart.

“Thank you for joining me.” Jin sets his wine glass down and picks up his chopsticks to eat. “It doesn’t look like I dragged you here tonight.”

You snicker. “You’re funny.” you murmur. It’s true, however, that you don’t appear to be as frightened as before. You were walking on eggshells and allowing Seokjin to do whatever he desired because of how frightened you were of being kicked out. 

Now, however, it’s evident that Seokjin had no true intentions of letting you go. It’s an adrenaline rush for him to do what he does with you behind closed doors; an ego boost, as well.

You continue to drink the expensive wine, enjoying the moment of serenity. The music is low, but it’s nice. You hum along to it, nodding your head a bit as you continue to revel in the experience.

 “Do you….do you want to dance?”

Your eyes flutter open at Jin’s question, realizing that your food and his is already eaten and you’re slightly buzzed due to all the wine. He has an amused look on his face as he watches you. 

[s-awturn]

Night Reveries || F1 Dilfs

cw: vulgarity, pure obscenity, consensual somnophilia, soft approach, fetish for compliments, body worship — reader receiving —, use of pet names, dirty language, fingering, eating p-, p in v.

requested ( x ) yes ( ) no

by: anon

a/n: Unfortunately the epilogue of Moon Spell isn't coming out the way I want and I'm very, very angry about it nothing is going the way I want and I can't finish Moon Spell just any way, so I'm going to move up the requests I have, After all, an empty mind is the devil's workshop and I'm not going to let the devil work in my head.. I hope it met your expectations, it's been a while since I've taken orders.

p.s.: suggestions on how to finish Moon Spell?? Plsss

starring: Toto Wolff, Sebastian Vettel, Fernando Alonso, Jenson Button, Mark Webber, Kimi Raikkonen.

TOTO WOLFF:

The day was dawning when he resolved all the pending work issues, he was so focused on getting everything organized that he didn't even notice the tiredness in his body, but when he finally finished, could feel how tense and sore his shoulders were. He closed his laptop and left his eyes on the desk. Toto wouldn't be available to anyone for the next few days, except his wife, who was sleeping peacefully at the end of the hallway.

Lazily, he dragged himself to the guest room's bathroom, where you and Toto usually left a few pieces of clothing for situations like this, where they ended up working late and didn't want to disturb each other's sleep. Toto put on some light pants and went to the suite he shared with you, and there he found you, sprawled on his side of the bed, wrapped in his pillows. He felt his heart warm at the sight and decided to lie down on your side of the bed and wrapped his arms around your waist, you gave a satisfied sigh and snuggled into him, making Toto feel all your soft curves, he breathed into your neck, feeling your perfume and He ended up grunting when you pressed your ass against his hip, without interrupting your sleep.

He buried his face in her neck, feeling filthy from the thoughts he was having, he couldn't stain the innocence of her rest with his perverse desires, but it didn't make it any easier to have her ass against his dick. God, it made it seem like you hadn't had sex in weeks, when he had made you cum just the morning before.

You moved completely in his arms, and turned to lie facing Toto, wrapping your leg around his waist, fitting yourself as best you could into the larger man's body, making Toto growl softly. Just when he thought it was going to get better, you made it worse, because now Toto's cock was right under you, hardening even more in your heat.

“mein gott” He groaned, pressing you tighter against him. How selfish would he be to wake you up just to fuck you?

It was better to try to sleep, to ignore the stinging heat building in her stomach and the moisture that escaped from your panties and stained his pants. What the hell had he done to be tortured like that?

But his ramblings were thrown into space when he felt you mount him, moving your pelvis against Toto, he took advantage of the consent you had given him and He pulled the lace of your panties aside, he couldn't see, but he would give you all his money if you weren't glistening with wetness.

“It’s almost a sin to waste such a feast, schatz,” he said, licking his lips. Toto got rid of his cotton pants and rubbed his cock against your pussy, drawing cute moans from you, he held you by the waist, high enough to reach your breasts so you could ride him. “You’re dripping in me, fuck,” and with that, he entered you slowly, stretching you around him, his grip making him bite his lip until it bled. In slow, gentle thrusts, he managed to hit her cervix over and over again.

“Toto? What are you-” you fell silent as you felt the thrust harder, hitting sensitive spots on you. “Toto...” you moaned, grinding yourself into him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, love, I’ll take care of you,” he assured, letting you enjoy what he wanted to give you. You moaned again, digging your nails into him.

It wasn't selfish if you wanted it too, right?

SEBASTIAN VETTEL:

Six weeks, three days, nine hours, twelve minutes and thirty-one seconds.

This was the time that you and Sebastian had not seen each other, the racing season was in full swing, Seb was still at the top with an impeccable performance, and your job didn't allow you to accompany him on his trips. All this distance was driving you both crazy, he couldn't wait to be home again, enjoying the two weeks of summer vacation allowed. He couldn't even think about anything other than you, nothing else was occupying the pilot's mind as he parked in the garage of the house you shared.

But since nothing was perfect, he had only managed to return in the middle of the night, it was around four in the morning and he would find you sleeping soundly. With that in mind, he went straight to the bathroom, since sleeping with you was all he had left. Sebastian took a quick shower and returned to the room wearing only a towel, to see you in nothing but his shirt, his heart clenched with the longing he felt for everything about you: your loud, spontaneous laugh, the way you frowned when you read, your unique habits. He missed the way you hugged him or ran your nails down his back. Of everything.

He put on a pair of sweatpants and lay down with you, at the same time you literally trapped him between your legs, thinking he was his pillow. Sebastian's hips fitted into yours, exactly where he needed them.

You sighed sleepily and moved your pelvis, rubbing yourself against him. He muffled his heavy breathing, wrapping his arm around your waist as you buried your face in his neck, as if the scent of his soap — that you wore every day he was away — would be different on his skin. He pressed you tighter against him, feeling you grind your pussy against his half-pumped cock.

“scheiße, puppe” (fuck, doll) he swore in German, biting her lip hard. “you’re not making this easy for me, love,” he murmured, holding you.

He took a deep breath, trying not to let it affect him any more than it already did, but feeling the familiar heat of your pussy against his cock was melting his neurons.

That was something common between you, you and Sebastian had already woken each other up several times with sex, and he considered waking you up this way.

But shit, it was too early for him to wake you up and there he was, hard as a rock and you were rubbing yourself against him without knowing it.

He tried to distract himself, not to think about you grinding against him, the wet spot spreading across his pants as you moved against him, your heat radiating off him, as if the sweatshirt was nothing between the two of you. Sebastian drew circles on her thigh, not even close to feeling as sleepy as he should, and slowly he slid his fingers across her skin until he reached the elastic of her panties and without much difficulty, Sebastian tore the seam of her panties, giving him easier access to her folds.

And by God, you were dripping.

He slid his fingers between your labia, groaning at how slippery you felt, accepting his touch so well.

“oh my god, baby, you’re killing me,” he said, playing with your clit, feeling you thrust your hips into him. “okay, okay, I got you, puppe.”

He gave up on maintaining his composure — if ripping your panties and fingering you wasn't already inelegant — and pulled down the waistband of the sweatpants he was wearing, he used it as a relief when freed from the restraint of the clothing, he let you rub yourself against him, letting your soaking wet pussy lick his cock. You breathed heavily, moaning sweetly as she ground your clit against the glans of his penis. Sebastian helped you mount his cock, sniffing in your ear as you slid down his shaft until your hips were joined.

“like this, love” he slid until only the head of his cock was inside you, smiling evilly as you wiggled, still fast asleep. He thrust slowly, feeling you slowly open around him. “your sweet pussy already has the shape of my cock, doesn’t it puppe?” he asked rhetorically, increasing his thrusts as her moans became more frequent. You whimpered, digging your nails into his back, rubbing yourself against him, feeling the friction of his hips against your clit making you even more horny. You tightened around him and Sebastian literally growled in your ear.

“Seb” now you were wide awake, wanting him to go faster, harder. “Seb, mhmm, please”

“whatever you want, puppe, anything” Sebastian growled, this time the sound of the clash between you echoed through the room. “i missed you so much, baby.”

“me too, me too,” you stuttered, wiggling your hips.

You two didn't stop, not even when the sun came up in the sky, after all, you had weeks of longing to appease.

FERNANDO ALONSO:

He sat up in bed, in disbelief at what had just happened. At forty-something, Fernando had come in his sleep, just like a teenager going through puberty. If he wasn't so pissed off, he would have certainly laughed at how absurd the situation was, he looked at the state of his underwear, completely wet with cum; he could blame himself, mainly because his last thoughts before going to sleep involved you, in situations that couldn't be talked about at family lunch. So it was your fault.

You were the one who made him have a wet dream and made him cum while he was still asleep. He got up, furious with rage, and went to take a cold shower, to try to get rid of the heat that had taken hold of him, and even under the cold jet of water, nothing could lower his extremely hard cock. Quite the opposite, it only left him cold and angrier. “i don't have fifteen fucking years left to masturbate in the shower, shit” he complained to himself, feeling his cock throb and resting his head on the cold bathroom tile. Fresh memories of the dream came back to him, your soft mouth welcoming him so well as he fucked your throat until he heard you choke.

“Fuck” he complained, getting out of the shower, the cold water didn’t help at all, the only thing that would calm him down was you, sitting on him until you both came. He barely dried himself and went to the bedroom, finding you asleep between the blankets, you hated pajamas and any nightwear, so you slept almost naked, if it weren't for your panties. Fernando grunted as he climbed onto the bed, not caring about wetting the bed, he wanted to eat you, so that's what he would do, after all he had your consent since you started dating.

Somnophilia was your favorite fetish, much to his surprise.

He kissed your body sloppily, leaving small marks on your belly, thighs and breasts, but none of this interrupted your sleep, you remained asleep as if nothing was happening. Fernando bit and sucked your nipples until you spoke, nothing he could understand, then he continued, moving his hands down your waist until he got rid of your panties, the Spaniard opened his legs a little to look at your sex, slightly wet and that could get soaked in a few minutes with his mere touch. He dragged you to the edge of the bed and literally buried his face between your thighs, growling at the scent of you. No other woman had such an effect on him as you did, you could make Fernando excited just with your doe-like gaze, your scent then, drove him crazy.

He wasn't gentle, so what if you woke up? Then he would have an opportunity to fuck you hard, just like he did in the dream. Fernando grabbed her legs tightly, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of her thighs and in the roughest way possible, he ate your pussy. Licks, sucks and even light bites were given, making you writhe in your sleep, he could hear your confused moans, but that didn't stop him, the pilot kept eating you until you were grinding on his face, wanting more kisses, more bites. You didn't care much about the pain, quite the opposite, you loved it when he was rougher.

“Nando?” you woke up confused, finding your boyfriend between your legs, his mouth still glued to your pussy. Your eyes rolled back in your head and you fell back onto the bed. “w-what hap-happened?”

“nothing,” he grunted without pulling away, you wiggled in his mouth, sighing in pleasure as you felt his tongue on you, where you needed it most. “I'm enjoying my privileges of being able to fuck my little whore whenever I want”

You trembled, about to cum, but he pulled away and pulled you to your knees in front of him, your face level with his hard cock. You looked at his hard penis and then at Fernando, he traced the outline of your lips with his thumb and stuck his finger in your mouth “suck”

And you obeyed, wrapping his thumb with his tongue, as if it were his cock in his mouth. Fernando got even harder, if that was possible.

“good girl” he praised before slamming his cock into her lips, “open your mouth for me, tesoro”

JENSON BUTTON:

Once again, you obeyed, and damn, who said dreams don't come true?

As he had done for years, Jenson woke up in the early hours of the morning to get some exercise, he liked to spend his time on the treadmill or hitting the sandbag in the small gym you kept at home. He lost count of how many times he called you to train with him, but you were not a morning person and you would never trade a few extra hours of sleep for morning workouts.

It was close to nine in the morning when he returned to the suite you shared, his plans were simple: set out some clothes, take a shower and let you sleep as much as you wanted, but when he entered the room, nothing went according to his plans.

Because, you see, Jenson had just had an intense workout and He was bursting with endorphins and serotonin, but none of that compared to the way his body reacted to seeing you sleeping. Clinging to his pillow, with the sheets piled up on her hips, wearing nothing but socks. Nothing special, right? Not for Jenson, fuck it, he didn't need much to get hard and ready for you, just like a boy in puberty.

He tried to push away the dirty thoughts that permeated his mind, not that the two of you were against somnophilia, but you had never actually tried it. He remembered an old conversation between you about achievable fetishes.

“being woken up with sex” he said simply and your eyes widened as you bit the straw of your gin and tonic, that made you think. You never stopped to think about that and the prospect of waking up to Jenson fucking you made you squirm in your seat. “what does that look like to you?”

“interesting, we can try it someday... but we need to establish signals so we can understand when this will be well received by the other person”

“fair, what do you suggest?”

Having a good night's sleep was the main point, and the absence of clothes, since you were both fans of pajamas. He took two long steps towards the bed and confirmed his theory by lifting the sheet, except for your socks (because you hated sleeping with cold feet), you were completely naked. He cursed in a grunt and Jenson felt his erection throb.

“fuck, peach” he cursed and kicked his sneakers away, and his workout clothes followed suit, he also threw the sheets away and gazed at his sleeping figure, your breasts crushed against his pillow, your pussy exposed by the position you were in. “and one more time i’m going to take your first time, peach” he murmured, wetting his fingers in his mouth before sliding them into your folds. you grunted but didn’t wake up. “relax baby, I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, and carefully, He made you lie on your back and spread your legs.

He rubbed your folds again, cursing as he felt your juices wet his fingers, making it easier for him to move against your clit. You were so responsive, responding so well to him. Jenson saw your chest fill with more oxygen, you gave a loud and long sigh at his touch on you, but none of that shook your sleep, on the contrary, you seemed to be far from waking up; he caressed your thighs before leaving small kisses down your breasts, abdomen and groin, no matter how many times Jenson saw you naked, you were still the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. And he never seemed to get tired of watching, ever.

He lay down on the bed, feeling the sheets rub against his erection, eliciting a hoarse moan from him, all he wanted was to get inside you right away, but fuck, he'd be damned if he didn't taste you. He rubbed his hips against the bed and before everything became torment, he kissed your pussy and placed your legs over his shoulders. Jenson hummed at the taste of you on his tongue, and it seemed to fuel his hunger for you, he spread you open with his fingers and licked your clit until you whimpered in your sleep. Like an addicted man, he suckled your clit until the bud was swollen and shiny with saliva and stimulation, Jenson made sure to rub his mouth all over you, just like you did when you rode his face, using him to bring yourself to orgasm; his fingers played with your needy entrance, feeling you throb around his digits, eager for anything he could give you.

“holy shit, peach,” he cursed, licking you with increasing need, Jenson felt you wet his chin to the point of dripping onto the mattress. You were about to wake up, because your grumbling increased and all your attempts to close your legs were useless, Jenson was holding them as if his life depended on it. “you’re so fucking wet, can you feel how easily my fingers enter you? Imagine what it will be like when it’s my dick instead of my fingers.”

He spread his fingers inside you, making you arch your back and thrust your hips against him, your eyes flew open and you whimpered. Not that he would complain about being strangled by your thighs.

“Jense, fuck I-I was-” your voice trailed off as he licked his fingers from your still-filled hole to your aching clit. “Oh my God, shit!” you swore, grabbing his hair and pushing him further against your pussy.

“was what, peach?” he whispered, kissing your folds as if they were his mouth, making you roll your eyes and grind against his mouth. “Huh?”

“i-it doesn’t matter” you breathed between moans “please Jense, please let me ride you” you begged him, shaking “I-I want to cum in you”

Jenson gave you one last lick before pulling his fingers out of you and giving your pussy a light slap, making you scream. He still took his time, fingering your folds, letting your pleasure completely cover his fingers. He pushed his fingers against your lips and you sucked every drop of your juices, moaning at the taste of you, making him groan at the sight.

“come ride me, peach” he pulled your thighs until you were on his lap, the pink head of his cock pressed against your clit, which made you both moan. You were close to cumming, He then, no need to say anything. “ride me until you cum, princess” he pushed his thick member against her throbbing hole. You moaned and he grunted, thrusting in until you felt the swollen head of his cock hitting your g-spot.

MARK WEBBER:

You wouldn't mind waking up early if that's how Jenson was going to wake you up.

He woke up with sudden movements in bed and it and it wouldn't be a surprise if you were in the middle of a nightmare, with your thesis approaching the final stage, you rarely had a peaceful night's sleep. But not that night, Mark caught a glimpse of the time on the clock radio, six thirty in the morning; he rubbed his eyes and prepared to wake you before you woke up in tears, however, a plaintive moan made him freeze in place, just looking at you sleeping.

“Mark... Please” you begged, still asleep. He watched your fingers twist the comforter and your legs close tightly. “Please!”

Your pleading voice made his hackles stand on end, he blinked in astonishment a few times until he came to the conclusion that you were having a wet dream. About him. This certainty made his blood run thicker through his veins, warming his entire body; you and Mark had an unspoken agreement, if one of you woke up with the other having this kind of dream, could and should move forward. Have you ever had the chance to wake Mark up with a blowjob or literally sitting on him sometimes, but the Australian has never had the chance to have you in his sleep.

If hearing you moan his name in your sleep hadn't already turned him on, the knowledge that he could fuck you while you were asleep did.

Fuck, if he wasn't feeling like a teenager there.

He carefully pulled back the duvet so as not to wake you and settled between your legs. The wet spot on your pajama shorts made him smile; Mark lay in the space between your thighs and pulled the delicate fabric away from its glossy folds.

“what do you need, doll?” he asked, sliding his fingers slowly into her pussy. A fun fact about people who talk in their sleep: will answer anything they are asked.

He saw your face scrunch up and he circled your swollen clit with his thumb, chuckling softly as he saw you jump.

“i-i want you,” he replied softly, still sleeping soundly.

“really?” he continued to tease the sensitive little spot, you trembled even more

“yes yes please” she begged him

“okay baby, anything you want” he ripped her shorts and covered her pussy with his mouth. He himself couldn’t contain the moan of satisfaction as he felt his taste flood his mouth. You were incredibly wet and his fingers slid easily inside you. You cried out at the suction on your clit and melted completely when he let his teeth roll lightly over the swollen bud. Mark watched as tears wet your closed eyes and you squirmed more, letting go of the comforter to grab his hair.

“Mark!” you exclaimed, your back coming off the mattress and your eyes flying open, but they didn’t stay open for long. “f-fuck, so good!”

He hummed, letting go of your thigh to grab your breast over your shirt, you placed your hand over his, tightening the grip. You were close, your cloudy mind couldn't identify anything other than his mouth eating you with such desire and your orgasm growing in your stomach.

Whimpering whimpers escaped her throat as he pulled away, his chin soaked with her juices and his dark eyes shining.

“come sit on my face, doll” he lies down on the bed and you crawl on top of him. He hugged your hips and made you sit on his mouth, hitting exactly where you needed it, you held on to the headboard so you wouldn't fall on him, your legs went weak with each stroke of his soft tongue on your clit. You wouldn't last much longer.

He made you move, riding his tongue like it was his cock.

“Mark- baby, I-I’m g-gonna-” you stuttered, biting the inside of your cheek.

"come on doll, cum for me, go" he asked without taking his mouth off you and you gave in, your body shaking violently as you came in his mouth. It took all of Mark's self-control not to cum in his pants like a teenager. He felt rock hard and his balls ached with the urge to cum, but this moment was about you.

Always about you.

He carefully placed you on the bed and saw you smile, tired, the thin layer of sweat made you shine and he brushed away the strands of hair that stuck to your forehead.

“was it good?” he asked, watching the white t-shirt stick to her breasts, outlining the hard nipples.

“fucking very good, love” you replied breathlessly, but your tiredness seemed to evaporate when you saw the bulging mark of his cock against his pajama pants. “but it might be better” and you pushed him on the bed, sitting down exactly where he wanted you.

KIMI RAIKKONEN:

That was one way to wake up.

“i want you to fuck me while I sleep,” you had blurted out as he read the newspaper over breakfast. Few things could surprise Kimi Raikkonen, and you were certainly one of them.

He choked on the tea he was drinking and put down the newspaper, you were too focused on your own magazine to notice his incredulous look. How did you say things like that so naturally?

“what the fuck, Y/N?!” he said a little exasperated.

“why the surprise? I didn’t say anything out of the ordinary, Raikkonen,” you said, still focused on your magazine. He dropped the paper for good and ruffled his blond hair, becoming even more exasperated. “i really want you to fuck me while I sleep, I’ve always wanted to, but I’ve never trusted anyone enough,” you confessed, finally looking at him, “but I trust you and I want you to do this, as rudely as you can.”

Ever since then, your request has been plaguing his mind (both of them, to be honest), he couldn't distract himself from your words and whenever he actually stopped to think about it, he ended up excited. You really were a surprising little thing.

At night, you put on your cute pajamas, kissed him and didn't let him forget your request, giving him your best puppy dog look “please, Kimi, I want it so bad” and your lip trembled, making the request even more believable. “you have my consent to be as hard as you want, I will love it”

And with that, you rolled over and fell asleep almost instantly, leaving him awake with a hundred questions and an aching erection between his legs. Kimi watched the first few hours of your sleep, her mind still spinning around your request, if you wanted it, there was nothing wrong, right? You had assured him that you wanted it. But Kimi was still reluctant.

He never considered the idea of having sex with you while you were sleeping, nor did he expect you to want it. Who would have thought that behind her cute baby face was hiding a little whore who likes hard sex? He rested his head on the headboard, the clock indicated that it was past two in the morning.

He looked at you, your fluffy silk pajamas that hid nothing from his imagination, your soft curves, your sleeping face. You were driving him crazy.

“fuck” he cursed and kicked the covers away, watching you try to snuggle against him. Kimi saw your nipples harden from the cold, marking the delicate silk of the babydoll.

i want you to fuck me while I sleep

i want you to fuck me while I sleep

i want you to fuck me while I sleep

Your request reverberated in his mind as he watched you until the moment all fear left him and Kimi ripped your pajamas, dividing the silk into two pieces. Kimi made you turn over in bed, with your chest against the bed and your ass in the air, high enough for him to be able to fuck you in your favorite position.

He should have picked up on the signs that you weren't so innocent, that you didn't want to be treated like a princess. His beautiful little girl wanted to be treated like a prostitute, how could he refuse? Kimi grabbed your hips and brought your wet pussy against his mouth, humming with your taste, you let out a cute little moan, without waking up, Kimi loved your taste, loved knowing that no one else left you dripping like he did and all he had to do was give you a few kitten licks and you would lick his chin. He took his time, eating you out until your lube dripped. He ran his fingers through you, taking what he could and slid your juices onto the tip of his member, and without any shame, he thrust into you until there was no space between you both, his moan mixed with yours as you slowly woke up, with each raw beat of his hips against yours, your naughty smile grew. Kimi took your hands and pinned them behind your back, holding you while his cock hit all the right places inside you, you would wake up sore, used and happy. With his other hand, he landed a hard slap on your ass that would leave marks the next day and grabbed your hair, leaving you on your knees on the bed.

“is this what you wanted, pretty girl? to be used like a dirty little whore? just for my pleasure?”

Yeah, yeah, yeah Kimi!” She exclaimed, writhing for him to go deeper, but Kimi held her back.

“No, no, quiet”

“But Kimi-” she cooed, wanting more. And in response he landed a slap on her clit, which made her moan louder and roll her eyes.

“I told you to be quiet, or you won’t cum today.”

a/n¹: oh jeezz, this was 🔥

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED TO S-AWTURN™ 🪐. I do not allow copying or republication. Any unauthorized publication will be reported.

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[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Logan and his Sugarbaby? Just that grumpy fuck being domesticated

Sunday. Rain drops fell against the windowpanes.

And Logan clenched a cigar between his teeth as he graded papers and listened to the rapid flutter of your keys on your laptop. He'd rather be fucking you.

But.

He told you you couldn't move from that spot until you finished your homework. And he meant it. You were too smart to just be a brainless little fucktoy, even if treating you like one when he was stressed out did wonders for his blood pressure.

The typing stopped and your brow furrowed. He can see you reading back what you just wrote, chewing on your lip. Second guessing yourself for what feels like the 100th time in 20 minutes and he sets down his pen, "Give it here, bub," he ordered.

"It's not-"

He quirked an eye brow and held out his hand with a soft growl, leaving you no room to argue. And you hand it to him reluctantly, pressing your lips together as he scrolled back to the top of you paper and scanned it. Ignoring the fact that you're squirming and trying not to fidget. It was good. Really good, in fact. It flowed together and made sense. Sure, it needed a little bit of polish but it wasn't like some of the garbage he'd seen pass as academic writing before. "Princess," he said smiling a little, "you're doin' fine. Breathe."

"Ugh, I hate this fucking class."

"I know," he said, "You've been whining about it all month. Just pass and you never have to do it again."

"I just know I'll turn this in and he'll find 40 things wrong with it," you murmur.

"But there's nothing wrong with it," he said, eyes narrowing. You were a smart kid. You could hold your own. It's how you GOT this far on your own- why he kept you around. He was too old for someone who needed constant hand holding. "What'd he say to you?" Logan growled.

You'd been 'off' all week. Not his girl. Distracted. He thought it was just school but something was eating at you.

"It's not a big deal," you answer, taking the laptop back and exhaling slowly. "Like you said I just have to-"

"Y/N," he said dangerously, "what did he say to you? Last week? When you went to office hours?"

You take a deep breath and flex your hands, "That if I didn't spend so much time whoring my self out to freaks I wouldn't have so much trouble understanding the class." You cringe away from the words, your whole face folding in disgust. "I didn't want to tell you because I didn't want-"

"You didn't want to hurt me," he finished, keeping his tone careful. He was furious. But. Not at you. As he looked at you trying not to cry, afraid to look at him as you nodded, it was all he could do to keep the claws sheathed. His girl. His Princess was trying to protect him and that wasn't her job. And hell if he was going to let some scum bag tank her career just because he didn't like that she was getting laid and a little spending money for her aggravation.

[fxckadoodledoomunson]

A Heart Divided -2-

Previous

|2| Finding a new sanctuary…

Summary: You try your best to focus on your studies and training for the upcoming swimming competition, but with Eddie and your sister making it difficult for you, you’re left with no choice but to turn to Steve for help.

Warnings: swearing, Eddie and your sister being arseholes.

Tagged: @somethingvicked @ali-r3n

As soon as you heard your parents were home, you immediately went back to your place so you could ask permission to stay over at Chrissy’s.

When you stepped inside, you heard your sister ask your father in a babyish voice, “Daddy…”

“No!” Your father sternly interrupted.

“But you don’t know what I was going to say,” your sister whinged, as she followed him to the kitchen, where your mother was unpacking the groceries.

“Well whatever it is, the answer’s still no,” your father retorted.

“Come on, honey,” your mother said to your father. “Just hear what she’s got to say.”

Your father sighed, before asking your sister, “Well, what is it?”

“I need to borrow fifty bucks,” your sister replied.

You rolled your eyes at the word borrow. You knew that what she meant was, “I need fifty dollars from you for my selfish gain and will not have any intention of returning it.”

Thankfully, your father wasn’t stupid to fall for whatever your sister says. After he declined to give her any money, she started to throw a tantrum, “But Daddy, it’s not fair. I’m supposed to go out with Roxy and Diana to this new club tonight. How am I supposed to go without money?”

“Simple, get a job like the rest of us, and not lounge around all day,” your father sternly told her. “Or better yet, not drop out of college in the first place.”

Your parents started to argue about your sister. After a year at college, your sister had decided to drop out as she felt it was more tiresome to study than go out and partying all night. While your father had always gave discipline, your mother on the other hand, coddled her. As your shoes squeaked against the kitchen floor, everyone stopped arguing, noticing you.

Your father quickly smiled, as he greeted you, “Hey pumpkin, where have you been hiding?”

“I was over at the Cunningham’s,” you replied.

Your mother approached you, as she asked, “Darling, why’s your face red? Have you been crying?”

“Let me guess, over a boy?” Your sister snidely asked.

“Enough from you,” your father scolded her.

You wanted nothing more than to snitch on her for being with Eddie, knowing how your parents felt about him, despite him always being polite to them when he used to come over for the tutoring. However, you didn’t have the energy to do it. So instead, when your father asked if it really was over a boy, you lied to him, “No Dad, it’s not. I guess I’m just a little overwhelmed, with finals coming up and the final two swimming competitions…”

You deeply sighed, when your father put his arm around you, comforting you, as he said, “You just do your best. Even if you get third place in the competitions, I would still be proud of you.”

You gave him a small smile, as you thanked him, before hugging him, ignoring your sister’s sour faced expression.

As your father let go of you, you began to ask him, “Actually Dad. I was wondering if I could stay over at Chrissy’s tonight? She’s asked me to help her with her homework.”

You figured that your father would say no, but instead he replied, “Sure pumpkin.”

“Well, are you still having dinner with us?” Your mother asked. “I’m making vegetable lasagna.”

You politely shook your head, before telling her, “Chrissy said that I can have dinner with her and her family.”

You then excused yourself from the conversation, so you can gather your overnight stuff and your sleeping bag. You were about to go upstairs when you stopped and told your father, “Oh by the way, I had to leave work early today, so I need to work an extra couple of hours to make up for it.”

“Of course, pumpkin. Do what you need to do, just don’t overdo it, okay?”

You nodded, before rushing up the stairs, overhearing your sister complaining about you, “That’s not fair, why does she always get what she wants, but I can’t?”

You got the guy I wanted, you thought. Isn’t that enough for you?

Meanwhile at Gareth’s place, Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin were rehearsing for the next night. While everyone was in the zone, Eddie found himself distracted. He thought about Chrissy’s sudden change in her demeanour when he saw her.

After noticing that Eddie was messing up the chords, Jeff raised his hand, prompting everyone else to stop.

“Eddie,” Jeff called out, making Eddie stop and turn to him. “What’s going on with you man?”

Eddie huffed, as he took off his guitar strap, placing his guitar in its case.

“It’s Chrissy,” Eddie spoke, as he scratched his head.

“What about her?” Grant asked.

Before Eddie could answer, Gareth exclaimed as he pointed at him with his drumstick, “I knew it! You’re secretly dating her, aren’t you?”

“What?! No! Of course I’m not!” Eddie denied.

Suddenly, the other two boys chuckled when Jeff mentioned, “Well, you’ve been really friendly with each other since the end of the semester.”

No longer tolerating their teasing, Eddie stomped towards them, as he angrily said whilst showing his index finger, “First of all, we’re not dating! She’s a client and a friend. And secondly…” He showed his index and middle finger, as he blurted, “I’m already seeing a woman.”

The rest of the boys’ faces fell, hearing Eddie’s confession, which led them to ask so many questions…

“Wait what?”

“You’re seeing someone? Since when?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Is she hot?”

“Who is it?”

“How far did you get with her?”

Having enough of them bombarding him with questions, Eddie bellowed, “SHUT UP!”

The boys became silent, not wanting to piss off their leader.

Eddie took a deep sigh, before answering them, “I’ve been seeing her since spring break, and yes, she’s like super hot…”

“Super hot like Phoebe Cates?” Gareth asked.

“Way hotter than her,” Eddie pointed out.

The boys excitedly exclaimed, before Jeff asked, “So, who is it?”

Eddie smirked, as he crossed his arms, before revealing it was your sister.

The three of them stood still, as their jaws dropped, before repeating your sister’s name.

Eddie nodded gleefully.

“No way, she was like the hottest girl in the school,” Jeff commented.

“Not to mention rich,” Grant said, before asking if your sister and you were neighbours with Chrissy.

Eddie nodded, before revealing that after he went to see your sister, he went to see Chrissy and asked if she wanted to watch the band rehearse. “It’s weird,” Eddie told them. “Today at school, she was friendly with me, but when I went to visit her, she gave me the cold shoulder.”

“Did you say something that might have pissed her off earlier?” Grant asked.

“Of course I didn’t, I don’t think so anyway. Although…” Eddie then mentioned that Chrissy glared at him from her window earlier after saying goodbye to your sister.

The boys glanced at him in confusion, wondering why Chrissy changed her attitude towards their leader when Gareth exclaimed as he banged his cymbal, “Aha!”

“What?” Eddie asked.

Gareth scoffed, before asking him, “Dude! Isn’t it obvious?”

Before his confused bandmates could ask, Gareth told them, “She’s jealous.”

Jeff and Grant disagreed while an astonished Eddie furrowed his eyebrows.

“There’s no way she’s jealous,” Jeff told Gareth.

“Plus, she’s with Carver,” Grant mentioned.

“So?!” Gareth retorted. “Just because she’s with that douchebag, it’s doesn’t mean that she still wants to be in a relationship with him. Maybe,” he raised his drumstick, as he continued. “Just maybe…she’s finally come to her senses and wants to leave the dark side.”

Eddie raised one of his eyebrows at the drummer, thinking about his theory. He couldn’t lie, he did once have a small crush on Chrissy when they met at the middle school talent show, but that faded over time. Even when they reconnected during the first deal, he didn’t feel that way again about her, especially as he actually liked…

“I’ve just realised something,” Grant spoke up as he interrupted Eddie’s thoughts.

“What?” Jeff asked.

Eddie shifted his attention to the bass player, as Grant asked Eddie about you.

Eddie huffed, crossing his arms, as he asked “What about her?”

“Well, weren’t you like into her?”

Jeff and Gareth faced each other in realisation, before commenting that they remembered that Eddie did once comment how amazing you were for helping him get his grades up and how happy he was to see you watch the band at the Hideout.

“So?” Eddie retorted, as he glared at them.

“So what’s changed?” Grant asked. “I mean, you gave me a hard time earlier for acknowledging her. How did you go from her to her sister?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, as he exhaled in frustration, before telling his bandmates, “You wouldn’t believe me even if I tell you.”

“Try us,” Jeff replied.

Eddie shifted his attention between the three boys before revealing why he chose your sister over you.

Staying over at Chrissy’s house was something you definitely needed. Although you were still upset about Eddie and your sister, Chrissy did her best to cheer you up after you helped her with her homework, as you both watched both Grease movies and listening to your favourite songs to lift your spirits up.

When the next morning came, you were dreading, not only potentially bumping into your sister as she would go out to see her friends for morning coffee, but also going to school and seeing Eddie.

You clutched your backpack, feeling nauseous when Chrissy placed her hand on your shoulder, as she assured you, “It’s going to be okay.”

You nodded at her, thanking her before heading to your front yard to grab your bike when you heard a vehicle horn honking. You turned around, worried that it was Eddie’s van. Instead, you sighed with relief as you saw Jason’s jeep parked.

You heard him call out Chrissy’s name, as he greeted her, before asking her if she was ready.

Instead of answering him, Chrissy turned to you and suggested, “Come to school with us.”

“Well…” you hesitated. “I don’t-“

“Please?” Chrissy begged.

Unable to resist her puppy eyes, you accepted Chrissy’s offer, which made her smile.

As you headed to the jeep, Jason raised his hand, stopping you getting in. “Woah!” He exclaimed. “What do you think you’re doing? After what you treated my girlfriend-“

“It’s okay, Jason,” Chrissy interjected. “We’ve talked things over and we’ve made up.”

Jason turned to his girlfriend, before shifting his attention to you, as he huffed, whilst signalling you to get in.

You thanked him, as you and Chrissy got in the vehicle.

Throughout the day, you avoided any form of contact with Eddie. You even reluctantly acknowledged the rest of the Hellfire club, as you didn’t want to aggravate him any further. Whilst you avoided him and the others, you were unaware of the cold expressions on the older boys’ faces as they watched you walk past without acknowledging them.

As you headed into one of the classrooms, Jeff commented to Eddie, “You were right about her. She doesn’t even have the guts to look at us.”

Meanwhile, Jason gave Chrissy a peck on the cheek, before heading to his next class, leaving Chrissy to walk alone to the next class she shared with you.

As she walked through the hallway, Eddie called out to her, as he waved at her.

Instead of waving back, she silently glared at him, before stomping to the classroom.

“Dude, she is definitely playing hard to get with you,” Gareth told Eddie, as he patted his shoulder, while Eddie glanced at the door, wondering if Chrissy is really jealous and wanted him or if she just genuinely dislike him.

Later on before your shift ended, you were packing up and getting changed in the staff room when you heard the door bell ring.

You then heard Steve say, “Welcome to Family…Oh, hey Chrissy.”

You popped your head out of the door, seeing Chrissy dressed up in a baby pink dress with matching sneakers. You smiled, as you greeted her, “I’ll be right out.”

You went back to the staff room, to collect everything as you were listening to Steve and Robin talking to Chrissy.

After sorting yourself out, you rushed out in your black jeans and your Iron Maiden shirt, as you told Chrissy, “I’m ready. How are we getting there?”

“Well, Aimee said that she and her brother Tony can drop us off,” Chrissy replied. “But I’m not sure how we’re getting back.”

Before you could respond, Steve interjected, “I can take you two home. Robin and I going later anyway, so we can all go home together.”

Chrissy beamed, as she thanked him, earning a wink from him, which made her giggle. Suddenly, you heard a car beep from outside. You and Chrissy turned to see her fellow cheerleader, waving outside the car window. “Oh, that’s Aimee,” she exclaimed, as she grabbed your hand, and pulled you. “We better get going.”

After you said goodbye to Robin and Steve, you and Chrissy started walking out when you overheard Robin and Steve bantering.

“What?” You heard Steve ask.

“You’re gonna tell me why you winked at the head cheerleader?” Robin retorted.

“It was just a wink. You know, a friendly wink.”

“That was so not a friendly wink.”

You stifled your laughter, as you caught up with Chrissy.

A few moments later, you and Chrissy got out of Tony’s car, as you thanked him for the ride.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Aimee called out.

You and Chrissy waved as Tony drove off, before you turned around and faced the entrance. In that moments, your body froze.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Chris,” you mumbled, wanting to turn away. However, Chrissy stopped you, and held your hand, as she said, “You’ll be fine. If Eddie says or does something, we’ll just leave, okay?”

You nodded, and started walking into the building, as she placed her other hand on your back.

As always, the Hideout was filled with a crowd of five drunks. You looked over at the stage, finding Corroded Coffin performing, before swiftly turning away, trying to avoid being noticed.

You and Chrissy headed to the bar to order your drinks, as your fight-or-flight kicked in. You clutched your chest, as your breathing began to increase. Chrissy noticed this, and placed her hand on your back, as she said, “Deep breaths.”

She inhaled and then exhaled with you until you felt better.

“Thanks Chris,” you replied, as the barmaid placed your drinks on the counter. After Chrissy paid, you both grabbed your drinks and headed to one of booths, further away from the stage. As soon you two found the booth, you heard feedback from the microphone, before Eddie announced, “Are you ready to rock again, Hawkins?!”

After a few claps from a couple of drunks, Eddie announced, “The next song we’re gonna play is Fire Shroud.”

As the band started to play, you couldn’t help but bop your head to the music, realising how much you missed hearing them play.

However, you stopped enjoying yourself when you noticed your sister’s friends, Roxy and Diana, were sitting at a table close to the stage.

If they’re here, then that means… you thought when you noticed your sister coming out of the bathroom.

“I should’ve known,” you grumbled.

“What?” Chrissy asked, not hearing what you said.

You swiftly turned away, avoiding your sister and her friends. Chrissy turned to you, before shifting her attention back to the stage, realising that your sister and one of her friends were heading towards stage to dance together. Chrissy gave you a sympathetic gaze and squeezed your hand , as she asked, “Do you want to go?”

Before you could respond, the last voice you wanted to hear shouted over the music, “Well well well.”

You turned to find your sister towering over you two , as she leaned against the table, continuing to snidely ask, “What do we have here? Shouldn’t you two be at home playing My Little Pony or something like good little girls?”

You took a sip of your drink, trying to ignore her, whilst Chrissy glared at her.

However, your sister kept trying to push your buttons, as she asked you, “Why are you even here? No one wants you here.”

Before you could answer back, you realised that the band stopped playing, as you watched Eddie and the rest of the band heading towards your booth. “Hey, what’s going on, princess?” Eddie asked your sister, as he wrapped his arm around her.

“Well, I was just saying to my baby sister that no one wants her here,” your sister smugly replied.

“It’s a public place,” Chrissy retorted. “You can’t ban someone because you don’t like them.”

“True,” Eddie replied. “But like she said…”

He then glared at you, before finishing his sentence, “No one wants you here.”

You quickly stood up, as you angrily retorted, “That’s bullshit! It’s you two that don’t want me here-“

“Actually,” Gareth coldly spoke up, which caused you to turn to look at him. “Neither of us want you here.”

You gazed at him with confusion, as Jeff told you, “Eddie told us, so don’t try to deny it.”

“What are you talking about?” You asked Jeff, before asking Eddie, “What have you told them?”

“Figure it out,” Eddie coldly told you.

You shifted your gaze at everyone, before turning to Grant, who avoided eye contact with you when you asked, “So, you don’t want me here either Grant?”

Grant continued to avoid you, as you turned your attention to Eddie and your sister, with tears brimming in your eyes. Without saying another word, you grabbed your belongings and stormed out, ignoring Chrissy calling out to you.

Chrissy turned to Eddie, and angrily told him, “I don’t know what’s going on with you Eddie, but you’re being a real asshole, and as for you…”

She then turned to your sister, and scolded her, “How could you be like this to your own sister? What did she ever do to you?”

Your sister blankly looked at Chrissy, before retorting, “Exist, that’s what.”

The next thing that no one anticipated was Chrissy slapping your sister across the face. Before your sister could retaliate, Chrissy grabbed both drinks and threw it at both Eddie and your sister, which made her gasp, before whinging that her outfit was ruined.

“You two deserve each other,” Chrissy spat, before running off to find you.

While your sister ran to the bathroom with her friends following her, Eddie grabbed his handkerchief from his pocket and dried his face off, as Gareth blurted out, “I guess Chrissy’s not into you after all.”

Eddie turned to silently glare at the drummer before heading for the door, giving you and Chrissy a piece of his mind.

Meanwhile, you and Chrissy were sitting on the ground, as you sobbed while Chrissy comforted you.

“I don’t understand it, Chrissy,” you sniffled, unaware that Eddie was eavesdropping. “I mean, I’m sure that I would get over their relationship one day.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, thinking that you were pulling the poor me act when he heard you ask Chrissy. “But what did I do to make Eddie hate me so much?”

Eddie furrowed his eyebrows, confused by your question. At first, he thought it was just an act, but then he wondered if you were being genuine. But then, he shook his head, as he thought, No, I’ve seen enough to know how she actually thinks about me and everyone else.

Before he could step out, he noticed Steve’s car parking near the building.

Not long after, Robin and Steve came out and rushed over to you and Chrissy, checking if you were okay.

After Chrissy explained what happened, Steve immediately said, “We’ll take you guys home.”

As Robin and Chrissy put you in the car, Steve noticed Eddie lurking by the doorway of the bar, and shook his head at him, before getting in the car and drove off.

You silently sat in the backseat with Robin and Chrissy, as both girls comforted you.

“Everything will be okay,” Chrissy quietly told you, as she squeezed your hand.

Everything will be okay.

That was easier said than done. Although you’ve managed to avoid the Hellfire club at school, you couldn’t avoid Eddie and your sister at home. Every time you tried to do your homework, they always had loud music playing from her bedroom, drowning whatever they were doing. You wanted to go over to Chrissy’s place as it was a sanctuary to you. However, thanks to your sister snitching on you both to your parents and Chrissy’s mother, you were no longer allowed to go over, which drove you to go to the basement just so you can finish your studies in peace.

But what aggravated you the most was that you had a swimming semifinal competition coming up soon, and you needed to practice. However, you couldn’t even practice properly as Eddie and your sister decided to make out whilst lounging by the pool.

But the final straw was when the two of them decided to jump into the pool, preventing you from practicing all together.

Having enough of them splashing around, you aggressively splashed the water towards them, as you growled, “That’s it!”

You swam to the ladder and climbed up, as you heard your sister mock, “Aww, can’t handle a little competition?”

Without thinking, you grabbed your sister’s radio and threw it across the yard, smashing it to the ground.

As you stomped back inside, you heard your sister call you a bitch, which made you flip both of them off, no longer caring being called that.

As you were getting changed in your room, you were trying to decide how to practice without interruptions. You couldn’t go to Chrissy’s as you were banned from going over. And you weren’t allowed to go to the school swimming pool after hours without a teacher supervising you. Also, the community pool wasn’t great for practice if it’s crowded. The only solution was…

“Harrington,” you muttered, as you finished getting changed, you packed your spare swimsuit and goggles, before calling Steve at work, asking him if you could stay at his place for a while so you could practice.

“Sure, you know where the spare key is,” Steve immediately told you. You thanked him, before hanging up, so you could call your father to let him know that you were going to Steve’s to practice.

You thought that he would say no. But knowing that how much the competition meant to you, as well as getting the scholarship, he decided to let you go, before telling you, “But don’t stay out too late.”

As soon as you got to Steve’s house, you found the spare key under the flowerpot and let yourself in. You had managed to get a good half an hour of practice when you heard the door slide open.

You turned to find Steve coming through the door, as he greeted you. “Not interrupting you, am I?”

“No, I managed to do thirty minutes so far,” you replied, before continuing to swim up and down the pool, checking your lap time on your stopwatch.

Suddenly, Steve walked towards your stopwatch and picked it up, as he said, “I’ll time you.”

“Okay. Thanks,” you replied as you swam to one end of the pool, while Steve sat one of the lounge chairs.

After Steve started the countdown, he shouted, “Go!”

At once, you swam as fast as you could, back and forth for about five minutes, until Steve called out to you to stop, as he pressed the button on the stopwatch to stop.

You swam towards the ladder and got out of the pool, before grabbing your towel, as you asked, “How did I do?”

As you wrapped your towel around you, you sat in front of him when he showed you the lap times. You grabbed the stopwatch and sighed with relief, as you managed to break your record.

You looked up at him, as you said, “Thanks Steve. I wouldn’t have been able to practice today if it wasn’t for you.”

Steve smiled, before asking, “So, why did you ask me if you could practice here? Is because of your sister and Munson?”

You lowered your head down, facing the ground, not wanting to cry as you thought about them ruining your week.

You heard the chair creak, as Steve moved to sit to you. “I’m sorry,” Steve apologised. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

You shook your head, telling him, “Don’t worry about it.”

You lifted your head, and sighed before telling him, “I wouldn’t have minded them being together if they weren’t such arseholes. But…I don’t know what I’ve done to Eddie to make him despise me.”

“Hey, I’m sure that you’ve done nothing wrong, okay?” Steve wrapped his arm around your shoulder, as he said, “Whatever his problem is, that’s on him. The same goes with your sister.”

You leaned against his shoulder, as you said, “If only I wasn’t born in the same family as her. It would’ve made things less complicated.”

Steve had a sympathetic expression on his face, as he lightly ruffled your dampened hair, which made you smile a little bit. Suddenly, you both heard the phone ring.

“I better get that,” Steve said as he moved away from you, getting up on his feet, before heading inside to answer the phone, leaving you alone to pack your stopwatch in your bag, before taking out your diary and started writing…

No longer tolerating with the so called valour bard being seduced by the succubus, and being banished by the acrobat’s wicked mother from seeing her friend again, the mermaid swam to the other side of the island to find a new sanctuary where she found the young fallen king. Despite his former status, she got on well with the king, and he was willing to help her any way possible, even if it was to talk about her problems. There were times that the mermaid wished she was a part of the king’s family and not have a sibling like…

You stopped mid-sentence when you heard Steve call your name.

You looked up, as you closed your diary.

“It’s your dad,” Steve informed you. “He wants you home right away.”

You felt deflated, hearing the word home. With the way things were at the moment, it didn’t feel like home.

You sighed as you shoved your diary back in your bag, before grabbing your dry clothes and ran inside to get changed.

Shortly getting changed, you immediately ran for the door, as you shouted, “Thanks Steve. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye,” Steve called out, as he raided his fridge when he turned to find you left your bag behind on the lounge chair. He rushed to pick it up and ran out of the house, as he shouted, “Hey, you forgot-“

By then, you had already gone. Steve shook his head, before going back inside to get his car key.