#debt dealers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeyinde · 2 months ago

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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?”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #series: dogmeat #for only being 19k this really took a lot out of me #simon riley x you #ghost x you

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cherienymphe · 3 months ago

Text

White Lines & White Knights

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, pr*stitution, power imbalance, classism, mentions of death, jealousy, humiliation, revenge p*rn, drug dealer!Rafe, drug use, Pogue!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics

summary: You and Rafe are using each other until you decide that's not what you want anymore, and the spoiled rich kid will do whatever it takes to have his expensive toy back in his bed.

⭑

Your door shut behind you with a resounding click, and once in the comfort of your home, you took the time to decompress. You took advantage of your much needed reprieve, the back of your head grazing the wood as you allowed your eyes to fall closed. Your heart was still beating wildly in your chest, and you wondered if a day would come where it ever wouldn’t. After all, this wasn’t exactly “new” anymore…

It had been five months since you buried your mom, five months since you discovered the mountain of debt she’d done an impressive job of hiding from you, and five months since you thought you’d be homeless on the street in less than one. In two weeks, you’d dealt with a loss you didn’t think you’d have to for at least another forty years or so and took on the kind of responsibility you didn’t think you’d have to for at least another three.

Your mom died 152 days ago…

…and you’d started fucking Rafe Cameron less than a month later.

You liked to pretend to not know why you slept with Kildare’s prime rich boy that fateful Saturday night, but you were far more self aware than you wanted to be. Even if you weren’t, it wasn’t exactly some mysterious string of decisions that lead to being tangled up in the sheets with Sarah’s asshole of an older brother. You didn’t need to pay someone to diagnose you.

You were grieving.

It was really just that simple, and the monetary stress on top of that drove you to find comfort in strange drinks and hard drugs. To this day you still didn’t know if Rafe just happened to be at the right place at the right time or if he heard whispers about John B.’s best friend snorting pills and getting shit faced when her usual crowd was looking the other way, but either way, the stuffy Kook clearly saw an opportunity to kill several birds with one stone.

“First two lines are free,” he’d told you that night, the bass of the music downstairs muffled by the expensive walls of some girl’s house.

You remembered how you’d chuckled, drunkenly shaking your head.

“Well, two lines is all I’m doing, I guess,” you’d murmured, throwing your hands up.

Rafe’s smirk had been cruel, a mocking glint in his blue eyes.

“What?” he’d dragged out, head tilted. “Spent all that life insurance money, already?”

Any other time and Rafe’s insensitivity might’ve upset you, but at the time you’d been drunk out of your mind and looking for more ways to forget the sudden absence in your life.

“I can’t imagine why Sarah hates you,” you’d sarcastically replied, approaching the impressive desk and leaning over to inhale a line.

You wiped your nose as you straightened, lashes fluttering as you ignored the feeling of Rafe’s gaze on you.

“I’ll be lucky if I even have a house to live in next week.”

The words had come out slurred, accompanied by a light chuckle, and deep down you’d felt the flutter of stress that you’d been desperately ignoring for weeks. You’d quickly snorted the other line, closing your eyes for a moment.

“Turns out my mom was skilled at hiding more than just illnesses…”

You remembered the silence—from both you and Rafe—and how in that moment you’d allowed yourself a solid four seconds of lingering on the reality of your predicament. In those four seconds, your eyes had watered and your lips had trembled and your throat had tightened, and after those four seconds, you were turning to Rafe with a haughty smile.

“Guess you won’t be finding a new client in me, huh?” you’d wondered with a shrug, finding a seat on the desk.

Rafe’s blue gaze had been unreadable as he eyed you, sitting in the chair at the desk, legs spread as he ran his eyes over you—slowly and in a way you didn’t hate at the time. You hadn’t been able to tell what he was thinking, although looking back, you wondered how it wasn’t so obvious to you then. Maybe because it was just too cruel of a thought, and while it was no secret Rafe was a spoiled asshole, you had never once thought of him as cruel.

Rafe had merely shrugged.

“There’s plenty of fish in the sea,” he’d slowly said, the corner of his pink lips curving upwards just a tad. “Besides…”

You’d watched him stand, rounding the desk to come and tower over you where you sat.

“I like to think of myself as a pretty ethical kind of guy…”

You’d started to snort at that before his gaze met yours again, and you found yourself swallowing whatever you were about to say. You hadn’t done a thing when Rafe reached up to touch your arm, the feel of his finger so light. You hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the way your heart skipped a beat at both his close proximity and the change in atmosphere. You hadn’t been able to ignore—however—the heat that settled in the pit of your stomach.

“...and I’ve been known to meet people halfway. Accept whatever they can offer…”

You remembered your internal conflict that night.

You’d been drunk and high and sad…not stupid. You knew exactly what Rafe was insinuating to you, and you’d struggled with the idea of really sleeping with Rafe Cameron for more drugs. The man was far from unattractive, sure that if drugs weren’t involved you’d still consider sleeping with him. If you’d believed in any of that, you’d imagine that your mom was turning over in her grave. At the time though, you hadn’t been quite sure as to what you believed in, so when he took your silence for consent, leaning in and touching your nose with his…

You hadn’t stopped him when he closed the distance.

You hadn’t even known whose house you were at, only internally apologizing to them for having sex on their expensive desk. You didn’t know if it was the drugs or the alcohol or simply Rafe Cameron, but it was easily the best sex you’d ever had in your life, and at one point you’d really considered how much better it could possibly be to fuck him without the condom.

You had no idea that you’d eventually find out.

Once dressed, you’d walked home with a small bag of pills and a satisfied grin. You knew that your friends would host some kind of intervention if they ever found out, but all you’d been able to focus on was the simple fact that fucking Rafe Cameron for a little coke and pills wasn’t sounding like the worst idea. Of course, if you’d known that you’d eventually start fucking him for your livelihood, you might’ve made different choices that night.

You pressed your hand to your face and pushed away from the door, eager to start the shower and scrub the stench of him off of you. Per routine, you took the money out of your pocket before getting undressed, eyeing the wad of one hundreds that now sat on your nightstand. Two grand was nothing to someone like him, but to someone like you, it made all the difference in the world.

…and Rafe knew that.

He’d known that when he handed you a thousand dollars one night, the coke in your system just starting to hit. You’d looked up at him from where you sat in confusion, hesitantly wrapping your hand around the money as you alternated between eyeing it and eyeing him. You hadn’t known how to feel about it, especially since it had only been moments ago when he was inside of you…and there he was handing you a grand in hundreds.

“Don’t look like that,” Rafe had chuckled, walking to his dresser in search of a shirt. “You know you need the money.”

He wasn’t wrong…and that was the problem.

Unless you hit a lucky streak in life, you’d always need the money, and that was exactly why you were in the predicament you were in—four months later and putting up with the monster that was Rafe Cameron just to keep a roof over your head. The thought brought tears to your eyes, positive now that your mom could see you and was beyond disappointed in you.

Her disappointment could only be outdone by your own.

You were in a situation that you couldn’t get out of, on the verge of ending this arrangement so many times before asking yourself what better way could you pay your mom’s debts and survive? It wasn’t easy money by far, but it was fast money, and it was the kind of money that would take months to make at whatever low paying job you’d find around Outer Banks. Someone like you rarely got hired at the country club or working for some rich snob who wiped their ass with the kind of money you needed.

Rafe knew this too.

Tears kissed your eyes as you scrubbed your skin raw, wishing that you could scrub away the nasty bruise right along with the sweat and grime. You winced every time you touched it, cursing the blond and feeling one of those moments where you considered blocking him and moving on from this pathetic era in your life for good.

Fucking Rafe Cameron for drugs didn’t seem like a bad idea at the time, fucking him for money seemed like an even better one…until that entitled attitude started to extend to the woman he was paying good money to have access to. You remembered the first time you opposed something he wanted to do, the way in which he ignored you, the way he merely pressed your face into the pillow to shut you up.

It was the first time you felt truly icky about this whole situation.

Not even just icky.

…but afraid.

“I don’t pay you to tell me what you will and won’t do in bed,” he’d chuckled at you like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

You’d still been trembling and wiping mascara from your cheeks.

“I pay you because I want to fuck you,” he’d slowly whispered to you, leaning in. “...and you let me because you don’t want to be sleeping on the beach.”

He’d held your gaze for what felt like too long, impressing upon you the true dynamic of this arrangement, and you remembered the unease that had festered in your gut that day. Maybe all the drugs and alcohol hadn’t allowed you to fully look at this arrangement for what it was and the power imbalance here, but you had for the first time that day, and you hadn’t liked it.

You liked it even less now, wrapping the towel around you and wondering how you were ever going to get out of this predicament you’d put yourself into.

“My family’s going out of town for the weekend,” the familiar blond mumbled to you as he inhaled a familiar powdery substance off the back of his hand. “Pack a bag when you get home, and I’ll pick you up tomorrow night.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at that, huffing instead.

“I can’t spend the whole weekend on Figure 8,” you told him. “I have plans.”

Rafe nodded, and you hated the smile that danced across his lips.

“Okay, uh, be ready at 8, I don’t want-.”

“Rafe, I’m serious,” you cut him off, shrugging. “I can’t stay at your house all weekend.”

You watched him watch you, slowly swiping his tongue between his lips as a frown started to take over. His dirty blond hair kissed his brows, and the longer the silence stretched, the more nervous you grew. You watched as Rafe glanced away, seemingly deep in thought before those baby blues of his rested on you, much colder than they were a few seconds ago.

“What the hell am I paying you for?” he whispered.

The question was rhetorical, and you swallowed.

“Rafe…I’ve barely seen my friends in months. I finally made plans to meet up with them for more than five minutes and-.”

“...and whose fault is that?” he shrugged.

You frowned at him.

“Nobody told you to go off on a bender when your mom kicked the bucket…” you blinked at his callousness. “Maybe you should’ve been finding comfort in your friends instead of drugs and vodka…and me.”

He finished his sentence with a soft—and yet cruel—smile.

“I pay you good money—great money even!—to be available when I want you to be, and unless you’ve found some other rich asshole to open your legs for, which I doubt…be ready tomorrow at 8.”

He was standing, now, looking down at you where you sat on the bed. The harsh reminder of your roles here had you looking away, and Rafe turned away when he rightfully took your silence as confirmation. You stared at the wall for a few moments before turning to stare at his back, thinking to yourself that this couldn’t go on much longer. Whether it took 1 or 5 jobs, you couldn’t keep relying on Rafe Cameron forever.

What was once a weekly occurrence had turned into something entirely other, and it hadn’t bothered you so much when your mother’s death was still so fresh and you were seeking solace in the worst coping mechanisms known to man—including isolation. Now, however, you were waking up to the choices you’d made and you hated the feeling of being inebriated and being surrounded by people you barely knew.

You hated being away from your friends.

“I didn’t even know you’d gotten a job,” John B. said to you hours later, looking disappointed but understanding. “JJ’s gonna be real disappointed. He’s been talking all week about having you try some new weed he got.”

You gave a light laugh at that, a pang in your chest at how much you missed doing stupid shit with them.

“Yeah,” you sadly said. “The world—and bills—doesn’t stop just because my mom died.”

The brunette grew quiet at that, worriedly eyeing you now.

“You doing okay…?”

You sighed at that, looking out over the yard of The Chateau, fiddling with your fingers as you thought of a certain blond.

“I’ve been better, but…I’ve been worse too.”

Your answer was honest, and you briefly wondered what John B. would think if he knew just how bad ‘worse’ had been. You didn’t think any of them would hate you if they knew the full extent of just how far you’d fallen, but you knew they’d have a hard time wrapping their head around it. The drugs and alcohol were one thing, but Rafe Cameron was entirely another. The man was the worst example of a Kook if there was one, representing every bad trait attributed to them.

Your friends would not understand you essentially sacrificing your self respect for money and drugs.

Sometimes you didn’t understand it either.

Most especially when Rafe had his hands around your neck.

He picked you up at 8 on the dot Friday night—a man of his word if nothing else—and less than a hour later you were bent over his father’s desk as he pounded into you. Your head was hanging off of it, fighting hard to not scrape your nails against the dark mahogany. It wasn’t the first time Rafe fucked you on Ward’s desk, and you doubted that it would be the last time. There’d even been a few rare occasions when he fucked you in the older man’s bed, and you didn’t know what complex the blond had that fueled these decisions, but you weren’t a psychologist so you figured it wasn’t anything to concern yourself with.

Despite the tight grip on your throat, a choked moan managed to escape every time Rafe pushed his cock into you. Sweat made his skin glisten, and you were sure you fared no better. His hair wasn’t so neat, now, and you had the stray thought that you preferred it that way. Rafe being so far from ugly definitely made this arrangement easier to swallow down at times, but other times it just made you angry.

How was it fair that someone seemingly had everything, including the big dick to match?

Rafe walked around like he was God’s gift to the world, possessing one of the most rotten personalities you’d ever had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of, and he seemed to be rewarded with it with everything the average person could only dream about. As if any of that wasn’t enough, you practically rewarded him with even more by essentially telling him he could do whatever he wanted so long as the price was right.

It made you disgusted with yourself at times.

When he pressed a hand to your stomach, hips slowing to a pace that made your breath hitch, you squeezed your eyes shut. In the quiet office, the sound of his cock disappearing between your folds was loud, the wet noise telling you that there’d no doubt be a mess left on Ward’s desk when this was all said and done. You heard Rafe curse, and you didn’t have the energy to lift your head from where it hung off the desk.

“...and to think,” he panted from above you. “You were going to pass this up to sit around with those dirty Pogues.”

At this, you did attempt to sit up, a hand against his chest and one on the desk as he thrusted into you.

“Those ‘dirty Pogues’ are my friends,” you forced out, lashes fluttering. “...and clearly you forget that I’m one too.”

Rafe merely chuckled at that, perfect teeth winking at you as he grinned.

“Yeah, but you’re my dirty Pogue so it’s a little different.”

His words had your frown deepening, disgust filling your chest at the way he talked about you while literally fucking you. Completely turned off, you turned your head away, attempting to separate yourself from him. That haughty laugh reached your ears, and to your dismay, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

“What…?” he lazily drawled. “You don’t like the sound of that?”

“You’re being an asshole, get off of me…”

He jerked his hips against you, making you gasp, and you squirmed in his arms as you fought to get away. Rafe leaned in to harshly nip his teeth at your cheek, his movements growing rough, causing the desk to shake.

“I’ve spent too much money on you to not say whatever the hell I want,” he evenly said. “So, yeah, at this point, I’ll confidently say I practically own you.”

Tears kissed your eyes at the disgusting words, and fed up with your resistance, Rafe merely placed a hand between your breasts before harshly shoving you back down. You winced at the action, but you had no time to fully linger on it as Rafe started to roughly plunge his cock into you, the sound of his skin slapping against yours reaching your ears. He wouldn’t allow you to sit up, both of his hands wrapped around your wrists now as he leaned over you.

This felt too reminiscent of the time he’d pressed your face into the bed, telling you to relax as he pressed the head of his cock just above where your folds were. You recalled the uncomfortable feeling and the tears that stained the pillow as he slowly fucked you in a place no one ever had before. The deja vu of it all had your mind wandering, eyes defocusing as you just waited for it to be over. It seemed like Rafe’s grunts sounded from above you forever, and when he finally came onto your stomach with a low moan, you didn’t move for some time.

You were slow to sit up as he got dressed, trembling as you steaded yourself for what you were about to say.

“I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

The words came out whispered, but in the quiet study, you might as well have yelled them. Rafe didn’t acknowledge you, and you knew it wasn’t because he hadn’t heard you. Frustrated with his refusal to take you seriously, you hopped off of Ward’s desk, angrily grabbing your clothes.

“I’m serious, Rafe. After this weekend…this is done,” you continued, voice firmer, now. “Don’t call me or text me or worry about any more money. I can’t rely on you forever anyway.”

By now, Rafe was actually listening to you, and you avoided his gaze as you got dressed. His silence was loud, and when you were finally decent again, only then did you lift your gaze to glance at him. His visage was unreadable, and after some time, he merely blinked at you.

“If I remember correctly, per your own words, your mom had enough debt ‘to file for bankruptcy’.”

His words made you sharply inhale, and you bit your tongue as he ran his hands through his hair in a poor attempt to tame the damp locks.

“Don’t ruin your life just because you’re pissed at me,” he coldly added.

You crossed your arms over your chest, pulling your lip between your teeth.

“Personal feelings aside, I can’t rely on you forever, Rafe. That’s just the truth. I have to figure something out eventually, and there’s no time like the present,” your voice shook as he fixed you with an unnerving stare. “I miss my friends, and I don’t want to be the sad, damaged girl running to Rafe Cameron just so I don’t feel anything anymore.”

The blond followed your lead, folding his arms over his own chest as he leaned against the wall, staring you down with that annoying crooked smile.

“...and where exactly do you plan to find a job that pays you what I do?”

“There are jobs, Rafe. I’ll find one.”

You didn’t appreciate his tone nor the look he was giving you as he studied you. He was looking down on you, and yes while that wasn’t exactly an unusual occurrence, this time was different. He was looking down his nose like he didn’t believe in you, like he expected you to be crawling back to him in no time, begging him to fuck you again.

After a few moments, that crooked smile curved even more, and you didn’t miss the glint in his eyes.

“Well, I wish you luck…”

His voice didn’t match the words that came out of his mouth, and his gaze most certainly didn’t.

“I literally called this morning and was told over the phone that you all were hiring...and now I get here, and I’m being told you’re not…?”

You tried to keep the skepticism out of your tone, but your frustration at your predicament was bubbling up and threatening to be unleashed on the lone man before you. The inside of the country club was practically empty—a slow Tuesday—and you briefly glanced around at the two staffers in the whole room. Sure, you could write it off to a slow day that didn’t need a full staff, but something in you told you that it was more than that.

You didn’t believe the man in front of you.

“Look, I don’t know what else to tell you, miss. Whoever you talked to got it wrong. I’m sorry for the miscommunication on our end,” was his only explanation.

You didn’t dare bother to point out that both he and whoever you’d spoken with on the phone sounded damn near identical.

When it became obvious that this conversation was over, you turned away with a small huff, breezing outside to a familiar dark car. Kie was standing by it, arms uncomfortably crossed over her chest, glaringly obvious that she’d rather be anywhere but here despite being from ‘here’.

“Well…?” she wondered as you got closer.

“They’re not hiring,” you mumbled as you slid into the passenger seat.

She joined you inside the vehicle a moment later, a frown on her face.

“...but you called.”

“I know.”

There was a beat of silence before she scoffed, reaching for her door handle.

“If this is because you aren’t some rich snob looking for play money…”

She trailed off when you spoke up.

“No, I don’t…I don’t think it’s that,” you stopped her. “Let’s just go.”

She eyed you for a few moments, frown deepening.

“Are you sure? Y/N, this is like the fourth place you’ve been to today,” she pointed out. “...and I don’t want to add my stress to your stress, but it’s kind of fucked up.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t possible for you to be any more stressed than you already were, simply signaling for her to drive. You could feel her eyes periodically landing on you as she did, and you chewed on the inside of your cheek, wondering why the universe had it out for you.

It had been weeks since you’d last seen or talked to Rafe, weeks since you ended your little arrangement, and weeks since you’d had a consistent source of income. It wasn’t a pretty nor respectable way to make money, but you’d been making money nonetheless. However, you couldn’t find it in you to continue sacrificing your self respect to keep sleeping with Rafe Cameron. You’d also been telling the truth when you told him you didn’t want to be this messed up sad thing anymore.

You had long let go of the drugs and cut back on the drinking, and now you’d dropped Rafe too.

You’d had hope…but now it was dwindling.

No one would hire you. In fact, no one had even allowed you far enough to officially apply just to get a foot into an interview. It was always the same. You’d call ahead so you didn’t waste your time, they’d tell you they were looking for people, and then the moment you actually showed up and introduced yourself, it was an entirely different story. It didn’t make any sense to you, and the thought of ever proving Rafe right made you want to be sick.

“How bad is it?” JJ asked you a few days later, the both of you away and isolated in some corner of some guy’s party.

You looked down at the weak drink in your hand, contemplating on whether or not to be honest.

“It’s…manageable.”

A whopper of a lie.

“...then why don’t I believe you? Come on, Y/N, it’s me. I know your mom wasn’t the best when it came to funds, and when she died…” he scoffed. “You weren’t exactly in any shape to march down to anyone’s job and fight for work just to keep things afloat.”

You looked away at that, throat tight.

“I’m honestly shocked you’ve kept it up for this long.”

If only he knew…

You felt his gaze on you as you wondered just how truthful you should be, but you reminded yourself that this was JJ. If he knew the full extent of everything, he’d be likely to rob a bank. Nevermind the fact that it would just make him ask more questions, like how you’d even managed to keep things afloat all this time. You didn’t think you could lie to him, and you didn’t think you could handle being on the receiving end of whatever look JJ would undoubtedly give you if you told him you’d been sleeping with Rafe to pay your bills.

You didn’t know if it was fortunate or unfortunate that the subject of your thoughts walked through the doors to prevent this conversation from continuing. His presence shouldn’t have shocked you—the party was pretty mixed with people from all sides of the island after all—but it still gave you pause, and JJ noticed.

“This asshole,” you heard the blond murmur, rolling his eyes.

You were inclined to agree, and you shrunk in on yourself with your drink, unable to ignore the knowledge that Rafe was at the same party you were at. In the weeks you’d been free of him, you’d had time to really ponder on your dalliance, and while you’d long accepted your hand in your own life choices, it was now hard to ignore Rafe’s own opportunistic choices in the situation. Sure, yes, you fucked him for money…

…but what did it say about him that he was perfectly happy to enter an arrangement in which he kept you off of the streets so long as you opened your legs for him?

If he was a good guy he’d just…keep you off the streets.

Like JJ would if you ever told him the truth.

You’d just decided to stop hiding in the bathroom when you came face to face with the man himself, heart skipping a beat at his presence. He was leaning against the wall next to the door, and you had the sneaking suspicion he hadn’t been waiting for his turn.

“How’s the job search going?” was how he greeted you, and you hadn’t been able to keep the ire off of your face.

He softly laughed to himself at that, nodding.

“I figured you’d look a little something like that.”

“Fuck you,” you breathed, and Rafe frowned, tilting his head to the side.

“You were, remember? And then you stopped…and that’s how you found yourself back at square one,” he reminded you.

The music traveled from downstairs into the dimly lit hallway, and you looked away from him just as he heaved a tired sigh.

“Do I need to apologize for calling you and your friends dirty Pogues? Is that what this is about?” he lazily wondered.

You didn’t dignify that with a response, and when you lifted your gaze, Rafe was rolling his eyes. He fixed you with a look, reaching up to touch your hair with a tsk.

“Come on, Y/N. You need me…”

He leaned in.

“We both know it, and you’re never going to find a job in this town.”

“You don’t know that,” you fired back, slapping his hand away as you took a step away from him.

Almost instantaneously, Rafe’s entire expression morphed, and you swallowed at the shadow that passed over his features. His pink lips pressed together, and those blue eyes hardened in a way you’d never been on the receiving end of. You watched his nostrils flare.

“Oh, trust me, I know.”

The combination of his tone and his expression and his words gave you pause, and your brows pulled together as you stared at him. For a moment, the music in the house faded into the background as Kie’s words came to your mind. ‘It’s kind of messed up’, she’d said, and while you hadn’t given that much thought to the statement then…you certainly were now.

“What did you do?” you shakily asked the blond, skin growing cold.

Rafe didn’t answer right away, and when he did, it was a lie anyway.

“I don’t know what you mean,” was all he said, one brow raised.

You felt tears kiss your eyes, and you felt silly for not putting the pieces together earlier. You didn’t know how, but somehow, Rafe had a hand in your lack of employment. It seemed exactly like something he’d do, but the only thing you couldn’t understand was why. Why do it? Just to see you fail? Just to feel like he’d won?

“Look, this little rebellious act…it’s cute and amusing and all…” he shrugged off with a small smile. “...but it’s silly. We both know you’re just going to end up right back under me.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you hissed, moving past him.

“Yeah, and you knew that when you let me fuck you for drugs on some guy’s desk,” he threw at you, making you flinch and slow down.

“I was going through things then, Rafe! I didn’t…” you huffed a sigh, turning to glower at him. “I didn’t care about things I most definitely should have. It’s different now.”

You threw your hands up.

“I’m different, now, and I don’t want to keep sacrificing my dignity and self respect just to keep a roof over my head. I don’t want to sleep with someone who views me and anyone like me as beneath him. It disgusts me, and unlike you, I have no interest in sleeping with people who I claim disgust me.”

You watched Rafe’s lip curl over his teeth.

“Yeah, that’s real respectable and noble and all, but I wonder how noble it’ll feel when you’re being evicted,” he spat at you, moving closer. “You’re not getting a job in this town, that I can promise you, so you keep this up for as long as you want to, but we both know how this ends.”

You leaned away from the finger in your face.

“I fucking own you,” he bit out, roughly grabbing your arm and yanking you close despite your resistance. “You named your price, and I paid it-.”

“For a service! Not a person,” you harshly whispered.

Rafe’s chuckle was cold as he stared you down, perfect teeth winking at you.

“You think you’re the only girl in Outer Banks willing to spread her legs for some money? You think I’d have to pay any of them half of what I paid you?” your stomach dropped at his words. “I’ve been a lot more generous than you realize.”

He roughly let you go, practically shoving you away from him, and you stumbled. He eyed you with an expression filled with promise, and when you turned away to finally find your friends and hopefully leave, you descended the stairs on unsteady legs.

You pushed against Rafe’s arm and chest as he held your chin in a tight grip. The vehicle you were next to hid you both from view, everyone on the beach none the wiser to what was happening in the parking lot. Your feet tripped over one another as he forced you back, trapping you between him and the metal contraption.

“Is that what you came up with? You think that pathetic Pogue is going to pay your bills? Give you a place to stay when that eviction notice is taped to your door?”

“Get…off…of me,” you snarled, finally shoving him away with difficulty.

Your breathing was heavy as you glared at the blond, lips trembling and heart racing at the downright evil glint in his blue eyes. You glanced over his shoulder for any way to get away from him, your frustration growing as he moved closer.

“Color me curious, but is it somehow more dignified to fuck someone like JJ instead of me?”

The jealousy dripping from his every word threw you for a loop, and you weren’t in the right headspace to even linger on how strange that was.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but we’re not like that,” you drunkenly choked out. “I don’t know why you feel like I need to answer to you about my personal choices.”

It had only been thirty minutes ago that you were dancing with your friends. JJ—ever the flirt—had gotten a bit handsy, but it was nothing unusual. He could get handsy with a tree, and you’d merely smiled at the behavior, ignorant to the heated gaze that was hyper focused on you. You hadn’t even realized he’d been following you when you went to get a drink from Hayward’s truck.

“Butt out of my life already. You’ve already done enough,” you hissed at him, moving to get past him when he stopped you.

“We’re not done talking-.”

His words were interrupted by your hand, the sound of the slap echoing in your ears, and he’d just harshly pushed you against the car at your back when a familiar voice interrupted you both.

“Get off of her!”

Kie was suddenly there, helping you in shoving him away, and she looked at Rafe like he’d lost his mind—like she’d bore witness to an even sinister side to him. The blond didn’t seem all that fazed by her presence, barely sparing her a glance as his jaw clenched, his eyes on you. Clearly he felt that whatever he was contemplating wasn’t worth it, because without another word—but not without a final scoff—he made his way back to the party on the beach.

Kie wrapped her arms around you when you started to cry.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

What a loaded question, and you realized that the truth was just on the edge of your tongue. Unable to stop yourself, you threw your arms around her, collapsing under the weight of all your choices and what had led you to make them.

“Kie,” you started, voice trembling in her ear. “I have to tell you something.”

If she was horrified by the truth, she didn’t show it much. You could tell she was shocked as the words tumbled from your lips, her brown eyes stricken and face draining of color. You didn’t know what bothered her more—the drugs, the prostitution, or that both involved Rafe Cameron. As it turns out, it was none of those things.

“Why didn’t…why didn’t you let us help you?” she tearfully wondered, looking between your eyes. “We know how hard it’s been for you, and we wanted to be there for you, but you…you just disappeared. You barely came around, and John B. heard things, but he didn’t want to believe them.”

She whispered that last part, and your chest ached at the thought of your friends hearing about your out of character behavior but feeling powerless to stop it, accepting it as part of your grief.

“Rafe’s a demented asshole,” she finally spoke on the elephant in the room. “...and we won’t let him win, okay?”

There was conviction in Kie’s voice, the kind of conviction that made you want to believe her, and so you nodded at her words.

She helped you straighten, wiping your face and taking you back to the party, quietly promising you that she wouldn’t say anything about any of this to the guys. She stuck to you for the rest of the night, and a week later, she made good on her promise, her parents shaking your hand as they welcomed you to their staff.

“We could always use the extra hands,” Mrs. Carrera told you one Friday evening. “It gets crazy busy, especially on the weekends.”

All the noise in the restaurant only validated her statement.

You’d been working at The Wreck for a week, and while it was nothing like what Rafe had been paying you, it was a job. It was a means of earning your own money that didn’t involve lowering yourself to the likes of Rafe Cameron. It was grueling, sure, and you sometimes wondered if it was truly worth the money, but then you’d think of the alternative, and you’d decide that it was worth something and that’s what mattered.

You hadn’t been paying that much attention when you approached your last table for the night, looking up from the apron at your waist and stopping in your tracks.

“Hey, I didn’t know you worked here too,” Topper said, a fairly neutral greeting.

Topper may have been just as much of an asshole as his friends, but he at least played nice for the public. Your gaze traveled around the table, quickly looking away when it connected with a familiar blue.

“It’s…a fairly new gig,” you finally said, getting your notepad ready.

“Hey, if you’re going to use your friends for anything, might as well use them to become a productive member of society,” he told you, his tone now making you frown.

Opting to ignore the comment, you asked them what they wanted. You didn’t make eye contact with Rafe when he gave you his order, hand unsteady as you wrote it down. When you left them to go and get their drinks, you weren’t surprised to hear the scrape of a chair behind you. You were focused on rounding the counter, reaching for some clean glasses.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You didn’t forget your last encounter with the rich blond, tempted to ignore his presence altogether, but you were unfortunate enough to know how Rafe operated. Pausing in your movements, you turned to look at him, not surprised at all by the unhappy look on his face.

“I’m working, Rafe. What does it look like?”

You eyed the way his jaw ticked, finger gently tapping against the counter as he simply…stared you down. You glanced away, realizing that he didn’t have any power over you anymore. No, you weren’t completely out of the woods, but you had a secured source of income, and you’d happily struggle and scrape over sleeping with Rafe ever again.

“Go find some other struggling girl to take advantage of,” you finally said to him, grabbing their drinks and making your way to their table without a backwards glance.

Working at The Wreck was hard work, and no matter how many shifts you covered and how many tips you got, it was still long and hard work for half the money Rafe had ever paid you. You knew this when Kie came to you about the job, but on the other side of it, you were so beyond grateful for it. You were still stressed, of course, your monetary problems not going away anytime soon, but it was the normal stress of the average working twenty-something.

It wasn’t the kind of worry that came from a violent and abusive lover.

Rafe had been by the restaurant a few times since that day, and each time was more nerve-wracking than the last. Sometimes you served him, sometimes you didn’t, but it didn’t really matter because his gaze always found its way to you either way. On the days when Kie worked too, she’d ask you if you wanted her to do something about him, but you always declined.

After all, what reason would you have her give to her parents for kicking out the son of Ward Cameron who—to their knowledge—hadn’t done anything to warrant it?

Maybe you should’ve listened to Kie though. While you didn’t know if that would’ve changed things, you at least would have felt better about attempting to do something. Perhaps it was the mere sight of watching you work—watching you earn money independent of him—that made him snap, made him drop all pretenses completely. Barring him from the restaurant while you were there might’ve triggered some out of sight, out of mind response. It might’ve forced him to slowly get over whatever this thing was that he had about you.

It might have…

…and it also might not have done shit. Perhaps nothing would’ve changed, and you still would’ve found yourself tearfully staring at Kie’s mom as you took off your apron for the last time.

It was a normal Saturday when the texts and emails came through. The busiest day of the week, the most packed the restaurant ever would be for the next six days, and you’d been placing some fries down in front of some family’s kid when the noise in the restaurant…changed. You hadn’t been able to pinpoint how it changed, but if you did your best, it was like the chatters went from excitement about their food or whatever happened during the week to something else entirely.

One single thing that everyone was talking about.

You weren’t getting paid to mind your patrons’ business, but you started to think differently about that when the people at the table you were next to started to heavily eye you. The whole restaurant was loud with hushed chatter, so you couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the glances between the phones in their hands and you had you frowning.

You were slowly glancing around—realizing that that table wasn’t the only one—when you were yanked by your arm off the floor.

“What are you doing? What’s going on?” you worriedly wondered the moment Kie had you hidden from view.

The look on her face was hard to read, but her parted lips and wide eyes told you that she was horrified. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, seemingly unable to get the words out before slamming it shut, swallowing. The combination of her expression, her silence, and the lack of silence out there had a ball of dread forming deep in your gut.

“Kie,” you softly said. “What…what’s wrong?”

It took her a moment to speak.

“It’s Rafe,” she softly said.

Your confusion only grew, still not quite understanding.

“What happened? Is he bothering you? Did…he do something to you?” you hesitantly asked, fearful that your former tormentor had turned his sights onto your friend.

“Not to me.”

That simple sentence started to put the pieces together, and you turned your face towards the front of the restaurant, recalling the stares and whispers and listening to the excited chatter. Your skin grew cold, goosebumps erupting all over you, and that dread was long gone. It was instead replaced by nausea.

“He sent everyone something…”

“No,” you heard yourself whisper.

“...a video.”

You turned to her with wide eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. Glancing down, you caught sight of her phone in her hand, and before Kie could stop you, you’d snatched it out of her grip. You moved out of her reach as she extended her arm, desperately trying to protect you, but it was too late.

You felt like you were weighed down by bricks as you stared at the two familiar faces on the screen.

It had to have been taken months ago, during one of the first few times you’d slept with him. You both were in Ward’s bedroom, and you remembered the day all too well, recalling the feel of his palm striking your skin and his voice in your ear before pulling your head down to his lip. Of course, it was that one and not one of the ones where he’d held you down and forced you to take his thrusts.

Your hand was empty, not even realizing when Kie had taken it back, simply staring into space at the memory of what was on that screen.

“Y/N, when my parents find out—and they’re going to find out—they…”

Her words died in the air at the sound of footsteps behind you, and you flinched when you heard a familiar voice call your name. Mrs. Carerra didn’t sound happy, and her expression fared no better when you turned around. You couldn’t stop your tears from spilling over as she gestured for you to follow her further into the back of the restaurant. You knew what was coming, what Kie was trying to prepare you for.

It was what Rafe wanted, after all…and he’d gotten it.

It was hours later when you were sitting with your back against your door, your phone turned off, overwhelmed by the influx of missed calls and messages from your friends. You’d only gotten a glimpse at them before finding your head bent inside of your toilet. Every single one of them bar Kie were shocked, their horror and confusion clear as day through their words. Only Pope had eventually sent a text that asked if you were okay.

…and the truth was that you weren’t.

You were so far from okay.

Rafe had won, he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, and even though Mrs. Carerra had expressed sympathy for your plight—more angry at the situation than anything else—she’d still had no choice but to let you go. Every other business in town valued the Cameron family way too much, and the only place that had been willing to hire you had been swayed by Rafe too in the worst manner possible.

It was well after midnight when your door shook from harsh knocks. You hadn’t moved in hours, just blankly staring at the wall, and you closed your eyes at the sound, positive it was one of your friends. You didn’t have the strength to face them, to answer questions and either break down or pretend you felt far better than you actually did.

You did, however, have the strength to face Rafe, your gaze lifting when his voice met your ears, demanding that you open the door.

His fist was still in the air when you swung it open, looking at him like he was something you’d find on the bottom of your shoes. He looked as put together as ever, completely unfazed by what he’d done. And why wouldn’t he be? This wouldn’t hurt his reputation and success in this town a bit. If nothing else, the video would have even more girls falling at his feet, but for some reason he didn’t seem to want that.

He preferred to force your hand instead.

“What is wrong with you?” you tearfully asked him, throat tight.

He didn’t respond right away, touching his tongue to his lip as his gaze roamed behind you.

“You gonna let me in?”

Your eyes almost popped out of your sockets, and he gave a haughty laugh.

“It’s not like I’ve left you with much of a choice, now, have I?”

He sounded so…proud of himself, and all you could do was cry as he brushed past you. He closed the door for you, noticing that you were struggling to move, and he kept his hand on the wood, his chest grazing your back as he pressed his face into your hair. You heard him deeply inhale, and you squeezed your eyes shut.

“I told you how this would end,” he whispered. “I gave you a chance to be smart about this.”

You went to move away from him, but his other hand shot out to grip your arm.

“You’re the one who made things way more difficult than they needed to be.” he continued. “We had a good thing going…and then you had to go and get sensitive and sentimental.”

When he forced you to face him, you kept your eyes on the collar of his shirt. The silence stretched as you refused to look at him, and you eventually heard Rafe heave a sigh. He let your arm go, and you watched him reach into his pocket, disappointed but not surprised by the roll of one hundred dollar bills he pulled out. When he straightened, he took your hand and placed the money in your palm, clasping your hands together.

A few more tears escaped when his fingers threaded through yours.

“Do you still feel like fighting this?” he quietly asked. “Let me know, right now, because I have all the time—and money—in the world.”

He slowly pulled you closer.

“You don’t.”

You shakily exhaled, reluctantly lifting your gaze to meet his own. You stared at one another for what felt like too long, and when he leaned in, taking your silence as defeat, you let him kiss you. It was a salty kiss, your own tears mixing in, but Rafe didn’t seem to mind, moving his lips against yours with a growing smile. His arm snaked its way around your waist, and the animalistic noise he let out told you just how excited he was to have you back under his thumb.

The couch seemed sufficient enough for him, bringing you both to it as he peeled your clothes off. You shuddered as the air hit your naked skin, thoughtlessly moving closer to his own body heat, and Rafe pressed a kiss to your shoulder as he laid you down. It felt like ages since you’d last slept with him, but you knew that wasn’t why you were trembling.

You were trembling because you finally realized you were sleeping with a monster. Before, Rafe had just been an opportunistic asshole to you. Rich, spoiled, selfish, the list went on, but now he was so much more than that. He was now someone who’d raped you on more than one occasion, and who had proved that he’d do anything to make you completely reliant on no one but him.

How else could he ensure that you’d never leave him? Never have any other choices but him? You’d eventually have to leave Outer Banks one day, you knew that to be true if you ever wanted a life independent of him, but that video could follow you around for the rest of your life, and very probably would.

When Rafe sheathed himself inside of you, stretching you out in a way that was regularly familiar to you, you gasped. The blond wasted no time in adopting a steady pace, fucking you hard against your couch, his fingers pressing into the arm of it. His grunts were soft in your ears, and despite your combined hatred and fear of him, you weren’t able to swallow down the whimpers that escaped your lips too.

You didn’t know what kind of hard on Rafe had for fucking someone he deemed so far beneath him, even more so to go through so much trouble of forcing you right back into his bed. You didn’t understand it one bit, and part of you never wanted to. You didn’t want to understand a thing that went on inside of his head, didn’t want to understand the thought process behind doing what he’d done to you.

His fingers scraped down your thigh before yanking you forward as he sat up some, looking down to where his cock disappeared into you. He was focused on the sight, lips parting as he panted from above you. He didn’t lean back down until your leg was over his shoulder, preventing you from moving much as he used you to chase his high, hips repeatedly curving against yours and forcing you to grip the couch.

“I missed this pussy so much,” he murmured, lips grazing the corner of your mouth as he spoke. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

You hadn’t before, but you did, now.

When his hand landed on your throat, it didn’t hurt, but his thumb applied just enough pressure to keep you alert.

“I’ll stop calling your friends dirty Pogues if that makes you feel better,” he whispered, a gentle kiss from his lips to yours. “...but you still belong to me.”

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #dark!rafe cameron #dark!rafe cameron x reader #obx fanfiction #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron imagine #obx imagine #outer banks fanfiction #outer banks I'm

2K notes · View notes

insomniac-jay · 7 months ago

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Been a long time since I talked about Madame Nightshade and the Debt Dealers so here's what they look like

In order: Lourdes, Pilar, Penelope, and Priya

#oc: lourdes/madame nightshade #debt dealers

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nyankochan · 2 months ago

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Golden Hour

synopsis: want to risk playing a game with the mob boss? if you win, whatever you want is yours. money. power. you name it. but are you willing to risk the stakes in you lose?

Pairing: Geto Suguru x casino dealer!reader

Content: afab!reader, Gojo being a menace, mean dom! Geto, dirty talk, Oral (f. Receiving), rough sex, penetrative sex (protection is used), after care, over stimulation, multiple orgasms, pet names, Geto has tattoos, size kink, I hope I didn’t miss anything but I apologize if I did

Word Count: 8.4K ಠ_ಠ

A/n: I actually have no idea how to play poker

After working as a card dealer for Club Tengoku in the heart of Shibuya for seven years now, you’ve met your fair share of assholes and idiots. It honestly came with the job description you willing still took at just barely eighteen years old. It provided good money. Don’t get it wrong. It didn’t bring in nearly as much money as your clientele exhausted on a daily, but it still covered your meager bills and expenses.

The hardest part of the job honestly wasn’t even the few douchebags that cussed you out for “stealing their money” when they lost or the drunkards that openly flirted with you. No, it was maintaining a sense of professionalism and boundaries. No matter how bad you wanted to, you could never react the way you wanted. Screaming. Crying. Punching someone’s teeth out when they piss you off. No. You have to keep your composure, smile, and ask “would you like to play again?”

And the one time you broke that rule was because of him.

“Ughhh I hate this shitty job!” Your coworker and closest friend, Utahime, shouts exasperatedly slamming the locker door shut. “If one more creepy old bastard tries to hit on me then I may actually gouge his eyes out!”

“Please don’t get blood on the black jack tables,” you sigh, buttoning up the shirt to your dealer’s uniform. A simple black dress shirt and slacks. A gold trimmed vest with a black tie completes the look, identifying you as one of the dealers in Club Tengoku. “It was a pain in the ass to clean after that last fight you instigated.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Utahime huffs under her breath, haphazardly throwing on her tie. You have to straighten it up for her. “Some idiot accused me of rigging the game when he lost 60 thousand yen.”

“One of these days you’ll get fired before you can quit.”

Utahime had worked at the Club as long, if not longer, then you. She had a short temper and less patience for assholes than you. Though she’s been written up a number of times for her behavior, you think the manager of the club keeps her on to keep plenty of pretty faces on staff to draw customers in.

That, and almost everyone on staff cannot quit until their debt is fully paid.

Likely if you work for Club Tengoku, then you either dumb or desperate. Sometimes both. Whatever reasons originally bring you to the Club, work, sex, pleasure, love, money, etc. you’re property of the owner, Zen’in Naoya, until he either gets sick of you or you pay your debts back. Either with your labor or with your body.

You aren’t quite sure how much Utahime owes but her contact with Naoya cited 12 years of employment. Yours thankfully was almost complete. 8 years. 8 years of work a the Club in exchange for covering the debts you gathered when your shitty ex scammed you and left you with his debts he gathered from a Host Club in Roppongi.

Apparently, the particular club had ties to the yakuza (not that you knew that at the time) and your punk of an ex skipped town after leaving you at the club by yourself. You being young and dumb, only 18, didn’t know what to do except to accept Naoya’s assistance as he happened to be there that night. In return, you had to work with him for 8 years to pay off the 100 million yen debt your ex accumulated. You’d be done in three months, finally.

You weren’t quite sure what to do after your contracted ended. You had enough money saved to move from Tokyo if you desired, but go where? You had no other friends or family outside of Utahime and your coworkers. Naoya wasn’t the worst but he had his moments. Since you behaved and kept to yourself most of the time, you never got put on his radar (not like you had any options at the time).

Maybe he’d let you stay a couple extra months to let you get back on your feet until you found another job. You didn’t really want to leave Utahime on her own either, but for the time being, you’d been searching for other opportunities.

At nine, your shift starts. You and Utahime enter the upper level where the casino is, met by the overstimulating noise of slots, coins dispensing and laughter. The scent of booze is nauseating, and gives you a headache along with the bright neon flashing lights of all the machines. Utahime is on the black jack table. Tonight, you’re at poker.

After rotating out the prior dealer, you take your spot behind the table. As usual, you take out a new deck of cards, freshly out of the package, and shuffle them, waiting for players to join your table. Two gentlemen eventually join, one of them with a woman hanging off his arm like an accessory.

“Welcome,” you say, perfectly rehearsed. “All games at Tengoku have a starting bet of 10 thousand yen. Are you ready to play?”

The first few hours honestly pass by in a blur. The first game concludes with the gentleman with the date wining 30 thousand to turn around and lose half of it the next round. Someone plays three of a kind. Another folds just to lose it all in the end.

It is long. Tedious. Full of mixed emotions from the clientele ranging from anger to grief. Nothing out of the ordinary as you quietly and discreetly manipulate the game from behind the scenes.

See, part of the dealer’s role at Tengoku was to make it interesting. So that Naoya doesn’t lose too much money, the dealers are all given special contacts or glasses that allow them to see through the cards. A slight difference in the shuffle can make a game quite interesting, to say the least.

“My, maybe this is just my lucky night, but how often do I get to see a pretty dealer at the casino?” A deep, yet suave, voice says. You fight the urge to roll your eyes as two gentlemen sit at your table. The white haired man, dressed impeccably in a three piece suit and sunglasses though indoors, leans in too close into your personal space. “Say, what do I have to do to win you as a prize?”

You fight the urge to make a face, and continue with your usual elevator speech. “Welcome. Games at Tengoku have a starting bet of 10 thousand yen. Are you ready to play?”

“Why not make it interesting?” The man smiles a charming smile. “Let’s raise and start off with 100 thousand, yeah?” Minus the gentleman that sat with him, the other three individuals at the table looked nervous. You however continue to do your job as expected.

“Understood, the starting bet for this round is 100 thousand yen.”

You shuffle the cards meticulously, discreetly folding the aces into separate parts of the deck so that when you deal them out to everyone, the white haired man is ensured not to have any high cards. When he looks at the hand he’s been dealt, you notice his eyebrows furrow, seemingly in both shock and perhaps annoyance, yet his poker face is rather good, so he doesn’t let off too much that he has a bad hand.

“Each chip is worth 10 thousand yen at this Club,” you say. “We will go clockwise starting from the dealer’s left.” Nodding towards the timid looking gentleman who sat at the end of the table to start, the game begins.

“C-check,” the man stammers, choosing not to add to the exuberant bid already.

“Raise,” said the black haired man that originally sat with his cocky-white haired companion. He slides five chips across the table, raising the bet amount to 150 thousand. He has a rather cool demeanor. You can’t tell from his composure what he’s thinking, but he seems somewhat bored, if you had to guess.

You can also tell that the man has serious money, him and his companion both. His sleek three-piece black suit fits perfectly tailored against his broad shoulders. A shiny watch glistens on his wrist as he absentmindedly rolls one of the chips across the table, only for it to fall a few inches away. And his hair, pulled back into a somewhat messy bun is the only “imperfection” to his otherwise perfect appearance.

The man notices your stare and smiles. You turn away, face warming at being caught.

“I’ll call,” the white haired man says confidently despite his bad hand, placing five chips of his own down. The last two players call, matching the current bet.

You flip over three cards: a three of spades, the six of diamonds, and the jack of hearts.

The game proceeds slowly, or at least, it seems that way, because the entire time, you can feel the black haired male’s gaze burning holes through your head. You have a rather strong poker face, and try not to let his stare intimidate you, but for some reason, it feels as if he’s reading you like an open book. I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work…you can almost hear him say.

Your eyes begin feeling dry from the contacts, so you want to wrap the game up as quickly as possible. But by the end of the game, he wins with a full house: two fours and three eights.

“Damn you Suguru,” the white haired man groans, throwing his hand on the table. He had an ace, a five, a seven, a nine, the jack of clubs, and a four. None of the suits matched up except for the ace and the jack. “Why are you so good at this game?”

The man, Suguru, smiles as you slide the stack of chips totaling 270 thousand across the table. Naoya will have your head knowing you lost that much, is all you can think of, so you don’t almost catch Suguru’s words that make your blood run cold.

“I just know the best way to counter a cheat, is all.” Suguru’s charming smile contorts to a chilling smirk, and you keep your gaze down, trying not to let your fear show.

“What? So one of you bastards was trying to cheat, huh?” His companion mistakenly assumes, looking between the other players at the table.

Suguru then slides the chips right back across the table. You try your best to regain your composure and hide your unease. “I’d like to play again, Little Dealer, and this will be my starting bet.”

Luckily, at that moment, your coworker comes to relieve you from your post. You quickly skitter away, like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, weaving through the crowd of the casino and disappearing just like that, missing completely the way Suguru frowns in dissatisfaction.

“Awe, I wanted to redeem myself in front of the cute dealer,” Gojo complains, rocking back in his seat so that the two front legs come off of the ground. “I had a shitty hand.” Geto stands from his seat and begins heading the direction you left. “Hey, where are you going? You left your chips.”

“You can have them,” Geto replies coldly. “I’m going to get a drink.”

“Bring me back a gin and tonic!”

Geto saunters around the casino, eyes scanning the scene. It’s far too noisy for his liking, and everything blends together, so he can’t pick out your small stature from the crowd, much to his annoyance. A headache gnaws at his temple, and a passing waitress comes at an all too perfect time with a tray of champagne, which he snags.

He knows you rigged the game. He knew from the moment you shuffled the cards. But he doesn’t know how you did it, and he was a curious yet greedy fellow. He had to know how you did it. And by a stroke of luck, he spots you coming out from a door labeled employees only, while rubbing your eyes.

“Those contacts seriously burn,” you think to yourself. Once relieved from your station, you rushed back to the employee locker rooms to take out the contacts. Though they appeared clear, no different from any standard contact, the chemicals they had in them to allow you to see through the cards irritated your retinas. If possible, Naoya preferred everyone who didn’t already wear glasses normally to wear the contacts to garner less suspicion from the guests. But after a few hours, the shits became unbearable to wear. And you couldn’t mess with your eyes without running the risk of another client, particularly Geto, catching on.

Something about that man unsettled you. He was nothing like the man he sat with, who was loud, prideful, and quite obnoxious. No, he was quiet and observed his surroundings like a predator surveying its territory before figuring out when and how to strike. You couldn’t be too sure if he caught on how you rigged the game. After all, you only intended to make winning difficult for his friend, because he got on your nerves. But even still, your sleight of hand should’ve been so slight that no one would have noticed. You’ve done it for almost eight years in a row without no one catching your little trick.

“So we meet again, Little Dealer.” You don’t have to turn around to know who the suave voice belongs to. As you’ve been trained over and over, your facial expression blanks before you turn around to face Geto after correcting your posture.

“Hello again, Sir. Is there something I can assist you with?” You say politely. Geto looks unamused. His gaze is even more intimidating up close. He downs the last bit of his drink and sets it on a nearby table.

“I want to play another round,” Geto says.

“Certainly,” you nod. “If you go to any of the tables, another dealer can-”

Geto’s grin widens and he leans in close to your ear, just barely a whisper against the deafening slot machines. “I want to play again with you, little cheater.” The crucial error on your part is when your expression wavers, and much to Geto’s surprise, you look terrified. Nonetheless, he knows he has you in the palm of his hand. You take a step to turn and book it, but Geto’s quicker, grabbing your wrist before you get too far.

You try and fail to wrench your hand free. “P-please don’t tell,” you muster up a whimper.

Geto’s smile falters briefly, a strange shiver running down his spine. It was strange to see the seemingly cool headed and composed dealer look suddenly so…helpless?

“My, my, is there a problem here that I should be aware of?”

Your eyes widen, and you quickly and this time, more forcefully, snatch your arm away from Geto. You turn and bow towards Naoya, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. His usual “secretary” stands at his side (though you and Utahime are 99% sure they’re fucking), and he wears a sickeningly fake smile that you can’t stand. You know he’s pissed, but is just trying to put on a facade to keep up appearances.

Geto is startled by the man’s sudden appearance. He came up right behind him, yet Geto didn’t detect his presence at all. And for you to suddenly submit so willingly…

“There are no issues, Mr. Zen’in,” you say, trying to hide the quiver in your voice. “I-I was just returning from my break, when this gentleman here approached me, inquiring about playing one of our games.”

Naoya’s eyes narrowed slightly. You feel your chest constrict as the sound of your heartbeat resonates within your ears. You hold your breath and try not to cry. If he found out you, inadvertently or not, revealed one of the club’s greatest secrets, you were as good as dead. Forget leaving the Club in three months. You would be Naoya’s until the day you die.

“Y/n, look at me,” Naoya demands. You slowly raise your head only to be met face to face with his sharp brown eyes. “Are you lying to me?” He hisses, quiet and low.

“N-no sir, never.”

“I had stopped to ask about another poker table,” Geto spoke up. “The one I was playing at got a little too rowdy, as some of the other guests likely had too much to drink. I had stopped her to see if there was another table I could play at.”

Naoya puts back on his fake smile, but he leans away from you, allowing you to finally breathe, to face Geto. “Of course,” the charismatic businessman says. “I apologize for the inconvenience Mr….”

“Geto. Suguru Geto.”

“Ah, of course.” Brief recognition flashes across Naoya’s face, before his attention is turned back to you. “Mr. Geto here is a V.I.P. guest of ours, so make sure you tend to his needs with utmost respect, got it?”

You nod, bowing your head. “Yes, Mr. Zen’in.”

“And Mr. Geto, please have a bottle of wine, of your choosing, on the house, if my employee here has caused you any problems.” Naoya walks off, his secretary in tow, who gives you a sympathetic look.

Though he’s gone, your heart doesn’t stop racing. For the 7 years you’ve been employed, you’ve managed to stay off of Naoya’s radar and complete your job without incident. Why did now, of all times, did you have to piss him off? Though on the outside, he didn’t seem like it, Naoya was terrifying, heir to the powerful Zen’in family whose connections were so deeply interwoven throughout Tokyo that pissing him off almost guarantees you’d never work anywhere in the city again. He controlled your fate. Geto surely knows the influence Naoya has to be considered a V.I.P. So why did he stick up for you?

Your hands tremble still as you bow in apology to Geto. “I’m sorry for any trouble I caused you tonight.”

“Are you really sorry if you can’t elaborate on what you did wrong?” Geto nonchalantly asks, making you flinch.

“I-”

“Hey! Suguru! I’ve been looking for you!” A loud voice makes Geto sigh and roll his eyes; the many distractions were starting to irritate him. With a pretty girl wrapped around his arm, the white haired man from earlier approaches his friend.

“What do you want, Satoru?”

“You never came back with my drink,” Satoru complains. “I thought maybe you would be at least getting head somewhere, not standing in the middle of the aisle looking stuck on stupid.” He pushes up his sunglasses with a goofy grin that only widens when he sees you. “Ah! It’s the dealer! Hey, I wanna rematch. That first round was a fluke. I need to redeem myself.”

“I-I’m sorry?”

“She’s done for the evening,” Geto cuts in. “Her shift just ended, right?” You dumbly nod along. Though, it was only a little past eleven, and your shift didn’t end until one.

“Too bad,” Satoru huffs. “Another time then! I won’t lose that badly again. My pride as a member of the Gojo family won’t allow it.” Then he’s gone, pulling the woman along with him. She giggles and snuggles up against his arm.

“I must be returning back to my shift then,” you say, putting back on your polite persona. “Have a good rest of your evening Mr. Geto.”

“Not so fast.” Geto catches you by the arm. “I said your shift just ended, did I not?”

“B-but I-”

“Let’s play a game,” he interrupts. “I don’t think you know who I am, but if you want me to keep my mouth shut about your little trick, then you’ll do as I say, got it?” You meekly nod, unable to pry your arm nor gaze away from the dark haired man. “Good. Now, go grab a deck of cards and meet me in the hall.”

His commanding voice, something about it was so attractive that you felt your face heating up as you scurried away to grab a deck of cards from one of the tables not in use. Your heart…you could feel it racing, but instead of the erratic pace it beat before Naoya, it was a somewhat fluttering feeling. And it made you nauseous.

As expected, Geto waits in the somewhat dim hallway just outside the casino. He leans against the wall, flipping what looks like to be a poker chip in the palm of his hand. Now that you get a better look at him, without all the fluorescent lighting and distractions, he’s pretty damn handsome. Tall. Well built. And dashing in a suit and tie. Your heart continues to flutter, annoyingly so. Once you approach, Geto straightens up, pocketing the poker chip.

“You’re quite obedient, aren’t you,” Geto muses. “Come, I’ve requested a private room where our game won’t be disturbed.”

You say nothing as you follow the man down the hall to the elevator. He holds the door open for you to enter, before pressing the button to take you up to the twelfth floor.

Club Tengoku doubles as a hotel, but the average cost of a room for one night is more than what you make in a year. It’s in the heart of Shibuya, so Naoya can charge whatever he wants, you supposed. The first three levels are all kinds of gambling rooms and bars. The first level of the basement is one of the Clubs. The B2 level…you’ve been there once and it’s not your scene.

“You look quite young to work at a place like this,” Geto comments, watching the number slowly climb higher.

“I just turned twenty five,” you mumble.

“Like I said, quite young.” The elevator opens. Geto exits first and you dutifully follow along, eyeing your surroundings with apprehension and curiosity, as your job never takes you anywhere besides the casino, and occasionally, the club. Everything looks expensive, even more so when Geto unlocks room 1205 to reveal an impressive suite so big it looks like a miniature apartment instead of a hotel room.

A large kitchenette connects to the living room where glass windows overlook Shibuya Scramble, which looks dazzling and dreamlike in the dark of night, still bustling as the name implies. It seems like there are at least two other rooms, but you don’t want to appear nosy and stand awkwardly by the door.

“Take a seat and make yourself comfortable,” Geto says, shedding his jacket. He takes two wine glasses out from the cabinet. “Do you want red or white wine?”

“I-I’m not allowed to drink on the job,” you reply, sitting on the edge of the leather couch.

“That’s not what I asked. Red or white.” Geto’s firm voice has your knees feeling weak, and you mumble white. Geto pours each of you a glass, setting the drink before you on the small table beside the couch. He sits directly across from you, swirling the wine within its cup.

You don’t quite know where to start, drumming your fingers against your legs while keeping your head down to avoid eye contact. Naoya would kill you knowing that you’re in a client’s private room. Not that some of your coworkers didn’t have intimate relations with some of their clients. It was quite common in fact. But that behavior was saved for the private rooms of the club. The hotel was off limits.

“Do you have a preference for what game we play?” Geto finally asks, after spending a few seconds just examining you, taking in all your features and nervous ticks, from the way you play with your fingers nervously or how your ears redden with embarrassment. Quite cute if you asked him to be honest (which he hardly was).

“N-no, Sir,” was your reply.

“Then how about Go Fish?” A simple game like that? Seemed rather mundane. “But let’s make it interesting,” Geto adds. “Any time someone gets a book, they get to ask the other any question they want to know, and they must answer honestly. The winner gets to make any request of the loser.”

“Why should I agree to your terms?”

Geto sips his wine, then sets the glass on the table. “I’ll tell your little boss that you let slip a company secret if you don’t. Wouldn’t want that, would you?” He takes your silence as compliance. “Shuffle the deck. No fancy tricks.”

You shakily take the deck out the box. You carefully shuffle, trying not to do anything that would raise suspicion. Once. Thrice. Four and you’re dealing them out. Geto goes first, but you’re the first to get a set of the eights.

“Who are you?” You ask.

“Geto Suguru, or was that not made clear before?”

“No, what is it that you do?” You clarify. “Why are you considered a V.I.P?”

Geto smiles. “You need another set to ask another question, sweetheart.”

Unfortunately, he obtains the next set. The twos.

“How did you cheat earlier at the poker table?”

You knew the question was coming. There was no point in lying. “Mr. Zen’in has special contacts imported from Macau’s black market that allow us to see through the cards.” Geto stares at you, waiting for you to elaborate more to which you remain silent. He then chuckles.

“This game is going to be quite interesting.” Next, he gets all the queens. “Why did you intentionally deal Satoru a bad hand instead of all the players?”

“He was annoying. That’s all.” Luckily, you have the next set. “What kind of job do you have, Mr. Geto, that makes you a V.I.P. here?”

Geto shrugs. “I dabble in a lot of different things. It’s better to have your hand in several different pots instead of putting all your eggs in one basket, no?” That doesn’t answer the question in the way you were hoping, but you let it slide. And the next question is yours to ask.

“What brought you to the casino? Forgive me, but you don’t seem like the type of man to indulge in gambling.”

“Oh?” Geto leans back slightly. “What type of man do you think I am?”

Your face warms as you realize the implications of your words. After clearing your throat, you add, “it’s not your turn to ask a question.”

“Fair, fair,” Geto laughs. “Let’s just say, I’m very greedy, and I enjoy the casino’s opportunity for more.” He places down the four twos. “Now, why do you work here?” The man then places down all four sevens. “And what’s your relationship with that Zen’in guy?”

Him placing back to back sets throws you off. It not only puts you in the awkward spot of having two questions to answer, but it also places Geto in the lead. And your current shitty hand doesn’t have a potential match in sight.

“I…inquired some debts when I was 18,” you answer after a brief moment to collect your thoughts. Geto patiently waits for you to continue. “Mr. Naoya Zen’in covered them under the condition that I worked for him for eight years…” you pause, biting your lip, but your opponent shows no emotion towards your response and the game continues.

In the end, you hardly learn anything about Geto and he pries out much of your life story, additionally sealing his own victory when the game concludes. “Looks like victory is mine,” he says the obvious part out loud. He’s a little disappointed by how soon the game ended, not because he enjoyed it (well partially), but he didn’t quite find out all he wanted to know about you, yet. You were vague but honest when answering questions about your debts, but Geto still couldn’t understand why someone like Naoya would do anyone a favor. Let alone why you worked under him in the first place.

With the kind of work Geto did on a daily basis, he was quite familiar with the Zen’in family and often did business in other areas, but he always remained cautious to not become too intertwined with the web of a trap that was Naoya Zen’in. If Geto considered himself to be greedy, then Naoya would be insatiable, utilizing any means necessary to secure more power for himself. You were hiding something about your relationship with him, which was fine with Geto. He’d find out sooner or later.

“Now, for my prize,” Geto ponders for a moment and during the time, your breath hitches. The next moment, he’s in your face, so close that hints of his cologne tickle your nose. He’s so close that the slightest miscalculation in movement could make your lips touch. Antisly, you press your thighs together, heat burning between them, and you hope that he can’t hear how loud your heart beats. Geto grins, then backs away. “I will cash it out on another day.”

Your mouth falls agape, but no words leave your lips. Owing a debt to Geto Suguru? What game did you just become a part of?

He doesn’t tell you when he plans to claim his reward for winning the game, nor does he give you a way to contact him to inquire about it. After he escorts you to your car, because by that point it was pushing three in the morning, Geto leaves in a black Cadillac, and for the next few days, you don’t see him at the casino.

As the days roll by, work still mundane and Utahime still complaining about her clients, you grow increasingly anxious. On top of that, Naoya calls you into his office once to reprimand you about not causing any issues. You’re sure he doesn’t believe Geto’s white lie, but he doesn’t question nor bring up the contacts. For now, you’re safe, unless Geto goes back on his word and spills what he knows.

Geto’s white haired friend, Gojo, if you remember correctly, does come back every night without fail, spending upwards of a hundred thousand every time as if it were monopoly money. Must be nice to be able to waste money like it worthed nothing.

He kind of grows on you after you look past his cocky and annoying persona, keeping you company when you are not dealing for any games or cleaning up tables. You badly want to ask him about Geto, but opt out too in fear of it being misinterpreted. Luckily though, Gojo is not as tight-lipped as his companion, and often reveals too much information without you asking, especially if he’s had a few drinks.

“I can’t believe that Suguru didn’t fuck you the other night given how much he won’t shut up about you,” Gojo says out the blue, his speech somewhat slurred as he takes a sip from his third glass of whiskey. “I’ve never heard him bitch about wanting somebody so much.”

“G-Geto talks about me?” You try your best to hold your composure, but you can feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck. If that was the case, then why did he avoid the casino? Or was he just avoiding you?

“Does he? That’s all I’ve literally been forced to hear about all week,” Gojo huffs in annoyance. “We were at the club the other day and he showed no reaction whatsoever to any of the dancers while I had such a bad fucking hard on I couldn’t think straight!” He rests his cheek against his fist, nearly drunkenly falling off the poker table. Hints of striking blue irises peek over the rims of his dark sunglasses. “Hmm, I guess you got a cute face. Can’t see much of a body from the uniform though. You sure you didn’t get freaky with him? No strip tease or anything?”

You recall the scent of Geto’s cologne. The subtle flex and tensing of his muscles through his shirt with each movement. How his presence alone commanded authority, yet the taunting glint in his eye would suggest something else. Something more alluring and mischievous.

When you realize you’ve yet to give Gojo an answer, who by now was looking at you with a knowing look, you quickly try to deny the accusations. “You don’t have to explain yourself,” the white haired man teases. “He’s an asshole, but an attractive one at that. Any woman would drop their panties for him. Well, probably guys too, but that’s besides my point.”

By a stroke of luck or a cruel twist of fate the devil himself appears, this time wearing a navy blue suit and a rather unamused expression at hearing his best friend’s drunken rambles. Though he only caught the end of the conversation, knowing Satoru, anything that came out of his mouth was likely sexual, inappropriate, or some combination of both.

“Don’t you have to go be annoying somewhere else?” Geto sneers.

“Not until four,” Gojo replies, trying to look down at his watch but is wasted enough that he looks at the wrong wrist.

Geto frowns, trying to swallow back the strange irritation that tugs at his chest. “Let’s play another round of cards, Little Dealer,” he turns his attention toward you.

“Ohh is that your hidden code word for fucking each other?”

Ignoring the man, Geto merely flips him off, guiding you away, a gentle hand on the small of your back, after you procured a deck of cards. As the two of you head for the elevator, you pass Utahime and another one of your coworkers. Utahime’s eyes widen and you mouth to her, “don’t tell Naoya.” Your friend merely responds with a thumbs up and an oddly proud look.

Like before, the ride up is uncomfortably quiet. Geto doesn’t even look in your direction, his jaw set and eyebrows furrowed in clear annoyance. Was he possibly…jealous that you were with Gojo?

“Um…where were you these last couple days?” You try to break the silence. Geto still doesn’t look your way, watching the number of the elevator climb to ten.

“Busy with work,” is all he says before the doors slide open.

You find yourself in a similarly designed room as the other night, back to the same set up as before: sitting across from each other with a deck of cards on the table between you two. Geto takes off his suit jacket. You try not to stare, but the action was just so damn attractive to watch.

“Shall we play another game of Go Fish?” Geto speaks once he’s comfortable. “Same rules as before.”

“But you didn’t cash out your request from the previous night, so how is that fair?” You ask.

“Hmm…then how about this. If you win, I’ll fulfill any request of yours. If I win, you’re mine once your contract ends with Zen’in.”

You freeze, blood running cold. You never told him that your contact would be up soon. You made sure to dance around the question, so how did this man find out?

“Just who are you?”

Geto grins. “Play the game to find out.”

You shuffle the cards. Geto deals them out. You look at the hand you’ve been dealt and off the bat it doesn’t look the best. No surprise when Geto gets the first set, but his question throws you off.

“What do you want to do once your contract ends with Zen’in?”

You blink in confusion, but answer honestly. “I haven’t really thought about it. I don’t know who I am outside of this job.”

The next set and question is yours. “What is your real job?”

“I guess the proper term would be Boss,” Geto hums. “But Head of the Geto Family Syndicate works just as well.”

Your heart tightens. “You’re yakuza…”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

Just your shitty luck. Why does fate hate you so? No matter what you do, you can’t seem to get away from the mob, even though you aren’t intentionally seeking them out. Even worse, you’ve been dancing right in the palm of the boss’s hand all while ogling him while he wasn’t looking. And to make matters worse, if you lose, you will be leaving one contract just to walk straight into another.

No. You won’t let that happen. Not again.

“Why do you want me to work for you?” You ask next after securing another set.

“I never said work for me,” Geto corrects. “I said you would be mine.”

“What does that entail?”

The man grins. “You can’t ask two questions, but to answer your first, I want you because I’m greedy like that. If I find something interesting or worthwhile, why would I not try to keep it?”

His stare is intense, daunting yet enticing. Why did he have to be so tempting? You should have never agreed to play along, because you were spiraling faster than you could control.

“What are you thinking about right now?” Geto asks, placing down another set.

Before you stop yourself, you respond, “that I want you, but I can’t.”

“Says who?” Geto prods. When did he get so close? One moment he’s on the opposite side of the couch, and the next, he’s inches away from your face. His familiar cologne fills your nose in a comforting touch.

“You’re dangerous.”

“You’re surrounded by danger already from working for Zen’in. What’s stopping you now?”

Your eyes meet his dark ones, serious but oddly soft. “I’m scared that I will enjoy it more than I should.”

“Sweetheart, you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

And his lips were on yours. You aren’t quite sure who leaned in first, not that it mattered. He tastes faintly of liquor, but is otherwise gentle. However, he doesn’t linger long, much to your dismay, pulling away after a few seconds too soon to admire your flustered face.

“Let’s call the game here,” Geto says, slightly out of breath. “You were in the lead, so what is it that you want from me?” He cups your chin, forcing you to maintain eye contact as you ask.

“Can you kiss me again?”

Geto does without complaint, this time with more urgency. His scent is suffocating. Your head feels hazy, scrambled thoughts only on the man before you and the way his gentle touch electrifies your skin. A soft moan leaves your lips as Geto kisses across your jawline.

“Is a kiss truly all you want?” he teases all while loosening the tie around his neck. “You could stand to be a little more greedy, you know?” He pops one button of your vest open. Then the second. Then the last, sliding the material down your shoulders. “If you want something from me, you need to use your Big Girl words, or else I can’t help you.”

“I…” The words are stuck in your throat. What did you want? Was it okay for you to want something? “I don’t wanna…” a small whimper leaves your lips as Geto’s teeth grazes the side of your neck after unbuttoning your shirt’s collar. “Don’t wanna be selfish.”

“And I’m telling you to be. Now what do you want, sweetheart?”

“I want you, Suguru.”

The sound of his name on your lips is heavenly, and Geto forgets about teasing you any longer. He pins you to the couch with ease, using one hand to grip your wrists while the other pulls at your shirt, the buttons popping off one by one, all while his lips are on yours again, sucking on them until they’re swollen. His hands tickle your sides as he explores your body, stopping only to unclasp your bra. The cool air makes you shiver.

Kissing you was sweet and addicting, and he wanted…no, needed, to know what you tasted like elsewhere. Swiftly, Geto picks you up, the couch not spacious enough. He clumsily stumbles to one of the bedrooms, his mouth attaching to one of your bare breasts. You whimper as he bites at your sensitive nipple.

“Suguru,” you moan, tugging at his hair, pressing your chest closer making Geto grunt. You end up pulling his hair out of its bun, his black locs cascading down his shoulders. As you both tumble into the king sized bed, it tickles your nose.

“Before we go any further,” Geto suddenly pulls away, walking around to the nightstand. He rummaged through one of the drawers before finding a box of condoms. “Do you have any hard boundaries?” At the shake of your head, he nods. “Still, give me a safe word just in case I’m too much.”

You think for a moment before answering, “gold.”

“Good,” Geto says. He undoes the first few buttons of his dress shirt, tattoos peeking across his collarbone. “Cause if you need me to stop, you’re going to have to scream it, because I’m going to keep going until I have my fill of you.”

Geto grabs you by your waist, dragging you to the edge of the bed while pulling your slacks down to your ankles. He settles between your legs, bending down to give a slow lick up up your clothed pussy, tasting your wetness that’s seeped through the fabric. You gasp, back arching off the bed. Groaning at your sweet taste, Geto could feel his cock stir within his pants.

“Fuck…I’m going to savor this.” He pulls your panties down with his teeth. His hot breath on your cunt has you dripping with need. Your pretty lips are already glistening.

“Suguru, please,” you whimper.

“Whatever you want.” Pressing his tongue, he takes a long slow lick up your folds. The sensation is electrifying, high pitched moans leaving your lips which you try to cover with your hand.

Geto spreads your legs open wider, pressing his mouth as close as he can get to your cunt. He is aggressive, messily slurping up all you offer. His tongue weaves through your folds, and his harsh sucks against your clit makes you cry out, fingers gripping at his long hair.

“Gods you’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Geto groans, the pain of you tugging at his scalp turning him on just as much as the taste of your arousal on his tongue. “Fuck, baby, pull my hair more.”

“Fuck! Suguru I’m gonna cum.”

“Then cum.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you pull at Geto’s hair roughly, making a throaty groan leave his lips. The built up pressure in your abdomen snaps, and euphoria rocks your body as your orgasm hits you hard. Your release coats Geto’s tongue, and he’s greedy, continuing to drink you up until your legs are trembling from overstimulation.

“T-too much! W-wait-“ you whimper, writhing away. Geto’s grip on your thighs tightens. He delivers one last hard suck against your clit before pressing a parting kiss against your sloppy lips.

“Don’t try to leave me now, sweetheart,” Geto says. He unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, sliding it down his broad shoulders. Two intricate tattoo sleeves cover his arms from his collarbone down to his wrists. They’re dark yet beautifully done, adding to his handsome appeal. Who knew tattoos could be so sexy.

“I said I’m going to have my way with you until I have my fucking fill, and merely having your taste on my tongue won’t satisfy me.” Geto loosens his belt, already feeling some sort of relief from the way his aching cock pressed against his pants. Fuck. The way he needed you was maddening. His body was hot and just begging to be inside you, to feel your walls clench around him, to have you close and crying out his name.

“Come’ere,” Geto instructs. “Crawl.”

You shakily get on to your hands and knees, crawling to the edge of the bed where he stood. Your face feeling hot from embarrassment but your body betraying you in the way you could feel your needy pussy throb in anticipation. Geto almost loses what little composure he has left when you stare up at him through your lashes, innocent and cute.

“I don’t think I need to spell it out for you. Help me out, will ya?” Geto watches while you loosen his pants so that they fall to the floor. You’re slightly nervous looking at the size of the bulge pressing against his boxers, and your suspicions are confirmed when you pull his erection free. He’s big, thick and stiff against his abdomen, twitching ever so slightly as the cool air teases him. The tip’s an angry red, leaking pre cum already, and you’re dying for a taste.

Geto himself could almost sigh in relief. Any longer and he thought he’d burst. He tears open a condom and gives it to you. “Put it on for me?” You do, rolling it over his length, teasingly slow. Geto shivers at your touch. “Such a damn minx.” He flips you on your backside, aligning himself at your entrance and kissing your jaw. “Tell me your safe word again.”

“Gold,” you reply.

“Good fucking girl.” Geto bottoms out in a single thrust, ripping a moan from your lips. “Fuckkk,” he groans. “Fucking knew you’d fit around me perfectly.”

He experimentally moves his hips, the stretch of his cock filling you deliciously all the way and kissing the deepest parts of your spongy walls. Geto curses again, folds your legs over his shoulders, and rams into you until you’re seeing stars.

“A-h f-fuck S-suguru-“ You babble incoherently. Your mind blank and the air knocked out of your lungs as his cock kisses your cervix again. And again. And again until seconds later you’re creaming around him.

“Such a messy cunt,” Geto chuckles, admiring the ring of your arousal that coats his length as he bullies into your weepy hole, not stopping just because you came. “Just listen to the sound of her sucking me in. She doesn’t want to let me go. Fuck. Gripping me so tightly I could fucking burst. Greedy. Greedy. Just fucking greedy.”

“Fuck-Suguru, s’too much!” You felt lightheaded. He’s too rough, chasing his own high. And with the position he has you in, his cock presses so deep. His face sheens with sweat causing his hair to stick to his face, and his eyes glossed over, solely focused on bringing you over the edge.

“Awe, it’s too much?” Geto taunts, dragging his cock back out slowly, allowing you to feel every inch before slamming back in. “I never said I’d be nice. Go on, give me another orgasm then maybe I’ll consider slowing down.”

You felt your stomach tightening, tears brimming your eyelashes. “S-so mean,” you whimper.

Geto grins. “Mean? I’m just a greedy fucking bastard who wants more than what he needs. I won’t be satisfied unless I have you cumming around my cock over and over until you don’t remember anything else but the way my cock molds your pussy into its shape and the name of the man who fucks you silly.”

He grips your chin, kissing into you with urgency. Your moans muffled into small whines as you arch off the bed, raising your hips to meet his that still when his orgasm hits. Geto groans, biting your lip. He releases into the condom feeling his abdomen constrict and heavy balls tighten to the point of breaking. His body rocks, his face burying into the crook of your neck as the hard orgasm hits him with intensity.

“Ugh…fuck fuck…” Geto captures your lips again, this time more gentle. “Damn I’ve never cum that hard.” He checks to make sure you’re ok, wiping the stray tears that rolled down your cheek. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Mhm…just…blissful…” you mutter sleepily, completely fucked out to the point of exhaustion. Geto laughs.

“Wait one second.” He slowly pulls out, tying the condom up carefully not to spill anything. He disappears into the bathroom only to return a moment later with a wet, warm towel. As he wipes you down, Geto secretly admires his handy work, the hickies and marks already starting to darken purple.

“What are you doing?” You ask, wincing when you try to sit up. Your hips were on fire and your legs felt like jello.

“Taking care of you?” Geto responds as if it were obvious.

“Why?”

“Why?” He scoffs. “I can be a gentleman too, you know.” His eyes soften seeing your slight discomfort. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No, it’s okay,” you answer honestly. “I liked it.”

“Good.” Geto presses a kiss to your temple, settling beside you. “Cause I intend for this not to be the last time.”

Your gentle smile turns into a frown. Sure…it was great now. But in 3 months time, who knew where you’d be at? Your contract will end with Naoya, if he doesn’t find out what you’ve done beforehand and fires you or extends your time with him. Plus, it wasn’t like you could have a relationship with Geto, or a normal one at that. With his line of work, it would be impossible. And did you truly want to get involved knowing it was how you ended up in your current situation in the first place?

“What are you thinking about in that pretty head of yours?” Geto questions. Though meant to be lighthearted, there’s underlying concern in his voice.

“There can’t be a next time,” you say. “In three months, I’m free from Naoya and can leave. So we should just say our farewells now before we get too attached.”

Geto stares at you blankly for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. “You’re so cute, trying to act all serious and considerate.” He pinches your cheek making your pout.

“Stop, I’m serious.”

“And so was I,” Geto counters. When you avoid eye contact, he turns your cheek to face him. “In fact, you actually still owe me from our first game of Go Fish. I don’t quite remember cashing in my request. So I’m using it now: in three months, when your contract ends, you are to come stay with me.”

“But I-“

“I can arrange for you to work or do whatever hobbies you want. That is not a problem. I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you, so just stay by my side. Can you fulfill this one selfish request of mine?”

His words are sincere. His touch is gentle, and you find yourself leaning into his embrace despite your better judgment. You’re surprised by how hard his heart’s racing. “Okay,” you finally answer. “I’ll go with you.”

Geto visibly relaxed. His arms wrap themselves around you. “Good…I promise. I’ll protect you.”

You’re foolish. You’re playing a dangerous game that could end up with you getting hurt instead.

But Geto Suguru is a greedy man.

What he wants, he gets.

And he always takes precious care of what is his.

305 notes · View notes

thankskenpenders · 7 months ago

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The Knuckles show

The announcement of a live action Knuckles streaming miniseries was surprising, to say the least. I mean, what would such a show even be about in a version of the Sonic universe with no Angel Island and barely any characters from the games around? Is he gonna go treasure hunting with the gang from Montana or something? Would a streaming miniseries have the CGI budget to squeeze in any new game characters, even briefly? Rouge? Amy? At least one member of Team Chaotix? Anyone?

Now the show is finally out, and it turns out what they actually made was a comedy show about bumbling deputy sheriff Wade Whipple, the minor comic relief character played by Adam Pally who you might not even remember all that well from the first two movies, with Knuckles as his sidekick. While, yes, Knuckles does get a decent amount of screentime and opportunities to punch bad guys and do cool moves from the games, large stretches of this show focus on Wade's personal life, to the point that a couple times I almost forgot I was watching a Sonic-related show. If you're judging it purely by the metric of how well it adapts and engages with its source material, this surely must be one of the worst adaptations the Sonic franchise has ever seen.

So then, despite some huge complaints... why do I kinda like it?

(This will contain full spoilers for the Knuckles show.)

A brief summary of what the show is actually about because I know half of you aren't going to watch it

The show picks up not too long after the end of the second movie. Knuckles is now living in Montana with Sonic, Tails, and the Wachowskis out of a sense of debt to them, though he doesn't really see it as his home. He doesn't feel like he belongs on Earth, and his life currently lacks direction. After communing with the ghost of Pachacamac, though, Knuckles is instructed to keep his culture alive by teaching "the ways of the echidna warrior" to a new apprentice: deputy sheriff Wade Whipple, who's currently more concerned about winning a bowling tournament in Reno than anything else.

Things are complicated by the interference of two rogue GUN agents - Agent Willoughby, played by Ellie Taylor in a bad wig, and Agent Mason, played by Kid Cudi. (Yes, the artist behind the second movie's credits song is one of the bad guys in this.) They want to steal Knuckles' power and sell it to a former associate of Robotnik's played by Rory McCann (The Hound from Game of Thrones), who now works as a black market arms dealer. Yes, they're still doing the thing where Sonic and friends' quills radiate some kind of super-energy that the bad guys all want. No, I don't particularly love this element of the Paramount Sonic continuity. Anyway, they go after Knuckles and Wade, complicating their straightforward road trip to Reno. Antics ensue.

The Wade show

So here's the thing. While the first episode focuses largely on Knuckles, the entire rest of the show is very much the story of Wade, and by extension the other original human characters invented for this miniseries.

Episode 2 is about Wade having to rescue Knuckles from captivity after the GUN agents get him. Knuckles spends most of the episode in a cage.

Episode 3 is about introducing Wade's Jewish family, including his slightly overbearing mother and weird sister, so that Knuckles can learn about their family traditions and have Shabbat dinner with them (and then save them from bounty hunters that the GUN agents hired).

Episode 4 only features Knuckles at the very beginning and very end of the episode, probably for less than a minute total. Wade is captured by a bounty hunter he personally knows, and Knuckles decides to let that be a trial for Wade to overcome on his own.

The last two episodes feature the climactic showdowns with the GUN agents and their arms-dealing ally, who comes in with a mech for the obligatory final boss fight. You'd think this would be Knuckles' time to shine, but really, these episodes are mostly about the bowling tournament in Reno where Wade encounters his estranged father, wrapping up his own personal arc. While Knuckles does get some fights, a lot of the finale is spent on lengthy bowling scenes where Knuckles isn't in the room or even mentioned. It frequently feels more like a spiritual successor to '00s sports comedy movies like Dodgeball, Talladega Nights, or Blades of Glory than it does a part of the Sonic franchise, and the presence of ESPN 8: The Ocho commentary in the finale only drives those Dodgeball comparisons home. They get so immersed in the bowling stuff that it's genuinely hilarious when the show suddenly pivots and remembers "oh shit we still need to do the final boss fight"

Throughout all this, Wade is the protagonist. He's the character we spend more time with, he's the character who drives most of the major events, he's the character who gets more of an arc. The emotional core is Wade's journey. Knuckles is still present - sometimes, at least - but he's there as Wade's wingman, and also just as the excuse for there to be some fight scenes.

How much Sonic stuff is actually in this show?

Honestly? Not much.

Sonic and Tails are only in the first episode. Sonic gets some good scenes, but Tails gets a grand total of five lines. I counted. Unsurprisingly, Jim Carrey is absent as Robotnik, though he does get mentioned a fair bit. (For that matter, basically the entire established human cast beyond Wade is absent, even including Tom, though Maddie is there in episode one.)

GUN is involved in the story, which helps it feel slightly more connected to Sonic, but it kind of feels like it's GUN in name only. They don't use any recognizable GUN tech, and they don't call in the military. It's just two agents in suits. They might as well be the Men in Black.

The Master Emerald is mentioned as something Knuckles has to guard, but it's never seen. Angel Island is pictured as a drawing during the show's intro, appearing exactly how it does in Sonic 3, but it's never referenced at all beyond that.

I guess the climax taking place in and around a Reno casino is a reference to Sonic's many casino-themed levels. That's something. I'll give them that.

Oh, and if you're wondering if this is the point where we finally start to get actual music from the games: no, it's not. The soundtrack consists of a lot of '80s needle drops, many of which are generic Hollywood picks like "Holding Out for a Hero" for the billionth time, thought it at least has some slightly less obvious picks than the Mario movie. The theme song is '80s rock song "The Warrior" by Scandal. You'll hear it many times. You'll hear the Adventure era Knuckles raps zero times in this. You'll briefly hear classic A Tribe Called Quest song "Can I Kick It?" before Knuckles takes the question too literally and breaks the radio in Wade's car.

Beyond a handful of surface level references for nerds (one of which is admittedly wild - we'll get to that), this is probably the least an officially licensed adaptation of Sonic the Hedgehog has ever tried to actually engage with its source material. I struggle to think of another Sonic adaptation that has less to do with Sonic. For as much shit as I and countless others have given Penders for seemingly ignoring the content of the games in favor of building his own convoluted mythos, his Knuckles comics honestly included way more elements from the games than this show does.

Somehow, the one new(-ish) Sonic character introduced in this is the ghost of Pachacamac of all characters. Not even Tikal! Pachacamac! A very minor character nobody has particularly strong feelings about! You can't even use the excuse that they already had the character model, because they completely redesigned him compared to his cameo in the first movie to better match his Sonic Adventure design. And he's voiced by Christopher Lloyd! Honestly, so many of his lines are strained that it sounds like he's on death's door here, but then he'll surprise you with a more casual line like "just do it, man" and it catches me so off guard that I can't help but laugh.

Pachacamac here has basically nothing to do with the game character he takes his name and appearance from. Where the game character was a cruel warlord who kicked off a 3000 year cycle of violence, Paramount Pachacamac is now just this chill old man who gives Knuckles (and later Wade) advice in two episodes of the show. Hell, he also feels completely disconnected from his established role in the movies, where he's literally the guy who shot Longclaw. The show will not grapple with this contradiction at all. He's just here to be a thing fans like me will recognize from the games. Again, if that's all they wanted, it's kind of baffling that they didn't just use Tikal.

I don't love Knuckles in this

But what about Knuckles himself? Well, he doesn't feel all that much like Knuckles to me. Ironically, he sometimes feels like one of the weaker elements in his own show.

Back when the second movie came out, I noted that Knuckles' characterization seemed to be pulling heavily from MCU Thor as a gallant warrior from an archaic alien culture who doesn't really understand modern day Earth stuff. That worked for me in that movie. It was just there for spice. Just a little extra flavor for the character in what was otherwise a very faithful adaptation of Knuckles' storyline in Sonic 3 & Knuckles. Without those familiar elements grounding him and with a much higher reliance on comedy, Idris Elba's Knuckles becomes a pretty one-note character in this.

In damn near every scene with Knuckles, he's going to say something about being a proud, honorable echidna warrior, or brag about his glorious feats of strength, or be confused about some Earth thing and call it sorcery, or act like every other character is also a member of some noble warrior clan. He still has his moments for sure, but this schtick kinda gets old fast, and it just doesn't feel like Knuckles to me. His entire character feels derived from the scene in the diner where Thor smashes the cup on the ground and goes "Another!" Sure, I can picture game Knuckles smashing a radio to turn it off and being a little too gung-ho about busting holes through walls. That's Knuckles behavior. But building a barbarian combat pit in the living room so the Wachowski family dog can fight the mailman? Nope. That's some other guy now. It really does just feel like them taking a broad character archetype from something popular that kinda sorta fits Knuckles and just running with that, rather than trying to actually adapt the character.

Oh, but don't worry, he wears the OVA hat for like two minutes! AND he loves grapes! See, Sonic nerds? We read the wiki! That's his favorite food! Grapes! This is gonna come up like five times!

Knuckles kind of gets an arc here, but not as much as Wade does. I think the stuff about him starting to feel at home on Earth thanks to Wade's mom and the way he connects with their Jewish family traditions is oddly sweet. This arc is kind of let down, though, by the fact that Knuckles' heritage is treated as a complete joke. He's a cartoonish pastiche of various historical warrior cultures stuck together in a blender and used mostly for comedic effect. When Pachacamac's ghost appears, he's reading a newspaper and bemoaning the fact that the Mets lost again. This is not the place for a serious examination of Knuckles' feelings on being the last of his kind.

This is far from the only time the show undercuts itself with its jokes and attempts at self-parody. In the first episode, for instance, Knuckles clashes with GUN Agent Mason and his tech-enhanced punches, leading to an extremely on-the-nose inversion of the "Do I look like I need your power?" scene showcased in the trailer for the second movie. Except this time, Agent Willoughby butts in and points out how stupid that line is in this new context, since they're literally trying to steal Knuckles' power. The fight can't just be cool, they have to get cute with it. A lot of stuff like that happens in this show.

Given all these complaints, the first two episodes left me thinking I'd be fairly negative on this show overall. This seemed like the version of the show from the fandom's collective nightmares, one that undoes all of the progress the movie series seemed to have been making towards faithfulness to the games. Like, just look at these cast posters. Is this what you want out of Sonic? Do these excite you?

But then, something strange happened. Over time, I just kind of let the jokes and shenanigans wash over me and basked in how fucking weird this show is.

And I started to actually enjoy it.

Look. The Wade & Knuckles Show was never going to be peak Sonic. But that sure as hell doesn't mean it can't be entertaining.

This show is so fucking goofy

Here's the thing.

The show is funny.

Unlike a lot of other people, I didn't hate all the wedding stuff in Hawaii in Sonic 2, because I thought a lot of it was funny, both in its actual jokes and in the ways in which they tied everything back to Sonic. Tom looking wistfully at some bodybuilders doing Top Gun shit and spraying each other with beer and being like "I wish Sonic had that" is weirdly funny. The twist that those muscle bros are all agents of the newly formed GUN, who orchestrated the wedding as an elaborate scheme to catch Sonic, is funny. Mr. Olive Garden becoming the fucking GUN Commander is VERY funny. Are any of these elements of my dream Sonic movie? No, of course not. But my dream Sonic movie was never gonna happen in live action.

The Knuckles show follows up on the comedy of the previous films by being probably the funniest live action Sonic release yet. Did every joke land for me? God no. There are some stinkers in there that made me roll my eyes. But enough of them landed that it worked out for me overall. A big part of this is the fact that they've got a good cast of actors and/or comedians here.

Adam Pally is funny as Wade, and I found myself liking him more and more as a character as the show went on. He becomes an oddly endearing loser, with some sweet moments in his personal arc that made me feel for the guy. I like Wade more than Tom now, thanks to this show. I will now be happier to see Wade in Sonic 3 than I would have been previously.

The supporting cast is frequently great, too, many of whom are playing completely cartoonish, over-the-top characters. They took a cue from how exaggerated Carrey's performance was as Robotnik and decided to just abandon all pretense that this is the real world. Stockard Channing as Wade's mom is funny, and carries some of the more sincere parts of the show. Cary Elwes as Wade's very British dad who abandoned him as a child to run off and be the world's most egotistical professional bowler is funny. Edi Patterson as Wade's sister Wanda is... well, she's kinda trying too hard, but she has her moments. The Mighty Boosh co-creator Julian Barratt(!!) as a scenery-chewing bounty hunter, who was also somehow Wade's former best friend and bowling partner, is VERY funny. I love this guy.

(Honestly, they should let more people who were on Garth Marenghi's Darkplace be in Sonic stuff. Where's Matt Berry)

This is kind of a stacked cast for a bunch of stupid side characters in a live action Knuckles show! And honestly, that just makes it funnier to me. Even when they're not funny, the fact that this exists makes it funny. They somehow convinced Paramount to give them a bunch of money to make a spiritual successor to Dodgeball about a schlubby guy who wants to beat his dad at a bowling tournament... except also Knuckles the fucking Echidna is there as his personal life coach. My life is richer for the fact that I can say that sentence. I think about all the little kids who are probably watching this show this weekend, going in expecting a show about Knuckles the Echidna and having to sit through extensive bowling scenes and lore about Wade's family, and sorry kids, but I just have to laugh. Wade isn't even on the poster! The poster is just a picture of Knuckles!! They punked those kids!!!

In a franchise where every single aspect is so carefully micromanaged these days, it feels truly special to get an adaptation this bonkers. It frequently appeals to the same part of me that enjoys the fact that there's an officially licensed Knuckles comic in which Charmy Bee's best friend (also a bee) dies of an accidental LSD overdose from a drug-laced chili dog. Or like, everything about the original 1993 Super Mario Bros. movie. Or the fact that they made seven direct-to-DVD sequels to Alpha and Omega, one of which is half a retread of the adventure from the first movie (with more annoying supporting characters in tow this time) and half a literal clip show of the first movie. The sheer absurdity of the fact that these things exist is charming to me. Except, with the Knuckles show, it has the added benefit of frequently being funny on purpose! This is why I'm not sure I'd call it "so bad it's good." Like, it's not amazing, but there were a lot of parts that I enjoyed in the exact way I was supposed to enjoy them.

Look. Here's a list of real lines of dialogue from the Sega-approved Knuckles the Echidna streaming show that they're billing as a pillar of the Paramount+ lineup, to drive this point home. Let these marinate for a minute:

"I only eat grapes, and Cool Ranch Doritos™."

"Annihilate this little girl, Wade. Crush her spirit. Humiliate her so badly her parents won't even look at her again." "Doesn't that seem like we're going a bit far?" "Not far enough."

"So is he Jewish?" "Half, I think."

"I had a friend who when he listened to Alien Ant Farm he could lift a Toyota Corolla over his head."

"I'm in dire financial straits. Due to my lawsuit against an unnamed rainforest-themed restaurant franchise, I don't have two pennies to my name."

"We're here in sunny Reno, Nevada, which is so close to Hell you can smell the sparks."

"You can't threaten me with your Jewish karate chops because I am a federal agent."

"I will say, regardless of how you feel about child abandonment - and I'm against it! - the deals at TJ Maxx can't be beat."

This is a Sonic show in which they got Paul Scheer and Rob Huebel to appear as ESPN 8: The Ocho commentators.

This is a show where Wade's mom insists upon pronouncing "Knuckles" with the throaty Hebrew "ch" sound, and declares that Knuckles is basically Jewish. Later, they watch Pretty Woman together while enjoying a nice slice of key lime pie. Knuckles comments: "I don't understand. This young streetwalker with a heart made of gold, why do the others treat her with such disdain? Is it so wrong to walk the streets?"

This is a show where the fourth episode is directed by one of the guys from The Lonely Island and features a hallucinatory low budget rock opera stage musical put on by the ghost of Pachacamac. It recounts Knuckles' life story, with Wade playing Knuckles and the "evil" Longclaw played by the bounty hunter guy who's played by the Mighty Boosh guy.

Look at this.

And also, Knuckles' singing voice is provided by Michael Bolton, which they proudly announce in the middle of the musical.

And also...

Also...???

IBLIS IS IN IT????????????

Yes, Iblis!

From Sonic '06!!

Knuckles is said to have looked for a mythical power called the "Flames of Disaster" to avenge his clan, which ended up being the power that was within him all along that lets him do fire punches yadda yadda yadda. As part of this, he apparently fought Iblis off-screen at some point, as conveyed with the giant singing papier-mâché Iblis in the musical.

...Then Iblis sings about hitting up Facebook Marketplace

How? How does any of this exist? Why reference '06 of all games? How did Iblis get into the live action Sonic movie universe before Amy and Metal Sonic? Why are they using Iblis and the term "Flames of Disaster" in such a goofy way that completely disregards their original context?

I don't know. I don't know how any of this happened. But I love it. We got a Knuckles miniseries in which Michael Bolton sings the phrase "the Flames of Disaster." The world is a beautiful place sometimes.

Some people will tell you to skip episode four. "Knuckles is barely even in it," they say. "It's dumb and pointless," they say. "They clearly just ran out of special effects budget," they say. These are people whose opinions you should disregard. The episode with the least Knuckles in it is somehow the most entertaining episode of the show. I would, in fact, go as far as to say that if you only decide to watch one episode of the Knuckles show to see what goofy bullshit they get up to, it should be this one.

I cannot be mad at this show. It's so dumb, but it completely owns the fact that it's a dumb and unnecessary spinoff. Inferiority is baked into its very DNA. It's very self-consciously redoing the premise of the first movie, but stupider. It's about The Other Cop from the movies, instead of the competent one. Instead of being into a "cooler" sport, his life revolves around professional bowling. Instead of going to Vegas, he goes to Reno. Even his tragic backstory that shaped his entire life sucks. He was abandoned by his pro bowler dad in a TJ Maxx. Not even a nicer department store. A fucking TJ Maxx. This whole show is a Dril tweet.

They put a ton of effort into making it dumb in an occasionally spectacular way. So much effort was put into that joke rock opera that fans will just write off as stupid filler. They put their whole pussies into it. This is not a poorly made show. This has better production values than half the shit made for Disney+. This was made with love. Maybe not as much love for the Sonic the Hedgehog series of video games as we'd like, but it's love nonetheless.

Maybe this show broke me and these are the ramblings of a madwoman. Maybe I'm just really nostalgic for the '90s and '00s comedy movies all the Wade stuff is modeled after. Maybe the Alan Wake fan in me just really loves it when a story pivots to a silly rock opera for no real reason. I won't discount any of these possibilities. This isn't high art. This isn't something I would recommend to anyone with zero interest in Sonic, and it also isn't going to sway Sonic fans who hate the Paramount universe. I really can't blame them for being bewildered by this show. But for a specific type of person, this is the absurd three-star Sonic-adjacent comedy miniseries of your dreams. It's a mid masterpiece.

Again, I just have to step back, realize the fact that this shouldn't exist, and smile. Sega's too afraid to do stupid bullshit with the franchise like this these days. And I can't blame them, after years of Sonic being a treated as a laughingstock. But part of me misses some of the goofy shit. No matter how much I tore some of the Archie comics apart as I was reading them for this blog, I just look back on stuff like Cal and Al or the Many Hands issues and laugh. And that same part of me looks at this show about Knuckles being the sidekick to this fucking guy, and just goes...

"We're so back."

In conclusion, I genuinely think this was a more enjoyable TV show than Sonic Prime.

I wouldn't go back and rewatch Sonic Prime anytime soon, aside from maybe, like, a couple of the Shadow-heavy episodes. Huge stretches of that show bored me to tears. The writers squandered all of that show's potential. But I would rewatch the Knuckles show, which takes a terrible premise and has a lot of fun with it, in a heartbeat. Even the bowling parts. The bowling scenes in the Knuckles show are more engaging than 70% of the fights in Sonic Prime. I am not trolling. I mean that sincerely, with all my heart. Don't @ me.

Stray observations

There is effectively zero meaningful setup for the third movie in this, unless Wade's family or the two GUN agents come back or something. Project Shadow is not mentioned in this. There is no secret post-credits scene with Gerald

The CGI in this is pretty good. Not quite on par with the movies, but pretty good. Sonic's weird forehead wrinkles are distracting in his scenes though. Please fix that

I wouldn't say I liked this as much as the second movie, which obviously gets a ton of points for, you know. The Cool Sonic Shit. But I had more fun with it than the first movie, which I still feel is a painfully generic family movie that was only saved by Tyson's redesign

"Grapes are an interesting choice for someone who doesn't use his individual fingers."

Agent Willoughby was apparently the one at GUN who had to buy the Olive Garden gift cards and set up the fake wedding. Her origin story is that she hated doing shit like that and wanted to go fight aliens

This miniseries contains another Keanu namedrop because Wade's childhood bedroom has a Speed poster on the wall. I swear, if Sonic doesn't say Shadow sounds just like Keanu...

Knuckles is familiar with Paul Blart Mall Cop

Near the end the ESPN 8: The Ocho commentators say that the 1974 Reno bowling championship was also interrupted by an extraterrestrial, and given that was exactly 50 years ago I can't write off the possibility that that was Shadow. Please for the love of god give us a sequel series after the third movie where Wade takes Shadow the Hedgehog bowling. I need this more than I need air

#tkp post #other media

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shellxrls · 12 days ago

Text

— r. cameron / barry / reader

warnings: dom!barry, sub!rafe / unprotected anal sex / rimming, ass eating / cum-swallowing / threesome / dubcon (sex as payment) / oral (male receiving) / voyeurism

synopsis: rafe cameron x barry x gn!reader… you owe a debt to a certain prolific dealer on the cut, rafe believes he can pull a few strings to get it taken care of, you just never expected the alternate payment to be so debasing.

Barry likes to shove the noise out of Rafe. Like he can hoard the aggressive spikes of volume in his head if he really tries, bundle them into a rough package and store them safely within his cerebral cortex.

You can tell Rafe almost hates it, too eager for pleasure yet too impatient to wait, and so Barry knowingly draws it out of him — bated breaths turning into whispers of frustration until Rafe opens his mouth to spit out a harsh profanity and Barry finally decides to move. In that fraction of a second pummelling his whole length inside of Rafe and forcing out a guttural, drawn-out noise that you'd never heard from the boy before.

He locks eyes with you across the dingy space, and your pupils quickly flutter in humiliated distraction — landing on the shadows of Rafe’s back instead, fluorescents bringing out the harsh dips of darkness and paling his skin in comparison to Barry's.

You find yourself wanting to look away, every action too intimate, and every subsequent reaction too vulnerable. You were an intruder to this relationship and you felt it, like you were watching through a two-way mirror except you were the depraved bastard on the clear side, and they would never realise you were there.

You had never expected this when borrowing a favour from Rafe, his promise to get your debt waived cause he 'knew a guy' now almost a distant memory. Although you starkly remember him greeting Barry at the door, offering 'fresh meat' while their hands lingered too long to be in casual greeting.

You knew whatever Rafe was dragging you into was fated to be shady, but what you couldn't predict was the way the two stood by Barry's bed and argued in an aggressively hushed tone, Barry's calloused fingers coming to rest on Rafe's shoulders when he'd finally persuaded him into submission — “You're gonna sit right here while Rafe takes care of this debt for you princess" while guiding you into a yellowed plastic chair, settling you down with wink.

Now you were forced to watch, to listen, and to feel while Rafe — your dealer and the most high-strung, misogyny-fueled, cokehead you'd ever met — took dick from a man jut as pretty as him in a grimy trailer.

"Feelin’ good about volunteering for her debt now babyboy?" Barry grins, gripping Rafe by the jaw and bringing his face up to be conflicted between looking at you or the man behind him, he settles on Barry, who then decides to thrust into him particularly harshly to which Rafe only lets out a useless garble, "shittt, my bad, forgot that you turn into a dumb slut for some dick."

Sweat was dripping down your collar now, beads building up against your temples alongside a painful pulsing in your lower stomach. Barry noticed, too observant for his own good and yours too — "Yeah y'can touch yourself pretty girl," it comes out a bit strained, a stray tendon in his neck tensing at what you assumed was Rafe tightening around him, "bitch down here seems to like the idea."

It wasn't so much a prompt as it was an order, funny thing about the way Barry could manipulate tone, must've adopted it in the army, next to the ability to stare so hard you could feel his eyes drill holes into your skull.

"I ain't gone' say it a third time."

Subtly, you nod, swallowing your anxiety and dropping clothing to the floor until you can see Rafe wrapping a quivering hand around himself, eyes glossy while Barry is momentarily too distracted to dismiss him.

"Well shit, Rafe, keeping the prime cut to yourself I see," Barry raises his eyebrows in a chuckle, stilling inside of Rafe and clutching a hand by his bicep to match his lecherous smirk.

"Brought her by as soon as I could bitch, now move, fuck," Rafe groans, trying to push himself further onto Barry who only grapples his leaner hips into stability.

"Nah." Now towards you, having changed his mind about your positioning, he asks "C'mere."

Rafe whines when you get up, subtly grinding his hips and pleading for your gaze with his own, searching for remission and hoping you'll be kinder than Barry.

Barry instructs you to kneel by his feet. You’re now eye-level to where he sits inside of Rafe, twitching and pulsing while rafe constantly trembles with restlessness.

"Rafe's gonna cum very soon, you wanna know how I know? He's got that screwed up bitch face like he's gonna cry—" he's addressing you directly, completely disregarding Rafe's aching form on the bed and humiliating him with this dissection of his features, undisclosed to anyone but Barry at this point, "An' I'm gonna go pretty soon after him. Thing is, I don't want to get my sheets dirty with alla that, so you're gonna do me a favour and clean it up before anything spills."

Nodding, you feel his gaze intent on you again, unwavering. Remaining on your knees, you move so you can tongue at Rafe's dick — his nose red and his lips wet, face watery and flushed from the buildup while he stares down at you.

Once Barry starts thrusting again, you wrap both hands around Rafe, one circling his base and steadily jerking him off, whilst the other cups his balls, your mouth simultaneously sucking on his tip and drawing tight circles around the flushed slit.

"Fuck, 'm close," he groans, twisting up into your mouth, "f—fuck Barry 'm so close, 'm gonna cum."

Until you're swallowing round his girth and Barry's coaching the both of you through it, one hand tangled in your hair to push you down and the other stroking Rafe's shaking thigh.

Before you pull off Rafe you can still feel him throbbing in your mouth, and when you finally do Barry tugs you to your feet, forcing you into a sloppy kiss.

Tongue warm in your mouth and licking the remnants of Rafe off your gums, which is what finally gets his stomach to tense and flex when he finally cums himself, spilling into Rafe while grabbing a handful of your ass and painfully digging his nails into the flesh as he does.

He shoves you back down to kneel before Rafe when he's done, "Go on, prove yourself useful f'me and I'll consider that debt paid off hmm?"

Complying, you shyly bend your face towards Rafe, stretched out and leaking, tonguing the twitching muscle and cleaning up whatever Barry had left.

"S'too much, too much," Rafe swats at the empty air, curling into himself and flaring his ribs in overstimulation.

"You beg for it like a fucking girl so now you're gonna sit here and take it like one 'kay bitch," Barry rubs the skin around his cheek, patting it in domestic mockery despite Rafe's snot and tears.

In only a few more minutes Rafe cums again, dick leaking miserably on his toned stomach in rhythmic spills. Barry runs a finger through it, making Rafe shudder, before bringing it to the brunette's mouth and forcing two curved fingers inside — hooking them through his uvula and forcing it down until he starts gagging.

"Hope babyboy here didn't drop you off, think he'll be staying with me for the night."

"I can find my own way back," while already grabbing your things to head out — the taste of both men still sickly prevalent on your tongue.

"You ever need more favours you tell Rafe to call me a'ight," Barry whistles as you walk through the door, simply responding back with a murmured confirmation.

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covetyou · 1 year ago

Text

the best of the world in the palm of our hands

part 1 ⋆ part 2 ⋆ part 3 ⋆ part 4 ⋆ part 5

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) chapter warnings: dub con (reader is paying a debt), pussy spanking, unprotected PIV, fingering, oral (f receiving), cumplay, anal play (blink and you'll miss it), derogatory names (slut), drug reference, unspecified age gap, joel miller is a massive slut word count: 4.9k chapter summary: You find a way to pay your fathers debts

A/N: pussy spanking! lets go! you know the old saying, open mind open legs.

follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future work

song: damage gets done by Hozier

Your dad had been rationing his pain meds for months, barely taking one every two days now that the world had gone to shit and they were so much harder to come by - and so much more expensive as a result. Lean times were made leaner still by missed shifts and slow work, which meant for even fewer pills to ration out.

Eventually, you would listen, night after night, as he groaned and writhed in pain, meds long gone. Nights like that meant another missed shift, fewer ration cards, and the ever looming threat of debtors coming to collect on what was theirs.

That was the situation that had brought you here, to his door. Desperation, and a debt needing to be paid.

Your knock on the door sounds sharp in the silence of the hallway. You're in a "nicer" part of the QZ - the apartment block cleaner and less crammed full of bodies than others. Here there are fewer people to care, fewer people to see. Fewer people to hear you scream.

The door in front of you suddenly flies open and you wretch you head around, straightening your back. You'd told yourself you'd play it cool, but already you were failing.

Joel Miller, self appointed pharmacist, medication supplier, drug dealer, stands before you. He's tall and broad, taking up almost the entire doorway as he rests one hand on top of the frame. He ticks one hip to the side and tucks his fingers through his belt loops.

You'd seen him from a distance, people pointing with whispers of "that's him", but never up close. Flecks of gray dance around the scruff on his jaw, his dark brown eyes wrinkling as he assesses you. The firm expanse of him so much more intimidating from this distance, you square yourself before you speak.

"I -" you begin, but he immediately cuts you off.

"I don't do business in the hallway," he drawls. "This is business, right?" he quirks a dark eyebrow at you.

You nod, all words snatched from your brain. You'd never heard him before - his southern drawl sounding cocky as he sizes you up, standing meek and mild in the corridor.

"S'always business. Come in then, sweetheart," he says, barely moving his body from blocking the doorway for you to squeeze past him. You push yourself against the door frame as much as possible so you don't drag your body along his.

The living room of his apartment is bigger than the entire place you share with your father. As far as you can tell, Joel lives here alone.

The door slams shut behind you, and heavy footsteps walk past you. Joel picks up a bottle and a single glass, pouring himself two fingers of whisky before setting the bottle back down and taking a sip. You knew you would be vulnerable, coming here alone, but you hadn't taken into account feeling trapped.

"So, what y'here for?"

"M-my dad, he's -"

"I know who your dad is, sweetheart. Seen you together. He owes me. Ain't heard from him in a few weeks. I asked what you're here for, not about your dad."

"Yeah," you nod, trying to feign confidence, "Yeah well, that's why I'm here. He needs more medicine."

"What I gave him weren't medicine, it ain't fixin' shit. I gave him pain relief. That's it."

"Well, he needs more. He's out, and he's hurting, and he can't work - " you ramble, but he cuts you off again.

"Now, sweetheart," he raises a finger to stop you. "I don't see why I should be giving you, or him, anythin'. I owe you nothin', and from where I'm standing, you're the one who owes me. Two weeks worth, right?"

Your eyes go wide. You were hoping he'd make it easier than this - go easy on you because you were a girl and you were here alone. You were hoping to play on his heartstrings, but you were starting to realise that maybe he didn't have one.

His glass thunks down on the table.

He circles you like a predator circles its prey, looking you up and down, assessing for weakness. You stare straight ahead, unwavering as possible.

He stops in front of you, tall and foreboding, before tilting your chin up with a single finger.

"You got the cards for that?"

You shake your head no.

He clicks his tongue, smiles, and says, "That's a damn shame". You have a feeling he doesn't think that at all.

"Dad's been hurting too much, he can't work, we haven't been able to get the cards, I've been trying I - "

"Looks like you'll have to do then," he shrugs, crossing his arms across his broad chest as he leans back against his dining table. "Show me what you can pay me with."

You'd never done this before - well, that was a bit of a lie. You'd done something like this, once, before, with someone else, someone different, someone who probably couldn't hurt you in the ways the massive figure of Joel Miller could hurt you.

You take two small steps toward him, and move to lower to your knees - you'd heard men like him accepted this mode of "payment" all the time - but he grabs your arm in one giant hand before you can make your descent.

You balk at him, "Wha - "

"I don't want a half-hearted blow job, sweetheart," he licks his lips and his thick fingers tug at the hem of your too big t-shirt. "Why don't you take this off. Show me what you can pay me with."

The implication was clear - he didn't want anything you could give him, but you had plenty he could take. Your breath hitches, but you don't let yourself hesitate for long.

Swallowing thickly, you yank your t-shirt over your head and dump it on the floor beside you in one swift action. You're painfully aware that your bra is the least flattering thing you could possibly be wearing - it's soft and old and entirely shapeless, but you weren't expecting to be stripping off for him. You shouldn't even care what he thinks of you but it'd been so long since anyone had seen your bare skin that even this twisted exchange felt like you should've made more of an effort.

You stare directly ahead, not daring to meet his eyes as heat flares in your cheeks. He stalks back to the table and picks up his whisky. You watch him raise it to his lips before he notices you looking. You haven't moved.

He's on you in an instant, grabbing your face, squeezing your cheeks with force as he directs your eyes to his. The heat still burns through your face, but you feel it start to snake traitorously down your spine.

"I said, show me or do you want me to fuckin' rip the rest off you."

Nodding, you scramble to remove the rest of your clothing. It's not sexy, why fucking would it be, and you fumble with the buttons on your pants longer than you'd like, but eventually you're stood entirely nude for him in his apartment.

A puff of air huffs out if his nose and his face twitches as he appraises you like some kind of show cattle. You don't know if he likes what he sees, but that traitorous drip of warmth down your spine hopes that he does. You can trick yourself into thinking it's because he might go easier on you if he likes you, but the longer you stand there under his gaze the more you don't want him to go easy on you.

"You are a pretty thing," he says, rubbing the scruff of his beard. "I think you got just the thing I need to let your dad off the hook, don't you? Might even throw something else in to sweeten the deal if you're extra good." He strokes your hair, and you try to hold back a shudder of arousal. Maybe he'll think it's fear, and maybe it is. Maybe it's both.

"How's that sound?" he prompts as he laces his fingers through your hair and tugs.

You look at his face, his eyes are dark, darker than before, the way he's looking at you makes that traitorous drip into a flood. "Okay."

He wordlessly grunts as he tugs your hair some more and pushes you toward a door on the otherside of the room, making you walk ahead of him.

Even with his hand in your hair, guiding you, your feet move of their own accord. You want to object, refuse, but you can't. You want this. You want a man like Joel - big, protective, in control - to pay you any attention. Whatever the cost.

One final nudge of your head and you stumble into the room as he releases you.

His bedroom is sparse, as expected. Interior decor went to shit with the end of the world, and Joel didn't seem like the kind of man who would've cared about that before anyway.

You stand at the foot of his bed looking down at your toes as they bunch and un-bunch in the carpet. You hear him come in and close the door. If you weren't trapped before you definitely are now. You don't look up at him, you can't, so your eyes remain fixed at your feet when his step into view.

"You ready to get on the bed for me, sweetheart?" His hand strokes gently across the swell of your breast as he talks to you. It's the first time he's really touched you and the flood down your spine has now gathered into a slick pool between your legs.

You do as you're asked sitting on the edge of his bed, feeling even smaller now as he towers over you. You could have been 8 feet tall and still felt small and vulnerable in this moment, Joel Miller cascading above you fully clothed.

A large hand rests on your shoulder, a gentle pressure pushing you to fall back to the mattress below.

"You lay back now. Relax."

You try not to scoff but you can't help it.

"Ain't goin' to hurt you. What good would that do me. I like my customers alive."

You take a deep breath and try to steady yourself with your back flush to the mattress, looking at him as he still hulks above you. You can do this. He'll just... take what he wants. And you'll let him. Then you'll be on your way.

He's still standing above you as he directs you. "Good girl. Now open your legs for me. Lemme see."

You take another deep breathe, hold, and exhale, opening your legs for him just a fraction.

"I'm a patient man, sweetheart, but when I tell you to do something, you fuckin' do it," he growls as he kicks your legs open further. You spread them even wider, wanting to keep on his good side. You're completely exposed and bare for him now. Everything is on display and he still towers over you, looking down at your naked form on his bed.

"Fuckin' beautiful," you think you hear him mutter as he moves to a crouch between your spread thighs. You hold your breath, tensing and try not to clamp your legs shut at his inspection.

"I'm just lookin', sweetheart," Fingers rub calming circles over the softness of your thighs and your legs twitch.

"Keep your fuckin' legs spread," he says with a sharp slap to your thigh. Gasping at the shock, you push your legs to spread as wide as they can. You feel obscene, so open for him and his hand strokes the spot he'd just struck, soothing it.

You were beginning to see how this would go - do exactly as he said and he'd be gentle. Disobey, or be slow on the uptake (patient man my ass) and you'd soon feel the sting of punishment. The thought of that makes you clench around nothing, and you curse under your breath as it's surely now drawn attention to just how wet you are.

You stare up at his yellowed ceiling and hear a chuckle from between your legs - he definitely fucking knows. You don't dare to look down, you just want him to get on with it, until suddenly fingers come dangerously close to your sex and pull you apart, spreading your bare cunt even more for him.

"Well, you're a pretty little thing," he says to your pussy.

The fingers, his thumbs you realise, massage up and down the sides of you, avoiding any direct touch to your folds, but massaging the flesh in such a delicious way that you can't help but feel it right where you need it most.

Joel hums as he moves to his knees, getting closer to your spread cunt, still rubbing his thumbs up and down the sides of you, gradually moving closer and closer to the center of your sex until he's dragging the tips of both thumbs through your wetness and up to the sides of your clit.

You take another deep breath and try to muffle your whimpers with pursed lips, trying to hold back a moan.

"She's likin' that," you hear the amusement in his voice, "I wonder if she'll like this." He moves one of his slicked thumbs directly above your clit and begins to gently stroke. Your hips jerk, unsure if it's toward or away from the pressure of his thumb.

"Oh, she does," and he applies more pressure, circling torturously around your nub as his other hand continues to explore your folds in gentle strokes, parting your opening with two fingers occasionally to see the wetness gathering there, to see how ready for him you are.

"You ever touch yourself like this?" he's talking to you again now, not your cunt.

"N-no," you stutter, as his thumb keeps its languid pace on your clit.

"You don't touch yourself? Y'look well old enough to have done this before."

"No, I-I do, just... not. Not like this."

Joel hesitates for just a moment, fingers stilling, before continuing on. "You like it though." It's not a question. "Tell me how you touch yourself." That wasn't either.

"I don't - I. Fuck," you hiss. You try to relax your grip on the sheets, but his rough thumb on your clit is distractingly good. "I - rub," you pant out.

"With fingers?"

"No," you squeeze your eyes shut. You can't say you expected much from this visit, but telling a stranger how you get yourself off in the dark of the night definitely was not on your list.

"Againstapillow," you mumble, a soft moan being pulled from shortly after as he increases the frequency of his circles on your clit.

"So you're a sweet girl whose sweet pussy only knows soft things?" he hums in thought. "Anything ever been in here?" his index finger circles around your opening, slick now dribbling out of you and being spread around by his thick finger. You must glisten.

You gulp down a sigh. "I'm not a virgin, if that's what you're getting at."

"That's good," he chuckles. "Can't imagine you'd want your first to be like this. Of course a pretty little slut like you has had somethin' in here before." His finger circles more around your hole, barley dipping inside as his well practiced thumb swipes firmly over your swollen clit.

Two thick fingers suddenly plunge into your dripping cunt with ease, stretching you. You pull back with the shock, trying to shuffle up the bed and away at the sudden intrusion, pulling his fingers from you. His hands grip your thighs, anchoring you down and pulling you back toward him.

"Did I say you could fuckin' move?" You shake your head. You didn't even mean to move. It felt good, it shouldn't feel fucking good, you were just surprised.

slap

You hear it before you feel it - a wide hand colliding bluntly with your exposed cunt, sending a sharp stinging, buzzing sensation straight back up your spine. You think your brain shuts off entirely for a second before you gasp for air.

"I know you wanna be good for me. You wanna do right by your sick old dad, right? Help him out of a tough spot?"

His entire palm engulfs your mound with ease, covering you completely as he massages his fingers side to side, easing the sting and jerking your clit in a way that has you rolling your hips and biting back a moan.

"Try getting away again and I'll give your worse than that," you push your pelvis toward him at his words. You really try not to be obvious in your disappointment, you want to be good, but you want it. You want worse. And you know he knows. "But be a good girl and I'll give you exactly what you want. That's why you're here, ain't it?"

Before you can answer he delivers several quick light smacks to your bare pussy. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough send the vibrations through you and straight to your struck clit. He removes his hand to look at your quickly reddening pussy before returning to smack you some more. You gasp, trying desperately to keep still and not moan at the building sensation he's pulling from you - you shouldn't be enjoying any of it at all, let alone this, but fuck you are. There's nothing violent about the way his hand is striking your naked cunt, the light slaps against you turning you on, zinging through you like a tuning fork being tapped on a hard edge.

You hear another laugh from between your legs.

"You've only been givin' it to her soft, sweetheart, when she's just crying out to have it rough."

He spanks your pussy again, this time you can't help the moan that escapes you, your back arching into his quick slap slap slap against your cunt. The speed of his palm slows, but the force increases, drawing obscene noises from you with each blow.

"Uh," the breath huffs out of you with each firm smack to your swollen cunt.

His hand pulls off of you and he spreads you wide again before a warm wet sensation draws up from your fluttering hole to your tender clit in a broad stroke. He's soothing your pussy with soft licks when he latches onto your clit and suckles gently before pulling back to look up at you.

"I like 'em pink like this," he mumbles around your clit, "You're bein' so good takin' it for me."

He's holding your thighs obscenely wide as his tongue lathes your clit, wrenching you open as you wiggle beneath him. You are so close, on the absolute precipice and moments from tipping over the edge, when he pulls from you completely, spreading your cunt open with an his thumbs for inspection once more. The man fucking loves looking at you.

"Look at her twitchin'. I think she likes being spread wide for me, look how wet she is." He dives in for another broad lick, slurping as he goes.

"It's just dripping outa you," he breathes. You feel the warm trickle of wetness drip its well worn path from your pussy and down between the cleft of your cheeks. His finger trails it, and you take in a sharp pull of air when the pad of his finger strokes your tight asshole, spreading your slick across it and causing your legs to twitch closed a fraction once again.

slap. You feel the sting and its aftershocks buzz through you before you hear it. "Keep 'em," slap, "fuckin'," slap, "open!" He soothes your pussy with his full hand again and you moan into him, fisting the sheets at your sides.

"Won't go there today. But don't think I'll be feelin' so generous next time." Next time. He rubs and squeezes your pussy, and you rock your hips into his palm, desperate for more anything.

"You likin' this?" he murmurs, his words almost sounds tender -

- Until another slap rings against your bare sodden skin.

"Answer me."

"Y-Yes!" you gasp out with the next spank to your oversensitive cunt. "Yes, please - I - fuck - please I need to -" slap slap slap slap

Your mind goes blank as a series of slaps are delivered straight to your pussy. A groan is pulled deep from your chest and you spread your legs more for him, pushing into his palm as it rains its gentle smacks down onto you.

"You're goin' to come, ain't you?" he growls out, his smacks getting quicker.

You nod frantically, so fucking close, you shouldn't be so close from this but you are. You're just about to beg for something more, anything more, when the smacks against your pussy get even quicker, and quicker, until he's rubbing frantically at your clit, so swollen from his attention that you practically scream at the sensitivity.

Your orgasm tears through you, drawing a deep guttural sound right from your belly. Your back arches, your dripping hole so neglected as it grips around nothing.

"Fuck," he grinds out from below you, stuffing two fingers quickly into your pussy to feel you grip around them as you rock through your orgasm. You can't see him do it, white blaring across your vision, but you hear the hiss of his breath as he pulls his cock out from his pants.

You whine when he pulls his fingers from your cunt, stroking himself with the slickness of you. He stands and presses himself between your legs, hot and heavy.

"You want it here?" he says, grinding the heft of his cock against your spent cunt. "'Cause you're making a mess, drippin' all over my sheets without me to plug you up." You're in a daze as you nod, still floating from the intensity of your orgasm as you stare dumbstruck at his rock hard length for the first time. It's so big.

It's too big.

"W-wait, it's too bi- "

"Fuckin' look. Watch as I fuck this into you sweetheart," he growls as he feeds the tip of his cock into you anyway, the solid width of him stretching more than you have ever been before, but your wetness letting him slide right in. He fucks the tip in and out, and you watch him do it.

In previous years you'd had nothing more than clumsy fumbles with men, some drunken, but most just uncaring one night stands with promises of more. There was never more. One way or another you were being used, but this time, and for the first time, you could call it what it was. There was no illusion of care here as Joel took what he wanted and made you watch.

And you liked that. You liked being used by him. You liked letting him do anything he wanted to you.

"I want you to watch her swallow me darlin'. Keep your eyes right there," he pushes his hips forward, the pressure of him filling you immense, and he groans as your cunt gives way to him and swallows him whole. "There she goes. Such a good little pussy for me."

"Keep lookin'," he groans again as he retreats from you only to fuck his full length back inside of you in one swift movement, "You look or I send you out of here jus' like this. See how the locals treat a naked slut in broad daylight."

Your cunt pulses with the threat, and Joel notices. He cocks his brows at you, still relentlessly fucking into you. "Oh, she likes that. You like bein' a slut, huh?"

Fuck yes, you want to scream, but instead you nod meekly, still watching him fuck you, obsessed with the sight of his cock disappearing into you over and over again.

"Good fuckin' girl."

Never once does he lean down to steal a kiss, or swipe his tongue across your bare nipple. You're naked for him but he does nothing with it except pound into your flesh, using your cunt to get himself off. His eyes flit between where he's disappearing into you and your eyes, watching with a sneer as they roll back into your head with each knock to your cervix.

"Fuu-uuck." He's hammering into you now, hips smoothly pounding your pelvis, when he grabs one of your arms and flips you onto your side, pushing your knee up so high it's practically by your ear. He slams back into the hilt again, rocking you back as you moan out wantonly around his cock.

From this angle his cock drags across you in ways you've never felt. You'd seen trees being felled as a kid, a wedge being hammered into a cut far too small to fit. You felt like you were being split, just like those trees.

"Ah - uh, I, Joel, please, I -" tears are in your eyes from how good it feels, the dull throb of the impact into your cervix melting your insides.

Joel brings one of his legs up beside you on the bed, the other planted firmly on the floor, giving himself leverage to fuck so deep and hard into you that the air is knocked out of you for a moment. When you can finally take another breath, you're screaming for him, your pussy creaming around him from the endless pounding.

The sloppy wet sounds of your cunt accepting his battering over and over are eventually taken overby moans being ripped from your throat. His belt rattles about his waist with each smack of his hips into yours, you can feel the metal of his buckle, bitingly cold against your skin.

"That's it - fuck - you just fuckin' take - it. You take this cock." You can feel his balls draw up and his cock twitch inside you as he gets close to bursting. He fucks you relentlessly anyway, desperately holding back as long as he can, until he can hold no more.

He drags his cock sharply from your used cunt, throwing you back onto your back on his mattress. His large hand grips his cock and he jerks it over you.

"Oh fuck yeah, fuck yeah," he's practically chanting as he jerks himself, letting out a deep stuttery groan when he finally comes, spurting hot cum all over your soft thighs, belly, chest.

He doesn't aim, he doesn't care where he gets it, the action more akin to a dog pissing on a tree to mark its territory than anything else.

The only noise in the room when Joel's shoulders finally relax are your twin heavy breaths, punctuated by light whines that you just can't help. You're so overstimulated that when his hand comes down to your thigh, you don't realize that he's smearing his cum into you until he's rubbing it into your belly, spreading it across the peaks of your tits, up your neck and across your cheek.

He gives you a light tap on the face. "Look at me," he says, swiping a come coated finger across your lips. You're entirely fucked out, all you can do is look dumbly at him, totally cockdrunk.

"What do you say?"

"I... wha-..." you know what he means when he raises his eyebrows threateningly once again. "Th-thank you."

"That's right."

Suddenly he's yanking you up into a seated position and the blood rushes to your head. Another tug, the world spins, and you're on your feet, but you can barely trust your legs. He drags you from the room and before you know it your own clothes are in your arms, the remains of his come dribbling down your body.

"Get dressed," he stands with his arms crossed, looking at you, expectant.

You stare for a moment, totally lost in his dark eyes, before moving to get your clothes back on. You are still covered in his come, your pussy still buzzing from his spanking. At some point, he tucked his cock back into his pants. You didn't even notice, and you try to push down the disappointment of not getting to see it one last time.

Pulling your clothes back on with skin sticky from sweat and come isn't easy, but you eventually manage. When you stuff your feet into your shoes, he grabs you by the arm and drags you toward the door, unlatching it and pushing you toward the exit.

"I'll consider your debt paid," he murmurs into your hair from behind, pushing you out of his apartment a second later.

"Oh and, catch," he throws something to you but you miss, barely even turning in time at his words. It rattles as it hits the ground. Pills.

"Told you I'd give you something if you were good." Confirmation that you were good for him is all you need to feel another gush of wetness between your thighs. You feel like you could come again from his words and the rough feeling of your panties against your abused cunt.

"What do you say?" he asks again.

"Thank you."

He smirks before closing the door in your face.

You lick your lips as you walk away down the empty corridor tasting Joel Miller for the first time, pills in hand and debt paid.

He never even kissed you.

next part

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#joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller/reader #fic: SWAT #coveted fics

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cameronspecial · 9 months ago

Text

At Her Beck And Call

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Swearing and Assault

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.8K

Summary: Rafe may be out doing business, but he is never too busy for Y/N.

Masterlist

Everyone in the Outer Banks knows about Rafe’s explosive personality, especially towards the Pogues. The only person who is never at the wrong end of his anger is Y/N. He would never dare risk losing her by unleashing his anger on her. At the moment, she is safely at home, resting with their darling baby girl growing inside of her stomach. He is finishing up collecting the money from people who owe him from his drug dealer days. When he started dating Y/N, he stopped dealing less often; however, with a baby on the way, Rafe is ready to hang up the towel completely. Therefore, it is time for him to gather all the debts obligated to him. He finally tracks down the last person, Tanner Barrois. The Pogue is hiding out at a friend’s house but for enough money, anyone can betray their friend. Rafe bangs on the door as loud as he can and steps away from it. “What the fuck do you wan-” Tanner complains as he opens the door. Rafe gives him a wicked grin, “I want my fucking money, Asshole.” Tanner backs up into the house with his hands in the air. “I don’t have your money, but I can get it to you. I-I just need a few weeks,” he offers. Rafe shakes his head, “No, I already gave you three months. So where is my money?”

“I don’t have it!”

Rafe grips the front of Tanner’s shirt and slams him against the wall. His arm cocks, rushing towards Tanner’s nose at a fast pace. The room is silent, except for the sounds of Rafe’s fist hitting Tanner, until “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran begins to play out of nowhere. Something vibrating accompanies the song. Rafe keeps Tanner against the wall with one hand, while his other hand goes into his pocket for his phone. He brings it to his ear with a soft smile, “Hi, Dumpling. How are you and little dumpling doing?” “I’m hungry, Rafey,” the pregnant woman whines with her hands on her perturbing stomach. He chuckles, “And what can I pick up for you on my way home, Dumpling?” “I want Trader Joe’s French Vanilla ice cream, soya sauce, pickles and mayo please,” she pleads into the phone. He grimaces, “Please, tell me you aren’t going to eat all of those together.” “I don’t know yet. I guess you’ll have to find out when you get here,” she teases, knowing he gets grossed out by her weird pregnancy cravings. He sighs, “I guess I will. I’ll get those for you once I’m finished with my business. Okay? I love you.” “Thank you. I love you too. Bye,” she hangs up without another word.

The phone gets slipped back into his pocket and his attention returns to Tanner. “Now, where were we?” He punches Tanner again, shaking his hand out to try to rid himself of the blood. “I’m going to ask you again. Where is my money?” Rafe growls. Tanner whimpers, “I can get it to you by next week.” Tanner receives another blow to the head. “Not the answer I was looking for. So let’s try this once more,” Rafe warns, but he is again interrupted by the chime of his phone. “Is everything okay, Dumpling?” he worries into the speaker.

“It needs to be the tiny pickles. I don’t want the large ones. I don’t want the zig-zag cut ones or the straight-cut ones. I want the tiny ones. Okay?”

“Yes, I know, Dumpling. I promise they will be the tiniest ones I can find.”

“Good, thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Dumpling. Goodbye.”

Tanner’s face is in a bloody smirk. “What the fuck are you smiling at?” Rafe questions, digging his forearm into the Pogue's neck. Tanner gasps out, “You are so whipped for her.” Rafe’s eyebrows cave in and he strikes Tanner’s stomach. “Be careful what you say next, Motherfucker,” Rafe alerts. Tanner appears to have a death wish as he says the next sentence, “That bitch has your balls in a death grip and it’s pathetic.” His phone rings once more before he can reply. “Dumpling, you are really making me concerned about you,” he sighs into the phone. She pouts, “I’m sorry. I just wanted something to drink too.” “It’s okay, Dumpling. I want you to stay hydrated. So what can I get you?” he inquires. “Iced tea, please. And I promise this will be the last time I’m going to call. I’m going to take a nap while I wait for you to come home.”

“Iced tea, coming right up. Enjoy your nap, Dumpling. I’ll see you when I get home. I love you.”

“I love you so much, Rafey. Thank you. I can’t wait for you to come home. Muah.”

The line goes dead and he can’t help but put his phone away with a massive grin on his face. He weakens his hold on Tanner, “You better be thanking the lord that I am whipped for my girl because it is the only reason I am giving you another day to get the money. Don’t try to run because I will find you and your punishment will be so much worse than you can imagine. Now, if you would excuse me, I have to go to Trader’s Joe.”

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming

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ozarkthedog · 9 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐃

summary: while doing a deal with Marc, Joel comes to collect your debt.

pairing: (mob enforcer!Joel Miller x afab!reader) x dealer!Marc Spector.

warnings: 18+ mdni. dub con -> read responsibly. alt universe. soft!dark. no physical descriptors of reader. power imbalance. threats. debt to the mob. weed. no m/m. oral sex (f&m). rough sex. dirty talk. spit roasting. shotgunning. aftercare. w.c. 4.2k

author's note: honestly, this started out as pure filth/pwp, then it turned into so much more. there is potential for multiple parts, mostly revolving around Joel x reader. don't hold me to it, but like i said, this took on a life of its own, and now i'm madly in love with mob enforcer!Joel.

huge thank you to @ghotifishreads for beta-ing and being such a wonderful, supportive friend.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ♁ 𝐎𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞'𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲

The carpet in your tiny living room was slowly developing a hole from your pacing back and forth. You love this apartment. Sure, the faucets drip, and the dingy wallpaper started peeling the day you moved in, but it was all yours.

Since you moved to the big city after leaving home, you took any job you could find. You knew starting out on your own would be tough, but you could grin and bear it. Anything was better than small-town life. You wanted adventure, to see what the world had to offer.

What you didn’t plan on was getting involved with the wrong kind of people.

When you fell months behind on rent, a co-worker mentioned she knew someone who could help.

It was too good to be true, you thought, as you slowly walked into a smokey nightclub around midnight. Uptempo Spanish music played in the background as patrons drank at the bar, loudly singing and chattering. You tread deeper into the club, entering a VIP section where multiple gorgeous women sat on the laps of intimidating, finely dressed men in expensive suits.

Various sets of eyes spot you the moment you cross the threshold, but only one set feels like they’re burning into your soul.

An unnerving man with piercing brown eyes holds your wary gaze. He’s draped in a long, brown leather coat, and streaks of gray pepper his temples. He stands to the side, leaning against the wall, and watches with intrigue as you shift nervously on your feet.

His arms are crossed. A mustache tops his lips, which are etched in a permanent scowl as if he’s a dog that’s been kicked too many times. Still, he’s among the most handsome men you’ve seen since coming to the city.

He pushed off the wall with his broad shoulders, finally breaking his stare, and leaned down to whisper in the ear of a younger man seated at the head of the table, presumably his boss.

“You need a little help, Sugar?” the younger man asked.

His dark hair is a mess of curls, and his cheekbones look like they could cut glass. “I could use some help around the club. There’s always a gentleman in need of some company.” His fingers traced along a woman's nylon thigh as he looked you up and down. His coy lips tugged into a smirk as the group quietly laughed.

The brown-eyed man's face grimaced at the younger man's tone. You want to curl in on yourself. The smoke in the air makes it hard to breathe. “Uh, no,” you start, tonguing your dry lips. “I just need to borrow some money.”

The younger man purses his lips and nods. “That can be arranged. Joel here will take care of you.” He motioned to the older man on his right and looked you over with a curious gaze before waving you away.

Joel, the mob boss's right-hand man, meets you in the dingy alley behind the club. Water drips off the corner of the rooftop from the storm that blew through earlier in the day. A gust of cool fall air blows through, and you hug yourself to keep warm.

You learn that Joel was a no-nonsense man, straight to the point. Clear and precise.

He thrusts a heavy bag into your hands, and the leather handle creaks under the weight. “You sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” he asks, lighting a cigarette. Orange hues lit his features sinisterly as if he were a demon or creature from hell's depths.

You stood your ground, but the tremble in your voice gave you away. “Yeah, I know what I’m doing.”

Joel’s eyes go soft. It’s the first time he looks human since you first saw him. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered, shaking his head. He blows a long gust of smoke from his nose. “He expects to be paid, with interest, by the end of the month.”

You teethe your bottom lip with a nod as nauseous worry swarms your belly.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” he states, thumbing at his lips. “Just so we know you haven’t run off with our money.”

Your eyes widen, and your knees slightly buckle. “No! I don’t plan on taking off. You don’t have to worry about that.” You trip over your words, frantically making sure he knows you won’t rip them off.

He chuckles at the sight. It’s a deep, dark rumble from years of smoking and drinking, and it makes your cunt throb. “We don’t think you will, but it’s part of the job. Besides, having to keep track of such a pretty face ain’t so bad.” he muses, a light smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

An anxious, breathy laugh puffs from your chest. You hesitantly wring the leather handle as your eyes fall to the wet pavement.

A horn blares in the distance. Angry drivers yell into the night, breaking the perilous spell between you and the enforcer.

“If you ever need help with anythin', let me know, okay?” he offers before turning on his heel and returning to the club.

“How will I contact you? With a bat signal or something?” You asked quizzically.

He chuckled again, and it set your heart on fire. “Just call the club and ask for me, sweetheart.”

You were truly and utterly fucked.

It was the end of the month. Joel would arrive at 5pm to collect, and you had $50 measly dollars left in your bank account.

You’d squared up with your landlord and then some, paying for a few months in advance to show how grateful you were that he didn’t kick you out on the streets. What you didn’t plan on was getting fired from your job. You desperately tried to find another one, but you knew it was pointless as the end of the month slowly crept.

A knock on the door jars you from your thoughts. You scramble to open it, thankful your dealer was around today. You badly needed a smoke to curb your anxiety and impending doom.

Marc stands on your doorstep, beaming with his classic lopsided smile. “How’s it going?” He asks, making the short trip over to your couch, unbuttoning his long, black, and gray tweed coat before plopping down with a sigh.

“Uh, fine,” you reply quickly. “You know. Same old.”

“Same shit, different day, as I like to say.” He scratches his trimmed beard with a coy grin. He looks really good today. Dark gray hair gelled and tousled.

Nerves tug at your belly. You can taste the bitter doubt in the back of your throat.

Marc was a decent dealer. He let you start a tab when funds were low and gave you extra lighters and papers when needed. You knew to avoid crossing him, so what you had to do was extra tricky.

You sit on the floor across from him as he chucks a bag filled with joints onto the coffee table. Your body itches to feel the smoke burn your lungs.

“Wanna hang for a bit? Smoke with me?” you offer, already reaching for the joint with a timid smile.

Marc quirks a brow. He digs his phone out of his tweed jacket and checks the time. “Uh, yeah, sure. I can hang for a bit.”

You try to light the joint, but the lighter won’t spark.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Marc asks, taking the lighter from your shaky hands.

You silently nod and press the joint between your lips. Just as he lights the spliff, a knock sounds on your door.

You curse under your breath and hand the unlit joint to Marc. “Sorry. I’ll give whoever that is the boot.” He nods and sparks the joint, taking a long drag as you cross the distance to the door.

You yank open the door without thinking. “I don’t want anything you’re selli-”

“Hey there, Sweetheart,” a familiar, deep voice drawls.

You stand like a deer in headlights before the intimidating mob enforcer.

He wasn’t supposed to be here so early. That’s the last time you open your door without checking the peephole.

“What’re you doing here, Joel?” you inquire, leaning in close so Marc doesn’t hear. "I have until tonight to give you the money."

The older man's leather jacket is pulled tight around his rugged shoulders as he leans in your doorway. His salt and pepper curls look damp as if you were his first stop after he got out of the shower.

“The boss has plans later and wants to ensure you're paid up.”

You wanted to scream.

“This isn’t fair.” Your fists clench at your sides.

“That’s life, Sweetheart’.” Joel shrugs. “So, where’s the money?"

It takes every ounce of courage you have to stand your ground.

“No. The boss said I had until 5pm, so I won’t give you anything until then. Now kindly, leave.”

You slam the door, but not quickly enough. A worn boot slides between the frame and the door, halting your escape.

“God dammit,” Joel fumes, shoving the door open, sending you flying back into your living room.

You catch yourself before you fall and watch as the enforcer makes his way into your sacred space. Now you know what it feels like to be on his wrong side. He kicks the door shut with his foot, ready to pounce, but freezes when he sees Marc.

“Miller.” Marc acknowledges from his laid-back position on the couch, joint pinched between his fingers.

Joel’s jaw twitches. “Spector.”

“So, what’s going on here?” Marc asks, gesturing with a curious wave. He then blows a lungful of smoke into the room and flicks bits of burning embers into an ashtray.

“None of your business,” Joel grits before focusing his attention back on you.

You do your best not to cower in front of the large man as he stalks closer. “You don’t want to make the boss angry.” He says, in an eerily calm voice, one that makes your hair stand on end. “Where’s the money?”

“I don’t have it.” You admit, barely louder than a whisper.

His jaw clenches hard. He shakes his head in disbelief, hands perched on his hips. His eyes grow scarily dark. "That’s not what I want to hear.”

“I don’t know what to say. I have a few dollars left in my account,” Your voice wavers.

Joel drags a heavy palm over his face and sighs. “What were you thinking? How were you going to pay him?” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder to your dealer.

“I, uh, I had a plan.” Your fingers wring at the seam of your shirt, and nausea swarms your belly.

Marc stands and finally joins the conversation. “Yeah, I’d like to know how you intended to pay me.”

You shift on your feet, eyes darting between the two more prominent and influential men.

“I was going to offer to blow you.” The words tumble out so quickly that you wonder if they even heard you.

You wish the floor would open up and suck you in. It was bad enough that you had to resort to blowing your dealer, but now Joel was here to witness everything and most likely drag you to a certain death.

“For fucks sake,” the older man groans.

Marc’s brow shoots into his hairline. He whistles as his eyes drag down your body. “You sure got yourself into a real jam here, huh?” He licks his bottom lip and steps closer. “I think something could be arranged, at least on my end. What about you?” He claps a hand on Joel's back, barely moving the powerhouse of a man. He was an enforcer, after all. This job wasn’t just for anyone.

Joel shakes his head in dismay. His leather jacket creaks as he moves, lightning fast, quickly pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, Sweetheart.” He informs, “Since I’ve taken a likin’ to you, I’d hate to see you get hurt. I’ll pay off your debt.”

The heavy weight you’d dragged around for the last week falls from your shoulders. You didn’t realize you’d stop breathing until the sweet air rushed into your lungs.

“But,” he continues, rubbing his thumb across your bottom lip, “you’re going to pay me back in kind.”

The heaviness returns, except now you’re afraid the extreme weight will crush you.

Joel notices your racing thoughts. “Shh. No need to think,” he murmurs, letting his hand fall to your hip and making himself comfortable. “Just be grateful you’ve got to deal with only me and Spector.”

His eyes are solemn and tender, lost in his thoughts; his gaze travels across your face. You raise a cautious hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat under the smooth leather. That magnetic pull you felt the first time you met him pulsed through your veins again, and you think he felt it, too.

Then, his features twisted with remorse. "This wasn't what I had in mind, but you've left me no choice, Sweetheart."

In a flash, Joel drags you across the worn floorboards and carelessly tosses you over the back of your couch. The air knocks from your lungs. Your ribs flash bright with pain. He moves too fast for you to protest and tugs your leggings off, throwing them across the small room.

“Best get to work, Spector, if you plan on getting your end of the deal,” Joel threatens the dealer as he crouches down, giving himself a front-row view of your exposed cunt.

“Let’s get a look at the goods.” His large, warm hands roughly spread your cheeks apart. “Fuck me. That’s a sweet looking pussy.” He drags a thumb up the slice of you, making your spine bow as your hands press into the cushions. “Already wet, too. My kinda girl.”

Unconsciously, you strike an elbow back, but an imposing figure grabs your flailing limb, halting your retaliation.

You forgot about the other man in the room.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t ever wonder how you’d look with my cock in your mouth,” Marc admits while fisting his length out.

He’s half-hard and already intimidating. You stare up at him incredulously while he grasps his veiny girth and traces your tightly closed mouth with the weeping, dusky pink tip. He smears his pre-cum on your skin, marking you before he begins his corruption.

Joel smacks your ass hard, making you yelp and shoving you onto the dealer’s awaiting cock. You instantly gag as Marc's hips pitch forward once he feels your warm, wet mouth. He curses under his breath, cages your head between his hands, and begins sawing his cock back and forth over your tongue.

His brute thrusts make you gag and spring tears to your eyes. “Come on now. Why the waterworks? This was your plan, after all,” Marc teases, patting your damp cheek.

Without warning, Joel’s tongue dives into your heat. A blazing heat erupts in your belly as he licks from end to end, wild and ferocious, not stopping until he tastes every inch of you.

You instinctively moan from the blissful arousal that begins to pulse from his treatment. He laves at your taint and tickles your untouched rosebud for a beat forcing your mind to somersault before traveling south to circle his tongue around your clit.

“Could eat this cunt all damn day,” he slurs against your throbbing core like he's drunk off you. “God damn, s’fuckin’ delicious.”

Joel sucks the tiny button into his mouth, earning a whole body shiver as you writhe against the couch. He rubs his nose against your soaked folds, making sure to take deep breaths while he eats you alive.

Marc leans to his left while he works his cock ruthlessly down your throat, making you sputter as the bulbous head prods your tonsils.

You hear a click. The sound of paper igniting and then a long, deep breath.

Marc leers down at you while holding the smoke in his lungs. He curls a hand around the back of your head and presses until the auburn wiry strands littering his girthy base tickle your nose. Then, he exhales, blowing a long, winding breath like a dragon down into your face.

Your vision blurs from the vapor. The trapped oxygen burns your lungs, and your body quivers from your helpless position while you gag sickly around his cock. Joel winds his arms under your belly, keeping you steady as you thrash anxiously.

When Marc finally lets you free, you sputter and suck down as much air as you can. A glossy strand of drool connects your lips to his throbbing cock. You sniff and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand as his fat length bounces in your view. “You look fuckin’ wasted, Kitten.” He quips with a languid laugh and takes another hit.

Joel stands behind you, knees cracking as he towers over your vulnerable body. You warily look over your shoulder when he grinds his against the soft skin of your ass.

You’re caught in his wretched stare like a deer in headlights. “Best hope this pussy fucks as good as it tastes,” he threatens, tapping his bulbous, weeping crown on your sticky folds.

Joel gives no warning before he steadily pushes his obscene length into your heat. Your jaw drops with a raspy wail, allowing Marc to fill your mouth again and mute your frantic moans. You feel every vein and girthy inch of Joel’s cock splitting you open, as well as Marc's, as he glides his thickness over your tongue.

It seems to go on forever until they bottom out harmoniously. Joel presses his hips against your ass, and his plush lips pull into a sneer as your core stretches to accommodate him. “Oh, Sweetheart. This cunt is practically chokin’ me.” He provokes with a ragged groan, rubbing his thumb along the glistening, excessively stretched skin that embraces his cock.

A high-pitched whine slithers from your throat before it’s quickly cut off by Marc snapping his pelvis. Joel licks his creamy thumb with a dark chuckle before caging your hips in his steely grasp. He sets a steady rhythm, entirely withdrawing before shoving his cock back in, giving you no reprieve as Marc continuously thrusts his dripping length between your spit-coated lips.

Your body burns. Your mind is warped. Joel's cock keeps brushing against that spongy spot behind your clit. It's all too much. You feel yourself losing strength, giving in. Either from lack of oxygen to your brain or your greedy cunt that's feeding off their wretched pleasure.

"You gonna come, Sweetheart? Can feel her milkin' me real good. Shit-" Joel hisses as your velvet walls squeeze him tight.

Both your holes lock around their cocks as you come. Your eyes roll back, your spine bending like a bow as the harsh wave of desire ripples through you.

Both men curse at the sight and feel of you.

It shouldn’t feel this good being used and tossed around like a toy, but a thick, syrupy heat steadily gathers in your belly. With your head in the drug-induced clouds, every illicit touch sends you higher into a euphoric atmosphere.

“Wanna hit?” Marc offers, holding the joint between his fingers to the enforcer.

Joel finally tears his eyes away from where he’s spearing you open. He nods, stilling his hips, and extends a hand before pressing the joint between his lips. He takes a long drag before splaying his broad body over yours.

You notice him in your peripheral as he watches you choke down Marc’s cock. “What a fuckin’ sight,” he drawls, joint bouncing between his lips. “Swallowin’ his cock like your life depends on it.” He roughly drives his hips forward, his leaky crown cruelly kissing your cervix, making you gag from the agonizing bliss. “Kinda ironic that it does.”

You feel their cocks pulse in unison when you start writhing at Joel’s threat. You knew they wouldn’t hurt you, but the thought was too much to bear in your current state. They quickly make work of your flailing limbs; Joel grabs the back of your neck with a heavy paw, and Marc traps both your hands in his own, caging them against his stout stomach.

They set a brutal pace. You no longer feel in control of your body as they use you to get off. The room echoes with the sounds of gluttony, like feral animals staking their rightful claim on lowly prey.

Marc comes with a growl, caging your head between his hands as you push against his abdomen, and fucks his salty release into your mouth. He collapses onto the couch with a ragged sigh, his engorged cock a shiny mess as he catches his breath.

“Gotta get used to this, sweetheart,” Joel gloats in your ear, working an arm around your collarbone to pull you back onto his cock, forcing you to meet every one of his brutal shoves. “Your pretty pussy is gonna be ruined by the time your debt is paid in full.”

Marc cups your jaw in one of his hands and takes a puff of his joint. He slides a thumb between your sticky, come coated lips and blows the smoke into your mouth. You gladly inhale, letting the drug work its magic. Joel grabs your hips and picks up his speed, greedy for his pleasure.

He comes with a gruff, dark groan, snapping his hips hard against your ass until he's buried to the hilt and pumping his sticky load into your fluttering core.

You collapsed onto the cushions once Joel let go of your hips, your body too weak and drugged to care to move despite your vulnerable state.

“We’re square, Kitten.” Marc grazes your cheek with his knuckles, and a sly grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “But anytime you want a hit and can’t pay, I’ll be more than happy to help you out,” Marc quips before silently nodding at Joel and leaves with a bounce in his step.

"Come're, Sweetheart." Large hands slide under your belly and help you stand on your feet. His eyes soften as he looks over your puffy eyes and swollen, slick coated lips. He cups your cheek and sighs through his nose. "Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

A rush of water hits your ears as Joel turns the shower faucet. You stand behind him like a child waiting for their next instruction before he turns back to you with a slight smile.

"Up and over. That's it," Joel says, ensuring you don't bump your elbows as he removes your shirt, folds it, and places it on your vanity. He helps you step into the shower before he sits on the toilet lid and watches you through the clear plastic curtain.

Silence falls over the tiny bathroom as he lets you take solace under the stream.

You melt in the warmth. It eases your aches and dulls your overwrought senses. You stay there until your skin prunes and icy cold water pours from the tap.

He helps you step out of the tub, ensuring you're on solid ground before grabbing a towel hanging on the wall and wrapping you in the soft cotton.

"You'll stay with me until your debt is paid," he said, resting his hands on your shoulders; the weight keeps you grounded as your world turns upside down.

"You won't have to worry about anythin'," he continues, carefully drying your body with a tenderness you didn't expect. "I'll pay your rent, so you still have this place when our transaction is complete."

You know you should be upset. A screaming, raging mess but seeing such a dangerous man on his knees drying water droplets from your body makes you lightheaded with alarming power.

He stands when you don't outwardly react. His lips are pressed into a worried, hard line, his hands are perched on his hips, and a sharp brow wrinkles his forehead. "Okay?"

The vexation that laces his tone snaps you out of the dumbstruck fog. You knew there was only one right answer.

“Yes,” you rasp, defeated.

He smirks, softly chuckling under his breath at your submission.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he says, cupping your jaw like he's drinking from a stream; God knows what brutality those hands have dealt out. "I trust you'll still be here when I get back."

You nod quickly under his grave stare.

He plants a searing kiss on your lips, making you gasp. It's dominating and possessive, like he's christening the start of your new life together by licking into your mouth and claiming you.

He breaks the kiss with a grunt and nudges your nose with his own. "Thatta girl."

He holds your gaze as he slowly walks backward out of the room. "Pack enough for the next week. I'll swing by later to get the rest," he instructs before turning and walking out your door.

You're left standing in your tiny bathroom, panting like a newborn fawn. Your legs wobble as you move to sit on the toilet lid and clutch the towel tighter to your chest; heart smashing against your ribs.

Joel was right. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into.

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

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#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #marc spector #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #pedro pascal #oscar isaac

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