#i jus know that jimmy GRIPS his dick

[gurokiitty]

a/n : no thoughts, just slippin' jimmy

RUINATION

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

word count : 1486

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

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

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

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

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

And he did watch you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t help himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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