#yet they share the same smile | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bitterrfruit · 11 days ago

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kerosene

ghost x f!reader. 17k words. cw: noncon. kidnapping. gun violence. free use. smut. mentions of involuntary groinal responses lol. simon is a smug asshole and reader is into it you get robbed at gun point while working the lone register at a nowhere petrol station. the money in the till is not the only thing he takes with him. or [read on ao3]

Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so they say.

The devil should have been busy with you, then. Malignant boredom had taken root in you, rankled in every crevice and swell, metastasized like knobbly tumours that parasitised on your will to live until only the gritty alluvium was left.

You began your shift behind the till at the Gulf station in the late afternoon, shy of four p.m., as you had done yesterday and as you would tomorrow. You took over from Mitchell, who worked the morning shift, the old man with a wiry grey beard and eyebrow hairs like corkscrews sticking haywire out of his forehead. You’d work until midnight, when you would be replaced by Charlie, a pinguid twenty-something with legs like beanpoles and eyes so sunken they were hollow as caves in his skull.

They had been your co-workers for the better part of three years, yet they might as well have been strangers to you. The scant exchanges you would share with them were a few words at shift change, if that. Mitch would prattle on about some rude geezer and tell the same story about his ex-wife that he had every other week. Charlie, bedecked in his cheap headphones and carrying an egg sandwich cling-wrapped by his grandmother, would only give you a nod and ask been busy? with little attention paid to your answer.

You had been offered the morning shift when you first started.

The owner of the franchise station, Dave, was uneasy about the prospect of a ripe (his word) young woman working alone behind the register after dark, at a nowhere white-pole station in the sticks, where the only customers were long-haulers and on-the-way-home farmers. A just concern, you supposed, and a part of you had considered taking him up on his offer.

You refused, in the end.

Told him that someone like Mitch (frail, near-blind, on the cusp of Alzheimer’s) would far more likely be victimised by the ilk of patrons that trudged through the station. In your experience, anyway, most of the late-night customers that came through the push-door understood the implication of a burly old man being served by a young woman on her own. They’d tread more carefully, offer you kind smiles, sometimes mention their wives to make sure you understood they were not a threat to you.

There was always the odd lecher, though. Goes without saying.

The kinds of yellow-toothed men that would lean too far over the counter, talk to you like they knew you, overly familiar. The type to ask you to smile for them, or for a discount, or for your number. Ones that would joke about coming back, just to visit you. That would say you’re too pretty to be working in a dump like this, you should be in a bar instead. Maybe on a pole. Maybe in the passenger seat of their truck, to keep them company.

It never frightened you, really, because nothing ever happened. You stuck with the late shift because it offered the fanciful possibility that something interesting might come to pass. Maybe, if you were lucky, there would be a car wreck outside the station, or a patron threatening enough to justify hitting the panic button, or a fire set off by the fuel pump and you’d finally be able to put the ten-year-old extinguisher to use.

But you were confident that every shift would be the same, as always.

Nothing would happen, you would drive home to your shoddy seventies cottage in the pit-stop hamlet of Dunhill, eat a frozen pastry, sleep alone, and do it all over again. Days came and went like empty boxes on a trundling conveyor belt, your life a deserted factory, only still whirring because the last attendant forgot to switch off the machinery when they left.

Today was no different.

You perused the grocery shelves with cheap earbuds stuffed in your ears, the kind with squishy mushroom plugs that made it sound like you were underwater. Shuffling through the same playlist you had been slowly adding to over the last year — you liked the songs you already knew every word to, creature of habit that you were. Busied yourself by twisting the canned foods so that their labels all faced outwards, then backwards, just for a laugh.

It got to half-nine, the sun had long since set, and you had served one customer since your shift started. A middle-aged man with a muddy van, who bought three RedBulls and a pack of Chesterfields, and half a tank of diesel. He scarcely acknowledged you, a hi when he walked in and a cheers when he left.

Your meal for the evening was a pack of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps and a bottle of chocolate milk, plucked from the shelves and not logged. Leaned back in the plastic chair behind the till with your Chucks propped up on the counter, some Sally Rooney book with its spine broken folded in half in your hand.

You had milk in your mouth when you heard the characteristic thud of a closing car door, a harsher slam than you were used to. Attuned to the noise even while your ears were plugged. You swallowed it hard when you heard the chime of the bell, the swing of the door, the thuds of boots. New customer.

Sat upright, you peered over the register to see who had entered the station, and you were flummoxed when there was nobody there.

You grabbed your earbuds by the flimsy cord and tugged them from your ears with a pop — there were footsteps, someone was there, you weren’t crazy. You could hear the sound of provisions being swept from shelves and shoved into a bag, the bonking of cans and the crinkling of plastic.

Only once you stood did you see the head above the shelves.

Black hood up, you only saw the side of him as he wandered down the aisle, towering beast shuffling along and torpidly picking things up just to put them down again. A foot taller than the racks he meandered between. Wore a black leather bomber over his hooded sweater, well-worn hide, turned tawny brown in the creases and at the edges. All bulky, padded up. His shoulders swayed with the bravado of a gladiator who spent his life unchallenged.

Had you any remaining hospitality in your system you’d have greeted him, but you circumspectly held your tongue.

There was something in his presence that did not augur well. Something crooked, something bent. Turned the tired air inside the station dyspneic, too dense and thick to comfortably breathe.

Call it a woman’s intuition, if you believed in such a thing.

Simon hadn’t accounted for a bird at the till.

He’d have expected some ruddy-cheeked man with buck teeth and brown-bordered sweat stains on his shirt. The typical clerk at a shithole backroads petrol station, in his experience. They’d shoot him a grimy look, eye him up-and-down with a curl in their lip, all ruffian until he brandished the Sig Sauer he had tucked in the waistband of his jeans.

That was what he had prepared for. He came to stick the gunmetal barrel in the face of the old bloke behind the register, demand every stack of cash from the till drawer and anything valuable he had on his person, maybe fire at the ceiling if he moved too slowly. Piece of cake. In and out.

Instead, it was you.

Sneakers propped up by the register, sucking the crisp dust off your fingers with pink lips. Reading a book as disinterestedly as you might watching paint dry.

Unlucky for you, it didn’t make a difference that you had a pair of tits. He wanted that money.

Your chary little head poked up from behind the counter once he was done collecting his supplies. A few cans of Baked Beans, couple bags of crisps, some vacuum-sealed biersticks. A roll of gauze and a bottle of Dettol for the flesh wound in his thigh. Pack of tissues. Bic lighter. KitKat for a treat. All shoved in the duffle bag he held in his fist, heavy with the wads of cash he had already collected from the last pit-stop on his trip north — an offy in a piss-stained back alley in Cheltenham. Grabbed a few pilsners for the road from there, too.

He forsook his urgency as he approached the register, measured pace, duffle in hand. Eyeing you up with each step as if you were a candybar on a display rack.

Pretty wee thing.

He hadn’t even shown you his gun yet, and your eyes were already peeled wide, glistening in the bright fluorescent lights hanging overhead.

None of the goods he intended to pay for. He didn’t need to make that any clearer to you, the assumption was already plastered on your face as he loomed towards you. Had his mask on, after all; thick black ski mask pulled over his head, jagged holes cut out for his eyes. No doubt that made quite plain his intentions.

You stood pin straight, curling the purple cord of your earbuds between your fingers as if some attempt to ground yourself. Not a drop of makeup on, he could see the satin sheen of sweat on your forehead, the plum rings unconcealed under your eyes. Nobody to impress out here. Still pretty.

“Um, which pump?” You asked flatly, tone meek, in denial of the obvious.

Your stupefied stare followed his hand as it ventured to the base of his sweatshirt, a frown fluttering in your brows as you all but tilted your head in anxious confusion. He reeled up the heavy fleece, white t-shirt underneath — but that wasn’t what your eyes clung to.

His hand curled around the grip of his handgun, plucking it out from the waistband and holding it insouciantly at his side. No need to point it at you, not yet.

Your skin turned cadaver grey as your blood flooded to your feet, eyes bulging with the instantaneous panic that wracked you as though you had been smacked in the face with it.

“Oh my god — ohm — oh my god,” you squeaked, tongue knotting in your mouth, tears quick to fill your kittenish eyes. “Oh my god — y-you—”

It was this, the histrionics, that he hoped to avoid. The tears, Christ, the fucking tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about, not yet, but your eyes glowed sanguine, and the tears that oozed from them were clear and glittery. Rolled dramatically from their wells and dripped from your chin, seeped into the corners of your trembling mouth. All flushed and glossy and he hadn’t even spoken yet.

There was no blood-curdling outburst, though. You didn’t scream, didn’t wail, didn't scurry around hysterically like a decollated hen. You were stiff as a board, arms pinned flat to your sides. Merely whispered the Lord’s name in vain over and over as if he might answer your call.

“Please — ohmygod — please don’t hurt me,” you cried, lungs seizing with every word, hiccuping and spluttering like you had just been pulled ashore. “What do you want, you can — you can take anything. P-please—”

“Shut up,” he barked, and you flinched at his aggression. “Just open the fuckin’ till.”

You nodded so vehemently he thought your head might roll off your shoulders, and your pallid hands began raking over your body in desperate search of the pocket you kept your keys in. His glare followed keenly as they ran over your hips, waist, unabashedly caressing your arse in the search. After finding them in a back pocket you tried to orient the keys in your grip, but your fingers trembled so vigorously that you immediately dropped them to the linoleum floor.

“Fuck — I’m sorry,” you bleated as you bent down to pick them up, eyes still riveted to him, “I’m sorry, let me just — please, I’m sorry—”

He let out a grunt of exasperation as he marched around to the other side of the counter, your feet remained planted still as though you were bolted to the floor, leery eyes following him while your head kept rigid.

A deer in headlights. Fawn, more like. Small and doe-eyed and too stupid to get out of his way.

You only whimpered when he jostled you away from the till, physically driving you to the wall with his hands under your arms, clearing his path. He took your shaky little hand in a fist and peeled it open, plucking the keys from your sweaty palm.

The register was old, something from the nineties, yellow-faded plastic with cube-clacky buttons. He shoved the tiny key into its slot on the drawer, gave it a good shimmy to loosen it up, and it popped open with a ding.

Pretty much empty.

“The fuck is this?” He growled, fingering through the notes in the drawer — all twenty-two of them. “There’s fuckin’ nothing in ‘ere!”

Your face screwed up like a wrung cloth when his glare shot to you. Great gulping sobs, your eyes squeezed into fleshy little crescents and spewed tears from either corner, terror rilling from your nose and making your lips all wet.

“I’m sorry — it’s not my — I think Mitch m-must have done the cash drop this morning,” you wailed, “Please — it’s not my f-f-fault!”

“Shut up,” he snapped, jutting the mouth of his Sig Sauer at you, callously reminding you of the fate he held in his grip.

He snarled to himself as he plucked out all of the notes, flipped through them to count it up. Nine fivers, six tenners, five twenties, two fifties. A few quid worth of coins floating around unorganised between the compartments. A prodigious spoil of three-hundred-and-five pounds.

Fucking joke.

He rancorously shoved all the paper in the bag — left the coins, ego too tall to fish out the petty change.

“Piss take,” he grumbled as he slammed shut the till drawer. “What else y’got.”

You blinked up at him timorously as he tucked his gun into his jeans and marched towards you, almost buckling over as though you could curl up into a shell to protect yourself from him.

Only cried as he spread your arms, shamelessly smearing his hands over your body to feel for something in a pocket. Down your waist, stomach, hips; all pillowy under the pressure of his hands, soft even through your t-shirt. Prodded the undersides of your breasts with shameless fingers, checking for anything tucked in your bra, and your lips curled in disgust as you looked away from him.

He almost cracked a smile at your diffidence. Maybe another time, pretty thing.

He flipped you around, manhandling you until your nose pressed into the wall. Hands smoothed down your back, before finding something rectangular tucked into the tight pocket of your skinny jeans. You squeaked in dispute as he stuck his fingers in the pocket, flush with your arse, but he had no time to enjoy it.

Little red wallet.

He flicked through it — a visa debit card, expired Primark gift card, two quid in the zipped pocket and a tenner note folded in a card sleeve. Eyed your license for longer than necessary — cute little photo of you, a tiny smirk in your lips as you gazed at the camera.

“Pretty name,” he said wryly, and you only huffed with your forehead pressed against the wall.

He didn’t bother taking any of the change. Looked like you needed it as much as he did. You winced when he pushed a finger in your back pocket, tugging it open so he could shove your wallet back in.

He instead returned his attention to the checkout, scouring the counters for anything else that could be deemed at all valuable. Nothing, obviously. Merely cardboard display racks of chewing gum and cheap candies. There was a cigarette cabinet behind the till, at least — after some fiddling he found the key on the chain that fit the lock, broke open the steel door, and swept an entire rack of cartons into the duffle bag.

As a last resort, he dropped the bag and crouched down, wiped underneath the countertops with gloved hands, hoping for a vault, a hidden compartment, or—

His fingers brushed plastic, creasing and soft; something wrapped in film, taped to the underside of the counter. He tore it off with a zip, held it in a tight hand; a stack of notes, more than a centimetre thick, wrapped with a hair tie and shoved in a zip-seal sandwich bag.

You let out a remorseful sob as you sunk to the floor with your back against the wall; thighs tucked to your chest, head dropped to your knees.

A grin peeled his lips from his teeth as the realisation settled. “This yours?”

“No,” you chirped, a pitiful attempt at a lie — he was unsure why you wouldn’t admit to it, it wasn’t as though he’d have informed your boss.

“Skimming, eh?” He snorted, peeling open the yellow seam of the plastic pouch and fishing out the stack. Flipped through them — mostly tens and twenties — easily a couple grand, at the very least.

“I just—” you sobbed, shoulders hunched, “I was just saving up. It doesn’t matter. Just t-take it.”

“Saving?” He asked incredulously, voice thick with amused derision. “Little thief. No better than me, are ya?”

“Whatever,” you bellyached, arms wrapped around your knees, snivelling on the floor.

He sucked his teeth as he dumped the stack in his bag. Too bad. His now.

As he went to stand, though, he went dead still — eyes hooked on a flashing blue light under the counter. Squinting, he leaned closer, to substantiate his hunch—

A fucking panic button.

His rage burst like a purulent blister, apoplectic with it, he ripped his handgun from his jeans and steamed towards you.

“You fuckin’ hit the alarm?” He roared, and you shrieked in terror as he took the collar of your t-shirt in a fist and heaved you up from the ground.

“I — I’m — I didn’t—”

Your spluttering only enkindled his fury. You cried out in despairing dread when he shoved the mouth of his pistol into the soft flesh under your chin, and he held his teeth to your cheek.

“Why the fuck would you go and do that, eh?” He growled, inexplicably disappointed. Thought you were smarter than that.

“I’m sorry,” you bawled, shaking your head, wet eyes bolted to the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to do, I just — I thought I was s’posed to, I’m s-sorry. Please — god, please, don’t kill me.”

He huffed, jaw rigid.

He wouldn’t put a bullet in you, pretty thing. Too lovely to mire with lead, that butter-soft skin.

It was a shame you were such a thorn in his side, fractious girl, because otherwise he would have just left you be. Would have taken his cash and been done with it, left you in your piss-wet jeans to cry to your boss about the ordeal and rightfully request some weeks off to escape to somewhere more therapeutic for the soul than fucking Dunhill.

“Would be a damn waste,” he grunted, finally pulling his gun from under your chin, sticking the barrel into his jeans. A moan of relief leaked from your throat once the instrument of your imminent death was no longer kissing your jaw.

Premature relief, love. He grappled you away from the wall, and with a shove, had you in front of him. You yelped when he collared you with a tight hand around the back of your neck, stumbled over your feet as he began driving you forward.

“What are you—”

“Use those legs, girl,” he barked, as he reached to hoist up his duffle bag from where he left it on the floor.

You blubbered like a toddler, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, as if your tears might engender pity from him. “Are you t-taking me?”

“Not gonna leave you to blab to the cops, am I?”

Another sob. “No — I wouldn’t — I won’t say anything, I don’t even know what you look like. Please—”

“Christ, you’re a whinger, aren’t you?” He rumbled, barrelling through the swinging door and hauling you across the asphalt of the forecourt.

The air was thick with the greasy smell of petrol seeping from lousy fuel pumps, amalgamated with the distant fumes of factory farms and cow manure that hung in a blanketing smog from there to Birmingham. Only the corrugated metal infrastructure of beef and dairy industries for miles in any direction out there.

He couldn’t fathom what a bird like you was doing with her feet in the mud, stagnating in such a miserable shithole. Maybe he was doing you a favour.

He tore open the passenger door of his twenty-year-old Mitsubishi L200 — a rusty black pickup he bought with cash from a shrivelled old man on Gumtree, with hopefully just enough life in it to last the drive north.

You stuck your hand out and planted it on the edge of the door as he pushed you towards it, vigorously shaking your head. “No, n-no — I’m not going with you, I’m not—”

He snorted, and when you didn’t capitulate with a shove, he swept an arm under your knees and hoisted you upward before dumping you into the passenger seat whether you liked it or not. You landed with a squeak, and before you could spew out any more vacant refusals he slammed shut the door.

He stormed around to the drivers side and hopped in beside you, tossing his duffle bag back between the seats, hastily igniting the engine as he shut his own door. Hit the central lock button and the entire truck locked shut with a clunk — you whimpered when you heard it, and turned your knees away from him.

“Where are you taking me?” You cried, as he revved the truck and rapidly accelerated, tearing out of the forecourt and over the curb, landing on the road with a sharp bounce and a tire screech.

He paid little attention to your whimpering as he sped off down the dilapidated country road, eyes flicking to the rearview every odd second to make sure he saw no flashing lights in pursuit. The vehicle dipped and recoiled over every pothole on the crumbling old road — motorway would be preferable, but he decided heading in the opposite direction to loop back around would be the safest bet.

You only sobbed quietly to yourself in his silence, no doubt his lack of response was a threat in itself.

He had no issue frightening you. Served you right.

Took some morbid glee in considering what you imagined he planned on doing with you. Whether you considered weighing up your chances. Might you survive if you were to attack him? Would he go easy on you? Might he enjoy the struggle?

Perhaps you were girding yourself for what he might do next.

Truth was, he hadn’t decided yet.

His decision to take you was as impulsive as it was inexorable.

You weeped until your tear troughs were droughted and nothing more could bleed from their ducts. Cheeks had gone sticky with it, salt dried gritty on your flushed skin, lips shrivelled and thirsty.

Transient thoughts of rebellion had been ignited and snuffed out in the ten minutes since he had abducted you from the station — you could have reached over and pulled the gun from his waistband, could have tried to kick through the passenger window, could have thrown a nuclear tantrum and bucked and screamed until he was forced to pull over.

All would have been futile. You weren’t stupid.

He had that gun in his immediate reach; in fact he kept a heavy hand resting high up on his thigh, prepared to yank it out of its nest above his crotch at any given opportunity. He had made abundantly clear the shortness of his fuse, and that his reflexive reaction to annoyance was to threaten your life.

Best you settle down, you thought — wait until his guard was down, until he pulled over somewhere, then consider something more drastic. While you were trapped in a car with him such an opportunity was unlikely to present itself.

There were no streetlights out this way; your abductor had bypassed Dunhill entirely, sticking to unmaintained back roads that had you bouncing up and down in your seat. Not the motion alone that made you queasy, but the fact he was driving even deeper into nowhere, where the only sources of light were the headlights of his truck, illuminating the dark road ahead like something out of a found-footage horror film.

“You didn’t answer my question,” you croaked, voice abraded to the point of gurgling stones.

You felt his head turn to look at you, but you kept your stare pointed out your window. Knees turned so far away from him that they burrowed into the door.

“Eh?” He huffed dryly.

Sipped a cautious breath before repeating yourself. “Where are you taking me?”

“I’m ‘eaded north,” he said, no elaboration.

“Where north,” you asked more firmly, warily frustrated.

He let out a breathy chortle, as though surprised you’d interrogate him. “Scotland.”

You cocked your head back in bewilderment and turned to glower at him. “Scotland?”

“S’what I said.”

“I don’t want to go to Scotland,” you whined, realising quickly the length of the drive — easily six hours to Glasgow if he stuck to the motorways, but you got the sense he was avoiding them.

“That’s a shame,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” you pleaded, terror thick in your throat. “What do you — what do you want from me?”

You regretted the question as soon as you uttered it, because there was some comfort to be found in uncertainty — that is, the possibility that he wasn’t going to throw you into the bed of his truck and rape you in the pitch dark of the backcountry night.

He looked at you again, eyes tar-black in the shadows of his balaclava, and you held shut your thighs on instinct.

“Dunno yet,” he said.

You might have cried if you had any tears left to give. Instead you blinked at him uneasily, petrified into a surreal state of milky numbness — maybe you were in shock, you had heard of that before.

“So you — you just took me because you felt like it?”

He shrugged with a single shoulder. “‘Spose so.”

A minute of stodgy silence settled in the cab as you stared blankly ahead down the spotlighted country road. You weren’t sure what you should do with yourself, and it made you itch all over. From the pits of you echoed screams to put up a fucking fight, to do something — instead you sat quietly, vacantly, erosively indecisive. Waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop.

“Are you going to shoot me?” You timidly asked, words eking out like dripping water from a tight faucet.

“Hopefully not.”

“Then — then why did you take me?”

His head rocked back and bounced off the headrest as he let out an exasperated puff of air. “Y’make a lot o’ noise, don’t you?”

“Well there would be no noise if you hadn’t.”

He laughed at that, you could see the fine lines creasing in the corner of his puckering eyes through his mask. “Got me there.”

“So then why don’t you just let me out?” You pestered, only emboldened by his droning indifference. Apathy exuded from him like serum from an open wound, oily yet salutary, and you found it grotesquely reassuring.

“Don’t want to,” he bluntly replied.

“Why not?”

He was twitchy. On a razor edge. He lasered a glare at you and it stung, and you shrunk into yourself under the heat of it.

“Because I don’t want to.” He repeated, jaw tight.

You should have heeded the venom in his throat as a warning to shut up, but despite effort to wire your jaw shut, your compulsion to fill the silence was pathological.

“Are you — are you going to—” Couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. The tail of it sat heavy and sour on your tongue.

“Goin’ to what.”

A quivering breath leaked through your teeth. “Rape me.”

He sighed heavily, languidly rocking his head to the side, and you felt his hard eyes on you. Excoriating you from legs to lips.

“Thought about it,” he said.

Ribs closed like dog jaws around your lungs.

Said with such torpor that it didn’t cut you like a threat. Instead it made your heart tight and hot, shuddering rather than beating, pumping out needly adrenaline that made your hairs spike up and your stomach drop heavy.

“And?” You creaked, voice scratching in your trachea.

“Wouldn’t mind a fuck,” he grunted indifferently. “But I don’t like crying.”

A mortifying heat feathered over your cheeks. Something pre-programmed, an evolutionary reaction to the suggestion of sex at all, consensual or otherwise — that’s what you told yourself, when you felt a reflexive shiver between your legs, and your ears turned hot.

“So that’s why you took me,” you mumbled anxiously.

“To fuck?”

You shot him a pointed lour in place of a response.

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Fucking weird girl.

Your curiosity was potently unsettling, riveting in the same breath. Didn’t make sense to him, that you’d ask him so unabashedly whether or not he intended on defiling you. What answer were you hoping for? Did you simply want to make sure he said no?

You blinked at him vacantly after his candid response. No use in lying to you.

It wasn’t his style to brutalise himself into a bird, to bulldoze through wails and shrieks of refusal, physical capability to do so notwithstanding. He simply didn’t like tears. Felt beneath him, really, the impotent sadism needed to enjoy milking them. The only wetness he liked in a girl was a wet mouth and a wet cunt.

He was partial to a hisser, though. Liked his spitters and scratchers. The kinds of girls that would gripe and grouse about his brutishness but turned treacly sweet when he inevitably overpowered them.

Perhaps you’d be a hisser.

He would have liked to find out. What noises you might have made. What the skin of your thighs might have felt like when free of their denim sheaths. How your nipples might spike up in the invasive cool of the September evening, or under the unwelcome brush of his fingers.

There was a glimmer in the pools of your eyes, fretful yet inquisitive. He was probably only seeing what he wanted to see.

You went quiet after that, at least. For the best. Kept your little knees nailed together as you glowered out your passenger window, pleasantly pacified for the time being. Sulking like a fucking child, but he supposed he couldn’t blame you.

He wasn’t stupid enough to expect that you’d be cheerful after he kidnapped you. And he wasn’t in denial, either — he did kidnap you. There was no dancing around it. He threatened to kill you and then he abducted you, because he felt like it. Because he liked the look of you.

Not remorseful, though. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever felt sorry for anything. His brain just didn’t function that way. If he wanted something, it was his. No use wasting time feeling guilt over something not even he could prevent.

He spent his time in your silence considering how to make it worth his while. Whether he would, in fact, drag you all the way to Scotland with him. Whether he’d have you aid and abet his next robbery to make up for the piss-poor spoils he purloined from your petrol station. Whether he would find a way to fuck you on the way, or perhaps once he got to his destination.

Maybe he’d let you keep some of your savings if you showed him your pussy. He looked at you briefly as he thought about it. Wondered how badly you needed the money.

“What were you savin’ for, eh?” He asked suddenly, and you flinched at the sound of his voice.

Soft little girl. He’d need to harden you up.

“What do you mean,” you murmured, hardly a croak.

“Don’t play dumb,” he gritted.

You sighed warily, eyeing him before you answered. “Doesn’t even matter,” you grumbled. “You took it, so now I haven’t saved anything.”

He glowered at you, and something in his dissatisfied stare must have compelled you to elaborate. He had that effect on people. Birds, especially. Intimidation coursed through his blood and emanated out of his skin, it didn’t take much effort.

“I wanted to leave Dunhill, obviously,” you groaned, reluctant to spill every word.

“Yeah?” He asked, “where were y’off to?”

“Fucked if I know,” you muttered. “Literally anywhere else.”

He snorted at that. “Couldn’t do that without skimming, eh?”

“What, do you disapprove?” You hissed, scowling at him. “At least I don’t kidnap people when I need money.”

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” he crooned through a grin. “M’only impressed.”

“Whatever,” you groused, crossing your arms and glaring out the window. “I only took it because I owe a bunch of money.”

He quirked a brow at that. “To who?”

“Why do you care.”

He shrugged. “Boring drive.”

You let out a petulant huff before you inevitably decided to answer him.

“I’m behind on rent,” you said, through gritted teeth. “Like, four months behind. And I’m still paying off my car, which I just needed to get repaired, so now I also owe money to the mechanic who did me the favour. Fucking owe money to the government, too, because they found out I was on the dole while I was working at the station.”

A curl tugged in his lips, brows raised in intrigue. No surprise you had managed to find yourself burdened by so many favours — landlord giving you grace, mechanics fixing your cars without payment upfront. Pretty thing like you, though, he’d expect you’d get everything for free. Couldn’t imagine what kind of penny-pinching wankers would still demand money from you when you looked like that.

Shame you didn’t cross his path sooner, he’d have fixed your car for you. No charge. Might have even let you squat at his place rent-free, assuming you made it worth his while.

Started to imagine it, despite himself. Pictured having a pretty thing like you to come home to. Standing in the kitchen in his t-shirt, nothing under it. He’d bend you over the counter and fuck you right there while you stirred your tea. Wouldn’t have taken much to get your cunt nice and wet, he thought. You seemed like you’d be easy to please, bored little thing, hopelessly awaiting a man like him to show you what’s worth living for.

Maybe he would take you all the way to Scotland, after all.

“What about you,” you asked dully, snapping him from his reverie. “Why do you need the money.”

He glanced at you, you picked your fingernails and glared at his hands on the wheel.

“Must need it pretty bad,” you muttered, scorn bubbling in your throat.

He tapped the steering wheel. “Long story.”

“What, are you a fugitive, or something?” You asked, contemptuous eyes raking over him.

“Is it that obvious?” He asked, through a chortle.

You gulped, almost cartoonishly. So scared of him. He was sure the mask didn’t help, but he didn’t feel like taking it off yet.

“What’d you do?” You questioned, that pang of anxiousness never quite leaving your voice, despite your attempts at feigning bravery. “Kill someone?”

“Worse than that,” he said frankly.

Your brows knitted together worriedly, fingers knotting. Nervous fidgeting. “Some kind of rapist, then?”

“Not quite,” he replied facetiously, certain you must have found his amusement at the prospect ill-placed.

“Then what?”

“Got in trouble with people you shouldn’t get in trouble with,” he explained, purposefully vague. He enjoyed your inquisitiveness.

“A gang?”

“Could call it that,” he jeered. “Special air service.”

Probably shouldn’t have told you that. Couldn’t help himself.

“Special — wait, you’re in the army?”

“Not anymore,” he said.

You frowned uneasily. “What happened?”

“That’s a tale for another day,” he grunted, and you turned to glare out the window again, spiteful now that he left your curiosity unsated. Little brat.

Twenty uneventful minutes passed uninterrupted, then, and Simon focused on the route he had set out to follow. Had successfully avoided main roads for the better part of an hour, now electing it safe enough to return to the highway. Took a few dark turn offs, and every time the truck slowed, you visibly tensed up; so terrified that he’d pull over for a rest stop and drag you into the grass on the side of the road.

He didn’t like the streetlights. They were confrontational, accusatory, as though their beams of light were enough to alert every cop in the vicinity to his presence underneath them.

The highway was largely empty, at least. Only one car passed in the opposite direction as he cruised along the smooth asphalt, decidedly more comfortable to drive on than the tattered backroads. Meant he could drive a lot faster, too. Might have been able to cut his trip by an hour, if he stuck to eighty-five miles an hour for the stretch between there and Birmingham.

Your girlish little hands clutched the armrest of the door as he accelerated, the speed of the vehicle pushing you against the window as he followed a curve in the wide road.

“You’re driving too fast,” you said quietly.

He cracked a grin. How endearing that you thought to warn him. You were lucky he was trying to keep a low profile, in any other circumstance he’d be brushing a hundred. Then he’d really scare you, wouldn’t he? You could do with some toughening up, he thought.

“Now you’re worried about the law, eh?” He sneered.

“I just don’t want to die in a car wreck,” you bit.

Seemed his docility was emboldening you. Perhaps you were a hisser, after all. Wondered if he needed to correct your behaviour. Maybe you’d spit on him if he reached over the centre console and fixed his hand to your thigh.

“You’ll be fine,” he said.

He avoided the arterial motorway that cut through Birmingham, choosing instead to stick to the A roads that bounced between exits and junctions in a zigzag. Hardly efficient, such a route would tack on an extra three hours of travel between there and Manchester, but at least far less monitored than the M5.

He got cocky, he supposed.

Saw the flashing red-and-blue lights before the sirens started blaring, and you jumped like a bunny — your head wracked around with a speed that made your neck crick, glaring at the cop car through the back windscreen.

“Fuck,” he barked, through a clenched jaw, eyes jumping between the cruiser in his rearview and the highway ahead of him.

He could have shoved his foot down, pressed the accelerator flat to the floor and fled the likely jaded cop patrolling the country highway at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. There was a chance the fat old bastard wouldn’t give chase, but that chance was slim. Simon didn’t need the attention.

He sunk his foot into the brake and slowed to sixty, veering into the shoulder. “Fuckin’ tosser.”

And didn’t you perk up? Itching all over to bounce out of your seat, head swinging back to look at the police car twice a second. All twitchy and riled up. He could see what you were thinking, it was printed in your cheeks, bright in your eyes; now’s your chance.

He hoped you weren’t that stupid.

“You gonna be a good girl?” He asked rigidly.

“What do you mean,” you squeaked, panicked, eyes peeled wide and skin glossy with sweat.

“Means keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” he snapped, lifting up his jersey, and you gawped at the gun against his stomach. “You make a scene, I’ll have to shoot him. And then I’ll have to shoot you. Y’understand?”

You nodded tightly, wiping under your eyes with your palms, some paltry attempt to collect yourself. He sincerely hoped you’d behave. He didn’t want to kill you. Would be a waste of a pretty bird. Not to mention a fucking pain in the arse to hide not one, but two bodies.

“Good,” he muttered, as he tore off his mask and tossed it on the ground between his feet, slowing the car to a stop on the side of the highway. Rubbed his hand over his buzzed head on instinct, cropped hair velveteen under his palm. Hopeful the knit didn’t leave suspicious imprints in his skin.

Your lips went a little slack when you looked up to see him unmasked, and a grin creased in his cheeks. Saw plain as day that glimmer in your little eyes, as they scoured over his face as if reading the pages of a book.

Didn’t think he’d be pretty, did you? He was not ignorant of his looks, and wasn’t humble about them either. So blatant in your flustered expression that you liked what you saw, only too virtuous to admit it to yourself.

He wound down his window before the policeman approached. He was adept at pretending to be a good boy. Spent decades licking boots in the military, and cops were even easier to please.

The officer was middle-aged and saggy-eyed, just as jaded as Simon had predicted. The truck was taller than him, so his hatted head peered through the center of the open window, assessing the cab with his lips in a line.

“Evenin’,” Simon said simply.

“Heading home, are we?” The officer asked, eyeing up the bird next to the driver, lathering you in more attention than necessary.

Could’ve clubbed him in the nose for so shamelessly drooling over you — as far as the cop was likely concerned, you were his bird, not some slapper along for the ride. He had king-hit men for less.

“You bet,” was all he said.

“Must be in a hurry,” the cop said derisively, glare finally returning to the driver. “Any clue how fast you were going, mate?”

Mate made Simon twitch. Swallowed back the urge to spit not your fucking mate, instead offering a placating grin and a pat of the steering wheel.

“We are in a bit of a hurry.”

“Yeah? Enough of a hurry to be going twenty over the limit?”

“Bird tells me to hurry home, I hurry home,” Simon jeered. “Y’know what I mean.”

The officer almost tutted, until your voice cut across from the passenger seat, and Simon’s knuckles turned white on the wheel.

“Don’t blame me,” you snapped. “It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself.”

To Simon’s surprise, the cop chuckled at that.

“Need to rein your fella in, love.”

“I tried,” you lamented. “I told him he was going too fast and he was going to get pulled over. I told him so. Bastard doesn’t listen to me.”

Simon blinked in your direction, to see you sitting upright with your arms spitefully crossed over your chest, cheeks red-hot with panic and knee bouncing in frustration. If he didn’t know the root of your unease was the fact he had abducted you, he’d have believed you were a contemptuous bird itching to castigate her reckless partner for getting in trouble.

Seemed the cop believed that, too. “Bird’s smarter than you, eh?”

Simon snorted, deciding to play along. “That she is.”

“Looks like you’re in plenty of trouble, then,” he taunted.

Simon looked at you, again, to see you scowling at him before you glowered out the windshield. “Mh. Think so.”

“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to do the paperwork,” the policeman said sternly. “I’ve got your plate, though, so slow down, yeah? Way down. No excuse for eighty-five in a sixty.”

“Understood.”

“Don’t let me catch you again, eh?”

Simon smiled politely, concealing the chortle that curdled in his throat. Cop wouldn’t be seeing him again at all, ever, because he was fucking off to a different country and intended to stay there for as long as he remained under the radar.

He’d have to dump the car, though. With the plate on the record it was fated for the scrapyard.

“Appreciate it,” Simon said through an artificial grin. “Have a good one.”

The cop only nodded, patted the car door with a flat hand, before waddling back to his cruiser without another word.

Simon was humiliated to admit the relief that doused him was sobering, letting out a ragged sigh as he rolled up the window and twisted the keys in the ignition. He was certain that the encounter would have been far uglier — felt his hand twitching towards the gun on his stomach more than once, imagined how quickly it could have been over if he simply tore it out and pointed it at the wanker’s forehead.

You, strange girl, saved his arse. Whether or not you had intended to help him, you did. His eyes fixed to you as he pulled back onto the motorway, speedometer creeping back up to sixty and staying there, while the police car was still in sight.

“‘Bastard doesn’t listen to me’?” He quoted with a brow raised, incredulous amusement rich in his tone.

“What,” you muttered derisively, staring rigidly out of the passenger window, arms tightly interlocked.

“Think of that on the spot, did ya?”

Seemed you were avoiding eye contact with him now, glare fastened out into the moonlit countryside and head bolted still. Ashamed, perhaps, that you had thwarted your only real opportunity to escape him. Or, worried that if you looked at him for too long, your fear of him might have mutated into something far more difficult to justify. He smirked at the thought.

“You should be grateful,” you grumbled.

“Should I?”

“You didn’t get arrested because of me.”

He chortled at that. Maybe your tactic to ingratiate yourself was to help him, but he got the sense that wasn’t your intention.

“In that case, ‘course I’m grateful.”

“Then say thank you,” you spat, finally swivelling your head on your neck to pin your grouchy little lour to him.

“Thank you,” he crooned, grin sharp.

“Whatever,” you griped, slumping back into your seat with a huff.

He wasn’t sure if he preferred you whining and crying to pouting like a teenager, either option tested his patience. He at least found the latter vaguely amusing, only slightly more endearing than a whimpering abductee in his passenger seat.

“Thanks not good enough for you?” He asked mordantly, and you scoffed. “What, do I have to lick your cunt to prove it?”

Your stare cut to him out of the corner of your eyes, head impudently bowed to avoid facing him head-on.

“Don’t say things like that,” you murmured uneasily, eyes glittering under the streetlight that passed by.

“Like what?” He sneered, “don’t want me to talk about licking your cunt?”

“Shut up,” you chirped, stiff-lipped, tipping your knees away from him and once again scowling out of your window.

He snickered at you, couldn’t help it, watching you get all tight and restless when he said it again. Certain you were involuntarily picturing his head between your legs, whether you liked it or not.

“Don’t like the word cunt?” He teased, winding you up for his own enjoyment. “Or don’t like thinking of me licking it?”

“Stop it,” you whined, shrivelling up like a raisin.

He grinned. “I can call it your pussy instead.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Uh-huh,” he laughed.

You turned to tug at the door handle, yanking at it unrelentingly, and it only thumped as you failed to break through the lock. “Let me out.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“Open the fucking door,” you spat, spite simmering in the back of your throat. “Let me out.”

He liked this better. Hissing derision, contemptuous attempts to escape, to demand your freedom. Much more enjoyable than your earlier weeping, all snotty and puffy-eyed.

“Not gonna happen,” he said.

“You’re a pervert,” you growled.

“So?”

“Let me go,” you repeated, glaring daggers at him.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said candidly, tone as rigid as he intended it to be. He meant it.

Again stymied, you slouched over and turned away from him, and went petulantly silent. Simon drove ahead unruffled, took another exit off the motorway — once again trundling over a poorly kept rural road, heading in the direction of the next highway junction half an hour north.

It was evident being off the beaten track put you on edge, pellucid in the way you tightened your arms around yourself once the streetlights became fewer and further between. He couldn’t blame you, it was certainly slasher-esque to cart you around backroads, where the only buildings were abandoned barns and grain silos. Lucky for you, he wasn’t a murderer. Not anymore. Besides, all of his past killing was government sanctioned. Most of it, anyway.

You kept your mouth shut for the next long while, huffing and puffing every now and again, making sure not to let him forget how unhappy you were with your circumstances. Strangely enough, he found it endearing.

“I need to pee,” you said suddenly, a squeak, shy to say so.

He snorted. “Think I’m thick?”

“I — I’m being serious,” you stammered. Unconvincing.

“Hold it,” he said unsympathetically, turning a left corner, the momentum making you tip into the centre console, your shoulder nudging against his before you spitefully tugged yourself away.

“I can’t,” you grouched.

“Piss yourself then,” he sneered. “I’m not keepin’ this car.”

Your brows scrunched up in disappointment. “I don’t want to — to pee on myself. That’s just gross.”

He smiled. Something cute about you.

“You can piss when we stop for the night,” he said. “How’s that?”

“We’re stopping?” You asked quietly, blinking at him charily, as if he’d change his mind if you spoke too loud.

“Been a long fuckin’ day,” he grumbled. “I’m not driving for nine hours straight.”

“Nine hours?” You pestered, “I thought we were going to Scotland?”

He couldn’t help but grin at that. Perhaps it was a Freudian slip — we. Maybe you had come to terms with it already, the ineludible fact that you were stuck with him for however long he wanted to keep you. So far, that looked like a good while.

“Taking the long way,” he answered.

“What the hell, how many people are looking for you?” You asked, pouting in worry.

He sucked his teeth. “Not enough to find me.”

You didn’t need to pee at all.

In fact, your nerves had sucked up every drop of water that remained in your body after your deluge of tears. They were glutted with it. All swollen and pinging with panic every odd moment, when you remembered you were supposed to be in fight-or-flight.

You were seething, though, that you had failed to convince him.

The plan was poorly conceived, in fairness — you only imagined getting as far as an unlocked door, girding your legs to bolt off into the endless fields on the side of the road in whichever direction they took you. Didn’t spend a moment considering whether you could outrun the goliath, or how rough he’d be when he predictably tackled you. Maybe he’d simply have shot you as you ran away, turned it into a game of target practice for his own amusement.

There was shame brewing within you, now.

Sweltering, emetic, frothy as it crawled up your throat — you were disgusted with yourself, at how pathetic you were being, at how little you had done in the interest of your own escape. How you had let all of it happen.

You always imagined yourself a fighter, it was easy to imagine such a thing. In hypotheticals you would kick and scream, could easily overpower your assailants by sheer will, your resolve to survive so strong that capitulation was inconceivable.

Reality stung.

You weren’t a kicker or a screamer. You were a sit-and-waiter, and that realisation was sobering as it was disappointing.

Humiliated that you had forsaken a real opportunity at rescue for no discernable reason. No reason you could truly justify. Perhaps you had done it to save the police officer; if you hadn’t intervened, your deranged captor would have shot the innocent man for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and it would have been your fault for making a fuss.

Terror was the next excuse, but that didn’t quite justify it either. If you were so terrified that the man would shoot you, you would not have uttered a word. No, you would have been quiet, a good girl, just as he ordered you to be.

It assuaged your fear, you thought, to see his face.

You were surprised to see a face at all beneath the mask, forgetting he was a man and not some caricature of chaos and violence. He looked like a soldier, too. All scarred and cynical, disillusionment was inlaid in his features despite how caustically he grinned at you.

His hair was freshly buzzed, sandy blond velvet coating his head, long pink cicatrices carved lines into his scalp as if someone had attempted to cut through it and peel it from his skull. He was tattooed, you could tell, by the teal-black engravings that crept up the side of his neck, the rest concealed by the thick hood of his sweatshirt. Nose a little swollen at the bridge, fractured once and poorly healed.

The shame was even more potent when you caught yourself eyeing him for too long, flicking over to him every now and again just to get a glance, the shortest possible eye contact to ensure he didn’t catch you staring.

Fucking mortifying that he was good-looking.

That your mind even allowed you to think so, that your eolithic subconscious had considered your abductor’s appearance at all. The way he had rakishly smirked at you was arrogance manifest, you could see in his russet-brown eyes a patent awareness of your attraction. As if he could smell it on you, goading you to admit it, ego stroked every time you caught his eye.

So you didn’t.

You kept your body tilted away from him, gaze locked out of your passenger window, sweaty hands clamped together. Every now and then you felt his glare on the back of your neck, heard him breathing in your direction — it felt as though you were counting down the minutes until he felt compelled to reach over the console and touch you.

It was only a matter of time, undoubtedly. That’s what he took you for, you were certain, despite his supposed ambivalence. The thought made your heart sit fat in your throat. Stopping for the night was a deadline.

“Where are we stopping?” You asked weakly, voice aimed at the passenger door.

He let out an exasperated breath. “Not sure yet.”

“Are you going to sleep in the car?”

He seemed to find that amusing. “I might not look it, love, but I’m a creature of comfort,” he said. “I’ll get us a bed.”

Us. You shivered when he said it.

A scornful refusal knocked at the back of your teeth, but you knew how he’d twist it, would mock your aversion. He’d make another foul little quip about your pussy, you thought.

You didn’t want to give him the chance to say the word again. Not simply because it was revolting to listen to the degenerate joke about eating you out — licking your cunt, it echoed in the sauna of your skull — but because the mere mention of it turned your cheeks claret-red and the back of your neck all clammy.

What was worse, is that you knew he could see it on you. Plainly emboldened by how much it ruffled you. Could decipher your unease as an effort to conceal some biomechanical reaction, one provoked by the mere suggestion of it, by the vibrations of his voice as he said it.

“Do me a favour,” He suddenly demanded.

You refused to turn and look at him. “What.”

“Grab me a fag, will ya?”

Animosity congealed in your mouth. The fucking gall to request favours of you. “From where?”

“Bag in the back there,” he said simply, “light’s in there too.”

“Fine.”

You peered behind the headrest, his unzipped duffle bag was dumped on the back seat; just out of reach if you were to extend an arm between the gap. Instead you had to twist your entire body and contort yourself through the middle, waist between the front seats as you climbed over the console.

You resented being in such a position, arse jutting out towards the windshield, unable to see the driver that sat so close to you — so you were quick about it, burrowing through the sack, stuffed to the brim with junk, and myriad different brands of cigarette cartons.

“Which ones do you want,” you asked impatiently.

He huffed as he thought about it. “What’ve we got?”

“Um,” you murmured, digging through the cardboard cartons. “Mayfairs, Richmonds… uh. Embassies, Davidoffs—”

“Mh. Gi’s a davidoff,” he interrupted.

You followed his instruction and plucked out the trim red box, and an orange Bic lighter once you found it at the bottom of the bag, wedged between wads of cash. You peeled away the thin plastic covering and flipped open the card lid as you reeled your body back between the seats — immediately you caught him lavishing your rear in attention. He sniffed casually when he caught your eye, utterly shameless.

Heart shuddered in your ears as you sat back down in your seat, gooseflesh prickling up in your skin as you held the carton out for him to pluck out a roll.

He pinched the end of one and stuck it between lips curled over his teeth, before gesturing wordlessly for you to give him the lighter.

“You’re a doll,” he said, muffled by the filter in his lips. Jaw jutted out to angle up the cigarette, he flicked the lighter in his fist with his thumb, little orange flame hovering under the end of the roll as he sucked it.

“Whatever,” you grumbled, swiftly turning away from him to return your attention to the road out the window.

Seemed he was approaching some area of population, little brick houses began popping up on the side of the street, lampposts peppering the road ahead. A surge of adrenaline made your hackles spike up — bystanders, you thought, people who might have heard you if you screamed loud enough.

“Want a puff?” He asked indifferently.

“I don’t smoke,” you snarked, distracted.

He snorted. “Goodie girl, are ya?”

“No,” you said curtly.

“Mh, that’s right — you’re a little thief,” he taunted. “Not a good girl at all.”

There was no response that would spare you his teasing, so you kept your mouth shut. Stayed silent for the remainder of the drive, in fact, a solid quarter-hour — until the car bounced over something and you jolted in your seat. Quickly realised he had pulled up into a parking lot as the truck began to slow.

A two-star Travelodge, evidently, one planted directly on the side of the northbound highway. It looked barren, coral bricks all grimy with lichen and sludgy brown water stains, every window blocked by shut curtains. Not a single light glowed from within a hotel room, only the dim yellow lantern bolted to the wall above the sliding door at the entrance.

You held your tongue in your teeth as he drove to a park at the very back of the lot, under a low-hanging tree branch, concealed by shadow. Your skin began to itch, crawling with bugs and alight with adrenaline — you could run, now, if he opened your door. Maybe you could sprint to the nearest building and hammer on the door, shriek that you’d been kidnapped, and to please please call the police. Or, maybe you could try to snatch his gun from him and shoot him in the fucking head.

Instead you sat still in your seat. Felt your chest breaking out in a panic rash.

“Righ’,” he said casually as he killed the engine, the suspension of the truck bouncing under the weight of him as he adjusted in his seat. “Look at me.”

You shook your head in refusal. Entire body stiff as wood. Anticipation frayed your nerves and made your hairs stand on end. It was suddenly real.

You kept your eyes pinned away from him, but it was futile, because he reached a massive arm across the gap and seized your jaw in a single hand. Fingers dimpled your cheeks as he twisted your head to face him, and you attempted to scowl at him, but your quivering lip made plain your alarm.

“You gonna make a fuss?” He asked stiffly, pinching his cigarette with his free fingers, silvery smoke clouding out from behind his teeth.

You just about said no on reflex, but bit down on it instead, because it likely would have been a lie. Only pouted at him scornfully and shivered in his grip.

“What d’you think will happen if you do.”

You swallowed. “You’ll shoot me.”

He shook his head. “Would be an uncomfortable night for you, though, I can tell y’that.”

A crease pulled between your brows. “Are you going to — to beat me up, or something?”

He chuckled at that, a cocksure grin; you suddenly felt a weight in your chest, burning hot, made your ribs sink and your heart flutter.

You hadn’t yet seen his face up close. His cheeks were stubbled, skin peppered with freckles and the creases of early aging. Teeth were sharp and unexpectedly white, raffishly crooked with pointed canines, a silver cap on a premolar. His lips were full, pale, a single scar running through the top one, white stripe in the ruddy pink.

The shame returned with a kick to the stomach when you noticed yourself staring at his mouth, and you tried to look away from him, but he riveted your head in place.

“Don’t plan on it,” he said, after a beat too long.

Sweat pricked along your hairline. “Then what.”

“I’d like to have a nice long snooze,” he grumbled. “I don’t wanna be up all night wrangling you. So if you throw a tantrum you’ll be sleeping tied up with a sock in your throat. S’that what you want?”

“No,” you chirped.

He nodded approvingly. “I don’t want that either. I like the sound o’ your voice. Be a shame to snuff it out, wouldn’t it?”

You attempted to nod, and though his hand kept you still he understood the intention. With a ragged sigh he finally released you, giving you a condescending pat on the cheek.

With a grunt he suddenly twisted and leaned between the seats, gargantuan body taking up the entire cab as he reached behind you to grab his duffle bag, and you wedged yourself against the door to avoid touching him.

Clambered about as he reeled the giant bag back to the front, before snatching the car keys out of the ignition and unlocking the driver side door. He kicked it open and hopped out with a huff, immediately slamming it shut behind him — only unlocked your door with his keys only once he was directly outside it, pre-empting any of your attempts to slip away.

He opened the door for you with a clunk, and the biting air of the late autumn night made your entire body tighten up.

“Get out,” he said.

You nodded, swivelling yourself on your bottom and sliding out of the truck cab, landing directly in front of him. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and left the stub smoking on the concrete.

“C’mon.” He fixed a hand to your bicep and yanked you away from the car, shutting the door with a slam.

You were light on your feet as he ferried you towards the entrance to the cheap hotel, his other fist white-knuckled around the strap of his bag.

“You don’t need—” you chirped, almost tripping over your feet, “—to hold me so tight.”

“No?” He snorted.

“I’m not gonna run,” you spat, hushed despite yourself.

“Obviously.”

The sliding glass doors trundled open as you approached them, a tired ding echoing out to welcome you. The reception was quiet, poorly lit by vibrating fluorescent bars, stunk of fresh linen toilet spray and floor cleaner.

Your abductor let go of your arm abruptly when he noticed the receptionist — a teenage boy with headphones on, who disinterestedly looked up from a Nintendo Switch to address the tall brute that sauntered in with you in tow.

“Y’after a room?” The kid asks monotonously.

“Standard double.”

The receptionist clicked around on the computer, smacking chewing gum between his teeth “How many nights.”

“Just the one.”

Click click. “It’s sixty-eight for the night.”

“Y’take cash?”

The kid frowned dubiously at that, jaw hanging open as he rolled the wad of white gum along his tongue. “Sure.”

“Lovely,” your abductor grunted, unzipping the flap of his duffle bag and fishing out a thick wad of paper notes.

Jaw gaped as you watched him unashamedly finger between the notes to pluck out three twenties and a tenner, slapping them on the counter of the reception before tucking the stack away again. As agog as the receptionist at his brazenness, all but showing off his spoils, plainly stolen.

The kid pouted skeptically as he swiped the notes and counted them again, tucking them aside, and you wondered if he used the same technique as you.

He dropped a keycard on the counter. “Room thirteen,” he said.

“Cheers.”

Your abductor scooped up his bag and planted his other hand on the small of your back, nudging you ahead of him towards the narrow hallway, never allowing more than two feet to grow between his body and yours.

You glanced around feverishly as you wandered meekly down the corridor, identical doors mirroring each other for as far as you could see, until the hall turned a corner. Eyes clung to the glowing green emergency exit lights dotted along the ceiling, as if they might lead you to your salvation.

“Can’t believe you actually paid for a room,” you murmured spitefully, when he nudged you forward by the arse as if guiding a ewe.

“Wouldn’t want to break the law,” he chuffed.

In any other circumstance you would’ve giggled. You might have found him funny if he weren’t the deranged fugitive who had kidnapped you.

A yank of your shirt stopped you in your tracks, tugging you back — your abductor had flippantly taken your t-shirt in a fist, as he shoved the key card into its slot under the handle of a door behind you.

“In,” he snipped, shoving you through the door once he had pushed it open.

The room was small. Hardly enough room for the double bed in the middle of it, skinny end tables wedged on either side. The only amenities were a shin-height fridge and a kettle on a bench, tucked into a nook by the door. It was hot in there, too — radiator bubbling all day, you guessed, to counteract the cold weather.

Immediately you fixed your stare on the window by the bed; a good metre across, brown aluminium trim, lumpy textured glass that distorted the view of whatever sat directly outside the hotel room. Ground floor, you thought, easy to slip out, if you could open it —

Noticed, then, that there was no indication it could be opened at all. No hinges, no frames, no handles. Simply a flat plane of glass stuck in the wall.

Your stomach wrung itself, and you did your best not to keel over. The air was suddenly infinitely stuffier, sweltering, torrid in your lungs.

He flipped shut the bolt on the door, and landed a pat on your shoulder. You could unlatch it, obviously, but the old thing was squeaky, clanking old brass, and undoing it would certainly alert him.

He nudged you out of his way and dumped his duffle bag on the floor beside the bed, evidently claiming the side closest to the door, as if prepared to catch you should you try to slip around him.

In truth, the notion of escape was scarcely a whisper. Supplanted by a nauseating docility — a survival instinct, you thought, to simply behave. To do as you were told.

He began undressing himself, uninterested in whether you observed him; shucked off his old leather jacket and hung it over the back of his bag, unlaced and kicked off his muddy old boots. Your toes curled involuntarily into the soles of your shoes, watching him like a degenerate, as he tore off his hoodie and t-shirt and tossed them to the floor.

Something out of a movie, you thought; gargantuan beast of a man, broad-shouldered and cladded in such a dizzying mass of muscle and adipose bulk that he looked encumbered by it all. The icteric light of the sconces by the bed carved out the divots in his back, the valley of his spine, the symmetrical dimples above the waistband of his jeans — you felt sick with yourself, that you even let your eyes venture there, but they cleaved fast to him despite your chagrin.

He was slathered in tattoos as you had imagined, all flames and skulls and barbed wire, broken up by the occasional stamp of something more meaningful — a sacred heart, serif-font numbers, somebody’s name with a date beneath it. You could read it from where you stood; Johnny, 11/2023.

You were only thankful he hadn’t turned around — couldn’t see you leering at him, and spared you having to see him from the front.

“Still need to piss?” He asked roughly, and your lips twisted.

“No,” you said, still standing awkwardly by the door.

He snickered. “Seemed pretty desperate before.”

“I — yeah,” you stammered, “I don’t know. I’m fine.”

Gave you a shrug as he lumbered into the ensuite bathroom, and you heard the unbuckling of a belt and zip of a fly, the clunk of metal on a counter, then the steady stream of his piss landing in the toilet water.

You scoffed in revulsion. Fucking pig. Couldn’t even close the door. You heard him rinse off his hands at least, though you couldn’t be sure he had used any soap.

He emerged from the bathroom rubbing his shaven head and with his belt undone, leather straps hanging loose from his hips, zipper of his jeans wide open. His gun was gone. Plaid boxers bunched up, distended by the mass within and protruding through his fly — you felt yourself turn berry pink, more repulsed by yourself than him.

This time he caught you staring, and he was manifestly pleased about it. A smug grin pulled in his lips as he shuffled towards you, and you rested your weight on your back foot.

“Y’want a Valium?” He asked you, and you frowned at him bewilderedly.

“What?”

In front of you, now, you panted like a cornered animal in the shadow he cast. “Might help you sleep.”

You grimaced at him. “You just want to knock me out.”

He snorted. “Why would I do that?”

The daggers you stared at him served as your only reply, and he half-heartedly rolled his eyes at you.

“You reckon I’d want to fuck a sleeping bird?”

“Probably,” you muttered, averting his gaze when he uttered the word.

“No fun in that,” he said simply. “No nice noises if you’re asleep.”

You scoffed, perturbed by how he discussed it happening with you as if it were an inevitability. “What, like screaming?”

He cracked a grin. “Screamer, are ya?”

Your blood went runny. “Stop it.”

He brushed a knuckle under your chin, and you flinched — but to your relief, he relented. Turned away from you and squeezed the back of his neck as if to release tension.

“Get into bed,” he grumbled, plodding towards the bathroom, returning swiftly with his gun in hand.

You went cold. “Why?”

“The fuck do you think?” He replied curtly, shoving his pistol under his pillow, before he pulled his jeans down and your mouth went dry.

“I don’t want to,” you squeaked.

He chuffed at that. “Christ, fucking is the only thing on your mind, in’t it?” He taunted, “don’t get all worked up.”

“I’m — I’m not worked up, you—”

“I’m too tired for this shit,” he grunted, “‘n I’m not havin’ you up and about while I’m sleeping. Get into bed or I’ll put you in bed.”

There was no give in his expression, it was a final order. He did look tired — eyes were sunken and beset with aubergine rings, lids heavy with frustration and exhaustion. He stood with hands hooked on his hips as he impatiently awaited your acquiescence, and you sensed you were on a short timer.

“Fine,” you murmured, shuffling around the end of the bed with your arms crossed tightly, eyes averting him.

He watched you, though. Scrutinised your every move as you bent over to untie your shoelaces, pulling off your converses and dumping them on the carpet.

“Sleepin’ in your jeans?” He jeered, when you reached to pull back the blankets.

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” you retorted, sitting on the mattress and swiftly tucking yourself under the covers. The mattress was foamy, soft, sunk deep as though permanently impressed by all the bodies that have ever slept in it.

“Hardly comfortable,” he said, smirking, decidedly amused.

“Don’t care,” you groused, rolling onto your side away from him, blanket up to your ears.

He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”

You bounced on the mattress as he fell into it, springs moaning as they sunk deep beneath him, and you felt your body tip back towards him — you curled up, as close to the edge of the bed as you could get without toppling over the side.

He switched off the sconce above the bed, and the room was abruptly black as pitch.

The mattress recoiled as he adjusted himself, settling into bed with a gruff sigh, and you felt his warm breathing on the back of your head.

He seemed to find comfort quickly; exhales turning deep and languid, you sensed he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

There was some relief in that. Temporarily escaping him while he was unconscious.

With your heart thundering in your ears, though, sleep was impossibly out of reach for you. You could hardly keep your eyes shut, they fluttered and twitched as you tried to close them, and they’d bolt back open as though spring-loaded.

Now’s your chance — it echoed ad nauseum in your skull like the chiming of a clock, over and over until your ears rang.

You could have slithered out of bed and scurried to the door, unbolted it and ran down the hallway if you were quick enough. You could have used the steel-legged chair in the corner to shatter the window and sprint into the night. You could have slipped a hand under his pillow nice and slow, snatched his gun from under his head and shot him while he slept.

Instead you lay dead still, save for the trembling that never quite subsided.

You tried to vivisect your own mind while you stagnated in the bed. Attempted to determine why you failed to enact your own rescue, why you actively avoided pursuing your freedom.

The answer eluded you, in concrete terms anyway.

Truth was, you didn’t know where you’d go.

Literally, of course — you had no idea where you were, no phone with you, no sense of direction. You could run to a bystander and ask, of course, but you didn’t want to do that either.

It was as if you didn’t want to go back.

The thought of it nauseated you almost as gruesomely as the uncertainty of the path ahead. Of being dragged back to Dunhill, of being back to square one, of having no money, no prospects, no future.

It was the obscurity, you thought, that kept you there. Something new. Something different, albeit terrifying. The ambiguity of any future, however short, was somehow preferable than the certainty of not having one at all.

Worse to admit was whatever churning you felt between your legs. What seed he had planted when he took you had taken root, tendrils burrowing into the recesses of you and tumescing with a reluctant anticipation. You all but throbbed with it, as if your body were preparing itself for the inevitable, manipulating your mind into assenting to it.

It made you feel sick, and your skin was febrile, sticky with apprehension.

You were baking — the air was thick with it, stifling heat, though in truth it was likely your thundering nerves that set your body alight. Too anxious to release yourself from under the covers, or to roll into a cooler position, or to flip over your pillow to the cooler side.

You lay cocooned for as long as you could bear the heat, but your blood was molten and your head began to ache, and you resorted to uncovering yourself.

You did it desperately slowly, peeling the cover away from you inch by inch, and even in the air you found no relief. Your last resort was to turn off the radiator — if you could — but you’d need to get out of bed for that.

Slinked a leg over the edge of the mattress, whisper-slow, used your elbow to prop yourself up—

You felt a hand grab at your hip, and you were unceremoniously yanked back into the bed with a squeak.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’,” he grunted, voice gratingly hoarse after a half-hour sleep.

A ten-tonne arm was suddenly hooked over your waist, and you were flush with his back, his knees folded in behind yours.

“I just wanted to turn the heater off,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear you.

“Too hot, eh?”

You exhaled shakily. “Yeah.”

“Y’know why you’re too hot,” he murmured, and you felt him stick his fingers into the back of your skinny jeans, tugging the stretchy waistband and snapping it against your lower back.

“I just can’t s-sleep when it’s warm,” you stuttered, tongue tangling in your mouth.

“Bit restless, are ya?”

You felt his hand glide over your belly, and your muscles turned to stone, entire body tensing up with the touch.

“I’m not havin’ you tossing and turning all night,” he grumbled, thumbing at the button of your jeans, unfastening it with a pinch.

“Don’t do that,” you breathed, heart plugging your trachea, unable to swallow a real breath.

He persisted unimpeded as if he had not heard you, pushing down your zipper and stuffing his hand unhesitantly down the front of your underwear.

You squeaked in fright the moment his fingers brushed your mons — every millilitre of blood in your body flooded out of your extremities and pooled between your legs, a reflexive reaction that fired off every nerve ending under your skin.

“No, d-don’t—” your whimpers of refusal eked out between your teeth on instinct, but their root lay more in humiliation than fear.

His hand was icy against your feverish skin, and goosebumps bristled out from his touch — your vision went foggy as a cold middle finger the size of two of yours slid along your seam, lips went slack as the tip burrowed deeper.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunted, his stony voice tickling the hairs on the nape of your neck, “you are warm, aren’t ya?”

“Stop it,” you whined, half-heartedly, defeat viscid on your tongue.

His finger snaked deeper between your legs, the others flush with the puffy outer lips of your cunt, thumb burrowing into your groin as he wedged his hand in the tight gap between your pussy and your jeans.

He chortled under breath when the tip of his finger broached your entrance, dipping into the mortifying abundance of your fluid that had pooled there. God, there was so much of it, you were humiliated — you had been in denial, ignoring it, even as you felt it slicken the gusset of your underwear, maybe even the inseam of your jeans. It was only instinctive, you told yourself, it wasn’t like that—

“Jesus Christ, girl,” he chuffed, breathless, and you could not for the life of you tell whether he was proud or disgusted. “Made you wait too long, did I?”

You shivered, cunt pulsing around nothing, felt the nettle sting of adrenaline crawling down your spine.

“N-no, I—”

Bit down on your tongue as his slippery finger dragged up between your folds, catching your clitoris with a swipe and making your legs clamp together in a vice.

He only scoffed in awe. “Sensitive thing.”

“Stop doing that,” you mewled, so embarrassed that your cheeks were aflame, ears burning red-hot, heart galloping in your chest.

He didn’t believe your attempts at refusal, and you weren’t certain you did either — not when he stroked your clit with the palp of his finger, up and down, all of his movement honed in on the one spot that made you choke on air.

“Not so bad, is it,” he sneered.

You curled up like a cat, but he kept you fastened to him, immovable hand burrowed deep in your jeans. His finger slid between your folds effortlessly despite how hard you pressed your legs together — there was no escaping it, every brush of his fingertip against your slippery clit burned more than the last, igniting an inferno in the core of you that seemed inextinguishable.

Fucking humiliating, degrading, shameful, that the brute who had abducted you could make you feel that good, do so little to have you so, so—

“You’re a fuckin’ furnace,” he jabbed, and he swiftly tugged his hand from between your legs and out of your jeans.

Whatever remorseful noise spilled from your mouth was beyond you, high-pitched and so wanton it made you sick to hear it, but he only snickered.

“Quit whingein’,” he chided, taking your waistband in a fist.

He hiked your jeans down with a violent tug, tearing them down to your thighs, underwear pulled down with them. What little abnegation you had left turned to sugar on your tongue, dissolving in your saliva and sliding down your throat.

The blanket was gone, then, pulled off and pooled at the end of the bed — the slightly cooler air biting at your bare skin scarcely settled your tempers, even less so when he roughly shoved his hand between your legs again, now unobstructed. Three avid fingers prodded against your hole as if to collect the syrup that pooled there, slickening themselves before they dragged back up.

You yelped like a kicked puppy when he kneaded your clit, pads of his fingers pressing and pulling in firm circles, bud swollen and shuddering and so sensitive it was sore.

You could only whine about it, now unwilling to fight him off and likely incapable even if you wanted to. He had you riveted to him, chest solid against your back, heaving arm locking you in place. Your compunctions had melted, deliquescing into the stodgy recesses of your mind; usurped by the revoltingly animal, blood-thinning want that thundered in your temples and made your mouth all wet.

“Don’t, p-please, you’re—”

“Tha’s it, girl,” he rumbled, directly into the back of your skull, and it made you dizzy. “Let it happen.”

Your core tightened up, cunt constricting as tight as a vice, painfully empty — the surge was as sudden as a flash flood, just as violent, and you drowned in it as it swept you under. You came beneath his fingers with a winded whimper, so forcefully you bucked your legs to evade him, bullied clit ablaze and spasming in waves that made your heart stop with each contraction.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he chortled, easing his infliction but not yet stopping. “Listen to you.”

“Shut up,” you whined, unable to catch your breath.

“That’ll help you sleep, eh?” He teased, fingers finally retreating, trailing your slick up your mons before he landed flat on his back with a huff.

You were molten, sweaty hair clinging to the nape of your neck, and you wanted nothing more than to take off all your clothes and have a cold shower. All you could muster was your jeans, though, already half-off — you used your feet to peel them down to your calves, kicking them off into nowhere. Your shame had dissolved, now, utterly irretrievable.

The stale air was cool against the wetness of your inflamed cunt when you rolled onto your back; a potent relief, despite how unbecoming you felt it to leave yourself so exposed in the company of a bedlamite.

“Now stop fussing,” he grunted, settling into the mattress, hand resting on his stomach. “Don’t want you wakin’ me up again.”

You couldn’t have fussed, even if you tried. Body utterly siphoned of all energy, mind as foggy and blank as smoke.

It took you less than a minute to fall asleep.

Morning came with rain.

The glow of daylight through the embossed window was powdery white, you heard the gentle patter of raindrops landing on the pane, the loud dripping of a leaky gutter pipe somewhere outside.

Your mouth was chalky, tongue swollen, vision too blurry to identify where you were at a glance.

The realisation rinsed you like cold water when you heard the gruff breathing from beside you. Heavy and deep, the warmth of a body lying too close to you, you felt the hirsute skin of a leg against yours.

You were nauseous as you remembered the night before, when your legs brushed together and you noticed they were bare — no underwear on either, the sheets tangled up between your feet and your hair greasy on your forehead. Your cunt was still sticky and it made you wince to move and feel it, remembering how he had touched you, that his fingers were likely still covered in the dried residue of the orgasm he had milked from you.

The remorse was as pounding as a migraine. Brontide in your skull that made the room spin, and you wanted nothing more than a glass of icy water and some ibuprofen.

You peered over your shoulder at your abductor; lying on his side with an arm folded under his pillow, shoulders rising and collapsing with each heavy breath, scarred face somehow peaceful in his slumber. It was surreal to witness him like that, observing him in his most vulnerable state — you knew his gun was under that pillow, but the thought of trying to steal it faltered as fast as it came.

Instead you slipped out of the bed, pattering on the soft soles of bare feet to the tiny kitchenette, and filled up a brown glass mug with tap water. You drank it all in three hard gulps, then filled up another.

He didn’t stir, not even slightly. In such a deep sleep that you likely could have put your jeans back on and unbolted the door without even waking him.

Instead you went into the ensuite, shutting the door behind you. The bulbous knob had a push-button to lock it, but it was loose, and no matter how many times you pushed it, it failed. You gave up quickly, though — didn’t want to wake him up yet.

The bathroom was arranged nonsensically — the toilet sat by the door, the vanity across from the shower that was tucked into the corner. Its glass walls were grimy with limescale, every amenity made of faded ivory acrylic and stained brown at the edges where the janitors had failed to clean it.

You flushed the toilet when you saw that he hadn’t and swore under your breath in disgust. Fucking animal. You quickly peed, rinsed out your mouth with water from the sink, then turned on the shower. You only had a t-shirt to take off, revolted that it was all you had worn during the night. You hung it on the towel rail.

You kept the water lukewarm, too sensitive for cold and too feverish for hot. An array of cheap mini soaps and shampoos lined the tiny in-built caddy, and you were not frugal in using them. Used almost the entire bottle of body wash to lather every crevice of your body, washing away the sweat of panic and ignominious lust that mired your skin. Shampooed and conditioned your hair with products that smelt like pine and citrus with an undercurrent of battery acid.

The water was cleansing, a pleasant distraction, and you shut your eyes as you rinsed off your face, rubbing the grease off your skin.

You rubbed your eyes before you opened them — immediately spotted a silhouette outside the shower, and a blood-curdling scream erupted from your chest as you sprung from the ground. Almost slipped over when you landed on the PVC floor, but you managed to catch yourself with your hands on the glass.

“What the fuck!” You shrieked, heart galloping so rapidly you worried it would break a rib.

He was blurry through the spray of water landing on the shower walls, but you could see him lumber towards the shower door. You shrunk into the corner when he cracked it open, back firm against the square tiles as if you could slip through the fractures in the grout.

He stepped into the shower as if he hadn’t noticed you there, leviathan that he was, his body took up two thirds of the space in the narrow glass box. Boxers were gone, his cock hung heavy and unashamedly, and your stare caught on it like a fish on a hook. Fucking bludgeon of a thing; it swung as though prideful, thick from root to head, roped with veins and sheathed in rosy foreskin. Half-hard, it jutted out from his bed of wheaten curls at a forty-five degree angle, and it bounced as he took a step.

You looked at it for too long, breath caught in your gullet, and he noticed.

“Settle down,” he taunted, hardly a croak, morning voice abraded and gurgling from his throat. He shut the shower door behind him.

You had a plethora of disputes to mount — get the fuck out, how dare you, you didn’t even knock — but they all fizzled at the back of your throat, when he hauled you out of the corner by the hips, swivelling you around until your nose was flush with the shower wall. Kept you there with a hand cuffed around the back of your neck, wet hair knotting in his fingers.

“You can’t—”

“Prettier than I thought,” he murmured to himself, a rough hand smoothing from your hip to your ass, brazenly taking a handful and squeezing hard enough to make you chirp.

“Get off—”

You choked on the rest of your dispute when he packed his hand between your legs, the gap tight where you held your thighs together — he gave no warning when he snaked his finger between your folds, nudging for an entrance.

It happened so fast you couldn’t catch a breath — he found it quickly when your hole twitched at the intrusion, and you yelped in shock when he unhesitantly pushed it inside you to the knuckle, palm flush with the base of you.

“Lovely little cunt.”

And despite every effort to maintain some dignity, every bulwark you had attempted to erect against succumbing to your baser appetites, came toppling down in the quake of his words. Scruples sloughed off from you like the shed of a snake, and whatever slithered free was as shameless as she was hungry.

“Mh, still nice and warm after last night, in’t she,” he crooned, flexing his finger to push it deeper before raking it out.

He was priming you, evident in how he stretched you open around his thick finger, pumping it in and out of you as though assessing how deep he could go. You pressed your forehead against the cold tile, toes curling into the plastic shower floor, whimpering like a wounded animal.

You felt like one, when he tried to push a second finger in — he had to wriggle it to wedge it in, bully it deeper before your hole could stretch to fit it. It stung where the fragile skin pulled taut, but it was a delicious pain, like the burn of liquor or the sting of pulled hair.

“Christ, that’s tight,” he grunted into the shell of your ear, and a chill prickled down the side of your neck.

He ran out of patience, you supposed, because he slid his fingers out of you and your cunt spasmed in protest of its emptiness. He had spun you around then, handling your body like a ragdoll, moving you right where he wanted you — had his hands under your ass in a blink, and he deftly hoisted you upward, back grinding against the tile wall.

You hooked your legs around his hips on instinct, arms slung over his shoulders when he put them there, his face level with yours. Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his hairline and off his chin. Pupils distended and black as tar, beady as a shark, and glaring into the depths of them made your tongue even wetter.

His titanic arms held you up without exertion, and one released your thigh to scoop underneath you — held his cock upright in a fist, and with no pause he lodged the clubbed head of his cock against your opening. He pushed in with his full weight, reaming you open on the girth of it, and your eyes glassed over.

The noises you made were animal, mewling and gasping, coughing when he landed against the spongy plug of your womb, cock as hard as a gun barrel and just about as threatening.

“Fu-hu-huck,” he chuffed into your cheek, voice oozing ardent satisfaction, vibrating directly into your skull. “Tha’s heaven.”

It tracked that he was a talker, given how chatty he was for the duration of the drive — but you liked it. God, you liked it. Mortifying, yet liberating to admit to yourself, that you wanted to hear him talk; you wanted to hear him tell you how lovely, how pretty, how perfect you were.

“All sweet now, aren’t ya?” He purred, bouncing you upward as he rutted hard. “Just what she needed, mh?”

You almost said it aloud — yes crept along your tongue and prickled at the tip, but you weren’t quite ready to let loose the confession. It escaped instead as a moan, head rocking back and knocking against the tile, and he let out a low chuckle, because you said it in all but words.

“Yeah,” he grunted, panting, pelvis grinding against yours as he pistoned into you, somehow deeper every thrust. “Fuckin’ knew it. Barmy for it the second I walked in, weren’t ya?”

He grabbed your face by the jaw, angling your head to look directly at him, the squeeze of his fingers forcing your lips to pucker. His cheeks were ruddy, blood fresh and hot under his skin, eyes rabid with hunger and pride. They scoured every feature on your face and you melted beneath their attention.

“Gorgeous girl, aren’t you?”

He rutted with purpose, chasing his own end with no mind paid to your squeaks of sore rapture, grunting as his cock reeled out and stuffed you full again in steady rhythm. You could only burrow your fingernails into the meat of his back, carving into his wet skin as if holding on for dear life.

“Just fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, a tirade that persisted through every thrust,

“Sweetest thing I ever stole.”

“Who needs fuckin’ money, eh?”

“Hit the jackpot with you, din’t I?”

“Might just keep you forever.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, sweetheart?”

Perhaps your brain had been knocked against your skull one too many times, turned soggy and stupid in the heat, because you whimpered; “Y-yeah.”

His brows shot up at that, shocked — but that surprise quickly gave way to a lavish conceit, a vicious smile that oozed pride for having conquered your inhibitions without even having to try. You’d have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you.

“Yeah?” He goaded, grin wide and jaw loose, panting through his teeth. “Want me to steal you away, eh?”

You nodded as much as he would allow you to, and his lips planted on your chin as though tempted to bite you.

“I can do that, love,” he crooned, “I can take y’where no one will ever find ya. Keep you all for m’self.”

You whined when he only fucked you harder, tender skin of your back chafing against the grout with every jolt. Seemed he was approaching the summit of his own pleasure — huffing like a bull, thrusting with anger, not nearly as chatty as he had been for the rest of it.

“Agh, shit—” he groaned, mouth landing on your shoulder, teeth catching your skin. “Fuckin’ hell—”

He hastily reached underneath you to unsheathe his cock from your hole, leaving your cunt bitterly empty and convulsing in its sudden vacuity — his entire body jerked against you as he came, you felt his cock jolt beneath the cleft of you as it spurted ropes come against the tiled wall he held you to.

His climactic groans were music, to you, little lecher that you were. Some foul part of you was remorseful he hadn’t come inside you instead, hadn’t carelessly pumped you full of it — not a drop of rationality left within you, evidently.

You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but he did; planted a slovenly kiss on the side of your neck, pillowy lips wet with saliva and the water of the still-running shower.

He released you, then — didn’t quite drop you, lowered you as gracefully as he could before letting you land on your feet with a thud. Gave you a pet on the head as though to praise you, a prideful kiss into your scalp.

He shut off the water with a shove of the chipping lever, and the showerhead continued to leak fat drops of water despite it being shut off. He pushed opened the shower door for you, and you slipped out, sodden feet landing on the bathmat.

There were scant words exchanged as you handed him one of the towels, using the other to dry yourself off. You couldn’t help but watch him as he rubbed himself down with the teal-blue cotton, polishing his head like a bowling ball, flossing under his arms, unabashedly rubbing the towel under his balls to dry between his legs. Something in his nonchalance, unapologetically going about it all as if it were normal, was endearing to you. Made your hackles soften, if they were still at all raised.

You put your t-shirt back on, wishing you had a change of clothes, and ventured back into the bedroom — the air was still thick with the dusty warmth of the heater, and ripe with the musk of both of the worked up bodies that had spent the night in it.

“Get dressed,” came a demand from behind you, followed by a coaxing pat on your bare arse. “Need to hit the road.”

You looked over your shoulder at him, watching as he pulled on his boxers, tucking his cock away and snapping the elastic waistband around his hips. You picked up your knickers from where they had landed on the carpet the night before, shimmying up your legs.

Couldn’t yet believe what you were girding yourself for. What you had already accepted as the next step you would take.

You caught his eye, a pout in your lips;

“Can we get breakfast first?”

i've got a pinterest board for this one. the vibes have been stewing for a long while

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #bella-writes

5K notes · View notes

ozzgin · 16 days ago

Text

You assumed that cloning your boyfriend would be a fun, quirky idea. It was a chance to test your latest invention, and you couldn't say no to a double dose of your sweet, shy, and kind partner.

Except this one was different. He didn't have the usual smile, or the soft, round eyes in which you often found peace. His features were creased in a monotonous frown, save for the scowl he threw your boyfriend whenever he stood next to you.

Was there an error in your calculations? You scanned over the data with mild unease. No, all the parameters were identical to those of your beloved partner. Same memories, same thoughts, same experiences. Something, however, must've tweaked within its artificially birthed mind.

He treats you with the same unwavering affection as the original man, yet there's a tinge of violence that you can't quite explain or pinpoint; The way his grip on you tightens whenever the other one shows up, the way his voice hardens when responding to his counterpart.

Your freeze when you notice the blade in his pocket. What's he carrying that around for?

"You know," he says, noticing your terrified stare. "I've just realized something about myself.

I fucking hate sharing."

#yandere #yandere clone #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios

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bi-writes · 9 months ago

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just his girl being so attracted to simon and him not understanding it. (18+)

i mean like...he's never had a girlfriend like this. he's never even had a girlfriend, period, not really, not anyone he's seen more than once, not one that he's known long enough to remember her name.

he just doesn't get it. whenever he comes into your vicinity, he can see the sparkle in your eyes. the smile that graces your face, the way your expression lights up, the way your body moves on its own just to get closer to him.

he wonders if he lets you because of the sick satisfaction he feels. to be the center of your attention, it makes him feel so fucking special, so important. another man can look at you the same way, but he knows your cunt will be dry. but when he looks at you that way, he can see the way your legs squeeze together, and he loves knowing that if he flipped up the hem of your skirt, you'd be so sticky and practically drooling there, all for him.

he doesn't think himself very attractive. he's had his fair share of one night stands, but the way you keen for him makes him so hungry. he loves hearing you whine when he grabs your ass, loves feeling you drip onto his fingers when he kisses you after a long day, loves the way that nothing else will ever make you smile the way he can when he touches your face.

"i love you so much," you whisper, and he has to look away or else he'll groan.

"i missed you," you whimper after he's been away for a long time, and he has to bite back the tremble in his lip because fuck, he missed you, too.

"you're so big, baby," you whine, and he can't help the way he chubs up immediately as you feel up his thick biceps, along his pecs, over the warm layer of fat around his solid middle. you can cum so fast just riding his big thigh, hell--you can cum by yourself just looking at him. he's so hot to you, so handsome, even if he doesn't take his mask off or any of his clothes, because you love him so much, and his eyes are sometimes all you need to feel enough. and fuck if that isn't the biggest ego boost, seeing his girl's pussy creaming just by fixating on the flex of his big hand.

his confidence is so puffed whenever he's around you. he gets goosebumps whenever your eyes are on him. even now, it's been years with you, and you still make him feel like the hottest guy in the room with the way your eyes look him up and down.

you're his perfect girl. his best prize. he doesn't understand how he ever got you, how he ever reeled you in, but there isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't understand how undeserving he is of you and how incredibly lucky he is. it makes him selfish. he has you, and he can't lose you, so fuck how he has to keep you, cause he will. and he thinks you like that, too.

he thinks you like the way he fondles you under your skirt in a crowded place. he thinks you like the way he fucks, deep thrusts as he grips your face and murmurs mine, mine, mine between low groans and fingerprint bruises. he thinks you like the way he hovers, glaring at anyone that looks your way and devouring you in a grocery store parking lot because the cashier at the till looked at your legs for just a second too long, and need ta remind ya who ya belong to, pet.

you were wet anyways, he had worn short sleeves that day, and your eyes hadn't left his tattoo sleeve since he came out of the shower. so wet, ruining those panties, his favorite little black pair with the skull print pattern along the band.

dripping, creamy, pulsing little cunt that is all his. hadn't so much as even touched you yet, and here you are, drooling so sweet. he just didn't want to waste the meal.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #simon thoughts

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elixirfromthestars · 4 months ago

Text

By The Warmth Of The Oven

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You are baking cookies for the Avengers holiday party when a certain super solider comes into the kitchen tipsy for the first time...

Word Count: 1.1k

Warning(s): none. pure fluff. tipsy bucky.

Prompt/Event: @the-slumberparty december daze -> is it those cookies that smell delicious or is it you?

a/n: This fluffy drabble is my holiday gift to you my dear Bella @nickfowlerrr ♡ In honor of Can You Feel It? being the first of many beautiful fics I read of yours 🥹🩷 Thank you everyone for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky masterlist ♡ || fluffy winter drabbles masterlist ❆

“Smells good…” Bucky’s voice comes out of nowhere from behind you as you grab another tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find him sauntering into the kitchen, making his way over to you.

“Freshly baked cookies always do,” you reply with a gratified grin, placing the tray on top of the stove so the cookies have some time to cool off before you plate them. Your friends had already gone through three batches of them and they practically begged you to make more. It was a nice feeling, almost rewarding in a way, knowing something you made was so loved by your friends.

“‘m not talking about the cookies, doll,” there’s a bit of a slur in his cadence that catches your attention at the same time that your heart skips a beat at his words. You turn to him to see he’s staring at you with a dreamy smile and a twinkle in his eyes, propped up against the counter by his elbow. You frown at his unusual nonchalant demeanor. You’ve never seen him act this way before.

Your head tilts slightly as you examine him a little closer. There’s a bit of a sway to his stance and his cheeks are tinted pink. “Bucky, are you drunk?” Almost immediately he shakes his head at your question, “No. I can't get drunk,” he replies with an obvious tone, and yet the pouty frown on his face tells a different story.

“Right, you can’t…” you affirm, mulling it over for a moment,“Unless…did Thor give you some of his special Asgardian liquor?” You ask, stepping slightly closer to him, the apples of his cheeks getting rosier in response.

“I took a shot. I started feeling funny and came here—felt safe,” he mutters that last part reluctantly, sharing something with you he wouldn’t if it weren’t for the alcohol in his system.

“In the kitchen?”

“With you.”

Your amusement is replaced with a soft expression at his response. He most likely hasn’t felt the effects of alcohol in decades and a part of him doesn’t know how to cope with the resurfaced inhibitions. The fact that while feeling unwell his first instinct was to come looking for you—it made a warmth spread throughout you that could easily rival the heat of the oven.

You reach out to cup his cheek, soothing the flushed skin with your thumb. He instinctively leans into your touch, his eyes shining with a gentle vulnerability that causes your heart to squeeze in your chest. You and Bucky have always had a flirtatious friendship for as long as you can remember, but it's never gone past that. Seeing him so openly affectionate with you stirs emotions deep within you that you aren’t sure you’re ready to bring to the surface.

“I don’t think the alcohol is going to stay in your system for long, Buck. How about we do this…you wait for me here while I go out and serve the cookies I baked,” his eyes widen slightly and you can tell he wants to protest until you add, “I’ll bring back some hot chocolate for us to share and we can enjoy it along with some cookies while we wait for that liquor in your system to wear off. How does that sound?” You suggest softly and you can see the way he thinks it through before he agrees with a nod.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as you plate a few dozen cookies on decorative plates, leaving a handful behind for you and Bucky to share. You make sure to quickly take them out to your friends and serve up two piping hot mugs of hot chocolate before making it back to the kitchen in no time.

When you meet back with Bucky you find him sitting on the counter where he watches his legs as he swings them lazily to and fro. You observe him fondly for a moment longer than necessary. Trying to commit to memory how carefree and unguarded he is at this moment. When he notices you his face lights up in a way that makes you feel like the most precious person on earth.

“Here, as promised,” you hand him a mug of hot chocolate which he takes eagerly—too eagerly—as he immediately goes for a sip of it. Before he can, however, you stop him, placing your hand as a barrier between his lips and the mug. His mouth ends up pressed into your palm, and you ignore the heat that finds its way to your face at the softness of his lips brushing against your skin.

“Bucky, it's scalding hot! You’ll burn yourself! Wait until it cools down a bit, please.”

“It’s not gonna burn me, doll. I’m a super soldier. Watch—”

“Bucky!”

You use the cookies as leverage to coax Bucky into waiting for the hot chocolate to cool down before he drinks any of it. For the next hour or so, you enjoy each other's company. Between the sweet treats and the lighthearted conversations, time flies by in a heartbeat.

Then, while in the middle of a discussion over your last mission, Bucky does something that completely takes you by surprise in the best way possible—he kisses you. It’s short, but profound in the way he pours everything into it. Every flirtation you ever questioned could mean something more was proven here with this kiss, that it had meant so much more for more than just you.

You’re speechless when he pulls away beaming as if his heart might burst.

“Looks like I was right.”

“Huh?”

“I asked myself what was sweeter. You or the cookies. I knew it'd be you,” he states as a matter of fact, drinking up the way his words affect you as much as the kiss had. There’s a part of you that doesn’t believe him, but it's not because of him, but more so because you think you must be dreaming.

“That's the liquor talking.”

“I've sobered up a while ago, doll.”

You search his eyes for the truth of it all and you find it. This is real. This isn’t a dream. And the yearning that burns bright in his eyes is one you know all too well. It’s the same one reflecting in your eyes as your gazes lock on one another.

“I still think the cookies are sweeter,” you whisper, your eyes shining with a playful challenge despite the way your heart races in your chest with anticipation. He catches on, licking his lips as his flesh hand snakes its way to the back of your head to cradle it gently.

“‘m gonna prove you wrong, doll,” he declares in a huskier tone as he pulls you in for another kiss. And that night, by the warmth of the oven, Bucky continues to kiss you until he successfully proves you wrong.

#glimpses of love in the snowfall #elixirs snowfall daydreams #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky imagine #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes oneshot

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kamitv · 1 year ago

Text

▷ Impatience

Sypnosis . What happens when you come home late to them when they’re needy. / Pairings . (Separate) Gojo x f!reader, Geto x f!reader, Toji x f!reader, Choso x f!reader, Nanami x f!reader / Content . afab!reader, non-curse au, dirty talk, unprotected sex, established relationships, oral sex f!receiving, dry humping, spitting, etc. / wc . 7.8k

[ MDNI ]

★ Gojo Satoru

“Fuuuuck, I missed you so much today,” He’d groan directly into your mouth, aching cock slipping in between your dripping folds so perfectly, “Missed’ this pussy, fuck.” Gojo whispers against your lips.

You’d let off a whine and your brows would pinch together at your boyfriend’s words, “W-Was only gone f-for an-, ahh, a-an hour longer, ‘Toru,” Your cunt narrowed around his long cock as he continued pushing into you.

To come home to a needy Gojo always ended the same— you laid out on the nearest surface beneath him as he worked his dick inside you and forced you to tell him about your extended day.

“Mhmm, I know,” He’d frown, sharp cerulean eyes boring down into your own so carefully, “Felt like forever though,” Gojo explains, nudging himself in inch by inch and watching how your eyes flicker and your lips part to release a sigh.

“You’re s-so,” Gojo rolls his hips down into you and you moan at the way his cock presses into the depths of your pussy— filling you up so perfectly, “Dramatic,” You finish, words coming out as a breathy moan.

Gojo bit his lower lip to conceal a smile. Oh how he loved watching your face contort into pleasure, he could watch the stress fading out of your eyes and being replaced with lust forever.

“M’not dramatic,” He huffs. The two of you were on your shared living room couch as he couldn’t even make it to the bedroom, needing to be inside you as quickly as possible.

Gojo’s got one hand intertwined with yours, pressing your fingers down into the soft couch cushion as he starts working up that pace of his.

“I missed my girlfriend,” Gojo groans, hips drawing back ever so slowly before he listens closely to the loud squelch of your cunt as his cock pushes back in. Biting his lip yet again, he smirks a bit, “Seems’ like she missed me too.”

Your neck arches a bit and you moan, the sound like music to his ears. “Toru, hahh-, you’re so big,” You mumble out due to the sheer stretch of his cock.

He can’t help but crack a full smile, his mind spinning a bit as your plush walls pulse around his veiny shaft. “Yeahh, but you take me so well every time, pretty girl,” Gojo praises, “Needy lil’ pussy’s always huggin’ my cock juuust right.”

Those lewd words of his make your face twist up but you can’t help but moan yet again as he slams down into you all at once.

“Hah, now tell me what held you up at work again?” Gojo requested amid his thrusts, despite watching you lose your breath.

You whine, “M-My coworker, mmgh-, h-he-“

Gojo’s cock twitched inside you, shifting slightly and purposefully angling into your cervix, “He?”

“M-Mmh-, y-yes Satoru, he!” You cry out, your hand squirming beneath his as Gojo’s larger fingers squeeze yours, “H-He… aagnh, fuck-, he messed up on some-, nngh, paperwork,” You just barely manage out.

The man above you tilts his head, eyes narrowing, and thrusts growing heavier. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just peers down at you with this look in his eyes.

You’d swear those blue irises of his were glowing with how intently he looked at you. Not that you were allowed much time to dissect that though as Gojo began fucking his cock down into you a bit harsher.

The sloppy sounds of his thrusts echoed throughout the room, all of which were followed by your moans and pleas for him to slow down.

Gojo swiftly moves his free hand in between your body and his, finding your clit without batting an eye and quickly pinching it, “So another man kept you from me?” He eventually breathes out.

He sounded upset, which kinda explains why he’s growing so rough with you— angry cockhead pounding into your cunt so viciously, as if to remind you of who you belong to.

“Toruu,” You whimper, “P-Please-, h-he’s, aah! H-He’s just a c-coworker,” You try your best to explain it to your lover but all your whines go through one ear and out the other.

Gojo rolls his eyes at you, “Yeah, a coworker who took up my girl’s time,” He argues, “Y’know what, call in sick tomorrow.”

“W-What?” You exhale heavily. With eyes as wide as ever, you couldn’t believe your boyfriend right now.

“W-What?” Gojo mocks you before you feel his thick cock shove impossibly deeper inside you, “You fuckin’ heard me. I said call in sick,” He voices out lowly. It was more of a command rather than a request at this point.

An airy little noise of disapproval leaves your throat, “Hhgn… I c-can’t just-“ His thumb swirls over your clit as his dick continues to split you open, your cunt wetting up his cock more and more with each thrust. Then his pelvis clashes down into yours a bit harder and your eyes roll back, “Ohmygod-“

“You can,” Gojo protests, pulling his hips back until he nearly slips out of you. Then he’s drilling right back in such an animalistic way.

“Toru,” You moan sweetly, his pupils dilating even more at the sound.

Even so, he has no plans on changing his mind, “Nah, it seems you forgot how I feel about other guys gettin’ in the way of us,” Gojo grunts. The sound of his heavy balls smacking against your ass as he beat his lengthy cock deep into your pussy was so overwhelming.

Your legs began to quicker a little and your back was lifting off the couch, “But h-he’s not-“

“Shut up,” Gojo cuts off. And you do, shutting your mouth obediently and whining instead, “Good girlll,” Gojo praises in that low voice of his. Then he pants and you swear you feel him in your stomach at this point, “Now hurry up ‘nd cum f’me, we gotta make up for lost time.”

★ Geto Suguru

Who allows you to get into your shared home perfectly fine at first, helping you take off your shoes, speaking in such a soft tone to you as he requests the events of your longer day.

You’d answer him honestly and explain how there was an error you had to stay and fix— to which Geto would soothe you with his understanding nature and gentle words.

Yet, the very second you sigh a little too heavily for his liking, he’s dragging you off to the bedroom and offering himself as a stress reliever.

“Suguruuu,” You mewl out, thighs spread over his handsome face with his big hands latched to your legs, fingers pressing into your skin as he aided you.

Those pretty purple-hued eyes of his would gaze right up into yours as you faced him, his tongue delving into your cunt and lapping up your sweetness into his mouth. His deep groans were like heaven against your cunt.

"Use me, princess," Geto groaned just before flattening his tongue against your dripping pussy and lapping it upward so very tenderly that it had you twitching and squirming above him.

You pant heavily, hips grinding over the wet pink muscle below for more friction in such a needy manner. Geto's thick fingers slid up along your body, caressing your tensed skin beneath his touch before he grabbed ahold of your hips and forced you to ride his face faster.

Although you couldn't see it, constantly was your boyfriend lifting his hips into the air as he feasted on your cunt like a man staved, his cock pressing up into the fabric of his sweats and giving himself the slightest bit of friction needed.

A sticky bit of precum was wetting up his boxers where his tip was, his fat cock so very desperate for you. But, he'd force himself to wait, your pleasure was more important at the moment.

Which is why his jaw is dropping a bit and his lips are cupping your pussy as he slurps your juices into his mouth, some slipping out from the corner of his lips and dribbling down his face. Not that he cared of course, especially not when you were above him whining and moaning so beautifully.

"Fuck Sugu-, that f-feels so good-, hhggn... ah!" You whine desperately above him. He's been at it for a minute now but his tongue is so damn skillful and long that you've got no idea how much time has truly passed.

Geto retracts his head only a little bit before spitting a fat glob of saliva up onto your cunt, "What a messy girl you are," He comments, his breath tickling the insides of your thighs, "Drippin' all into my mouth even when I'm not even moving."

Then he's leaning up again, his lips pressing into your sensitive clit and making you jump at the contact. A jolt of pleasure shoots throughout your body as he plants a bunch of messy kisses to your clit before suckling it into his mouth.

The tip of his tongue dashes around the sensitive bud and you reach a hand down, fingers curling into his hair as you roll your hips forward against his face for more.

"Mmmgh," Geto hums against you, "Yeahh, ride my fuckin' face, baby," He encourages, his words making you impossibly wetter as you do just that.

His tongue sinks back down and slithers into your cunt, searing against your plush walls as he moans into you. Your legs begin to close around his head and his fingers dig into your skin, "F-Fuck, m'gonna cum Sugu."

He just nods below you, lidded eyes revealing his zero intent on slowing down or stopping anytime soon. Your taste was so addicting to him, he could eat you out for hours and hours and never get tired.

Geto would have his mouth latched to your pussy until his jaw locked, and even then he'd still keep going. You could squirt on his face, beg him to give you a break, or even try pulling away from him but he'd always drag you back to him, tell you to take it, and request that you wet up his face again and again until he's satisfied.

Even as you cum in his mouth, his dick is throbbing in his sweats, twitching all over the place as it aches to be inside you. When you finally come undone and begin to pant softly above him, that's when he slows down.

"You can give me one more, yeah?" Geto hums with a sly smirk on his face, having yet to move an inch away from your pussy.

You shake your head, "M'tired Sugu..."

He frowns, "C'mon, you can't be tired after one orgasm. I thought we worked on that stamina of yours?" Geto whispers so softly as he turns slightly to kiss the inside of your thighs.

Pouting, "I had a long day..." You explain.

"Uhuh, and I'm trying to relieve you s'more baby," He tells you with an innocent look on his face, "C'mon, gimme a few more 'nd then I'll leave you alone."

"Suguru... you never leave me alone afterward," You huff out as you recall all the past times this exact scenario has played out.

Geto snickers, "That's because I've got a needy ass girl who likes beggin' for my cock afterward."

"I-," Your frown deepens, "I do not..."

"Yeahh ya' do..." He argues, "But it's alright, I like it when you're all needy 'nd start beggin' f'me."

With a slight groan, you shift above him a little, "...Shut up."

He tips his head back against the bed below and smiles, "Shut me up, c'mon. Put that pretty pussy on my mouth again."

Heat rushes to your face as he says that and almost instinctively, you just listen to him and sit right back down on his welcoming mouth.

★ Toji Fushiguro

Oh he hates when you come home late, as if he doesn’t do so himself all the damn time.

But the problem is that he’d be texting you begging-, no, never begging but, telling-, or ordering you to come home. Plethoras of I need you’s & look at what you’re doin’ to me’s followed by roughly five pictures of his thick and aggravatingly hard cock would ping to your phone while you’re in the middle of a meeting you didn’t have to attend.

And yes, you’ve explained this to your impatient partner Toji but does he care? Of course not.

So that’s why when you finally come home, you could barely into the damn house before he’s got that large veiny hand of his wrapped around your throat, tugging you into your household and slamming your body back against the front door to close it.

“Toji-“ You barely even get a chance to speak before he’s shoving his hot tongue into your mouth and shutting you up.

Your fiancé doesn’t care to hear your excuses, you’ve already texted them to him so, he’s grunting into your mouth and his free hand is moving to lock the door you’re up against.

His lips are hot and heavy against you, cologne dizzying your senses, bigger and much bulkier body pressing against you, and his hand limiting your oxygen.

“Told’ you I fuckin’ needed you,” Toji groans into your mouth as he trails a hand down and around your frame, quickly moving to grab a possessive hold of your ass, “Y’know how long I’ve been waitin’?”

You whine as his fingers curl into your ass cheek, squeezing so harshly before moving his lips to your jawline. “T-Toji, please, that meeting was-“

“Don’t care,” He hums so casually as he dips further down and to the side of your neck, sucking eagerly on your skin, “Forty-five fuckin’ minutes I’ve been waitin’ for you.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re such a big-, baby,” You stammer out as his hand shifts to your hip and he tugs you so that his one larger leg can press in between yours.

Toji scoffs against you and his hand leaves your throat, “I’m a big baby? Says the one who starts cryin’ from jus’ the tip.”

You grit your teeth and your hands go to his broad shoulders, “I do not…” You gasp as his thigh presses up against your clit, “You’re exaggeratin’.”

“Oh am I?” Toji chuckles, pulling his head up so he can look at your face, “Look at’cha now, can’t even handle a couple of kisses without lookin’ all fucked out.”

You frown at the man, “You couldn’t even let me get past the damn door before your hands were all over m-“

He shuts you up by lifting a hand to shove two thick fingers into your mouth, “God, you talk too much.”

A pout pulls at your lower lip as his fingers sink into your throat and press down on the back of your tongue. Your eyes gloss over a little and you gag.

His scared lip pulls up into a smirk, “Look at that fuckin’ pout… Aww, you mad?” Toji taunts.

God, you cannot stand him. Well, you can, that’s why you’ve got an engagement ring on your finger now— but still, he never fails to piss you off. And you’re pretty sure he likes pissing you off. He definitely gets a kick out of seeing you upset.

You move to graze his fingers with your teeth and he raises a brow.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” Toji warns.

You groan against him before letting out a tired sigh and slithering your tongue in between the two fingers lodged in your mouth. He flashes a smile at you.

Then he nods approvingly, “Yeahhh, tha’s it.”

Oh his cock was in pain due to how hard he was. And it doesn’t get any better when you pull your head back a little before pushing forward, sucking on his fingers like the obedient little fiancée he knows you to be.

Toji licks his lips in almost slow motion, “So fuckin’ sexy, doll. Y’know that right?”

You smile against his fingers briefly before you nod, “Mhmm…”

He sighs heavily as he watches you suck on him, cock twitching in his sweatpants every time you throat his fingers and bat those pretty eyes of yours at him.

Then, he practically loses his mind when you pull off with a loud pop before taking his wrist into your hands, spitting on the tip of his fingers, and then taking them right back into your mouth.

Toji groans at the sight, “Nasty lil’ slut,” He huffs out, “Suckin’ on my fingers like it’s my cock… you’re enjoyin’ yourself, huh?”

You smile yet again and nod, “Mmh…”

“Fuck, keep lookin’ at me like that ‘nd I’m gonna cum without even seein’ your pussy.” He warns.

That makes you far more eager than he expects it to and you tilt your head to the side and really start sucking on his fingers like they’re his dick.

Then, you pull off for a moment just to speak, “Put three in my mouth,” You request, sticking your tongue out and watching how his lips part and he nearly moans at the request alone.

Toji tips his head back ever so slightly, eyes getting lower as he shifts to hold three fingers to your lips, “You’re so fuckin’ nasty,” He whispers before pushing his digits in and feeling you hum against him, “Gonna make me cum from this, pretty girl…”

You twist your head a bit as you suck on him, running your tongue all in between his fingers, drool escaping out the corner of your lips, and one of your hands suddenly dropping from his wrists. Toji’s eyes flicker when your free hand grabs ahold of his cock through his clothes.

“S-Shit,” He hisses, “God, I love you,” Toji hums as your hand strokes his aching cock through his clothing.

You were all too perfect for him, sucking on his fingers, rubbing your palm against the outline of his clothes— he swears he’s never found himself about to cum from something so simple before.

Your mouth furthers on his fingers and your hand moves to slip into his sweats, making his body jerk forward when you grab his thick cockhead and run your fingers over it so teasingly.

“Fuuuck,” He groans with his jaw going slack, “The hell would I do without you-, mgh,” He grunts deeply as you stroke his tip carefully.

Toji’s hips buck into your touch and he’s trying so hard not to moan— he was really aching for you more than he’d let on.

A messy slick of precum gets all over your hand but it makes it easier for you to start jerking him off, your mouth still latched to his fingers for a moment before you pull off.

Then you kiss him and smile, “C’mon big guy, go ahead ‘nd cum f’me so you can fuck me properly.”

Oh he practically loses his sanity at that, body folding over and toward you as he rests his forehead on your shoulder and finally lets out that sexy moan he’s been keeping in.

You snicker as you jerk him off and you can feel his cock throbbing in your hand, the messy sounds of your fingers sliding along his thick shaft filling the air.

Toji tilts his head and his lips press against your skin but he doesn’t kiss you, just opens his mouth and pants, “M’so close, doll. Don’t stop, d-don’t you fuckin’ stop,” He groans against your neck, breath hot and body tense because of you.

You smile, “You’re so needy Toji…”

His teeth graze your neck for a moment as he nearly sinks them into your skin, “Don’t call me fucking needy.”

“But you are,” You voice out so sensually that it makes his head spin

Toji grunts and you swear you hear a different noise almost escape the back of his throat as your hand squeezes his cock. “M’gonna fuck the shit outta’ you after this,” He huffs, “Gonna make sure you can’t even-, aagh…. walk tomorrow.” He stammers out.

You move to whisper in his ear, “Mhm, I’m sure you will.”

“I’ll show you fuckin’ needy,” Toji utters through gritted teeth, your hand just jerking and jerking— his legs were starting to stiffen because of how good it felt.

“Stop talkin’ ‘nd cum f’me so you can fill me up,” You whisper teasingly.

Toji’s eyes roll back, “I’ll put a baby in you if you keep talkin’ like that.”

“Maybe I want you to,” You giggle.

Then your hand focuses on his leaking tip and he just couldn’t take it anymore, groaning at both your skillful hand and your teasing words before hot and thick ropes of cum are spurting out.

His hands ball into tight fists as he does so and he pants heavily beside you. And his groans were so loud, he was really worked up.

In one quick motion, he lifts his head from your shoulder and presses his lips into yours, “Fuckin’ love you,” Toji grunts into you.

And you’re smiling against him, “Mhm, love’ you too, ya’ big baby.”

Toji scoffs before pulling away from your lips, “Alright, call me a big baby one more time ‘nd see what happens.”

You stare at the man, noticing the slight smirk he has, “…But Toji… you are a big baby— never satisfied ‘til you get what you want.”

“Seems like you’ve got the roles here reversed, doll,” He huffs before pecking your lips one more time, “S’fine tho’, I’ll fix that soon enough.”

★ Choso Kamo

Coming home late to your needy boyfriend Choso is never a bad thing. If anything, you think you stay longer at work on purpose to tease the man.

When you get home wee hours into the night, all the lights in the apartment would be off, there'd be practically no sound throughout the place and you'd wonder if Choso was sleeping.

Of no surprise to you, he isn't when you make your way to the living room and see his legs spread as wide as ever as he watches some show playing on the large TV on the wall across the room from him. You'd carefully make your way around the couch and notice he's got his eyes shut and his head is rested slightly back on the couch.

How cute, he'd fallen asleep waiting for you. So what do you do as his loving girlfriend? Well, you move to straddle him and take a very comfortable seat in his lap, his entire body jolting awake at your presence.

The smell of your perfume would seep into his nose, the feeling of your thighs spread over his would make his body tense, and the way you'd wrap your arms around his neck as he woke up would have him letting out a sigh of relief.

"Hi Cho," You'd greet so lovingly, voice caressing his ear just before you plant a cute lil' kiss near it.

Choso's hands move on instinct, two large pairs of fingers grabbing onto each side of your waist. Then, before he even gets a second to say anything, you're tipping your head down to kiss him on the side of his neck like you always do.

He groans immediately and you feel his cock jump at the sudden kiss. Then he's gripping onto your waist tighter, "Missed' you baby..." Choso tells you in that deep voice of his, the sound making you shift against him.

Your kisses trail up and you find yourself right below his jaw, "Missed you too, Cho."

He inhales sharply as you then lick him before sucking on his skin a little, "Yeah?" Choso teases, sleepily dragging his hands down a bit and grabbing ahold of your hips before squeezing, "You stayed at work longer than normal..."

"I know, I know, m'sorry," You coo as you try to make up for it with the constant kisses to his neck.

And he's so sensitive too, squirming all over the damn place as you do so. You could feel his dick growing beneath you and the feeling encouraged you to get more comfortable in his lap.

Then you lift your face from his neck and meet those low brown eyes of his, "Heard me? I said I'm sorry Cho."

He stares at you for a long moment before cocking his head to the side, "Are you?" Choso asks.

You blink, "Of course I am!"

"Prove it t'me, baby," Choso requests, voice as deep as ever.

You could feel yourself twitching every time he spoke, the look in his eyes and faint touch on your body driving you crazy. "How do you want me to prove it to you Cho, hm?" You ask softly.

Just as his voice made you ache, your voice made the tip of his cock leak. He's lifting his hips up into yours without a second thought and he doesn't miss the way you gasp softly at his clothed cock pressing up into your cunt.

"Ride me," Choso says calmly, "If you're sorry, make it up t'me by makin' me cum."

You smile at the man, "That's it? Choso you're acting like I haven't made you cum without even touching you before..."

He scoffs slightly and leans back into the couch so lazily— a sleepy, but sexy smile spreading across his face as he does so. “You tied me up, that was different, baby.”

Tilting your head, you smile back at him, “Was it?”

“Mhm, ‘nd when I say ride me,” Choso’s hands slither down along your legs before finding a place on your thighs, “I mean jus’ like this.”

You just stare with wide confused eyes, “…What do you mean just like this?”

“Dry hump me,” He explains with a slick smirk on his face.

A pout pulls at your lower lips, “Like a damn teenager Cho? Why can’t we just-“

“Knew you weren’t sorry for stayin’ out later,” Choso huffs out as he turns his head to the side.

Again, you stare at him— trying to figure out if he’s being for real right now or if he’s just teasing. But, based on the aching cock you’re sitting on top of and the way Choso’s fingers are holding your thighs, you get the idea that he’s dead serious.

So, with a sigh, “Fine,” You tell him, earning a quick turn of his head to you.

Choso comforts himself a bit more, slouching back into the couch further and rolling his hips upward to get comfortable. Though, his little movement only causes his dick to press up into your cunt.

The layers in between you and him weren’t really helping how stupidly aroused you both were. With a soft sigh escaping from your lips, you start off slow— gently rocking your hips forward as if to test the waters a bit.

Your boyfriend, Choso, quickly lets out a huff. Nothing could beat that teasing sensation of your clothed cunt rubbing against his aching boner. His eyes lowered and despite a cute lil’ shade of red taking over his features, his fingers grip onto your thighs tightly.

“Yeahh, like that, baby,” He whispers.

You hum sweetly and lean forward, pressing your chest against his as you meet his low gaze, “This’ all you want?”

Choso nods carefully, licking his lips in almost slow motion as you just rock your hips back and forth in such a mesmerizing manner. You had such a good rhythm with your hips, perfectly rolling your cunt in small little circles over his cock and gasping every once in a while.

He soon let out a groan and tips his head back, “Just… keep-, mmgh, keep doin’ that.”

You smile at your all-too-sensitive boyfriend before leaning forward and connecting your lips to his neck, “Choso… Baby,” You whine,” Are you really gonna cum from this?”

He barely even nods at your words, hands slithering further up your body to grab ahold of your waist once more, “F-Feels like you’re actually— fuckin’ me,” His voice was husk already, deep but laced with the faintest whine just as you liked it.

“Yeah?” You utter tauntingly. Then you began bouncing slightly, rutting against his cock with more vigor as he humped up into you reflectively.

“Hahh…. Princess,” He whines, “S-Shit, I… I wanna fuck you.”

You lick a long and almost languid stripe up along his neck, stopping at his jaw and giggling, “So fuck me, Cho.”

All that’s let out from him is a groan before he’s flipping the two of you over, his much larger frame in between your legs as he stares down at you so very hungrily.

Then Choso’s drawing his hips back only a little before he presses down into your clothed pussy, the outline of his dripping cock nudging right in between your folds and making your eyes flutter for a moment.

Choso shakes his head at you, “Why’d you come home s’late?” He mumbles.

You let out the faintest moan as he works up a needy pace of humping his dick against you. “C-Choso-“

“Answer my question,” He breathes out as he leans his face down to your aroused expression, “Hm? Why’d you come home late? Y’know I missed you, right?”

You nod and he rolls his hips down into yours, cock mashing into your cunt and even grazing your clit, “H-Hahhh, I-I know Cho… I just-, mmh! Remember t-that promotion I told you about?”

He stares for a second before shrugging, “Yeah…”

“I needed to show… h-how serious I am about it,” You moan as you explain and your jaw goes a bit slack as he weighs his body down into yours a little and Choso grows a little rougher.

“Is a promotion more important than me?” He huffs out, whispering gently to you.

Your head shakes, “No, of course n-not-“

“I texted you, baby,” Choso cuts off, his face growing closer, “Told you I needed you.”

“Cho-“

“Needed your cunt on me,” He huffs out mindlessly, “Needed this, aagh…” His words are emphasized with a rougher thrust against you.

Your body jerks a bit and you have such a lewd expression on your face— almost as if you were getting fucked for real, “Choso,” You moan as he swipes a hand down and rubs over your clit through your clothes.

“I missed her,” He hums, “Missed’ how she talks to me…” All as he rolls that thumb of his over your clit and continues rutting his cock down against you, “You gonna cum f’me, baby?”

“M-Mhmm,” You whine as your hips lift into his movements.

Choso smiles a little, “C’mon then, give it t’me so I can fuck you for real.”

“Choso…” You murmur as his words go straight to your core, your body hot and aching for sweet release.

He nods and his eyes never once leave yours, “Uhuh, keep sayin’ my name.”

Your back begins to arch off of the couch and he grows faster with the way he humps his cock down into you, “Cho,” You whimper.

“Mhm, I’m right here baby,” He coos lovingly, “Act like I’m n’side you, cum just like you would on my cock, princess.”

And just like that, you were cumming, legs closing around your boyfriend as he watches your face and body twist up.

Then he starts kissing your neck and sucking on your skin possessively, “That’s my fuckin’ girl,” He whispers into you.

Then, once your body stills, he leans up and quickly pulls his shirt off, staring down at your wide glossy eyes. A heavy sigh leaves his lips as he drags his hands down and tugs on his drawstring.

“Ready t’see how much my cock missed you?” Choso teases as he tauntingly pulls on the waistband of his sweats.

You just nod, almost dumbly as you peer up at him, “Mhm.”

Then he’s smiling again, “Alright but, don’t start cryin’ when you can’t take it anymore, ‘kay?”

★ Nanami Kento

Okay, he’s literally the reason you come home late.

Because of course, working at the same company as your husband isn’t always the best idea. And yes, everyone knows Nanami hates working overtime.

But, when his pretty wife comes into his office after sending teasing messages for the past hour or so about getting home and taking a soothing bath together— Nanami finds himself straining through his clothes.

You’d walk in with that tight pencil skirt and lowly unbuttoned blouse, a way of dressing you know drives him insane.

Then there’s your voice caressing his ear as you walk around his desk and wrap your arms around his neck, whispering an oh-so-sweet, “Need any help in here, sir?” And you know what that honorific does to him when coming out of your mouth.

It all makes him shift in his seat, moving to lean over and rest his chin on his knuckles as he places his elbow on the armrest of his chair, “Yes but not with anything on this damn screen,” Nanami huffs.

You smile, knowing exactly what he means by that but deciding to play dumb anyway. Then you turn and press your lips into his cheek, “Awh,” You coo, glancing over to the neatly assorted paperwork on his desk, “Then, could it be that pile of work you need help with? It is almost time to go.”

Nanami sighs and lifts his head from his hand, turning to look at you whose eyes are busy elsewhere, “No, not that either,” He hums in that honeyed voice of his.

You turn to face him, your eyelids lowering as you find yourself a bit closer than anticipated, “Then what is it, Ken?” Your question comes off as innocent and you tilt your head.

His eyes narrow at you and he scans your expression momentarily. After which, his gaze meets yours, “You are so beautiful,” Your husband suddenly compliments.

And it never once fails to make your heart swell and a smile brightens up your face, “Thank you, hun,” You say before moving to peck his lips, “But where is this sudden sentiment coming from, hm?”

Nanami leans toward your face a little just as you pull your lips off of his and you find it so very endearing how clear it is what he wants from you. “I can’t compliment my wife?” He asks.

“You can.” Giggling, your hands retract from him as you stand up straight— watching how his expression sinks a little due to the loss of your touch, “But I’m just curious is all…”

Your head turns to that stack of paperwork again and you reach for the paper at the top of the pile, skimming over it as you do so.

Nanami watches, falling deeper in love with your every move and trying his best not to think with his cock and act on impulse— though he’d done it before, lord knows he wanted to bend you over his desk and-

“Ken, I thought we discussed this contract here,” You utter, breaking him from his lewd thoughts.

Nanami shakes his head and clears his throat. Then, he reaches a hand over and grabs a light hold of your free hand, trying to gain your attention, “We probably did but,” You turn and look at him as he lifts your hand to his face and lands a kiss across your knuckles, “Can we please discuss that later?”

You gaze at your husband for a long moment, finally noticing the bulge in his pants. “Oh. Is that what you need my help with?” You emphasize as you place the paper in your hand down and point to his crotch.

Nanami moves to intertwine his fingers with yours, “I know it’s unprofessional but, yes.”

You turn your body to face him and he tries to pull you closer but you don’t move. “Ken… if I handle that now we’ll be here longer than we’d like.”

He nods, “I’m aware.”

Frowning in disappointment at your impatient husband, you let off a sigh and push forward, stepping in between his legs. “I wasn’t aware I married such a needy man.” You tease as you draw your hand away from his.

Nanami quickly sits back in his seat, the chair creaking a bit as he does so. He’s got this almost pained look on his face, as if another second without you would kill him.

“Me? Needy?” Nanami huffs, clearly not aware of the look on his chiseled face.

You smile and begin to get down on your knees, the sight making his cock jump within his pants. “Yes, you.” You scoff, “Who else?”

Your husband parts his thighs further for you and smirks, “Between you and I, I am not the needy one in this relationship.”

You nod slowly as your fingers trail along his muscular thighs, the teasing movements causing his tip to drip so messily against his clothing. “So what do you call this then?” You utter, nodding your chin toward his erection.

Those delicate hands of your trail up to his belt and you begin to undo it so slowly that it pains him not to rush you. “You caused it,” Nanami argues.

You smirk, “That doesn’t answer my question, husband of mine.”

“Well, wife of mine, I don’t have time to answer questions right now,” He mocks, tipping his head to the side and watching you like a hawk as your hands finally near his cock, “M’Too hard to think straight.” He grunts.

And then finally, your hand is tugging his throbbing cock out, your eyes widening at the sight as if you hadn’t seen it a million times before. Nanami loves the way you admire him though, he just watches in awe at how your gaze travels along his thick and lengthy member, your mouth salivating in such a hungry way.

“C’mon, I don’t have all day…” Nanami rushes, to which you glance past his length and up at his face with a pout. “Oh don’t look at me like that, we’ve already been here five minutes past our working hours.”

You snicker and lean your face close to his cock just to push your lips to his weeping and flushed tip, “And whose fault is that?” You whisper before you kiss him.

He inhales sharp enough for you to hear, “Yours,” Nanami groans out to you.

Your lips move to wrap around the tip of his cock, tongue quickly swiping in between his slit and making the man shudder above you. Then, you pull your tongue away and look up at him again, “Mine, he says…” You hum to yourself before tilting your head.

Then you’re trailing kisses down the side of his dick until you get to the base, gently sucking on the underside of his cock where he’s sensitive and earning a deep groan that makes your cunt throb.

“…As if you’re not the one begging me to suck you off,” You huff out.

Nanami lands a heavy hand down on your head as you shift to drag your tongue upward along his length until you get to his pretty pink tip, swiveling your tongue around it and pulling off slightly to spit onto it.

“Oh don’t act like you didn’t want to do this,” Nanami argues back to you. Your gaze meets his and he stares at the way you open your mouth slowly, but… not to say something back to him.

Instead, your mouth is closing around his cock before he has time to process— yet another groan leaving his lips and echoing throughout his office. Inch by inch by inch, your mouth furthers down his dick with no problem.

Even as his cock enters your throat and your lips reach his base, you don’t gag or even choke. Nanami’s eyelashes fluttered at the tightness of your throat around him, trying not to groan too much despite it being hard not to when your mouth was so warm and wet around him.

“Fuuck,” He curses deeply, fingers curling into your hair, “I trained this throat well it seems…”

You whine against him and his body twitches. Slowly, you start to lift your head before you work up a pleasureful pace of bobbing your head— sucking on his cock all too well.

Nanami’s free hand grips onto the edge of his armrest as you go to work on him and his eyes begin to lift to his ceiling. Looking down at you with your mouth stuffed full of his cock would only lead him to cum too soon.

The wet sounds slipping from out your mouth as you sucked and licked on his dick filled the air, your eyes lowering as pleasing your husband like this only turned you on more than you already were. The two of you had been teasing one another all day.

Even from earlier that morning when Nanami woke you up by kissing at your neck so lovingly, whispering sweet nothings against your skin in that deep and sexy morning voice of his. He’s had you worked up since then so now, you’re sucking him off like you want him to pass out from it.

And he might because goddamn your mouth is like heaven around him. Your head bobs and twists, your throat opening up to take him in deep every time you push down, and a moan vibrates against him as his hand tugs at your hair every now and then.

Then there’s your tongue, slithering up and down and left and right, slicking against each vein in such a way that tells him you remember every single one.

“Oh fuck,” Nanami curses yet again, hips unconsciously bucking up into your mouth for more, “So good… Your mouth feels s’good on me, love.”

You give his cock one long and hard suck until you pull off with a loud pop, sticking your tongue out for a moment as you move a hand to jerk him off. “Yeah? Couldn’t wait til’ we got home, huh?” You tease.

He just shakes his head at you and watches through lidded eyes as you tap the tip of his fat cock on your tongue, smiling a little as you do so.

He pants, “Hahh… not when I have a perfect cocksleeve of a wife t’help me out…” Nanami says lowly.

And your face twists up at that, eyebrows pinching together slightly and pout pulling at your lower lip, “Ken…” You whisper, your hand tightening around his shaft as you give him quick pulls.

“M’sorry,” Nanami apologizes quickly, making you smile. “I-, aagh… I didn’t mean t-that….” He huffs out, clearly out of it as you jerk him off so perfectly, better than he ever could on his own.

You lean forward and purposefully suck on only his top, tongue lulling around it, in between his slit, pushing saliva out of your mouth and making it all the more messy before you pull him back into your mouth.

Then Nanami moans into the air, “Fuuck, n-no, I meant that…” He corrects, “You suck me off like a goddamn-“

You pull off for a second and smile, “Say it…”

“Whore,” Nanami grunts and you moan as you sink your mouth down onto him again, making his abs tense up beneath his shirt.

Your eyes gloss over as you take him all the way in, closing your throat around his cock and practically sucking the soul out of him. Then your hands sneak down and you cup his balls in your hand, feeling how some of the mixed saliva and precum has slipped down.

Nanami nearly kicks something as you do so, his head flying back as he moans out your name. The sound makes your pussy so unbelievably wet, eyes glancing up to get a good look at your husband who was so close to finishing in your mouth.

Then you see him take a shaky hand and tug at that bright yellow tie of his, yanking it loose and messily unbuttoning some of the buttons on his shirt so that he could breathe properly.

Not that that really helps him escape that damn mouth of yours. As you lift your mouth to breathe, both of your hands move to make up for it, your lips and tongue focusing on his tip all over again.

“Goddamn-,” Nanami’s breath hitches and his eyes begin to roll back, “Y-You’re gonna make me-,” He groans again as you slurp his tip into your mouth sloppily, hands twisting and tugging at his cock so damn deliciously that he actually does accidentally kick his desk in front of him.

There’s a thud that follows but neither of you pay any attention to it. You’re too busy making his head spin with that mouth of yours and Nanami’s trying not to-

Whatever the hell he was trying not to do, he does— abrupt and warm ropes of cum shooting into your mouth. Nanami’s body hunches forward as he does so, almost as if he were trying to escape your mouth for a second.

Your hands only move out of the way though, mouth sinking all the way down on his cock so that you don’t miss a single drop of him.

Nanami’s chanting your name lowly over and over as he cums, small little I love you’s and you’re so perfect’s flowing out his mouth as he does so.

Once he’s done and you finally pull your lips off of his cock, you’ve got a mouth full of cum and you purposefully don’t swallow yet. Looking up at your husband with wet eyelashes and batting them at him, you roll your tongue around in your mouth and show him what a mess he’s made in there.

Nanami practically chokes at the sight before averting his eyes, “Don’t do that…” He hums, “J-Just…. Swallow it.”

Your hands go to his knees and you push up a little to lean toward his face, forcing him to look at you. Then, his eyes fall on your mouth and he watches as you close it and gulp loudly, sticking out your tongue afterward for him with a cute ah sound following.

Nanami shakes his head at you and scoffs, “Nasty slut.” He degrades.

You flash him a smile, and lean up for a kiss, “You know you love me that way,” You murmur as your lips near his.

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he moves a, still shaky, hand to your jaw and tugs your face to his, “I do. I really do,” Nanami says before kissing you passionately despite his taste on your tongue.

After which, he pulls away and gazes deeply into your eyes. You reciprocate the stare and even smile at him again.

He grins, “Promise I’ll thank you for this properly when we get home.”

You nod, “You better.”

“Mh,” He hums before tilting his head, “Or I could lay you out on this desk and repay you now?”

Blinking, you shrug, “Up to you, Ken.”

He stares for a moment, licking his lips at the thought of being in between your legs. Then, he shakes his head, “Nope, I’ll make you wait ‘til we get home.”

Your eyes go wide, “But-“

Nanami chuckles, “That’s what you get for calling me needy.”

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ssahotchnerr · 3 months ago

Note

how do you think Aaron and reader who are married, react to both being called ‘Agent Hotchner’ and they both answer? That’s so cute, I could just imagine Derek smirking and Rossi having a proud dad moment

the hotchners

AHHH I LOVE THAT cw; bau!reader, established relationship, typical cm case talk, playful banter/fluff 🥰

"The unsub is devolving, they’re getting more reckless," Derek thought aloud, clicking his pen in hand. "He dumped the last victim in a public place, rather than the usual, secluded spot."

"They're losing control." You inputted in agreement, your eyes darting across the conference room table to him.

Aaron leaned down on the table, still standing, but with his palms pressed against the surface. He was next to you, and this stance allowed him to be ever so slightly closer. Your heart warmed by his proximity, as any displays of affection were at a minimum when in the field. You were happy he was just close by. "The next victim will probably be someone they can’t control-"

"Agent Hotchner?" A voice came from behind, hindering the conversation.

"Yes?" Both of you answered swiftly, out of habit, though it was a new habit for you. Your tickled eyes met Aaron's, your nose scrunched up slightly in amusement.

Derek grinned, swiveling back and forth in his chair in observance. Rossi raised his hand to his mouth casually, concealing a chuckle.

The voice in question, one of the local police department's officers, even hesitated himself, as if he didn't know which Hotchner he were to rely the information to.

As soon as you and Aaron got engaged, the discussion of whether or not you'd take his last name was on the table. To avoid confusing situations like these, or to prevent any reputable prejudices. It was rare, but every so often you received grimaces from bystanders, both in the field and in the office back home. Marrying your boss? Either tremendously romantic or something to be frowned upon.

But in the end it was unanimous; you wanted his last name, and as did Aaron. It was even more important to him. A symbol of a bond he couldn’t wait to share with you; an acknowledgment of the life you were about to build together. You and him. The Hotchners.

"Uh- sorry to interrupt. The victim's fiancé is here for their interview. They're waiting in interrogation." He stammered, his gaze switching between the two of you.

"Thank you. We'll send someone in shortly." Aaron replied, politely dismissing the officer. He kept his trained demeanor, but you could hear the laughter underneath his voice.

As his footsteps trailed away, you nudged Aaron, humorously bumping your shoulder into his upper arm.

He kept his gaze on the files laid on the table, his lips spread in a soft smile as he slowly shook his head.

"Wipe that smirk off your face, Dave." He didn't even need to look up.

"Hey!" Dave commented, his tone light as he spoke. He held up his hands in surrender, but that didn't diminish from the proud gleam in his eyes; it also happened to be the same one he had adorned on your wedding day. "I didn't say a thing."

"Oh, but it's written all over your face." You quipped also, raising an eyebrow in his direction.

"Just when I thought the two of you couldn't be any more married." Derek rolled his eyes, playfully as his lips pulled back into a grin. "What's next? Have you mastered the art of the ‘yes honey’ yet, or is that still a work in progress?"

"Please, that was perfected before we got married." Aaron remarked as he relaxed his posture, straightening up. He flashed a smile in your direction, speaking over Morgan's cackle. "Isn't that right, honey?"

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds drabble #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagine #criminal minds x fem!reader

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merakidoll · 4 months ago

Text

armin was the type of friend your boyfriend thought he would never have to worry about. armin was pretty, a pretty boy with pretty feminine features! red puffy cheeks, fat pink lips, doe eyes, and long blond lashes to tie everything in. he liked cropped shirts showing off his bling belly button ring, and abs. he liked tight things that showed his perfect figure, and armin loved having bling on his nails. bows, flowers, hello kitty, with a pretty light pink or blue color.

your boyfriend thought armin was harmless; in fact he thought he knew armin’s sexual orientation well. but was he so wrong, he began to be question why you no longer craved intimacy form him - to which he would be blown off with a simple “i’m busy.” you began to spend more and more time with armin, canceling plans with him to tend to armin but still he thought nothing of it. one night you wouldn’t answer him after yet again, leaving him for armin. he took that as an opportunity to show up. blending in with the darkness as he peeked through your window heart aching at the sight. while he thought armin didn’t like women - he didn’t, he loved them. there you were naked in the plush of your bed, your toes that were light blue in the same man he was so sure he didn’t have to worry about mouth.

he could hear your moans and the words you two shared the window doing nothing to hinder him from the sight. “m-minni please!” you begged. the suction around your toes making your pussy ache. “hold on baby” he spread your thick brown legs watching the wetness that stuck to your fat cunt and inner thighs. armin pushed your legs open, knees to your chest spiting on your clenching hole, and letting two fingers rub your clit, the gold bows shining. “y-yess” your eyes were low and burning to close. tears brimming at your water line as you bucked into his fingers bitting your lip. armin had a small smirk on his lip, moving his fingers and slapping your pussy making a little squirt dribble out of you.

his gripped his long skinny cock and tapped it against you making you both groan in unison. “you gonna do it mama?” your boyfriend’s ears perked, wondering what did he want you to do. his chest beat rapidly watching armin slid himself into you while he pinched your brown nipple. his own cock jerking in his pants at how fucked out you looked. he watched armin work his hips leaning down and kissing your lips. “say i-it baby” armin moved back to hovering over you and gripped your hips, fucking himself in you harder. “tell your minni what he wants to hear” your legs shook, your hand moving against his stomach to take some the pleasure away. “m-minnn ohmygod” squirt shot out of you again, but armin knew you could give him more.

one hand left your hips and started back rubbing your clit again making your mouth go into an o shape a silent scream falling from you. “tell me baby, then you can make a fuckin mess” your breath got caught in your throat as your pussy pulsed clenching down on him. “m’breakinggg up with himmm” squirt shot out going all over armin and your pink cover. armin smiled in victory, moving his cock to plunge into you softly. “g-gonna be mine forever” he stuttered out, quickly pulling out of you and jerking his pink cock to let out it’s orgasm on your pudgy stomach.

you and armin cuddled together, ignoring the pussy juices and cum that was all over your bodies. while you slept in armin’s arms, he looked towards the window and winked at your boyfriend, kissing your cheek as he did so.

#— writings!#armin x black reader #armin x reader #armin x chubby reader #armin smut #armin alert x black reader #armin alert smut #armin alert x reader #aot x black reader #aot x reader #aot x chubby reader #aot smut #attack on titan x black reader #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan smut #anime x chubby reader #anime smut #anime x black!reader

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pinkthick · 4 months ago

Text

Humiliating, isn’t it?

Pairing: The Salesman x Fem!Reader

Summary: “You could pay all your debts with this,” he said, his voice soft, almost enticing. His gaze shifted to you, sharp and calculating. “But it’s not free.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “What do you mean?”

A/N: This is probably wayyy out of his character, but I haven’t watched season 2 yet (I don’t have Netflix 😭) and just saw an edit with him on tiktok and suddenly my obsession with him came back from 2021. So there are no spoilers!!!

Warnings: blowjob (m receiving), cum swallowing

If you’re not 18 DNI BECAUSE I WILL HAUNT YOUR DREAMS🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️

The metro station was cold, the flickering overhead lights casting dim shadows on the walls. Your steps echoed faintly as you trudged forward, your head bowed to avoid the stares of passersby. You could feel their judgment, their pity, their disgust. You didn’t blame them—you looked like hell. Blood crusted your upper lip, the remnants of a nosebleed from earlier when some thug decided to teach you a lesson about unpaid debts. Your cheek stung, swelling just beginning to bloom.

You winced as you adjusted the strap of your worn-out bag. Your ribs ached, a dull, persistent throb that reminded you how low you’d sunk. Debt was a beast that refused to loosen its grip. It clung to you, suffocated you, and drove you into situations you’d never imagined.

As you shuffled down the platform, you barely registered the man who bumped into you until you staggered back, your body colliding with the wall. “Sorry—I didn’t watch where I was going,” he said, his tone oddly pleasant.

You blinked up at him, taking in his immaculate gray suit and perfectly combed hair. His smile was disarming, polite but sharp, like the edge of a blade.

“It’s quite alright,” you muttered, instinctively brushing yourself off despite already looking like a wreck. The man didn’t move on, though. Instead, he studied you, his gaze lingering on the dried blood and the faint bruise forming beneath your eye.

“Rough day?” he asked, a trace of amusement in his voice.

You gave a humorless laugh. “Something like that.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, offering it to you. You hesitated before taking it, dabbing at your nose. The fabric was smooth, expensive, and it felt wrong to smear your blood on something so pristine.

“I have a game,” the man said suddenly, his voice lowering as if he were sharing a secret. “Would you like to play?”

The fuck?

You frowned. “A game?”

He nodded, his smile widening. “It’s simple. You could win money—enough to change your life.”

Your skepticism must have been obvious because he chuckled, a soft, almost paternal sound. “It’s harmless, I assure you. You look like someone who could use a bit of good fortune.”

You thought of your debts, the people breathing down your neck, the empty fridge in your apartment. Against your better judgment, you found yourself asking, “What’s the game?”

He gestured to a nearby bench, and you followed him, still wary. From his briefcase, he pulled out a folded board and a stack of rectangular tiles, explaining the rules of ddakji. It sounded simple enough: flip the opponent’s tile using your own. He placed a stack of cash on the bench beside him, its presence tantalizing.

You played your first round and lost. The second and third rounds went the same way. You were terrible at this game.

When you finally admitted you had no money to bet, his expression didn’t change. “Usually, I slap people when they lose,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “But…” He gestured to your bruised face. “It seems someone’s already beaten me to it.”

The absurdity of the statement caught you off guard, and you let out a startled laugh. “That’s generous of you.”

He smirked. “I do have a heart.”

With no stakes involved, you continued playing. You lost repeatedly, the man’s skill far outstripping your own. He never seemed frustrated, though. If anything, he looked amused by your determination. Eventually, your bruises began to throb, and exhaustion seeped into your bones. You tossed the tile onto the bench, letting out a defeated sigh.

“I give up,” you said, slumping back. “I’m not winning this.”

He tilted his head, considering you. “Pity. You were just starting to improve.”

“Sure,” you muttered, wiping your hands on your jeans. “So, what now?”

He placed the briefcase on the bench between you, opening it to reveal neat stacks of bills. Your breath caught in your throat. It was more money than you’d ever seen in your life, more than enough to pay off your debts and start over.

“You could pay all your debts with this,” he said, his voice soft, almost enticing. His gaze shifted to you, sharp and calculating. “But it’s not free.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “What do you mean?”

He closed the briefcase with a decisive snap, leaning in slightly. “I’ll give this to you if you… do something for me.”

Your stomach churned at the way his eyes lingered on you, his meaning crystal clear. Heat flooded your face, a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “What kind of something?” you asked, though you already knew.

His smile didn’t waver. “Let’s not pretend we’re strangers to desperation. You’ve been beaten down by the world, haven’t you? Cast aside, forgotten. This,” he gestured to the briefcase, “could be your ticket out.”

Your fists clenched, your nails digging into your palms. “You think I’m going to sell myself for money?”

He shrugged, unbothered by your indignation. “You’ve already sold your time, your dignity, your safety—haven’t you? What’s the difference?”

The words stung because they weren’t entirely untrue. Still, you shook your head, your pride warring with your desperation. “I’m not doing that.”

He leaned back, crossing his legs with an air of nonchalance. “Your choice, of course. But think about it. How long before your debtors come back? Before the beatings get worse? How long can you keep scraping by?”

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. You stared at the briefcase, the money practically taunting you. Your mind raced, weighing the humiliation against the potential freedom.

“I… I can’t,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

He studied you for a long moment, his smile fading slightly. Then, to your surprise, he stood, gathering the game pieces and tucking them back into his briefcase. “Well,” he said, straightening his tie, “it was worth a shot.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how easily he let it go. “That’s it?”

He chuckled, the sound low and almost fond. “I’m not a monster. I made an offer; you declined. Simple as that.”

As he turned to leave, something in you stirred—a mix of relief and regret. “Wait,” you called out, your voice trembling.

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Yes?”

You hesitated, the weight of your situation crushing down on you. “Why me?” you asked, desperate to understand why this stranger had singled you out.

His smile returned, enigmatic and unsettling. “Because you’re interesting. And because I see potential in you.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small card and placing it on the bench. “If you ever change your mind, give me a call.”

Before you could respond, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the card. You stared at it, the black lettering stark against the white background.

For a long time, you sat there, the sound of the metro fading into the background. The man’s words echoed in your mind, intertwining with your fear, your pride, and your unrelenting desperation.

And the card remained in your pocket.

—

You stared at the card for what felt like hours that night. The weight of its potential pressed heavily on your chest. In a world where every door seemed to slam in your face, this was the first one to open—albeit under circumstances you couldn’t fully comprehend.

The next day, after another call from a creditor threatening you with more violence, you finally gave in. Your pride was already battered, and your options had all but evaporated. With shaking hands, you picked up your phone and dialed the number on the card.

A smooth, professional voice answered. “Hello?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “I… I got this card from someone at the metro. I’d like to… take them up on their offer.”

There was a pause, then the faint sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. “Ah, yes. We’ve been expecting your call. An address will be sent to your phone shortly. Be there within the hour.”

The line went dead before you could say anything else. Moments later, a text arrived, and you stared at the address. It wasn’t anywhere familiar to you, but the name of the street was in one of the wealthiest areas of the city. Hesitation gripped you again, but the bruises on your face and the weight of your debts pushed you forward.

The cab dropped you off at the gates of a sprawling villa. The sheer size of it was intimidating—tall wrought iron gates, a long driveway lined with meticulously trimmed hedges, and a house that looked more like a palace than a home. You adjusted your jacket, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you looked.

Before you could press the buzzer, the gates swung open as if you were expected. You walked up the driveway, each step feeling heavier than the last. When you reached the front door, it opened before you could knock.

A tall man stood there, dressed in a sleek black suit. His expression was blank, professional but cold. “Welcome,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. The foyer was just as luxurious as the exterior—marble floors, chandeliers, and artwork that probably cost more than your entire life’s earnings.

“Next time, a car will pick you up,” the man said, his tone brisk.

“Next time?” you echoed, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Before he could respond, the familiar voice of the salesman cut through the air. “Sorry, he’s—doesn’t matter. Just come on in.” He appeared at the top of a sweeping staircase, his ever-present smile intact. He looked even more polished than before, his posture relaxed.

You hesitated but eventually followed the man into what appeared to be a sitting room. The furniture was sleek and modern, the walls lined with bookshelves and abstract paintings. He gestured for you to sit, but you remained standing, your nerves making it impossible to relax.

“Drink?” he offered, motioning to a decanter of amber liquid on a nearby table.

“No, thank you,” you said quickly, your voice tight.

He tilted his head, his smile softening. “Suit yourself. I see your bruise is healing nicely.”

You instinctively touched your cheek, still tender from the beating. “Can we just… get to the point? What do you want me to do?”

The salesman’s smile widened slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Straight to business. I like that.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze uncomfortably intense. “What I want is very simple. And, let me assure you, the reward will far outweigh the discomfort.”

You shifted uneasily, his words setting off alarm bells in your mind.

His smile took on a sharper edge. “I want you to use that mouth of yours for something other than talking.”

The room seemed to tilt, your stomach dropping like a stone. You stared at him, your mind racing to comprehend what he’d just said. “You’re kidding,” you said, your voice trembling.

“I never kid about business,” he replied smoothly. “You’ve seen the briefcase. You know what’s at stake.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. “You want me to—”

“To prove how much you want to change your life,” he interrupted, his tone calm but firm. “To show me that you’re willing to do whatever it takes.”

You took a step back, your legs bumping into the edge of a chair. “This… this is humiliating.”

“Is it?” he asked, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’ve already been beaten and left with nothing. What’s one more compromise?”

His words were like needles, each one poking at the fragile walls of your pride. He stood, closing the distance between you. “I’m offering you freedom,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “All you have to do is take it.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as sandpaper. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to leave, to walk out of this villa and never look back. But the image of that briefcase, the promise of a life free from fear and debt, rooted you in place.

“I…” Your voice cracked, the weight of the moment crushing you.

The salesman tilted his head, his smile softening ever so slightly. “Think of it this way,” he said. “This is the last time you’ll ever have to beg, to endure, to scrape by. After this, the world opens up to you.”

He stepped back, giving you space but keeping his piercing gaze locked on you. “But it’s your choice,” he added. “It always has been.”

“I—okay,” you murmured, barely audible.

His smile widened, not in mockery but in something resembling satisfaction. “Atta girl.”

The words hung in the air, and you immediately dropped to your knees, ready to get this over with. But his hand shot out, stopping you mid-motion. His touch was firm but not forceful, his fingers curling gently around your forearm.

“Not so fast,” he said, his tone light, almost teasing. “Let’s get you a bit comfortable first.”

You looked up at him, confusion etched across your face. “Comfortable?” you echoed.

He patted his lap, a small gesture that carried so much weight. “Don’t you want to loosen up a bit?”

“I—” The protest was on the tip of your tongue, but you stopped yourself. He tilted his head, his sharp gaze pinning you in place.

“Come on,” he coaxed, his voice soft but insistent.

After a long moment of hesitation, you stood and awkwardly settled onto his lap. The action felt unnatural, foreign. You perched on his thighs stiffly, your hands clenched in your lap, your body tense like a coiled spring.

He didn’t seem bothered by your discomfort. Instead, he rested his hands lightly on your waist, his touch careful and deliberate. His thumbs began to trace small, lazy patterns into the fabric of your shirt, the motion strangely soothing despite the situation.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady. The words were meant to reassure, but they only made your pulse race faster.

You nodded, unable to bring yourself to speak. The air between you was thick with tension, the kind that made your skin prickle. You tried to focus on the patterns he was drawing, on the steady rhythm of his breathing, anything to distract yourself from the heat radiating off his body—or the unmistakable hardness pressing against you.

You froze, your entire body going rigid. He noticed, of course, but he didn’t comment. Instead, his hands stayed where they were, his thumbs continuing their soothing motions.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. His breath ghosted over your temple, warm and inviting. “Just breathe.”

Easier said than done. You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. He shifted slightly, and your hands instinctively reached out, grasping his shoulders for balance. The movement brought you closer to him, your faces mere inches apart.

His eyes searched yours, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he leaned in, giving you every opportunity to pull away. When you didn’t, his lips brushed against yours, tentative and soft.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. The kiss was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he were testing the waters. His hands stayed on your waist, their grip light, giving you space to move away if you wanted to.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you sat there, motionless, letting him lead. When he realized you weren’t responding, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “Relax,” he murmured, his tone patient.

Tentatively, you leaned forward, your lips meeting his. The kiss was awkward at first, your movements hesitant and unsure. But he didn’t rush you. He let you take the lead, his hands remaining steady on your waist.

As you grew more comfortable, the kiss deepened, your initial hesitation fading away. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit jacket, grounding yourself as you tilted your head, pressing closer.

That’s when he took over.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you flush against him as he angled his head, deepening the kiss. The shift was subtle but deliberate, his lips moving against yours with a confidence that left you breathless. His tongue brushed against your bottom lip, a gentle request rather than a demand, and you parted your lips without thinking.

The kiss turned hungry, his movements more assertive but never forceful. His hands roamed cautiously, never straying too far, their warmth seeping through your clothes. Your senses were overwhelmed—the taste of him, the scent of his cologne, the steady strength of his hands.

You didn’t know when it happened, but your tension melted away, replaced by a strange sense of surrender. It wasn’t defeat—it was something else, something you couldn’t quite name. Your hands slid up his chest, your fingers brushing against the collar of his shirt as you leaned into him.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were breathless, your chest rising and falling rapidly. His forehead rested against yours, his hands still on your waist, anchoring you in place.

“See?” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Not so bad.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you simply nodded. The reality of what just happened began to sink in, but before panic could take hold, he shifted again, his hands steadying you as he leaned back slightly.

“Take your time,” he said, his tone soft. “We’re not in a rush.”

You weren’t sure if it was the weight of his gaze, the steady way he held you, or the way his fingers brushed against you as if he knew exactly where your boundaries were but was waiting for you to decide whether they mattered.

He reached up slowly, his movements deliberate, and his hand brushed against your face before moving to your hair. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as he pulled the tie from your hair. Your hair tumbled loose over your shoulders, and he twirled the hair tie around his fingers, his smile never faltering.

“You’ve sucked dick before, right?” he asked, his voice smooth, casual.

Your heart stopped, then resumed at a faster pace. You blinked, your cheeks flushing hot. “I—of course I did!” you replied defensively, the words tumbling out before you could think them through.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “Of course you did,” he murmured, his voice dropping as his gaze lingered on your face. “How could someone resist a pretty face like yours?”

The compliment sent an unexpected jolt through you, but you weren’t given time to process it. He gently took your hands in his, his touch light but firm, and began guiding them behind your back. You stiffened instinctively, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Relax,” he said, his tone calm and soothing, as though he were coaxing you out of a tense state. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You hesitated but allowed him to move your arms behind you, his grip steady and unthreatening. The hair tie you hadn’t noticed still in his hand came into view as he looped it around your wrists. The act was careful, the tie snug enough to hold your hands together but not tight enough to hurt.

“There,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against your skin as he adjusted the knot. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold your hair for you.”

You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. He reached up, threading his fingers through your hair with the same slow, deliberate care he’d shown with your hands. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated how your body seemed to respond to him against your will.

“See?” he said, his voice low and steady. “No reason to be nervous.”

Nervous was an understatement. Your mind raced, trying to keep up with the situation. Everything about him was a contradiction—his words soft but commanding, his actions careful yet deliberate. It left you off balance, unsure of where you stood or what would happen next.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Down on your knees.”

You blinked, hesitating for a moment as the weight of his words sank in. Your body froze, torn between instinct and the promise of what you came here for. You must have looked as dumbfounded as you felt because his lips curved into that same infuriatingly knowing smile.

But then you remembered the briefcase—you couldn’t afford to hesitate, not now. Steeling yourself, you swallowed hard and did as he said, sinking onto the plush carpet beneath you.

He watched you with a calm, calculating expression, his fingers still lightly twirling the tie binding your wrists. When your knees touched the floor, he adjusted his posture, leaning forward slightly.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the words slipping from his lips in a tone that felt both patronizing and oddly reassuring. His hand left you entirely, moving to undo his belt. The sound of the buckle snapping open echoed faintly in the room, and you bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to remain still.

He slid the belt free and dropped it to the side, his gaze never leaving yours. His movements were slow as he unbuttoned his pants and let them pool around his ankles. Then came the boxers, and as he stepped out of them, his confidence radiated like a tangible force.

He looked down at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Think you can handle it?” he asked, his voice dripping with challenge.

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes despite the heat rising in your cheeks. “I’ve had bigger,” you shot back.

That earned a low chuckle from him, the sound rich and amused. He crouched slightly, bringing his face closer to yours as his hand reached out, cupping your jaw firmly but gently. His thumb brushed along your chin as he tilted your face upward. “Open up,” he said, his tone soft but leaving no room for argument.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, your thoughts warring with one another. But then your resolve hardened.

You obeyed, parting your lips just enough to feel vulnerable.

The corners of his mouth quirked upward again, and his hand slid to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with practiced ease. “I’ll let you take the lead,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, “at least for now.”

His other hand rested lightly on your shoulder as he guided you closer, his movements careful.

With a deep breath, you adjusted, leaning in more and licking the tip. He groaned softly, the sound low and guttural. His other hand trailed from your shoulder to your neck, his thumb brushing against your pulse point in a way that sent a shiver through you. His cock was heavy on your tongue, and your mind blurred as he thrust himself further and further into your mouth—and you appreciated the slowness with which he did it—until he was fully inside. The rhythm was slow at first. Small bobbing of your head that was just enough to pull soft groans of from his lips.

You pulled back slightly and swirled your tongue around the tip, pleasantly surprising him enough to earn yourself a sharp tug at your hair and a guttural moan that sent a shiver down your spine and a sudden awareness of the need between your legs.

“My… it’s like you were made for this…” he tugged gently on your hair again, signaling for you to pause, you pulled back slightly, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. His thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch light but grounding.

“Good girl,” he said again, his voice softer now, almost approving. He leaned down slightly, his hand cupping your face as he tilted your chin upward. “Messy, though…” he muttered, wiping a bit of drool escaping your open mouth. His hand moved from your chin to your hair again, smoothing the strands back as he studied your face with that same intense gaze.

“Let’s see how far you can go,” he murmured, his tone calm but laced with challenge.

And he fucking shoved you down on his cock.

You froze for a second, overwhelmed by the situation, but his voice cut through the haze.

“Don’t stop now,” he said, his tone still calm but laced with something sharper, something that made your heart race. “You want the money, don’t you?”

Your jaw tightened involuntarily, and he noticed. His smirk deepened as he adjusted his grip in your hair, guiding you with more force than before. It wasn’t painful, but it was clear he wasn’t asking for permission anymore. He was almost guiding your head at this point, fucking into your warm mouth with soft grunts as the hand with a grip on your hair directed you towards him in perfect timing. Your jaw was starting to ache and you could barely notice it with your thoughts suddenly one-track-minded. You were alternating torturously between sucking and lapping at his dick. He pulled out, and then fucked back in roughly, and oh, he knew this would be good—but not this good.

His hand in your hair tightened, and the calm, collected demeanor he had shown earlier began to crack ever so slightly. His breaths were heavier, his eyes darker, and the faint quirk of his lips had transformed into something far less controlled.

His need was pressing against the edges of his control. Your breath hitched as you tried to keep up, the pace leaving you off balance.

You pulled back instinctively, your body reacting to the overwhelming sensation, but his grip on your hair tightened, keeping you in place. “No,” he murmured, his voice low but firm. “Not yet. Breathe through your nose. Come on—work for it.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine, equal parts thrilling and intimidating. You tried to steady your breathing, inhaling deeply through your nose as he’d instructed. Your jaw relaxed as best as it could, though every muscle in your body felt tense.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice breaking slightly at the edges, the first real crack in his composure. His free hand braced against the back of the couch he was sitting on, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it tightly.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, trying to focus despite your racing pulse. His eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, the intensity in them made your breath catch. He was watching you so closely, as if every movement, every reaction, was feeding something deep within him.

“God,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, his head tilting back slightly as his grip in your hair eased momentarily. “You have no idea how good you look like this. Believe me—you could’ve gotten out of your debts a long time ago.” The sounds are indescribable, dirty and wet and so fucking hot as he continues to thrust into your mouth.

“Your throat,” he chokes out. He splays one hand over your throat and starts to fuck up into you at a different angle. “I can fucking see myself in you, fuck—“ There was a rawness to his movements now, a lack of the careful control that had defined him earlier. “Just a little more” he murmured, his voice roughened by something you couldn’t quite place. You could hear his breathing quicken, could feel the faint tremor in his grip as he pulled you closer still. His dominance over the situation was undeniable, but there was a vulnerability in the way his body reacted, a need that felt almost desperate.

When you hesitated again, instinctively pulling back just a fraction to catch your breath, his hand tightened slightly in your hair, holding you in place. “No,” he said sharply “stay fucking still.”

You wanted to punch his face. But you did your best to keep up—still thinking about the money—your breath hitching as he guided you, his need evident in the way he moved.

His groans grew louder, more frequent, and his grip in your hair tightened again as he edged closer to the brink. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tensed and his movements became more erratic. He was losing control, and the realization sent a strange thrill through you.

His orgasm washed over him and his body went still for a moment, his grip in your hair almost bruising as he held you in place. The sound he made was low and guttural, a noise that seemed to reverberate through the room. You froze as he held you there, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Your throat burned, your body tensing as you fought the instinct to pull away as his fucking cum filled your mouth. He didn’t let you, his hand in your hair keeping you firmly in place as he muttered something under his breath—words you couldn’t quite make out over the pounding in your ears.

When he finally released you, it was abrupt, his hand loosening in your hair as he leaned back, his chest heaving. You gasped for air, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts as you tried to steady yourself and then started to cough. Your body felt heavy, your limbs trembling as you sat back on your heels, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He met your gaze, his expression softening as he took in your disheveled appearance. “You did well,” he said, his voice low and rough. His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. “Better than I expected.” And then he took the hair tie off your hands.

You didn’t respond, still trying to catch your breath as you processed what had just happened. The room felt stifling, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you as you struggled to compose yourself. You just managed to smear his cum on your face.

His smirk returned, though it was softer now. “I knew you had it in you,” he said, his hand trailing down to cup your chin again. His thumb brushed against your jaw, and his smile widened slightly. “But you’ve got to learn to pace yourself.”

You glared at him faintly, though the effect was ruined by the flush in your cheeks and the way your body still trembled. “Maybe you should pace yourself,” you shot back, your voice hoarse.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Fair enough,” he said, his hand falling away from your face as he leaned back, his posture relaxing for the first time since you’d arrived. He looked down at you for a moment longer before reaching for his discarded boxers, slipping them back on with a casual grace.

“Go clean yourself up,” he said, gesturing toward a door off to the side. “The bathroom’s through there.”

You hesitated for a moment, your body still tense, before nodding and pushing yourself to your feet. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you, and you had to grip the edge of a nearby chair to keep your balance. He watched you with an amused expression, his smirk widening as you stumbled toward the bathroom.

When you closed the door behind you, you leaned against it for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. Your reflection in the mirror caught your eye, and you winced at the sight of your flushed cheeks and disheveled hair. You looked like a mess, and you weren’t sure how you felt about that.

As you splashed water on your face, trying to steady your nerves, you were almost on the verge of crying. It’s disgusting—it’s disgusting that you’re wiping his cum off your face and out of your mouth.

When you finally stepped back into the room, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression unreadable as he watched you. The briefcase was sitting on the nightstand beside him, and he gestured toward it with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Your reward,” he said simply, his smirk returning. “You’ve earned it.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering between him and the briefcase. “That’s it?” you asked, your voice still hoarse.

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Unless you’re looking for another round,” he said, his tone teasing.

You rolled your eyes, stepping forward to grab the briefcase. The weight of it felt solid in your hands, a tangible reminder of why you’d agreed to this in the first place. “I’ll pass,” you muttered, turning toward the door.

As you reached for the handle, his voice stopped you. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

You glanced back at him, your heart pounding in your chest as you met his gaze. His smirk was still in place, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something darker. You didn’t respond, pulling the door open and stepping out into the hallway.

The air outside felt cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of the room you’d just left. You took a deep breath, the weight of the briefcase grounding you as you made your way down the hall and out of the villa.

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