Virtual Breadcrumbs || Poly!141 X Hacker!reader
Virtual Breadcrumbs || Poly!141 x hacker!reader
Summary: A kinda prologue to Search History, While you're having your menty b back on base, a little bit from the boys' perspective. Specifically Simon. Alexa, play Mastermind by Taylor Swift.
Part One Next Part
CW: NSFW MDNI 18+ female pronouns , porn, porn, lots of porn allusion, the boys are all handsy with each other, Simon's lowkey manipulating the situation, again irl this is harassment, stalking warning to be safe? mentions of oral and vaginal sex, really just me being nasty from Simon's point of view
It took a long time to gain access to Simon’s inner circle. Simon Riley had a habit of being intense, all or nothing, especially for those he’s decided to care about. His captain and his sergeants were in that inner circle, and he cared deeply, implicitly, about them. Health, safety, happiness, and something Simon was especially attuned to was keeping them sated. A man of action and acts of service.
Simon was neither a poet nor a psychologist, so he didn’t spend much time or energy putting definitive terms and conditions on whatever relationship the 141 shared. He cared and he was cared for, it was intimate on all levels, and that’s all that mattered to him.
A bond forged in bombs, bloodshed, and loyalty above all else. Four soldiers at the top of their game, literally battle-hardened (double entendre completely intended). He was content with his little circle.
However, he couldn’t fault the boys for missing something a little softer. Something a little sweeter, something a little more pliant. Hell, Simon wouldn’t mind burying his nose in a neck that didn’t smell like sweat, blood, and gunpowder.
That’s where you came in. Simon’s sharp eyes didn’t miss anything.
He saw how Price’s signature little smile rested on you whenever your explanations turned a little rambling, the look of pride in his eyes when you cracked a hard encryption- he’d called in a favor from Laswell to recruit you after all. How the Captain didn’t scold you when your work outfits were outside the civilian regulations (which was often), not that Price minded the view when you’d drop something and bend over to pick it up in your pretty skirts and heels.
He saw how Gaz would lean over your shoulder, just a hair too close to be friendly, and watch in a little bit of awe as you worked, how the two of you spoke in code (literally) to each other. He would watch Gaz get a little hot in the face with your flirty little quips over comms, voice a little tight as he returned them. How the sergeant would bring you little pastries or coffees on days they were on base, how prided he seemed when your face lit up, and when you’d unexpectedly touch him- grab his hand or bicep with your pretty painted nails? Simon would notice how Kyle would excuse himself to go do something else, sometimes dragging Soap off with him.
And Johnny. He tried not to show it, the Scot was as loyal as they came. A dog, Simon called him often, a mutt when he was being obnoxious. Simon’d noticed Johnny literally sniffing around you, his head following the lingering scent of perfume and shampoo when you passed. He was touchy with you, passing it off as being friendly, hugging you just a bit too tight to feel the squish of your body against his- a kind of softness Simon, Price, and Gaz just couldn’t replicate. It was a sport for him, to get you to blush or stutter.
And, fucking hell, the banter. Your voice, slightly crackly through their headsets, leading and chiding them through missions. Something about the distance or facelessness of it made you bold and teasing. Soap would egg you on over comms, sending you both down teasing explicit rabbit holes, until Price would remind both of you that the brass had access to these audio files, and you’d get shy and go quiet, but not for long. Gaz was fairly smooth with it, not often getting out of hand until you clicked off and he’d adjust his pants and collar mid-op. Something about Price’s authority kept you a bit tamer on him, but sometimes you would slip, and the way you got all shy and apologetic, Price’s chest would puff up a bit, beard twitching with a smirk as he’d ’scold’ you.
Simon’s men wanted you, bad. But none of them were going to be the first to admit it, none of them wanting to be the first to want more. Their loyalty to each other was their greatest value, but it was holding them back this time. But Simon had a plan, all he had to do was plant the seed.
__
The 141 had holed up in a grungy safehouse to rest and recoup before moving on to the next portion of this assignment. ‘House’ was a bit generous- there was no central heating and it was little more than a kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom, the living room was basically just the foyer with a pull-out couch that took up the entire floorspace when pulled out. The mission hadn’t gone to shit, but it was proving tedious, and stretching into a longer commitment than they’d planned for. Price was miffed about the time commitment, but it wasn’t anything new, it happened all the time.
Waiting for transpo from Nik and information that you were working on. Even Simon felt the sting of disappointment when you’d told them you’d need them to quit calling, that the data Price requested from you was proving to be a challenge that needed undivided attention. They were bored. Price and Gaz had slipped off somewhere so the Captain could work out some of his irritation, which in turn got Soap huffy and touchy.
Which was why the Scot was sitting, spine curled into Simon’s side, laid across the sofa still in full gear, long legs over the side while Simon simply sat up straight ( "s’too fuckin’ cold f’ this shite", he’d muttered after they’d found the wood for the old fashioned wood stove was both wet and molding, "Body heat it is, fucks sake." ), military-issue tablet using the secure network you and Gaz had set up. Too tired to do much of anything, too mission-wired to truly relax, restless and a little homesick.
Simon wasn’t surprised that it only took two rounds of solitaire before the Scot switched to the browser and started to look through the homepage of a porn website he didn’t recognize. They both knew this strategy, get yourself off a few times and your brain releases enough ‘good’ chemicals that you might be able to get some sleep. Johnny did seem uncharacteristically indecisive, getting quickly squirmy and irritated, as he continuously clicked ’next page’ waiting for something to catch his eyes.
A sniper always sees a good shot when it lines itself up, time to plant the seed.
"Give it ‘ere." Simon gruffed, plucking the tablet out of Johnny’s hands, only smirking at the coarse language Johnny offered in return, though he didn’t attempt to get the tablet back. Waiting curiously and not so patiently for whatever Simon was going to produce, what a good dog. The lieutenant took a couple minutes to find the right seed to plant, using key phrases that produced the results he was looking for.
He let Soap peruse his yieldings. The actresses had some things in common, familiar hair and eye colors, familiar because they shared them with you. And the actors doing such filthy things to them? Well, that was the seed (double entendre not intended) Simon was planting, the bone he was throwing to Johnny, all the actors were Scottish. The sniper knew his shot landed when Soap muttered under his breath, taking the tablet back, hips shifting a bit subconsciously as he scrolled, watching the thumbnails give little snippet previews, "Steamin’ Jesus, Lt…"
"Seen you sniffin’ around our analyst. Pretty bird." Simon shrugged but his eyes were just as fixed on all the thumbnails, girls that looked vaguely like you in all sorts of positions getting rammed on Johnny’s- sorry, the actor’s cock. He saw the look of (Catholic) guilt on the sergeant’s face, swirling with lust and a pretty flush under his stubble, so Simon swooped in with another seed, motioning to a thumbnail where an actress with the same hair as you was moaning, "Bet our bird'd look better, bet she’d sound better."
The guilt was gone, the seed planted and flourishing in the Scot’s brain, Johnny’s lips growing into a wicked grin as he settled on a video, not bothering with headphones or squirreling away in the bathroom. One video turned to three, the two men taking turns chiding and teasing the other, and when his sergeant finally burst, it was your name he called out.
Yes, his plan was going to work beautifully.
___
For a quick two-minute search with the sole purpose of quickly getting Soap off, Simon hadn’t been displeased with his results. Neither had Johnny if the spring in his step and uptick in screen time was any indication. The actresses shared features with you, but he was positive there was a closer match out there. And since he couldn’t exactly ask you, their lass in the chair as Soap called you, he turned to their other tech guru and the next part of his plan. Kyle.
He was a bit more straight-laced than either Simon or Johnny, he’d be harder to convince. Simon didn’t know if he had it in him to debate the morality of purposely seeking out a porn star that was as close as physically possible to you… Or how that might affect the relationship amongst the 141… Ghost wasn’t known for being the moral backbone of the task force, and this wasn’t an issue that could exactly be bullied to be won.
So, when first met with some resistance even if Garrick’s face was flushed and he was shifting in his seat, ("Simon, that’s… I don’t know what but it’s not right. What if she finds out-") he delegated some orders to Johnny.
Simon didn’t know what the Sergeants got up to- that’s a lie, he had a pretty good idea, and he expected a repeat performance later- but when they came back, Kyle’s eyes were still a little glazed and his shoes were on the wrong feet.
"Well?" Simon raised an eyebrow looking up from the rifle he was meticulously cleaning. Johnny was smirking smugly, belt still undone, nudging the other sergeant to remind him to answer their lieutenant. Gaz was nodding wordlessly for a moment, running a hand over his hair, slumping back in front of his military-issue computer, and opening a private browser.
"Yeah… Yeah, mate, I’m on it." Kyle was practically still panting from whatever Johnny had done to/for him. Simon smirked, going back to his rifle, until after a moment when Kyle’s voice was more level, he added his requirement, "If I find her-"
He paused, cheeks heating a bit as he reworded himself a bit, "A look-a-like, I mean, I get to taste her first."
Simon could work with that. 2 down, 1 to go.
____
Lastly, John Price. Saved him for last for a reason, but he was also the easiest. Simon waited until the assignment was on the up and up again. Summit fever to push through and go home had its claws in all of them. He knew it was a good time because, after the last firefight and subsequent march through the woods to a safe zone, all the boys were too tired to fool with each other... much. Price was sitting against a tree, that ridiculous hat of his resting on his propped-up knee, face illuminated by his cigar and the light of his phone.
Wordlessly, Simon crouched beside the captain and held his hand out expectantly for the phone. Price blew his smoke with a quirked brow but was curious to what the sniper had in mind, placing the device in the waiting gloved hand.
"What’re you up to, Simon?" Price inquired suspiciously, lowering his eyes to the light of the screen as it was handed back to him. His blue eyes, older looking than the captain really was, widened for a second before darkening in the low light of the forest, "So this is what the Sergeants’ve been on about, uncanny…"
Price watched the very short prelude, a woman who looked so much like you, wearing something a little racier than you’d wear to the office but as blood rushed elsewhere, Price found the realism didn’t matter much when if he squinted… it was you stripping off a cardigan and letting some sort of authority figure pop the buttons of your blouse before shoving you under a desk with your pretty painted lips wrapping around his- sorry, the actor’s throbbing cock…
Seeing the way John’s expression shifted, Simon smirked under his mask, raising back to his full height and returning to where he’d stashed his gear. His plan was almost complete, they were in the final stretch.
___
Simon was watching over Johnny’s shoulder, his hips occasionally rutting through his clothes into the scot’s back, a video that the sniper had chosen. Soap thought it was really funny that it happened to be from your doppelganger's Halloween playlist, but now was just as entranced watching the tall domineering figure clad in all black and mask absolutely ruin you her. The bed was a perk of finally making it to an actual base, with officer’s barracks, waiting for the official expo back to you home.
“Fuckin’ hell.” Simon groaned, biting Johnny’s shoulder through his mask and the sergeant’s t-shirt, as gloved hands twisted into hair just like yours. It was hard not to insert himself into the fantasy. A knock on the door made him growl, pulling him away from the delicious video and friction that Soap’s weight against him was providing. With more force than really necessary, Simon whipped the door open, only relaxing a little bit when Price was standing there with Gaz, both of them with their strategizing faces on. So, he wasn’t the only one making plans lately.
“See the new video that got posted?” Gaz questioned, looking down to unlock his tablet undoubtedly sharing it over to Johnny’s laptop still playing on Ghost’s bed. Both Lieutenant and Sergeant shook their head no. Johnny clicked on the share notification, releasing a breath that puffed his cheeks and raised his eyebrows as he read the title alone, the video still loading in the base’s less than ideal wifi (the 141’s latest habit undoubtedly eating up most of the bandwidth).
It was your doppelganger’s stage name accompanied by the words Barrack’s Bunny Gets Gang Banged!
“Fuckin’ Hell.” Simon repeated, words almost snarling his jeans chafing him as his cock twitched in his still buttoned jeans.
“We’re having a dinner at mine.” John decided cooly, seemingly unrelated, leaning in the doorframe. His demeanor was its usual casual confidence, but his eyes were dark with the kind of want that spelled disaster for anything that stood between him and his goal. The seeds Simon had planted were growing like invasive weeds, wild and quick, “She’s invited.”
“How’re we playin’ this?” Simon questioned relinquishing the reins to his captain, he was just as much of a soldier as the rest of them, he took orders well, watching as Gaz joined Johnny at the foot of the bed, both Sergeants watching the video together, hands already starting to wander, gear being unbuckled and unsnapped. Price smirked at the sight, adjusting himself through his camo cargos.
“Cooly. Don’t wanna spook th’ sweet thing.” He smiled, mostly to himself making himself comfortable on the tiny futon that had been cramped in Simon’s room as an ‘officer’s luxury’. The captain dwarfed it, and patted the limited space beside him for his lieutenant to join him, “We’ll have ‘er eating out of our hands. And then we’ll have her.”
Price said this with the same easy decisiveness as he’d have busting a terrorist cell, but the curl of his lip, how his legs spread to accommodate the growing erection in pants noted the difference for Simon, his captain nodding towards the Sergeant’s watching the video, their breaths already getting heavy. Kyle’s hands fisting the bed's blankets like he might slip away and Johnny’s hips were already rocking a bit. Price’s smirk grew, eyes flicking to Simon before looking back forward, “You’ve been busy, Simon. Never miss anything, do you?”
It was a mix of praise and teasing that, from his Captain, made Simon’s affirmative grunt a bit lower, something twisting in his gut, like a pet that wanted to be stroked more. Price chuckled deeply, nodding, “Bet that thick head’a yours hasn’t considered why you noticed alluv our infatuations with our little analyst, ‘ave you?”
Simon didn’t respond, watching how Johnny’s eyes lit up much in the same way they did when he was presented a puzzle (bomb) that caught his interest, how he moved Kyle’s hands aside and rewinded the video, once, twice, three times at something your lookalike did that scratched his brain just right. Mutt, Simon thought, waiting for Price to continue, knowing that the captain couldn’t resist teasing him just a bit. He’d expected as much, maybe a vulgar comment or two. He was not expecting a truth bomb that turned him both introspective and horny.
“Only reason you noticed how much we liked ‘er, cause you’re always watching her. You watch her just as much as y'watch any of us, wonder what that might mean?” Price shrugged, one hand working at his belt buckle before motioning for Gaz to turn the volume. The Captain actually laughed at the look in Simon’s eyes that most would miss before nodding back to the video and the Sergeants, “Now, watch the show."
Fucking hell.
__
Maybe it was that little bite of introspection or the flight home where they fleshed out every last detail of their plan to get you, the real you. (“Gaz and Johnny’ll do the leg work, play up the charm, and Ghost and I’ll work the opposite angle, strong and silent.”). Maybe it was how eagerly excited Soap was or how Ghost spent his extra time scrolling through your Instagram. Maybe it was the two brief interactions with you upon returning to base- how pretty your eyes were looking up at him through your lashes, how good you smelled, the movement of your skirt as Johnny spun you around, how you got jittery under his slightest touch in the briefing room…
By the time he found himself on Price’s couch, he was impatient. Knee bouncing, checking his watch, making Gaz track your location. When you’d been sitting out in your car for more than fifteen minutes, he all but growled, snapping at Soap, “Go get ‘er.”
And when Soap guided you inside, pulling one of those bright smiles out of you with his own jokes, and Gaz was helping you out of your coat like unwrapping a present, your cheeks already flushed all pretty from the Sergeants’ tag team flirting routine… He didn’t think he could wait for Price to put the steaks on the grill, he needed something to sink his teeth into, sooner rather than later. He was sure if he bit the curve of your neck, it’d be a lot like biting into a ripe peach… supple and sweet. Just like you.
Oh, his plan had worked, the seeds were planted and growing and overtaking every other thought in his mind other than making sure him and his boys were sated at dinner tonight, and you were on the menu.
____
To quote Sir Mix-A-Lot, "Little Does she know I'm a nasty DAWG."
Y’all are getting this because my writing app deleted what I had done on Search History pt 2. Reminder- the reader is loosely based on Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds. The physical description is pretty vague, but lots of skirts and heels and makeup are mentioned, and I might have gotten carried away and implied
Once again: thanks to any and all tags and comments, i collect them and they will be buried in my pyramid when I die. seriously, they inspire me to keep going and I screen shot them to show to my friends :))))
Also so sorry if you got tagged twice im bad at taglists!!
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More Posts from Junkyuholic and Others
the squid game kuroo one !!!! i will defs be going back to that
Poly's Fave Fics
im so sick of scrolling thru my likes just to find a 500 word piece so here are all my favs on tumblr. none of these are mine.
JJK
Geto Suguru
Polluted (Multi)*
Bullying hcs
Gojo Satoru
Polluted (Multi)*
One moment was all it took (Dark!Soulmate!Gojo)*
Bad Boys Bring Roses (Yakuza!Gojo)*
Sukuna
Fight Night *
Polluted (Multi)*
The morning after (yakuza!sukuna)
Satosugu
Satosugu murdering your kid (cuz they love you or whatever)
College au Satosugu
Haikyuu
Oikawa
Naga!au
Bully*
Like Nobody Else
The Lion’s Den
Iwaizumi
Naga! au
Like Nobody Else
Inexorable
Bokuto
Delusional fool*
Tutoring Session*
Kuroo
Undone (Squidgame au)*
Gift wrapped*
Osamu/Atsumu
Different*
control+shift+n*
complex*
Tendou
Unprofessional(office au)
Outrunning Fate
HxH
Illumi
Trips
Enjoy the Silence (vampire!Illumi)*
Ingress [Part Two] [Part Three]*
Chrollo
30 Seconds (Bodyswap Soulmate AU)
Incitement*
Snowfall
Cost Affection
Uvogin
Lucky find*
Set Up (poly!Uvogin x reader x Franklin)
Shalnark
Sixth floor game
Moving Up (mafiaAU)
Nobunaga
Digging Deeper (College!Au)*
DBH
Connor
Connor likes to inflict pain*
Conor+Nines study group*
Connor + somnophilia*
Connor+hank escape attempt
The blue dress
Nines
Conor+Nines study group*
Obey Me
Simeon
Simeon gives mc an Aphrodiasic *
Simeon+Diavolo Corruption*
Drugging Mc with Cookies
Simeon+somniphilia *
Diavolo
Dissonance
Simeon+Diavolo Corruption*
Yandere Wild West Gang - Noncon
Your life is all planned out for you. Marriage. Children. Settling down in your little town and growing old. But a gang of outlaws and their wicked desires change everything.
Tags: (6) yandere males x fem reader, noncon, loss of virginity, choking, spitroast (hell yeah), oral fixation, 12.3k words
I blame the ridiculously talented @fangdokja and The Red Ledger for inspiring this btw.
They came for you in the middle of the day.
Shameless. Better men would at least wait for nightfall, would at least try and hide their intentions behind the cloak of darkness. Not them though.
They kicked the door in when your family was just about ready to eat lunch, the food still steaming and your ma still in her apron.
You didn't even have time to scream.
One outlaw smashed his rifle butt into your pa's temple and the old man was out like a light, still clutching the knife he'd grabbed to defend you. Two others grabbed your mother and shoved her into the pantry, blocked the door with a tipped over cupboard.
You ran. Or tried to at least. They were crowded into your kitchen, laughing as you turned from one to the other.
"No way out, beauty."
"Too late to run now, darlin'. Shoulda started before we even got here if you wanted to get away."
"Look at her all scared. Ain't it just adorable?"
With near identical duster coats and bandanas tied across their faces, you couldn't tell them apart.
They were closing in on you, a little at a time. You tried to fight, to pull away when one of them grabbed you. But they were dust bitten outlaws and you were just a rancher's daughter. It wasn't even a struggle.
The tallest one slammed you down on the kitchen table, his fingers digging into your shoulders and his belt buckle grinding against your ass.
Your mama's good milk jug tumbled off and shattered on the floor. That was what you focused on as they tied your hands behind your back and gagged you. The shards of blue and white ceramic in the puddle of milk.
Not their hands running over your hips, not their laughter. Just the milk and your ma's favourite jug all in pieces.
You could still hear your mother screaming for you when they pulled you outside. That was what hurt the most about that entire awful day. Your mama, pleading and begging and panicking and unable to save you.
Their horses were waiting, another outlaw standing guard with his rifle out.
"Boss, let her ride with me."
"With you? Ain't no way in hell my girl is riding with you."
"Your girl? She ain't yours. Boss, tell 'em she ain't his."
"Runnin' to the boss again? Yellow belly."
It was the tall one who settled the argument. His voice wasn't as rough as the others, but that didn't put you at ease in the slightest.
"She's riding with me."
He still had one hand curled around your upper arm and he pulled you towards his mustang. You dug your heels in as hard as you could, pulled back with all your weight. It just made him sigh.
"Ain't even started yet, and she's already being difficult?"
The outlaw that spoke was already on his stallion. All you could see of his face above the bandana was a pair of blue eyes, lined at the corners. The boss maybe?
"Just some...growing pains. She'll settle down soon enough."
The tall one leaned down and hoisted you over his shoulder. You squirmed and tried to kick your way free, but he kept one arm tight around your knees.
You thought all your panicking would frighten the horses, but no such luck. He tossed you across his saddle and climbed up behind you. The saddle horn dug into your belly until he pulled you into a proper seat, one arm curling around your waist. You could feel his chest against your back, every inch of it firm, hard earned muscle.
He dropped his head and spoke directly into your ear.
"No trying to jump off the horse. No trying to run away. I'm in charge of you until we get back and I won't have you hurt on my watch."
Your only response was to try and smash your head back into his nose. He straightened up just in time and all you managed to do was hurt your own neck.
He sighed again, and spurred his horse forward.
"Well, I suppose it this was easy, it wouldn't be nearly as fun."
The outlaws formed a loose ring around you as you rode. You tried to twist and look back, but your captor was holding you too tight. You didn't even get to see your home shrink into the horizon. Didn't even get that one small goodbye.
They rode for at least two hours, the sun climbing down from its zenith as they took you across rivers and down secret little paths. You knew your ranch and the area around it like the back of your hand, but even you were well and truly lost when you finally arrived.
It was a ranch, but there weren't any cows in the fields or corn growing in neat rows. The house was a big, whitewashed thing. Pretty once, but fallen into disrepair. Just a hideout. Not a place they stayed at for more than a few months.
The blue eyed one pulled you off the horse without breaking a sweat.
You could feel their eyes on you again. God, how many were there? Five? Six?
"You goin' first boss?"
The man looked down at you. He had a hand around your upper arm, but his grip was more firm than rough.
"I reckon I should. Can't trust you lot to be gentle or slow enough."
That made some of them jeer and complain.
"I'll be real sweet, boss. I promise!"
"We can be nice too. Really."
The man snorted. "Nice? I ain't never seen you dogs be nice 'bout nothing. I'll break our filly in. You lot just be patient and don't bother us none."
What were they talking about? You didn't have time to puzzle it out before the boss started pulling you toward the house. Seeing that building looming closer made you start fighting all over again, biting down on your gag and pulling back as much as you could. Like a mustang digging it's feet in.
It didn't last long. The boss leveled a look at you, met your eyes straight on.
"You really gonna be difficult with me, girl?"
Oh, what frightening eyes he had. Bright and clever, a blue so striking you could feel it right through your soul. A mountain lion would have eyes softer than his.
You stopped resisting him. Let him pull you along besides him. What else could you do? He had a gun on his back and a knife in his boot and years of experience wrangling stubborn animals. And you were just a girl out of her depth and far from home.
You didn't see it, but the outlaws looked at each other, impressed. Only the boss could tame a filly with a single look.
The house was much cooler than outside, but the boss didn't give you any time to examine it. Just guided you up the stairs and into a large bedroom. White curtains stirred in the breeze, the bedding neat and clean.
He locked the door behind you. A quiet click that made your heart race.
You jumped when his hands came to rest on your shoulders. You could hear the other outlaws outside, the clink of harnesses and buckles as they let the horses out to pasture.
His hands moved from your shoulders to your upper arms, squeezed.
"Do you know why we took you?"
You shook your head. Ransom, maybe? But your pa was just a run of the mill rancher. Surely there were better targets for quick cash than you.
The outlaw laughed quietly, just a soft breath of amusement.
"Not the faintest clue, huh?"
He let go of you and you heard the soft rustle of material as he shrugged out of his duster.
He turned you around and you finally got to see his face. He'd taken off his Stetson and bandana too, and the man looking back at you was a hardened outlaw in every way. He was a lot older than you, with thick blonde hair going to grey at the edges. Handsome, with a strong jaw covered in light stubble. Grizzled, but muscular and lean for his age.
There was a small, amused smile on his lips.
He kept his hands on your arms and guided you backwards, until your back hit the wall.
"You wanna take a guess? Why'd we ride all the way out to town to steal you?"
Whatever you said was muffled by your gag. He clicked his tongue.
"You're gonna have to use your worlds, darlin'."
He ran his thumb across your cheek, across the gag. "Or maybe not. I like you just like this too."
He was close. Closer than any man had ever been. It was terrifying. Tears spilled down your cheeks, running across your gag and soaking in.
He sighed, caught one on his thumb.
"None of that now girl. I ain't gonna be rough with you. And in time, I reckon you'll come to like it."
Your dress was buttoned at the front, all the way to your neck. He grabbed both sides of your collar and ripped.
You tried to jerk away from him, but he was too close and the only way out was blocked by the wall. Buttons scattered across the room with little plinks.
The only thing keeping your dress on was the fact that your hands were tied behind your back. But the outlaw didn't let that stop him for long.
He leaned down and pulled a knife from his boot.
"Don't squirm 'round and I won't cut you, alright?"
Sound advice, but not something you were about to listen to. You thrashed in his grip, twisting as much as you could. You didn't want that thing anywhere near you.
He grabbed your hair, and yanked your head backwards. You screamed into your gag, your whole scalp aching.
You might have continued fighting, but that's when you felt the cool metal of his knife at your throat. Not the sharp edge, but still enough of a reminder to keep you still.
"Good. Not so hard, is it?"
The knife moved away from your neck and to your sleeve. He slipped the blade between your skin and the fabric and yanked upwards.
Your sleeve tore with an ugly ripping sound, all the way down to the wrist. You whined into your gag, but he ignored you and repeated it on the other side.
He was breathing heavier now, even though the work of keeping you still couldn't have been much of a challenge for a man as strong as him. He put the handle of his knife in his mouth and used both hands to pull your dress off you. It pooled at your ankles, ruined.
You still had your chemise, but the thin white fabric was almost as bad as being naked. Your nipples poked through and he narrowed in on them, one hand coming up to cup your breast. His teeth were biting into the handle of his knife, hard enough to leave indents in the wood. Like a man struggling to control himself. He breathed out slowly, just feeling the weight of your tits in his palms.
You were crying so hard you almost couldn't see his face. A mixture of pity and want.
He kneeled down to put his knife away and stayed on his knees, hands coming to your hips. He looked up at you, blue eyes bright with something you didn't yet know how to recognise. Lust. Want.
His thumbs stroked circles into your skin, your chemise the only barrier between you and him.
"If I was a better man, I'd almost be sorry about this."
He grabbed your leg and hooked your thigh over his shoulder. You almost stumbled, forced to keep your back against the wall if you didn't want to loose your balance.
His fingers gathered your chemise from the hem up, pinning it at your waist with his palms. You were wearing stockings, simple white ones that reached your mid thigh, and plain lace garters.
All in all, it was a damn nice framing for your bare cunt.
God, he could practically feel his mouth watering.
He didn't give you any warning. Just slipped his tongue between your lips. Hot, wet, like nothing you'd ever felt. You tried to squirm away, practically tried to climb up the wall to get away from him. But he had you trapped, one massive palm on your hip and the other on your thigh.
He found your hole real easy. Slipped his tongue all the way in, the bridge of his nose grinding into your clit. You whined at him to stop it, to please just let you go, but with the gag, all he heard was a pretty little sound that made him keep going.
He sucked on your clit, his jawline standing out in sharp relief. His stubble scraped your thighs. So masculine, so unbearably, overwhelmingly manly.
With the way he held you still, you couldn't do anything except take it. Feel even inch of his tongue, feel his hot breath on your skin, feel his nails scraping your thigh. You wanted to hate it. You wanted to be disgusted by it.
But oh, it felt good.
Sometimes, when the neighbour's handsome son came over, you'd feel a little throbbing ache between your legs. This was exactly like that, cranked up to a thousand.
You whined again, and he must have been the Devil's own son, because he just doubled down. Swirled the flat of his tongue across your whole clit and then ran it down all the way to you ass.
You thighs were shaking, and the pit of your stomach felt tight with something your couldn't explain.
"That's my girl." He sounded pleased, smug. Practically cooing at you in his rough baritone. "Feels real good, don't it?"
If he didn't break soon, you felt like your whole body would. Something inside you was building, getting closer to the edge. And you were terrified of it. You breath was coming hard and fast.
Mercifully, he pulled away. Kissed the triangle of your pussy and then your inner thigh. You could feel his teeth against your skin when he smiled.
"Not yet. I ain't nearly close to done with you."
He stood and you weren't sure whether to be thankful or upset. You felt woozy, hot. Like heat stroke, or like getting drunk.
His mouth and chin glistened. He rubbed it dry on his palm, smirking all the while.
"I bet you feel real empty inside, huh sweetheart?"
You nodded your head, not sure where he was going with this. You did feel empty. There was a hot, throbbing itch in your stomach that you had no idea how to scratch.
"Aww, poor thing. I can take care of that for you."
His hands moved to his belt, blue eyes pinning you to the wall. When he smiled, there were lines around his eyes. They should have been comforting, a mark of someone who laughed often and laughed easy. They weren't.
You shook your head, pleading with your eyes. The tears were starting to come again, thick and fast. For a second or two, with his tongue deep in your core, you'd forgotten that he'd want something in exchange.
His eyes hardened, his smile not moving an inch.
"I will take care of it, girl. You can cry if you want, but we've come too far to stop now."
He grabbed your thigh and pulled your leg up, forced you back against the wall. Your whole cunt was wet and glistening with his spit.
Something hot and hard rubbed between your pussy lips. You shuddered, tried to move away. His other arm came around your waist and he pulled you against his chest. The smell of him was overwhelming - gunpowder and leather and whiskey. He smelled like a man. He smelled like your ruin.
Your forehead fell against his collarbone, and his chin came to rest on the crown of your head. The same way a father might hold his daughter after a nightmare.
But there was nothing fatherly about the cock nudging at your entrance.
"Shhh, you're okay. It ain't gonna hurt."
Liar. Terrible, heartless liar.
He pushed in and it felt like your whole body was splitting apart. It burned.
You sobbed into his chest, not entirely sure what was happening to you. This was the sort of thing that was only whispered about. The sort of thing that was kept vague for good, obedient girls until their wedding nights. The only thing you knew for a fact was that it hurt and you wanted it to stop.
He groaned, pressed a kiss against your hair.
"Sweet little thing, ain't ya? Gonna be good 'fer me? Gonna take it nice and deep?"
You couldn't answer. There was only the stretch of his cock inside you and the oppressive tightness of his arms.
He set a slow, drawn out pace. Cock pulling all the way out to the tip and then sliding right back in. You could feel every inch.
Not gentle, but not needlessly mean either. You were shivering in his arms, pussy fluttering like a heartbeat around him.
No one but him knew how fucking difficult it was to keep so slow. Tight, tiny little thing bleeding and crying all over him. Any red blooded man would want to rut into you like a stallion. See just how many tears he could wring out of you.
It was only experience and determination that held him back. If he was a younger man...
It was the right decision to have you first. Not even his second in command - that tall bastard with all the self control in the world - could have managed this.
He huffed out a laugh.
"You're little too young for me, doll. Reckon I could be your father."
He slid back inside you, grinding against your clit in a way that made you whimper.
"Shitty fucking father though. To be doing this to my little girl."
He let go of waist and cupped your jaw in his palm. Tilted your head back, his nose and lips skimming up your neck. You smelled so fucking good. Nothing in this world was as sweet as a needy, crying girl.
"You gonna call me daddy, little girl? Gonna beg me to be nice and let you go?"
You whimpered, a pathetic little sound through the gag. It only made him smile against your neck.
"Thaaat's it. Just take it. Let me break you in. Gonna be all stretched out and sweet when I'm done with you, yeah?"
He sucked at your neck, at the delicate spot where your shoulder started to slope away. A little immature maybe, to want to mark you up like an animal, but wasn't he being plenty mature already? Wasn't he being just saintly in his patience?
"Fuck, you're getting close, ain'tcha? Can feel you gettin' all tight."
He pulled back to look into your eyes, overflowing with tears and just so damn scared.
"You ain't got no idea what's 'bout to happen, do ya?"
He pulled almost all the way out, and then slammed back in, hard. Your tits jumped and your eyes fluttered shut.
"Just relax and let it happen. It's gonna feel reeaal good."
You tilted your head back and he followed you, lips right back at your throat.
He picked up the pace, trying not to be too rough and slowly failing. The closer he got to his own end, the less important kindness seemed. It wasn't long 'fore he was slamming into you so hard he could feel your tits bouncing. His breath was coming fast, each exhale almost a growl.
"Take it, just like that. C'mon doll, just let me fuck you. Just let me make you mine."
You bit down on your gag and came. Your whole body shook, your nails digging into your palms. You didn't now what he'd done to you, but you couldn't stop it. Your pussy was a clenching, sensitive mess. You felt light headed enough to faint. And the only sound and thought in your head was his voice, right in your ear and rough with barely held back want.
"That's my girl. My good fucking girl."
A good man might have slowed down then. Might have realised just how sensitive you were. He didn't. He kept pistoning his cock into you, fucked you through your orgasm.
You writhed on his dick, in pain and overwhelmed and more scared than you'd ever been. And all of it just served to make him harder, to bring him closer. Even he had to admit he was a bastard for enjoying it so much. He didn't deserve something so sweet. All he deserved in life was a short dance with a noose. But who gave a fuck about that? He'd taken you, he'd stolen you, and like any good thief, he was going to enjoy you.
You felt it when he came. His cock pulsed and twitched inside you, and something hot dripped down your thigh.
He pressed his forehead against yours, hands so tight on you that you felt bruised.
He came down slowly. Kept you plugged up with his cock while he softened. The only sound in the room was his harsh breathing. You couldn't even cry anymore. All you wanted was to close your eyes and sleep and make the pain disappear.
He pulled back and tilted your chin up.
"Look at me."
You opened your eyes, tears still caught in your lashes.
"There she is. Ain't so bad, is it?"
All you could do was sniffle and hope he was bored of you.
He let you down carefully. You weren't steady on your feet at all.
"I've had a lot of blood on my cock over the years, darlin', but I reckon yours is the finest."
He kissed you. You were still gagged, so it was less a kiss and more so his lips pressing against yours.
When he finally stepped away from you, you almost wanted him back. You sank down to your knees, too dizzy to stand.
"Poor thing. Too much to handle, doll?"
He ran his fingers through your hair.
"You did so good, princess. Now just stay so sweet, and the rest of this day will go a hell of a lot easier for you."
You were too out of it to figure out what he meant. You closed your eyes and heard his spurs jingling as he walked away. The door creaked open and then he was gone.
You might have tried to run for it, but you ached so bad that even the thought of it was painful. Your hands were still tied as tight as they were before.
You didn't notice the footsteps or the voices until they were right outside the door.
"So much for bein' nice. Boss left her a right mess."
"Better than you woulda done. Least she's still in one piece."
They came to stand in front of you, two men with their bandanas pulled down around their throats.
You recognised their voices. These two were the most quarrelsome of the bunch. They still had their gun belts on, both of them carrying revolvers. Gunslingers then. Every gang had them.
"Look at her already on her knees 'fer us."
"Why you cryin' pretty girl? Was the boss too mean with ya?"
You looked up slowly. Boots first - silver spurs, well worn leather. Then their belts. And finally, their faces.
One was dark skinned, a crescent scar on his cheek and his hair cropped short. He rubbed his jaw as he looked at you, a half smile showing pearly white teeth.
"Oh, would ya look at those eyes? A man could drown in 'em."
The other was tanned golden with the sun, his eyes a pale green. He was still wearing his Stetson, and his dark hair was long enough to brush his shoulders.
"Boss must be getting old. He left some of her clothes on."
That made the dark one laugh. "Nah, I reckon it's meant to be a treat just 'fer us. Like unwrapping a present on Christmas mornin'."
The green eyed one squated down in front on you and grabbed your jaw. His hands were rough from labour, and his callouses scraped your skin. Whatever he saw in your eyes made him smile, but it didn't have a lick of kindness in it.
"Look at that...Boss really did break you in, didn't he filly?"
He stood and pulled you up with him, hand still clutching your jaw.
"I reckon she's gonna be real sweet to us. Gonna be all nice and obedient."
The other one came to stand behind you, his fingertips brushing the nape of your neck as he moved your hair out of the way.
"That right, filly? You gonna be all sweet?"
The green eyed one nodded your head for you. His eyes had a certain cruelty to them that made you want to step away. He seemed the type to use spurs and whips both, and to use them often.
He let go of your jaw and focused on the rest of you. And oh, what a lovely sight you were. All tied up and crying, your tits just visible through your chemise. A little virgin about to loose the rest of your innocence to his teeth. A fucking vision, a fucking dream.
He pinched one of your nipples and rolled it between his fingers. Your thin chemise wasn't any protection at all.
"Sensitive, ain'tcha?"
You whined. Not sure whether to pull away or step closer.
The gunslinger behind you wasn't in the mood to be left out. As his partner tugged and played with your nipples, his hands came to rest on your waist. And what huge hands they were. You could feel the heat of him even through your clothes.
He dropped his head to the nape of your neck and inhaled, his nose buried in your hair.
When he spoke, his voice was a low rumble.
"What do you want?"
The green eyed one looked you up and down, weighing his options. Finally, he smiled.
"I'll take her mouth."
Your whole body went cold. He couldn't mean...
"Hmm. That's fine with me." His hands dropped from your waist to your ass, squeezing. "I want to have her from the back anyway."
They must have been in perfect sync with each other. The one in front of you stood aside and the one behind you pushed you towards the bed. You stumbled, landed on the duvet chin first, your teeth slamming together despite the gag.
You didn't have time to push yourself up before they were tearing your chemise off. The thin straps ripped and your last bit of modesty floated to the floor in a tattered white heap. You were left in just your stockings.
The dark one pulled you up by your hips, one hand grabbing the rope around your wrists to keep you steady.
Smack.
Your whole body jerked forward, your ass cheek stinging.
One of them laughed, mocking. "Bet that'll leave a mark."
The dark one ran his palm over the welt, smiling though you couldn't see it.
"We promised the boss we would be nice, remember?"
The green eyed one circled the bed. You could feel his eyes on you, drinking in your naked skin, your stockings, the tears soaking your gag.
His hands were on his belt. Not undoing it yet, just watching you.
"Y'know, I give that tall bastard a lot of shit, but even I gotta say he was right this time. She's a real cute thing."
The man behind you was still stroking your ass, squeezing and watching your flesh give under his fingers. So soft, so fucking pliable.
He hummed quietly, more concerned with you than with his partner. He slipped his thumb down between your cheeks, catching on your asshole for a second. That sent a jolt of panic through you. They wouldn't...
He must have felt you moving, because he sighed and let his fingers continue downwards. Smearing cum and blood across your pussy lips.
"Not today," he said, soft enough for just you to hear. "Boss wouldn't like that."
That wasn't reassuring to hear. It meant that he still wanted it. Wanted to fuck your virgin ass without any care for the pain, for the hurt. The thing stopping him wasn't empathy, but obedience.
He rubbed tight, harsh circles into your clit. You were still sensitive and you pleaded into your gag, asking him to be just a bit more gentle. Either he couldn't understand you or didn't bother to even hear you, because he carried on, fingerpads rough as sandpaper.
The green eyed one noticed though. He seemed to notice just about everything.
"Want me to take that gag off sweetheart?"
You nodded your head frantically. The sides of your lips felt raw and you couldn't stand the taste of it.
He kneeled with one leg on the bed and undid the material. When he pulled it away, thin lines of spit followed.
You sucked in a lungful of air, coughing. He gathered your hair out of your face, held it all in a loose fist at the back of your head.
"All better?"
Maybe you were wrong about him. Maybe he wasn't so bad.
"...yes." You swallowed, your voice still hoarse. "Thank you."
He tilted his head, smirking.
"So polite. Boss really did a number on ya, huh? Or are ya just a well bred little lady?"
You didn't get a chance to answer, because the other gunslinger ground his palm against your cunt. You yelped and jerked forward on instinct.
The green eyed one tightened his hold on your hair.
"None of that. You can take it."
"I can't! It hurts."
His free hand tugged at his belt, pulling it free of the belt loops. You blanched. What the hell did he need that for?
"Ain't even been a minute and you're already whining? C'mon pretty, there's better things to do with your mouth than that."
He let go of your hair long enough to loop the belt around your neck, the leather wrapped around his fist. He tugged and it tightened, metal buckle pressing icy cold against your skin.
He pulled upwards, forced you to look at him. His cat eyes were mean, amused at seeing you leashed.
"You even think 'bout usin' your teeth and I'll pull this so tight you won't even be able to think 'bout breathing. Got it?"
What was he talking about? Your teeth?
Your answer came soon enough. With his belt off, it was real easy for him to take his cock out. He sighed, relieved to have it free.
The only thing keeping you in place was the belt around your neck. Even still, you pulled backwards until you couldn't go any further.
It was huge.
Thick, with veins running all the way to the tip. That was supposed to fit inside of you? You'd never seen a man's cock before. Even when the boss fucked you, you'd only felt it. No fucking wonder it hurt so bad, if they were all this size.
It was horrifying, and still you couldn't look away.
"Ain't it a sight?"
He grabbed it with his free hand and yanked your head down with the belt, until the tip brushed your lips.
"Come have a closer look."
Maybe if your hands were free, you'd be able to pull away. But as it was, you were staying balanced only because of his grip on the belt and his partner's grip on your arms.
He rubbed the tip across your lips, leaving behind a sticky coating of precum.
"Don't be shy," he purred, "Give it a little kiss."
The belt tightened until you listened. You pecked the side of it, where it wasn't so gross and sticky.
"Atta girl. Now open wide."
You desperately didn't want to. He tasted of salt, and his cock was so hard that you couldn't even imagine how it would fit.
You didn't want to, but what choice did you have?
You opened your mouth and he pushed himself past your lips with a groan. The tip scraped against your tongue, soft as velvet and tasting like the sea.
He let go of his dick and tangled his hand in your hair, pushing your head lower. Until the tip brushed the back of your throat. You gagged, shivering all around him.
"God, your mouth is fucking heaven sent."
He pulled out slowly, until it was just the tip sitting in your mouth.
"Are you gonna join me or what?"
The other gunslinger snorted.
"Fucking impatient. You gotta treat a lady gentle on her first time."
You heard the rustle of clothing behind you, and the hand that was playing with your cunt came to rest on your hip, fingers digging into the flesh for a good grip.
Your cunt felt cold without his touch, but his fingers were quickly replaced with his cock. The head nudged at your entrance, hot enough that you could practically feel it radiating. The leaking pre mixed with the sticky come already on your lips, thin strands of white pulling and breaking as he settled himself against you.
You wanted to say something, anything, to make them stop, but the gunslinger still had his dick in your mouth.
"Hmmm. Nice and warm and I ain't even pushed inside yet."
"Ain't she? Like she was made for us."
His hand slid from your hair to you jaw, thumb tracing your cheek. He could see the bulge of his cock against your cheek - it made you look a little chipmunk getting all cozy and ready for winter. Your tears were caught on your lashes, silver dew drops like you just took a swim.
"You heard me, baby? You're made for us. Made to fuck us and keep us happy. Our little lady."
They both pushed into you at the same time.
Thick cock bullying into you, trapping you between them with nowhere to go. You wanted to scream, but you couldn't. You couldn't even think. Couldn't even breathe.
The green eyed cowboy pulled on your leash and forced you to tilt your head back, bare your throat to him. He pushed deeper into you, until his dick was down your throat and your nose was brushing the hard muscles of his stomach.
He held you there, cock down your throat and tears collecting in your eyes, while his partner started thrusting.
You couldn't breathe.
You couldn't pull away, couldn't fight him. You could just look up at him, eyes all wide and scared. Your panic was thick in your blood and he drank it in.
Smirking, keeping you at his mercy. He knew you couldn't breathe, and he still held you on his cock.
Your heart was racing and you felt light headed before he finally pulled out. You gasped, thick strings of spit connecting you. He only gave you enough time to catch a few deep breaths before he was back in your mouth, thrusting. Going just as deep but thankfully pulling out.
You gagged and choked and felt like you were drowning on his cock. And all the while, his partner yanked you back and slammed balls deep into you.
It was too much. You couldn't focus on anything. You were limp in their hands, letting them fuck you and just trying to survive it.
You weren't sure how long it took. Your whole world was narrowed down to just them - their hands on you, getting tighter and meaner the closer they got to coming.
The one fucking you from the back let go of your hip and curled his whole arm around your waist, leaning over you until his lips were on your neck. Fucking you hunched over like a dog in heat.
He bit your shoulder, sunk his teeth in with a snarl.
They didn't talk much anymore. There weren't any words left. Just the need to fuck and claim and come.
The sounds were the worst. The slick squelching of a cock in your cunt, the slap of skin on skin, the heavy snarls for you to take it like a good girl. And their raspy breathing, like stallions after a gallop.
The gunslinger pulled harder on your leash, keeping you still while he fucked your face. He's teeth were gritted tight, his eyes narrowed and focused entirely on you.
The dark one must have hit something deep inside you, because you made a whining, moaning sort of noise that vibrated all through his cock.
That was what did it. He forced his cock all the way down your throat, held you in place while he came.
When he pulled out, you were coughing so hard your whole chest ached.
That's when you felt it - hot spunk splattering all over your asshole. Your whole body shuddered at the feeling.
The man behind you kissed your back between your shoulder blades and slowly moved down. When he came to your ass cheeks, he sunk his teeth in with a playful growl.
He flipped you onto your back, and you sunk bonelessly down onto the covers. Your nipples were tender and your neck was a patchwork of marks.
The dark skinned one flopped down next to you and threw a possessive arm around your waist. He hummed, pleased as a bear before winter.
"Best fuck I've had in ages."
His partner was silent, his fingers toying with the belt still around your neck. You tilted your head back to look at him.
He was smiling, not soft exactly but about as close as a cruel bastard like him could get. He was so handsome, when he wasn't trying to choke you.
He sighed and let his fingers drift up your cheeks.
"I wish we could stay, pretty. But the day ain't done just yet."
The other one grumbled. "Can't we just lay here for a bit? I've got my girl all nice and snug. Why should I let her go?"
"Boss's orders, that's why. We gotta play nice and share."
"Why? Those bastards don't deserve her."
"And we do?"
He didn't bother to answer, just pushed himself to his elbows and looked down at you. His eyes were a deep brown. Sweet, almost.
"No," he said quietly, "We don't."
He leaned down and kissed your cheek. Soft, like a husband would. He stood and only looked back at you when he was at the door. Hard man, killer and gunslinger that he was, you thought you saw just a little guilt in his eyes.
When he was gone, the green eyed gunslinger ran his hands through your hair.
"He's right, y'know. We don't deserve a girl like you."
There wasn't any guilt in his voice, just a deep sense of satisfaction.
"But we've got you anyway. If the world gave folk what they deserved, you'd never have been so unlucky to catch our eye in the first place."
He leaned down and pressed a kiss against your other cheek, and then nipped at your jaw. A coyote savouring a bone.
"You'll learn to take it, sweetheart. And when I'm done, you'll learn to like it."
He left his belt around your neck and let the door slam shut behind him.
You could hear when they joined the others out in the yard. Their laughter drifted up to you, sharp as a wild dog's bark.
You closed your eyes. On your back in nothing but your stockings and a leash. It wasn't the sort of thing you'd ever imagined as a possibility. Hell, a lot of today was filled with things you'd never even thought about.
You hurt in just about every place. But parts of you throbbed with a pain that wasn't entirely unwanted.
Traitorous body, traitorous mind.
You couldn't possibly like this. You were being used by criminals, killers. Your virginity was just another prize for them to steal. You were a good girl, raised in a good home with upright, moral parents. You weren't some lady of the night, some harlot, to enjoy their roughness.
Right?
When the door sighed open, you didn't even bother to open your eyes.
"These young ones don't know any gentleness, eh beauty?"
His voice was calm. The sort of soft tone you'd use with a filly still nervous 'bout the bit.
You could hear his footsteps. Heavy boots but no spurs.
You flinched when he touched the belt around your neck, but he didn't do much more than run his fingers across the leather.
"Let's get this off you. Idiots. You don't harness a creature so fine."
He pulled it off your neck carefully and then touched the bruises it left behind.
"Open your eyes for me, beauty. Let me see you."
You almost didn't. What more was there to see? Another man with too tight hands and a hunger that wouldn't end?
It was his voice that did it. So kind. No growl behind the words, no clenched teeth snarl.
The first thing you saw were his eyes. A dark hazel, like an eagle's.
"Ah, just as pretty as I thought. Do you want to sit up for me? Those ropes must be hurting something awful by now."
He was older than you, but not by too much. Older than the gunslingers, but not nearly as old as the boss. His hair was tied in braid that fell almost all the way down his back. Lakota, if you had to guess, or maybe Crow.
There was a pair of workman's gloves shoved in the pocket of his jeans, but he didn't carry a pistol. The wrangler most likely.
You sat up slowly, wary. He didn't seem awfully worked up about a naked woman sprawled on the bed in front of him. Maybe he wasn't so bad...
He untied your hands without letting his own wander.
You flexed your fingers and carefully brought your hands to your lap. Your shoulders ached from being stuck in one position for so long.
"Will you let me go?"
"Oh, beauty." He touched his knuckles to your cheek. "That's what you want, isn't it? To go back home?"
"Yes." Your throat felt tight with tears. "More than anything."
He closed his eyes.
"It hurts to see you cry, beauty. It hurts to see these marks on you. But even if I was the only one holding you back, even if it was entirely up to me... I wouldn't."
"Are you going to do the same thing as the rest of them?"
He held your face in his palms, thumbs tracing your cheekbones. He smiled, but it was awfully sad.
"It's been real long time since I've had a woman, beauty. And never one so fine. I'm still just a man."
You were crying again, though you didn't realise it. Tears washing hot over his fingers.
"Shhh." He leaned down and kissed your forehead. "I'll be gentle. I won't hurt you."
He undid his belt slowly, eyes on you the entire time. You were on your knees again, your stockings making you look oh so innocent and oh so filthy all at once.
He grabbed your hand before he took his cock out. You pulled away, but his grip was too strong. Not rough, not hurting you. Just too firm to escape.
He brought you hand to his crotch, pressed your palm against his cock. Even through the thick denim of his jeans, you could feel how hard it was.
"All your doing, beauty. That's all your fault."
He undid the last button and his dick pushed it's way free. Big and no less intimidating for being the second one today. His fingers were knotted between yours and he dragged your hand up his shaft. He sighed, a man finally getting release.
"Here, this will go faster if you use your mouth."
His other hand came to rest on the nape of your neck. Not forcing you down exactly, but heavy, inexorable. Trying to refuse him was like fighting the pull of the moon.
He didn't force himself into you like the gunslinger did. Just kept using your hand - still dry - to stroke himself.
"Come now beauty. Just a little lick and it will all be over. You want that, don't you?"
You did. You wanted this day to end.
You cautiously licked the head of his cock, your tongue almost blistering hot. He groaned and for just a second, the hand on your nape tightened. Like he really did just want to pull you onto him and have his own way.
"There you go. Not so terrible, is it?"
It wasn't. He tasted salty, but not in an unpleasant way. And hearing him groan like that made some part of your gut flutter.
You felt just a little braver. When he pulled you closer, you let him. He rubbed the tip against your lips, smearing pre-cum all over them.
You didn't want his cock down your throat. Didn't want to feel like you were choking. But everything he'd done to you so far had been miles different to the gunslingers. Maybe he'd be different in this too.
Slowly, you opened your mouth. You expected him to shove himself inside you, betray the tiny bit of trust he'd built.
He didn't. Instead, he stood perfectly still. He even stopped using your hand, though he kept it wrapped around the base. Just letting you get comfortable. Letting you explore.
It was what your daddy did when he was working to tame a colt. He'd let them get used to him a little at a time, until they didn't mind his touch at all.
You were too nervous to take him in much deeper than the tip. But he didn't complain at all, just watched you with those golden eyes.
You sucked on him. Just the tip, but you wrapped your lips around him and treated it like it was candy. You flicked your tongue across the underside of his head, eyes locked on his to see if he liked it.
And from the way his breathing was picking up, you reckoned he liked it plenty.
Hadn't the gunslinger wanted you to kiss his? Maybe that's what men wanted. You pulled off his cock with a wet little pop and turned your attention to his shaft. You kissed him - small, shy little pecks all the way down to his hand and then back up again.
He was smiling, head tilted. He almost seemed amused.
"So that's how you like it, huh?"
You hummed, not sure how to respond. Both the gunslingers and the boss kept getting faster the closer they were to finishing. Maybe if you used your hand...
He seemed surprised when you moved your palm, but it didn't last long. When he was sure of what you were doing, he let go of your hand and let you do it all by yourself.
There was a lot of friction and you couldn't go as fast as you wanted without yanking on him. You needed some kind of lube, something to make him all slick...
Oh.
Of course.
You licked him, all the way from balls to tip, trying to drool on his cock as much as possible. He shivered, voice getting just a bit tighter.
"Careful girl. You're playing with fire."
You didn't know what he meant. All you wanted was to finish this. Be able to rest and dream sweet dreams, dreams without men's hands on your body.
His cock was wet with your spit and when you started using your hand, it squelched lewdly.
He groaned, his hand coming to your jaw and his thumb tracing your lips.
"Open your mouth for me, beauty."
You did. You couldn't look away from his eyes. That burnished gold like dead man's treasure.
He pressed his thumb against your tongue, ran it over your teeth. He seemed just as captivated by you as you were by him. The men outside were laughing again, voices raised and vulgar. But he didn't for a second look away from you.
He smiled and said something to you in a language you didn't understand.
Your hand was moving a lot faster now that you'd found your stride, your thumb brushing over his slit on every third stroke. The only sign that he was getting closer was his breathing.
At the last second, he pulled his thumb out of your mouth and rested his tip against your lips.
Hot spunk shot at you, some of it dribbling down your chin and some of it coating your tongue. He groaned, jaw clenched tight. He was panting like a dog on a hot day, still looking at you like you were the finest thing he'd ever seen.
He pulled his cock away and replaced it with his thumb, smearing his load between your lips and across your teeth. He spoke in his language again, words just a little more forceful than before.
You thought he was done with you. Thought he'd be satisfied with leaving.
Instead, he leaned down and kissed you. One hand was still on your nape and you had no room to pull away.
It was your first proper kiss. He was hungry, his tongue scraping across your teeth. One hand came to rest behind you on the bed, and he slowly forced you down, still caught between his lips and his hand.
He ended up between your legs, still not letting you go even though you were both almost out of breath.
"Beauty," he muttered, lips pressing against on yours.
When he finally broke away, he didn't go far. He rested his forehead to yours, breathing hard. You were sharing the same air, in that tight little space. And somehow that felt more intimate than anything else the outlaws had done to you.
He was practically lying on top of you, the hand that held your neck now tangled in your hair, and his other at your waist. He held you like a lover would.
A lover. Would you ever have one, if they let you go? Who would want you after your virgin's blood was spilled?
He kissed your cheek, slow and lingering.
"Oh beauty, how can I be so lucky?"
He didn't let you go. Just held you underneath him and laid his head on the side of your neck.
You were tense, muscles all coiled and ready to be hurt. But in his arms, you relaxed a little at a time without even realising it. This man wouldn't hurt you, whatever his reasons were.
His dark hair had come loose from it's braid and you absentmindedly brushed it off his brow. That made him smile just a little.
It had grown quiet outside and the only sound was of the breeze rustling the curtains and his soft breathing.
"How did such a kind man become an outlaw?"
You didn't really mean to ask that. And kind couldn't be applied to him without qualifiers. But in the face of everything that had happened to you, his softness was saintly.
He hummed against your neck.
"Bad luck. Bad people. Having nowhere to go back to. It changes you."
You swallowed, sad though you weren't sure why.
"I'm sorry."
He pushed himself up and looked into your eyes.
"Don't be. You're my reward, my reparation."
He brushed his knuckles across your cheek again. "I've waited my whole life for you."
You wanted to ask why. What made you so special? Why did he want to keep you?
The door opened with a bang.
"Are ya really still busy? That ain't fuckin' fair."
The gunslingers were standing in the door, both of them looking irritated. Your whole body tensed. They couldn't be back so soon, could they?
The wrangler pushed himself to his knees. The way he was sitting, your hips ended up on his lap with your legs on either side of him. He put a hand on your thigh absent-mindedly.
When he looked back at them, any softness in him drained away. He was just another outlaw with hard eyes.
"Is it the boy? Boss is really letting you go through with it?"
"It's 'bout time he became a man. And you're the one who was goin' on 'bout playing nice."
The wrangler sighed and looked back at you. When he spoke, it was just for you to hear.
"I don't want to leave you, beauty. But boss's orders."
He leaned down and kissed you, ignoring the gunslingers' cat calls.
When he stood up, you had half a mind to ask him to stay. You almost reached for him. But the gunslingers were watching you and something in you whispered that showing him favour was a terrible idea. You kept your hands knotted in the sheets. For both your sakes.
When he was gone, you sat up and pushed yourself all the way back to the headboard. Hugged your knees to your chest. You hadn't noticed him earlier, but the gunslingers had a boy with them.
They were half dragging him into the room, one with his hand on the boy's nape and the other with a fist in his shirt.
He was young, barely past eighteen. Slightly built, with pale eyes and bronze curls. He wasn't looking at you. Or more accurately, he was doing everything possible to avoid looking at you.
The gunslingers gave him a rough shove and he landed on the bed, bouncing a little before he pushed himself up.
"Gonna get your first taste of a woman boy, and she's a real fine one."
The green eyed gunslinger leaned over and grabbed your ankle. With one brutal yank, he dragged you away from the headboard and all the way to the foot of the bed.
"Missed me, sweetheart? 'Cause I sure missed you."
He caught one of your wrists and tutted.
"Just like him to let you loose. Fuckin' hell, don't he realise how much easier you are when you're all tied up?"
He knelt with one boot on the mattress and pulled you up, twisting your arm behind your back so you ended up with your head tucked under his chin.
"We was feelin' real bad 'bout hurting you, pretty. So we thought we'd make it up to you. Brought you somethin' you'll really enjoy."
You were skeptical of anything he did. He wasn't the charitable kind.
The boy finally looked at you. His eyes were round, nervous.
"Do... do you want this?"
The gunslinger slapped a palm over your mouth before you could answer him, dragging you closer to him at the same time.
" 'Course she wants it. She'd be fighting a whole lot harder if she didn't. Ain't that right?"
"Would be clawing our eyes out if she really didn't want it," the other gunslinger agreed.
The boy looked rightly skeptical. You were crying an awful lot for someone who "wanted it."
"But..."
The dark skinned gunslinger sighed and grabbed the boy's neck.
"Look at her. You're tellin' me you ain't getting just a little hard seeing her like that?"
"Yes but -"
"But what? You want her. And she's right there for the taking. It ain't complicated."
The man holding you was obviously getting impatient.
"You wanna be a man? Wanna come on jobs with us? Than fucking earn it."
That seemed to decide him. He crawled towards you, just as scared to touch you as you were to be touched.
"What do I do?"
"Open her legs and start eating."
He touched your knee. He gulped, focused entirely on the feel of you. He slowly let his hands drift up your thighs.
When he reached your mid thighs, he tried to pull them apart just a little. You kept your legs as tightly closed as you could. Whatever you tried to say was muffled by the gunslinger's hand, but it was enough to make the boy look up at your face.
You could see it in his eyes. The desire to have you and the horror at knowing this was all forced. In the end, guilt won.
"I can't."
He pulled away from you, his fingers shaking.
"She doesn't want this. How can you hold her down and make her take it?"
The dark skinned gunslinger clicked his teeth in annoyance.
"God, could you be any more pathetic? It don't matter what she wants. All that matters is that you're strong enough to take what you want."
The boy was almost off the bed when the gunslinger grabbed his hair and yanked him back.
"It's a lesson you gotta learn boy. Or you ain't gonna live long in this business."
The boy yelped, hands coming up to try and pull himself loose. You could have told him it was useless - you couldn't escape their hold no matter how hard you fought.
He dragged the boy across the bed and back to you.
The gunslinger holding you could see where this was going and he laughed, mean and mocking.
"Gonna be the hard way, eh?"
His hand dropped from your mouth and curled around your throat. He squeezed, just hard enough to remind you of his strength.
"Be a good little pet and open your legs."
You didn't. Hadn't they done enough already? They'd ruined you. Why not just leave the boy alone?
The gunslinger growled. "Ain't listening so well without my belt around your throat, is that it?"
He twisted your arm further up your back, until your whole shoulder was throbbing. You squirmed, arching against him to get the pressure off.
"Do I gotta teach you a whole new lesson in obedience? I promise I'm a much harder master than the boss."
He let go of you throat and grabbed your thigh, his fingers digging into the meat. His partner was quick to do the same on your other leg. It wasn't any good fighting them. They weren't scared of hurting you and they didn't care if they left bruises.
They wrenched your thighs apart and the gunslinger shoved the boys head between your legs.
"You ain't scared of a lil' blood, are ya? Clean her up nice and good."
The boy looked up at you with tears brimming in his waterline.
"I'm sorry."
He didn't have the boss's skill. His tongue was soft, hesitant. Probing, but totally unsure what to do.
You shivered at the feeling of his lips on your clit, his warm breath tickling your thighs.
The gunslinger growled and pushed him further down, until his nose was grinding into your folds.
"She ain't gonna get away. Use your whole tongue, suck on her, bite. Fuck's sake, do we gotta do everything for you?"
The one at your back laughed and nipped your cheek.
"She wants it though. Just look at those pretty tears."
The boy whimpered but did as he was told, dragging his tongue all the way up. His hands came to rest on your thighs, skin so much softer than the other men's.
His teeth brushed your clit and you gasped. The boy froze.
And then, he did it again.
You shuddered, thighs shaking just a little. He didn't seem to notice it, but his grip on your legs was getting tighter. He focused on the sensitive spot he'd found, raking his tongue across it.
You made another small, involuntary sound.
The man at your back purred. "There. Ain't that sweet to hear?"
The boy started to suck on your clit, tongue hot and wet. He pushed himself deeper, his nose and chin both buried in your cunt. He didn't even notice when the gunslinger let go of his hair.
He curled his arm around your lower back and pulled you closer to him, almost lifting you off the bed. The wet sounds of his sucking filled the room.
The gunslinger let go of you thigh, satisfied that the boy had a good grip on you. He kissed the corner of your lips, his hand coming up to play with your tits.
"Y'know, we never did get to make you come. Can't help wonderin' what you sound like."
You kept your jaw clenched tight. You weren't going to give him the satisfaction.
He must have read your mind, because he chuckled. Pinched your nipple hard enough that you bucked in his grip.
"Oh, you're going to come for us. Ain't that right boy?"
The boy muttered something and went right back to eating you out. You could feel the same heat in your belly as when the boss had you. Like a band about to snap. Every little move was too much, every flick of his tongue on your clit was somehow more intense.
You squirmed, trying everything you could to get him off. The boy ignored you. Just held on a little tighter and pinned you thigh to the bed.
"Please," you whined. "It's too much."
The gunslingers snickered at that.
"Poor darlin'. Does it hurt real good?"
"Don't fight it. Just let it happen. No one will know except us."
"And we're real good at keeping secrets."
The extra mean gunslinger pressed his cheek against yours and looked down at the boy between your legs.
"Don't tell me you're shy. We're real well acquainted by now, ain't we?"
You hated when he spoke to you like that. All sweetly condescending.
The boy wasn't letting up. Just kept sucking your clit and dipping his flexed tongue into your hole, switching from one to the other like he couldn't get enough. Like you were water in the desert and he'd drop dead without you in his mouth.
You fisted the duvet in your free hand, trying to distract yourself. No good. Your body had wants and needs of its own.
You could feel it building and there wasn't anything you could do to stop it.
You threw your head back and bit your lip, but it still wasn't enough. Small whines and gasps slipped through.
Your cunt was clenching, your whole belly a warm knot finally coming undone. It felt better than good.
It felt fucking incredible.
The boy didn't seem to notice. He just kept at it, even though your clit was swollen and aching and bright with blood.
The gunslinger noticed though. You could feel him smiling against your neck.
He tugged at your earlobe with his teeth and then kissed all the way down to your shoulder.
"Maybe we ought to be nicer, if that's what you sound like."
"Like a fox in a trap. Whinin' so nice 'fer us."
Your whole body felt like you touched lightening. And the boy's tongue was the worst if it.
"Please, enough. I...can't..."
The dark skinned gunslinger leaned closer to you, smiling in a way that wasn't nice at all.
"You're so sweet when you beg, filly. Ask politely and I'll get him off you."
You swallowed your pride. What was left of it after today anyway? They'd seen far too much of you for you to hold onto false modesty.
"Please. It's too much. Just make it stop."
Maybe it was your voice or maybe it was your tears or maybe he was just feeling merciful after emptying his balls inside you. He grabbed the boy's hair and hauled him up.
The kid's lips were red and swollen, his whole jaw slick with spit and spunk. He looked dazed, eyes still on the spot between your thighs.
"I'm not done yet. Can't I just..."
"Ain't complaining now, are ya? You see why we went through all that trouble for her?"
He was still holding onto you and he made a half hearted tug to get you closer to him.
"Five more minutes. Please."
The gunslinger scoffed. "You think just 'cause you had a taste you can make demands?"
He pulled the boy's hair and dragged him off the bed. His jeans were bulging at the crotch and his eyes never left you.
"But you said -"
"We said that you'd get a taste. Nothin' more."
The gunslinger holding you spoke up, his lips still pressed against your shoulder.
"You gotta earn it boy. Our girl ain't gonna be wasted on some greenhorn."
"Gonna have to make do with your fist, like the rest of us had to."
When the boy was off the bed, the gunslinger let go of your arm and shoved you forward. You landed on your forearms, your body sprawled in front of him.
He planted a hard smack on your ass and leaned over you, lips brushing your hair.
"You'd better dream about me sweetheart. Better feel me in your mouth when you close your eyes."
His fingers swiped across your cunt, rough and probing. You winced at the feel of him.
"Or else I'll just have to fuck you so hard the memory is burned into your mind."
You looked over your shoulder, eyes catching his for just a second. Long enough to realise he meant every word of his threat. He smirked, satisfied.
He stood and grabbed the boy by his upper arm. Together with his partner, they bundled him out the door. Business all finished, eh?
You sagged into the bed and watched them leave, your cunt still pulsing when you moved. You were exhausted and you looked it, too tired to push yourself up.
A hand caught the door before it closed.
Another one? How much more were you supposed to take?
The newcomer nudged the door back open and stood there for a minute, watching you. He had a bowl of water in his hand, a wash rag thrown over the side.
You hadn't seen his face before, but you recognised him. The tall, well spoken one who made you ride on his horse.
He was dressed better than most of the others. A black, silk waist coat and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A silver cross dangled on a chain around his neck.
It made you want to laugh. What God could he worship, when he was a sinner so black?
"Hello dove."
You didn't answer. Just watched him with your cunt fluttering and your lips bruised.
He was the palest out of them all, skin more like a scholar's than a cowboy's. He had black hair, as long as the gunslinger's, but tied back. He was probably Chinese, but born on this side of the Pacific. His accent was almost the same as yours.
He walked towards you slowly. Not nervous, but more like he was worried about spooking you.
He put the bowl of water down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, half facing you.
"It must hurt."
You stayed quiet. What did he know of hurt? He wasn't the one being held down and fucked.
He nodded at the bowl. You hadn't noticed it, but the water was a milky white.
"That's to clean you up. I reckon they left a few more cuts and scrapes than they intended."
You found your voice. Smaller, meeker than you remembered.
"Why do you care?"
"You think we don't care?"
You blinked. Of course you thought that. What else was there to think? They were outlaws who took you to satisfy themselves for an afternoon or two. What more could there be?
He laughed, but it was a bitter thing.
"Oh, qīn’ài de. If we didn't care, you'd still be a free woman."
You didn't understand what he was getting at. He sighed and reached for your ankle.
You jerked away. You didn't want to be touched ever again. Not by a man, not by anyone.
He sighed again.
"Don't be difficult. I want to help you."
"Why?"
He was quiet. Just watching you with his dark eyes. There was something familiar about him, though you couldn't tell what.
Finally, "You don't remember me."
You were in no frame of mind to care about his feelings.
"No."
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his forehead resting on his knuckles. Like a man at prayer. He turned his head a little to speak to you.
"It's been a long time, but you saved my life once."
You frowned, totally blank.
"You were still just a girl. Thirteen or fourteen maybe. I'd just turned twenty, part of a gang for the first time and too damn cocky."
He rubbed the skin just above his thumb. There was an ugly scar there, the skin still raised and puckered after all these years.
"Our heist went wrong. Sherrif and his deputies were waiting for us. I got shot. Not so bad that it would kill me, but bad enough that I couldn't make it home."
You couldn't see where this was going.
"Ended up in a barn, bleeding everywhere. I heard footsteps and I thought for sure I was done for. That the rancher was going to blow my brains all over the wall. But it wasn't him that found me."
You sat up slowly and ended up on your knees, your back to him. You thought you understood now, but you let him keep speaking.
"Wasn't him, but his daughter. Dropped the milk when she saw me but she didn't scream. Just came over and asked how she could help me. Me. A wanted man who'd just killed six deputies."
You didn't know that part of the story. All you remembered was the hot summer sun slanting through the cracks in the barn, and the young man bleeding out in the hay. You remembered him digging the bullet out and asking you to stitch him up, his face going all pale.
You closed you eyes and it was like you were right back there, hiding him in the hayloft and telling your pa the blood on your dress was from killing a chicken.
"Why did you do it?" he asked.
"Because you looked scared. And because I was a little in love with you."
That probably wasn't the answer he was expecting. You pulled in a shuddering breath.
"You were older than me, but still so young. The most handsome man I'd ever met. You told me you got shot by mistake, and not to tell anyone because it would get your little brother in trouble."
You could hear a smile in his voice.
"And you believed me?"
"Yes. Why would you lie to me? Outlaws were just a thing from stories. And I suppose I wanted to believe you. You told me I was going to be really pretty someday, that you'd have to come back and marry me. No one had ever said anything like that to me."
He hummed. "You really thought I was handsome?"
"Yes."
He still was, but he had none of the sweet, boyish softness you remembered. He was handsome in a hard, dangerous way. Diamond rough. You could cut your skin on the sharpness of him.
"But what does that have to do with anything? Why...why do this to me, if you owe me your life?"
He sighed and reached for you. He hooked his arm around your waist and dragged you onto his lap.
"I kept checking in on you over the years, do you know that? Every time I was near your ranch I'd ride out and look for you. Always watching."
"Why?"
"I felt like I owed you. I wanted to make sure you were fine. And when you got older...well, I just liked looking at you."
You shivered. There was something in his voice, a longing far deeper than anyone of the other cowboys'.
"Will you let me go when you're done?"
He sighed and tucked your hair behind your ear.
"Maybe that would be the merciful option. But we aren't merciful men."
He pulled your head onto his shoulder when you started crying.
"You're going to stay with us, qīn’ài de. For a very, very long time."
"Why now? Why..."
His hand was soft in your hair, his voice even softer.
"You're young, lovely, a rancher's only child. How much longer 'til your pa started to consider marriage? And who would come knocking on his door? No, I couldn't loose you to them."
"You're the one..." you tried pulling away but he kept you still, head against his shoulder.
"Me," he agreed, "I'm the one to blame for this. And even knowing that, I wouldn't take it back."
"The others..."
"Brutes, aren't they? But they're my brothers. And once they saw you, they wanted you too."
He said he couldn't loose you to another man, but that didn't make any sense.
"If that's true, why did you let the others..." You swallowed, not sure how to go on.
"Why did I let the others have you first?"
You nodded. He played with the cross on his necklace. Finally, he spoke.
"Because I want the most time with you."
He pulled away to look at you and you realised how wrong you were. It wasn't that he didn't feel any lust for you, it was just that he hid it far better than the rest of them.
But now... oh, his was the worst you'd seen. Boiling hot, on the end of its tether. This was a man who wanted you. Who'd spent years wanting you.
He laid a palm on your thigh.
"They got you for an hour each maybe. But I'm going to have you all night."
Professor SUGURU with his student next! honestly idk what he would teach though
-uncreative anon
✤ PROFESSOR GETO ✤
Hahaha, I love how this has turned into a series. This university really needs to do better background checks or something because they've got an awful lot of scummy professors on their payroll.
I decided Suguru is gonna be a Philosophy/Ethics professor because of his whole moral dilemma in the show. I also really just wanted to use the Nietzche quote. I've gotta say this series excites me. What teacher will violate reader next?
CW: non-con, student/teacher relationship, PIV sex, drugging, choking, sugurus obsession with monkeys, professor gojo oml he's a menace someone lock him up
Nietzche once wrote “Man is more monkey than any monkey.”
A monkey can not think or act beyond primal instincts because they do not have the mental capacity to do so. Humans do, yet we choose to act on our urges anyway. In that way, humans are more monkeys than monkeys because we choose to be monkeys.
Suguru hated monkeys.
Men who chased pleasure aimlessly, following their greed or lust like a dog on a leash. They were the reason humanity could never progress past its greatest challenges. No better than scum.
He thought that he was above them, once.
But then he met you.
Suguru wasn’t terribly fond of the vast majority of his students. The college age demographic was full of monkeys. Entitled children who devoted their weekends to drinking and fucking each other like animals rather than studying, then come crawling to his office on Monday morning begging him to please change their grade. It made him sick.
You couldn’t be any less like them.
A brilliant young girl— one of the most promising he’s ever taught. You were leagues beyond your peers in your ability to grasp philosophical concepts. He rarely ever found a student whose arguments were even compelling, yours interested him.
He called you into his office after grading your first essay of the semester because he was almost certain you’d plagiarized it. He scoffed to himself as he read it, thinking it was a particularly poor effort at stealing. Most students at least knew to dumb down the work a little so it sounded like it was written by a college student.
But when he called you in and began talking to you about the paper, it was clear that you actually had an incredibly firm grasp on the topic. What was supposed to be a 15 minute meeting turned into an hour long conversation about transcendental idealism. It only ended because he realized he was late for his next lecture.
He let you out of his office with a newfound fascination.
-✤✤✤-
It was you who approached him for your second meeting. He received an email from you about a week later:
Hello Professor,
I hope this finds you well. I wanted to say thank you again for the conversation we had the other day. I really enjoyed it. I was wondering if I could ask for a favor.
I’m working on my senior honors thesis this year and I’m in the process of looking for a thesis supervisor. I was wondering if I could speak to you about my topic and see if we’d be a good fit. Even if you could point me in the direction of someone else who could help me, I’d be incredibly appreciative.
Thank you,
(Y/N)
It’s a bit embarrassing how quickly he responded to set up a time and date. The prospect of mentoring you for the whole year; of having a set chunk of one-on-one time every week where he could pick your perfect brain and stare at your pretty face was mortifyingly intoxicating.
He laid in bed that night, mulling over the morality of his desire for you. There was no doubt in his mind that he shouldn’t feel this way about a student. He has the power advantage in the dynamic, not to mention the fact that he’s nearly 10 years your senior, it’s wrong in every conceivable way to look at you with anything other than platonic affection. He doesn’t need to be an Ethics professor to know that.
But as his hand travels past his boxer waistband that night, it’s your face he imagines.
The two of you meet and quickly decide that you’ll work well together. You fill out some form and discuss your topic which is, rather ironically, the ethics of love and sex.
He feels as though the universe must be teasing him.
Still, he persists. Anything for his favorite student. You submit your thesis proposal and the work begins.
You meet every Monday and Wednesday after lecture—though he encourages you to stop in whenever you’d like. You read through your work and he challenges your ideas, watching you carefully as you write and rewrite, completely oblivious to the depraved fantasies playing out in his head. He’s grateful that his boner is hidden by his desk as you look up at him with those lovely eyes of yours and talk about sexual desire as innocently as the weather.
The moment you leave his office he’s locking the door, closing the blinds and unzipping his pants. Thrusting erratically into his hand as your name tumbles from his lips.
As he wipes the mess off his hand he reminds himself that the need for intimacy is a sentient desire. It's human to crave deep connection.
It’s a weak attempt at making himself feel better.
But he can’t stop. He’s enraptured by you. Your beauty, your personality, your mind—each time you laugh, speak, cry, he falls in love a little more. It’s maddening, his desire for you. It haunts him every time you open the door to his office.
-✤✤✤-
He was standing with Satoru one day outside of the biology building as he ranted about some kid named Yuji. He wasn't really paying attention, he was staring at you as you laughed with your friends across the quad.
Gojo huffed indignantly when he realized he wasn't listening. Nudging him to pay attention to him until he noticed what he was staring at.
His blue eyes lit up mischievously.
“Oooooh, someones got a crush~” he sang, elbowing him playfully, “She’s awfully cute. How old is she? Sophomore? Junior? Senior?”
“What? No she’s-“
“ A freshman,” He gasps dramatically, “Suguru, I didn’t take you for a cradle robber-“
“Shut up.” he snaps as his friend cackles, “I’m supervising her senior honors thesis, freak. That’s all.”
Gojo scoffs, “I’ve known you too long to believe that bullshit. The last time I saw your eyes light up like that was when we read Allegedly of the Cave in high school.”
“It’s Allegory of the Cave-“
“Whatever,” he waves, “What I’m saying is she’s making you feel things.”
Suguru looks away with a frown, not wanting to dignify his claim but also incapable of denying it. Gojo sits back smugly.
“I know all that ethics stuff is important to you and I don’t pretend to know much about it, but I do know about biology and I know that science says it’s in our DNA to want to procreate.”
Geto squints, “Exactly what are you implying Satoru?”
He shrugs, “It’s not your fault if you have urges. It’s a basic principle of life—the sky is blue, the grass is green, and men want to fuck pretty women.”
Geto scowls, “You’re disgusting.”
But his words stay with him.
-✤✤✤-
The year goes on. Before he knows it, the spring semester is ending and it’s time for you to present your thesis to the panel.
He’s upset that he won’t be working one-on-one with you next semester, but you’ll be in grad school for another four years. He’ll still have you in his classes most likely, and you’ll do your dissertation at some point, there’s no doubt you’ll want to be mentored by your favorite professor again.
He leans back in his chair, smiling at you proudly at the end of your second to last meeting.
“You’ve done well (Y/N),” he says, scrolling through the lengthy document on his laptop, “This is an impressive piece of work. You should be proud of yourself.”
A soft blush blooms on your face, “Thank you Professor, I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He shakes his head “The pleasure was all mine. If this is your thesis I’m excited to read your dissertation in a few years.”
“Ah, about that…” you laugh sheepishly, “I’m actually transferring for grad school. I got a decent scholarship from another university near where I live, I wanted to be a little closer to home.”
Geto’s heart drops to his stomach, he has to take a moment to recover from his shock before he can manage an answer.
“I see…” he mumbles, swallowing thickly, “That’s…disappointing”
You offer him a sympathetic smile. “I’ll still keep in touch of course! I’ll give you updates on how I’m doing.”
He hums. There’s an awkward silence that feels like it lasts an eternity. When the silence becomes too painful to bear, Geto clears his throat and closes his laptop.
“I’ll see you on Monday for our final meeting. Please make sure you bring paper copies of your thesis. I’ll hand them out to the panel on the day of the presentation…” You nod and gather your things, clearly eager to get away from the tension-thick room. You wave goodbye before quickly scurrying off.
He doesn’t even remember the drive back to his apartment—he’s in his office one minute and the next he's on his bed staring at the ceiling.
Changing schools? After a whole year with him you were just going to leave? Don’t you realize that he’s devoted all he had this year to making sure you reached your fullest potential? That’s what love is, isn’t it? The mutual sacrifice of one’s self for the other?
What if you go to this new school and another Professor decides to covet you? A pathetic monkey who could never love you like he could. You’d be dirtied by their touch, their ideas. The thought makes him sick.
Never has he met a woman with a mind like yours, he likely never will again. Now that he’s seen heaven, how was he supposed to go back?
He needs you like he needs oxygen in his lungs. He loves you in an instinctual, carnal way that can’t be explained. He wants to take you, claim you, and keep you away from any other man who may try to steal you away from him.
His mind drifts back to Satoru’s words:
“It’s just a basic principle of life…”
Maybe he was right. Maybe the way he felt went beyond the bounds of morality.
-✤✤✤-
You walk into his office that Monday for your final meeting. It’s late. Everyone has gone home for the night so the usually bustling building is eerily quiet. Your professor emailed you earlier asking if you could change the time of your meeting, said that he had a mountain of papers he had to finish grading and it would be a huge help if you could meet a little later.
Of course you said yes. Anything for Professor Geto.
He smiles as he opens the door, guiding you in with a gentle hand on your lower back.
You notice that the blinds are drawn. It’s odd. He never has the blinds drawn and it’s already dark outside, but you don’t question it too much. You’re just glad that the tension seems to have dissipated from the last time you saw him.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet a bit later with me. I really appreciate it.” he says as the two of you settle in, “Do you want something to drink?”
You smile, “No problem, and yeah. That would be great actually.”
He hums, walking over to the kettle on the other side of his room to put water on. “Did you bring the paper copies?” He asks.
You nod, fishing through your bag and pulling them out.
“Perfect, could you put them in the bottom drawer of my desk please? I don’t want to lose them.”
You swiftly obey. When your back is turned he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the white pill he bought off a monkey in his ethics class who desperately needed a passing grade. He plops it in the cup with your tea bag, watching it fizz away in the hot water.
He walks back to his desk and places the mug in front of you.
“It’s hot, let it cool down a little before you drink.”
You nod, thanking him as he takes his seat.
He walks you through some of the logistics of the presentation—where it will be, who will be on the panel, what you can expect before and after—all while keeping a careful eye on your cup. He starts to worry that you won't drink from it, but sure enough, just as he finishes you bring the mug to your lips.
The drugs kick in almost immediately. He watches in awe as your eyes blow wide in fear, unsure of why your limbs have given out on you. He catches your head before it can hit his desk, fingers caressing the soft skin of your cheek, pants tightening around his growing erection.
A pang of guilt twists in his gut at the way you stare up at him, teary eyes blown wide in fear and confusion, silently pleading for him not to do this.
It’s almost enough to stop him.
Almost.
He lifts your body up and gently places you on top of his desk, your arm can only twitch weakly in protest as he lays you down on a pile of ungraded finals. It seemed like the monkey had made good on his promise and gotten him the right dose—just enough to make you pliant. He wanted you to be awake and conscious for this.
His eyes rake over your body as he works on taking off your shirt, revealing your soft torso inch by inch. Your body is sinfully perfect, even better than he’d imagined it would be. He’s gentle as he handles your smaller body, incredibly so. He refused to rape you like an animal. He was going to make love to you softly, reverently, until you lived and breathed him just as he did you.
A few whimpers fall from your mouth but he quickly shushes them with a kiss, wiping the tears from your droopy eyes with the pad of his thumb. His slender fingers toy with the waistband of your pants
“You’re so lovely...” he breathes, ghosting his lips along your neck, “I’ve been waiting so long for you.”
Your jeans and panties are pulled down your thighs and calves until you’re completely naked and at his mercy. Your professor swallows thickly, dropping to his knees between your legs, holding them apart as he ghosts his lips over your cunt.
“Oh (Y/N)...” he sighs, licking a languid swipe from the bottom of your slit to your clit and leaving a soft kiss over the little nub “You don’t have to cry, darling. I’m doing what’s best for you—for us.”
You whimper loudly. It seems like you’re trying to form a sentence but your lips and tongue are weighed down by the drugs. He smiles lazily and latches onto your clit, holding your hips steady as his tongue paints lazy circles over the delicate bud, sending shivers up your spine.
“I didn’t want to spring this on you, I thought that we’d have more time,” he mumbles into your now dripping pussy, “But when you told me you were to a school where I couldn’t protect you from all the filthy monkeys, I had no other choice.”
Two of his fingers slide into your dripping cavern, thrusting back and forth slow and deep, exploring every nook and cranny of your tight cunt. Geto couldn’t wait to become familiar with it, to know by muscle memory where to touch to make you unravel. His hands travel to his own pants subconsciously as he thinks of all the ways he’ll have you—over his desk, on his bed, in the shower—he honestly didn’t care where it was as long as you were being worshiped by him and him alone.
He thinks of the students in his class—the boys who fucked different girls every night and then left without a word. Had those monkeys ever touched you? His heart sank at the thought. His poor, sweet girl, defiled by that scum.
His blood boils as he thinks about it, fingers subconsciously pumping in and out of your cunt harder making you groan. In a way, this was the moral thing to do. Clearly you didn’t know what was right for yourself, he was just stepping in as an older, wiser man to protect you from harm. By taking you forcefully, he was saving you from the pain those other monkeys would inevitably cause you.
He loved you. He’d cherish and take care of you until his dying breath. They wouldn’t. It might hurt you now, but eventually you’ll understand and be better off for it.
That’s what he tells himself as he lines up his cock.
You let out what he thinks is meant to be a scream, though it comes out as more of a loud groan. He smiles softly, kissing your tears away as he slowly pushes in, waiting patiently for you to adjust as he bottoms out.
“P-please…” he makes out in your cluster of mumbled whining. His heart hurts for you, it really does.
“This is good for you (Y/N). Don’t fight it. I’m gonna take care of you so well.” he groans, pulling his hips back slowly before sinking himself back into your warmth, establishing a steady, slow rhythm to get you used to the size. “You’re gonna drop out of that college for me and I’m gonna get you an even better scholarship here, alright? I know grad school is awfully expensive these days, and I can tell you from experience that untenured professors get paid nothing. It would be smart to start pinching pennies.”
He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, tangling a hand in your hair ever so gently, “Here, you have me. Your favorite Professor, right sweetheart? I want to see you succeed. I’ll give my all to you—as a teacher and a lover.” his thrusts quicken and his eyes light up with something between madness and delight as you clench around him.
“I’ll take care of everything. I have no doubt that your dissertation could be groundbreaking with the right direction. I’ll line up a nice job for you here once you graduate, and then…” his hips slow as he stares deep into your teary eyes, heart pounding in adoration, “...I think it would be cute to have two Dr. Geto’s in the Philosophy department, hm?”
Your stomach threatens to empty itself. You try to kick, scream, fight, anything but your limbs won’t work. Whatever he gave you was strong. You glare up at him, the man you once admired, and with the last of your energy, spit in his face.
Geto blinks a couple of times, hand traveling up slowly to touch the saliva dripping down his nose. As his fingers process the wetness his eyes darken, blood boiling hot at the triumphant look on your face.
“...You little bitch.”
You don’t have time to process his words before his hand is wrapped around your throat and he’s pounding into you with reckless abandon. No concern for your pleasure or comfort, only meaning to establish his control.
“You want to spit on me after I offer you everything? I could ruin your life if I wanted.” he snaps, ignoring your tears, “I’ll tell the panel tomorrow that I found out you’ve been cheating. You’re worried about grad school? You won’t even graduate.”
His lips curl up menacingly, picking up the pace as his orgasm approaches, “Don’t think you’ll sneak into another university either. The academic world is small. I have contacts just about everywhere and it would be easy for me to get them to blacklist you if I felt it was necessary.” he grunts, “Yeah, good luck paying your loans without a–fuck- job.”
His thrusts become sporadic and he pulls out, turning your body around so that he’s jerking himself off right over your face. He lets out a low groan as he cums, face relaxed in euphoria as thick ropes spray all over your face and mix with your hot tears.
He pants, looking down at your cum covered nose and lips. You look…pathetic. Absolutely defiled, like you’ve been bred by some kind of animal.
By a monkey.
Suguru feels a twist of guilt in his gut. Wasn’t this exactly what he promised himself he wouldn’t do? He let his emotions and desire control him—he hurt you. How was he better than any other rapist?
It was for your own good he reminds himself. If the action is done with reason, then it’s a conscious decision. He’s not a monkey. He’s not a monkey.
He zips up his pants quietly and gathers his things.
“The drugs should wear off in about an hour, I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.” he says, unable to meet your eye, “If you show up for the presentation tomorrow I’ll take it as an acceptance of my offer. If not… well, I suppose you’ll be receiving an email from the university within the next few days.”
He leaves without another word.
-✤✤✤-
He didn’t expect you to show up the next day, he really thought that he’d have to start preparing evidence to show the dean and other proctors, but to his surprise, you walked into the room right on time.
You were frazzled and looked like you hadn’t slept but you were there. You were accepting his love. He watched you giddily as you presented—very well, he notes, considering what happened last night. One of the other panel members nudged him and asked what was making him so happy. He just smiled replying that he was just so proud of his student.
Suguru holds the door for you as you walk out, squeezing your shoulder and congratulating you on doing such a good job before following the rest of the panel to determine the results.
After you get the good news, Suguru takes you back to his office because he has a “special present” for you.
As he spears you on his cock he thinks back to Nietzsche's words.
…Perhaps he was more monkey than he thought.
eat me whole
IN CONTEMPT | simon riley
You tried to move on, but no one quite measures up; not to the way he touched you, not to the way he ruined you. But when he reappears, you can feel him even before you see him. The past has a way of punishing disobedience, and now, it’s here to settle the score.
✉️ SEQUEL TO: ‘ RETURN TO SENDER ’ | [ AO3 ]
18+ AU, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, soft!simon, cuckolding, stalking, dirty talk, implied voyeurism, extreme exhibitionism, praise, rough sex w aftercare!, breeding kink if you squint, smidge of degradation, unprotected sex, cream-pie, oral sex (f!recieving) fingering, squirting [ 16.6k words ]
Fuck Simon for vanishing, for leaving you with nothing but a £21.90-shaped hole in your wallet.
It’s humiliating, really—how twenty quid can leave such a deep dent in your otherwise empty pockets. But the alternative? A fate you couldn't afford to entertain—sleepless nights, baby-screeching, endless tears, and a lifetime tethered to a man who couldn't even be bothered to stick around longer than 5 minutes after fucking your brains out, taking your favorite pair of oversized sweatpants on his way out, too. So, you swallowed the morning-after pill and kept it moving.
The immediate days after he disappeared blur together in a heavy, sluggish haze. You still show up to work, still plaster on a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes—though it never did, even before Simon. Every shift is the same bullshit but somehow worse—customers testing your patience, coworkers draining the last bit of energy you’ve got, and a boss who somehow manages to be more insufferable than the rest combined, multiplied by ten, then squared.
Your life was shit before, but that’s all been exacerbated. Nothing feels right anymore. You don’t remember who you were before him, how you managed without his touch. Everything’s off-kilter, like the world shifted just enough to make moving through it a little harder.
You try to shove him out of your mind, slam the door, bolt it shut—for your sake. But when one door closes, a window inevitably opens—and he is the draft that seeps through, whistling through the gaps, curling around you and filling your lungs, regardless of how hard you try to shut him out.
The rational part of your brain tries, with dire urgency, to tell you that it was just sex; that it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. You made an offer—arguably reckless, maybe even stupid, but not regrettable—and he accepted. Weird, but simple. Clean. Done.
But even as you rationalize and deny his effect on your life, your body betrays you. It still remembers whether you want it to or not—the phantom heat of his massive hands branding your skin, the weight of him pressing you down into your creaky mattress, the primality of being wrecked, ripped apart, and haphazardly stitched back together.
It’s hard to fight the way your body craves—the pang buried deep in your bones, in your cunt, gnawing at you like a plague. It wears you down, sanding away every hard edge you put up against the hunger for him. Eventually, you stop trying. Stop pretending.
After a week, you begin to cling to the news channels like they hold your salvation, listening like their reports are scriptures to damned ears. You sit on the scratchy, cheap carpet in your living room, bathed in the cold, artificial glow of the screen nearly every night, waiting like a dog at the door for an owner who isn’t coming home. You watch until your eyes dry, stinging as you blink, your fingers twitching around a carton of pad thai, stomach a tangled knot as you swallow each bite. Every time that breaking news banner slashes across the screen, your pulse spikes, breath snags—thinking: this is it. This is the moment his name finally breaks through the LEDs.
But it never comes. You envy how they can swallow it all down and forget him.
He’s gone. Not only from your life, but seemingly from existence itself. No reports. No shitty CCTV footage of him. No murmured speculations from tight-lipped officials. The world moved on within a couple of days as if they were paid to not to speak his name. As if speaking his name would plague them with the shadow of him as well.
Days turn into a week, a week turns to two.
A fortnight, two weeks on the day since it all happened, and still, you can’t let go. The less you hear, the more you need him. The obsession burrows deeper, twisting its roots around your ribs like weeds, pulling tighter with every breath—suffocating, consuming.
Then come the dreams.
The first time you see his eyes in your sleep, you wake in disarray—your sheets tangled, your hair tousled and your skin sweaty. The imprint of him lingers, burned into the backs of your eyelids, in the goosebumps on your neck.
You can't deal with it anymore.
You can’t cope with the way he haunts you. It’s cruel, really, how he lives up to his name. How he’s gone, yet has never truly left.
You download the BBC app and turn on notifications. Each alert is a spark, a fleeting moment where your breath catches in your throat, where your heart stutters against your ribs. You cling to the possibility, to the thought that maybe this time, there will be something—some sliver of information, some sign that he still exists in the world beyond your memories.
Every vibration, every chime sets you on edge. Your fingers twitch, your stomach knots. You find yourself unlocking your phone without thinking, scanning headlines with eagerness that borders on despondency. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. Playing detective. But deep down, you know better.
You need him.
It’s pathetic, really, the way your mind latches onto every news clip, every report, dissecting vague mentions of overseas conflicts, covert operations, missing operatives. You read between the lines, searching for something—anything—that could be him. A shadow of a man. A ghost in the margins.
You probably look like an addict going through withdrawals—waiting, itching, restless.
In a way, you are. You couldn’t get enough.
The second you feel the faint buzz in your pocket, your breath hitches, your pulse kicks up. Your fingers twitch before you even register the movement, scrambling for your back pocket, ripping your phone out like it’ll tell you exactly where he is, what he’s doing, when he’s coming back. But it never does.
You keep watching. Waiting. Because something must surface eventually. Because if you stop—if you let the remnants of him settle—it makes him real in the past tense. And you can’t stomach that. Not yet.
Notifications pile up as you go to work, then come home, go to work, then come home—rinse and repeat. War, corruption, scandal, catastrophe—but never him. Instead, you choke on the taste of useless knowledge, drowning in politics you couldn’t care less for, memorizing names of leaders who mean nothing to you right now.
How could they mean anything when the weight of it all feels so Orwellian? You constantly think back to a time when breathing was easier, when you weren’t so voracious—so infinitely, pathetically hungry. But now, Simon is the Thought Police, and you, like Winston, can feel something coming—stalking, circling, tightening the trap.
You tell yourself you won’t stoop to his level—that you wouldn’t degrade yourself, touching yourself to scraps like he did to your letter, your messy, faceless scribblings. But the truth is that you’re worse than he, because you don’t need a piece of paper. You’re already pent up, already had a hit of him, and that’s all you need. He’s there, beneath your skin, in your blood, indelible in every sense of the word.
You cave, slipping your fingers beneath your panties, knowing how futile it is. You can’t touch yourself like he can—can’t make yourself feel the way he does, the way his hands, his mouth, make everything feel alive. Make everything feel worth it. That hollow emptiness—the dark, insatiable void that is him; it will swallow you whole. But what else is there? What can you hold onto when nothing else has ever come close? It’s all you have.
Though, when the wind blows, when you're alone in your room, your legs trembling from the soft circles you trace on your clit, it doesn’t feel like you're alone at all. There’s something there, the faintest sense that someone’s eyes are on you—not intrusive, but there. Observing, spectating..
It’s that feeling—that feeling of being vulnerable, of being prey that gets you going. The final puzzle piece clicking into place, the last push before your back arches and you’re coming undone, gasping—no, howling his name, until it reverberates off the walls of your room.
You feel it all the time. A prickle down your spine when you lock your door at night, a sudden hitch in your breath when you pass by your bedroom windows after a shower. A pit in your stomach when you walk home from the railway station, some shadows out of place, some that stretch too long beneath the streetlights, like they’re reaching for something. Or reaching for you.
There’s something that consistently lurks in the alley across from your flat. A narrow sliver between homes, shrouded in shadow—an odd, latent presence that doesn’t quite fit, too still, too tall to be a dumpster. You swear it’s there almost every night, the air thick with it, but whenever you try to get a closer look, from your front door or wherever, it’s always gone—vanished.
It could be a trick of the night, a cruel illusion it could be anything, anyone—but would you be this wet if it was? Would your breath falter, thighs pressing tight, when the curtains stir just enough to frame the shadow across the street?
You feel it, a slow creep along your spine. A presence you can never name, but know all the same. It feels like him, each goosebump shouting and hissing his name. It’s a connection that defies reason, something deeper than instinct, sharper than memory. A pull, a whisper in your blood, like an unspoken language only the two of you understand. You’ve never felt anything like it before, never known a presence so visceral, so consuming. If this is madness, if this is nothing more than a delusion stitched together by longing and desperation—so be it.
You’d welcome insanity if it meant he was really here.
The shadow lingers. Not moving, not retreating. Just watching. Waiting.
A whisper curls in the back of your mind, sultry and insistent—go to the window. Let him see.
You leave it open now. Always.
The only thing you’ve gained since losing your virginity to Simon is a strange, newfound confidence—like a secret only you know, a mark he’s left on you that no one else can see. The longing isn’t new anymore; it’s settled in, familiar, woven into the fabric of your days. It doesn’t sting like it used to, but it never really leaves either, just hums beneath the surface, constant and quiet.
But the irony isn’t lost on you. Because for all that confidence, you’ve never felt emptier.
You’re four hours deep into your shift. It’s a quarter past four in the afternoon and you’re standing in the detergent aisle, one hand gripping the pricing gun, the other peeling discount stickers off the roll and slapping “Clubcard Exclusive” onto bottles of Persil like a machine. Mindless. Repetitive. A perfect, numbing distraction.
Four lousy weeks since Simon. Four weeks of gaps where his presence used to be, of clawing at scraps just to feel something real. Now, all you’ve got is the fluorescent hum of the overhead lights and the sharp scent of artificial “Spring Fresh” assaulting your nose.
And then comes Keith.
Fucking Keith.
His footsteps are light, but not light enough. Like a predator who thinks he’s stealthy when, really, he’s stomping through the underbrush, scaring off anything with a pulse. You always know when he’s coming, when he’s about to invade your space. It starts as a shift in the atmosphere, an overwhelming surge of something cloying, thick, unwelcome. It seeps into your personal bubble like a scent you can’t scrub off, a presence you can’t ignore no matter how hard you try.
"Hey, love," he drawls, his northern accent grating the moment it reaches your ears. He sidles up to you with that same cocky ease, the kind that might almost be impressive if it weren’t so painfully unwarranted—like he truly believes he belongs at your side, like he’s convinced himself you want him there.
You don’t look at him. You keep your focus on the detergent, pressing the sticker against the plastic with a little too much force. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint this time.
Though, he never does.
“Didn’t think I’d find you today,” Keith continues, leaning against the shelf with that stupid, self-satisfied smirk. As if you’ve been playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game rather than actively avoiding him. “Been hidin’ from me or somethin’?”
You exhale sharply through your nose, and internally count to three.
He’s not ugly. Not by any means. He’s tall-ish, broad-shouldered but lanky, with sharp green eyes that never seem to blink, like they’re waiting for something to happen. His jaw is set, strong, but there's an unsettling tightness to his smile—like he’s always hiding something just beneath the surface.
His confidence is anything but charming; it’s suffocating. It pours out of him in tides, clinging to you like obnoxious, over-sprayed cheap cologne, like the lingering stench of stale Lynx body spray that seems to follow him, no matter where he goes.
“I’m working, Keith.” Your voice is flat, clipped. Not an invitation.
“Oh, I see that.” He gestures to the bottles like he’s just now noticing them. “Riveting stuff. But, y’know… if you ever wanna take a break, I could keep you company. Maybe grab a drink after the shift?”
The same fucking offer, over and over. Like if he keeps throwing it at you, eventually, you’ll crack.
You sigh, setting the pricing gun down with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t drink.”
Keith chuckles, unconvinced. “Everyone drinks.”
Jesus Christ.
You finally turn to look at him—a mistake. His grin widens, taking your attention as a victory. His eyes rake over you, lingering a little too long in places that make your skin crawl.
“C’mon,” he says, voice dipping into something meant to be sultry but only makes your stomach twist. “I’d be good to you, y’know.”
There it is. That undertone, that expectation—the same fucking entitlement you’ve seen on him a million times before.
Your fingers twitch, itching to whack him over the head with the pricing gun. Instead, you grab another sticker, slap it onto the next bottle, and pretend he doesn’t exist.
But he isn’t done.
“You’ve been different lately,” he muses, watching you too closely, eyes raking up your body, to your face, and back down. “Real quiet. Distracted. What’s up with that, honey?”
Your jaw tightens. You press another sticker down, smoothing out the edges.
“Nothing.”
Keith hums. “That right?”
You grit your teeth. You hate this. You hate that he’s noticed. Hate that he’s perceptive enough to see the cracks. Hate that some part of you, some stupid, pathetic part, is sort of enjoying the attention —even if it’s coming from him.
Because it’s something.
Because it’s not radio silence.
But it’s not him. It’s not him, and you fucking hate that. You hate Simon for leaving you ravaged without so much as a goodbye. He ruined you, twisted everything you thought you knew, and then just vanished like you were nothing. And that’s what cuts the deepest—that you were never even worth the closure.
You should've known better, back then. But you sure as hell know now.
Usually, you’d brush Keith off with a simple excuse—a friend you don’t have, a date that doesn’t exist. A lie. You’ve perfected the art of deflection, wrapping yourself in a comfortable mask that keeps him at arm's length. He’s persistent, but you’re sharper. Always have been.
But when he presses again, you hesitate.
“C’mon,” Keith says, his voice too casual, “Just one drink, on me. What do you say?”
You feel the old reflex kick in, the instinct to shoot him down. But you hesitate. The words hang there, suspended in the air, ready to be said.
Maybe it’s the loneliness gnawing at you, sinking its claws deeper into your skin with every passing day. Maybe at this point, you’re craving anything—the heat of another person, the touch, the distraction. Anything to fill the space Simon carved out and left behind, like a hole in your chest that nothing’s been able to fill.
Or maybe it’s just a fuck-you to Simon. A fuck-you to the way he still haunts you, weaving through your mind like wind through dead branches, whispering questions that will never be answered. To the ache burrowed deep, winding through your ribs like roots splitting through concrete, relentless in its hold.
You suck in a breath, the tension fizzling and popping inside you, and before you even realize what’s happening, you hear yourself say, “Alright. Fine. One drink.”
At least it was on him.
Keith’s expression shifts, his eyes widening in shock, like the idea of you saying yes never even actually crossed his mind. The surprise on his face is almost comical. He stumbles over his words, trying to mask his confusion with a quick laugh.
“No way,” he says, shaking his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Really? I—uh, I thought you’d shut me down again.”
You don’t answer, just shrug. The words feel too heavy in your mouth like they don’t belong to you. But they’re out there now, hanging between you like a promise neither of you fully understands yet.
Keith’s smile widens, but there’s something gross behind it now. Something triumphant.
“Well, if you’re sure,” he says, stepping a little closer, the air thickening with the scent of his cologne and something darker, more insistent. “I know a place nearby. Not too far. We can grab a pint or two, talk... maybe get to know each other better.”
His gaze lingers on you, too long, too shallow. His eyes flicker down to your lips for just a fraction of a second, then back to your eyes, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. Ugh.
It should make you step back, re-think what you’re jumping into.
But you don’t. You can’t. You need Simon out of your head and gone. For good.
“Alright,” you say again, this time with a little more force as if you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as you are him. “One drink.”
Keith grins like the Cheshire Cat, the satisfaction in his eyes clear as day. “I’ll pick you up at 9,” he says, voice low and assured. “Plenty of time to get home and change, right?” He lets out a small chuckle, his confidence oozing from every word like he already knows the night is his to win.
You nod mechanically, a brief pause before you speak again. “Yeah… I’ll uh—I’ll text you my address.” The words come out flat, detached. It’s no big deal. Totally.
His smile widens, smug in a way that makes your stomach churn. “Good. I’ll see you then.” He turns to head back toward the break room, giddily gliding down the aisle, like he's walking on air.
You just stand there, frozen for a second, watching him go. The store hums around you—distant chatter, the clinking of metal shopping carts, the soft shuffle of customers weaving through the aisles. It all feels like a blur, the noise distant and muffled, as though you're submerged in water. Your mind is far away, caught in the thick fog of uncertainty.
You don’t even know what you’re doing, but maybe this is what you need.
Simon lingers in the back of your mind like a shadow you’re always reaching for without thinking—an instinct, a reflex you can’t unlearn. And the thought of replacing that longing with something so fleeting, so hollow—something so… Keith, feels like a betrayal. Like carving out a piece of yourself and handing it to someone who will never understand its weight.
A sigh escapes you. You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you look at the glowing numbers. Your heart flutters, unease building with each second that passes. But you don’t stop yourself.
You type out your address slowly, each letter feeling like a weight added to your chest. It shouldn’t be a big deal, right? It couldn’t be that bad. You’ll just go out and try to make the best of it.
You hit ‘send.’
So much for getting to know each other.
Keith hardly bothered to ask anything about you; the conversation is dominated by the insufferable droning on about his crypto investments. You aren’t really listening.. Your mind keeps drifting, thinking of his absence.
Simon’s absence.
God, it bothers you how deeply he’s imprinted on your mind. Was it the fact that he took your virginity? There’s no way it could have been that chemically altering. Yes the sex was amazing, but how could he haunt your thoughts so extensively after barely saying a word to you, only ever muttering filthy things while fucking your brain numb?
Stop thinking about him fucking you. This is a problem.
You pull yourself back to the present. The date’s going... fine. Nothing special. You’d pulled on a simple pair of jeans, a black top. Nothing too flashy, nothing that screamed you were trying—because you weren’t. What did it matter? Not like you had anywhere to go, or anyone to impress anymore. Clothes didn’t mean much when your world had narrowed down to this: a quick escape.
The pub is crowded for a Thursday night, an odd mix of tired regulars and middle-aged men—DILFs you’d much rather be accompanying. They laugh loudly, their voices thick with the warmth of too much liquor; they’re the ones you should be with, the ones who seem to care, to be alive in a way that doesn’t feel so desperate.
But instead, you’re stuck with Keith. His voice drones on in the background, talking about Bitcoin and intermittent fasting like he’s just discovered the secrets of the universe. His words are empty, meaningless in the moment, but you smile and nod, letting the noise of the pub drown out whatever nonsense he’s spewing. The drinks are good—strong, surprisingly so—and it burns its way down your throat, a welcome distraction. The alcohol settles into your chest like an old friend, warm and familiar, a little dangerous, but comforting all the same.
You’re a pint and a half deep, just enough for a pleasant buzz, for the edges of your thoughts to soften. Keith, on his third, is looser, expressive, leaning into your space a bit too much, his knee brushing against yours beneath the table. The alcohol makes it easier to stay present, to focus more on the moment instead of the static in your head.
He cleans up decently. The dim lights of the pub soften the harsh hazel-green of his eyes, take the tension out of the lines around his mouth. After a pint, he’s not as awful to look at. As you near the end of your second, he’s not too hard to listen to. His presence in the booth next to you isn’t suffocating anymore. The uncomfortable tightness has faded, replaced by something more manageable—a comfortable numbness that lets you go through the motions without feeling every single heartbeat. The kind of numbness you can live with for a while if you don’t think too hard about it.
You welcome it, more than you welcome the shit storm you’ve been for the past month.
You let the minutes pass, letting yourself be carried by the momentum of it all. You finish the pint, your focus drifting to the sensation of his hand brushing against yours, to the faint, gnawing in your heart as it cries for affection. It was all so simple. So much easier than you’d expected, this little dance, this surface-level distraction.
Then, a few minutes later, it happens. Keith leans in, his lips parting, the space between you closing like a slow, inevitable collision. His conviction wraps around him like a cloak, thick and heavy, as if he knows exactly how this will unfold. The warmth of his breath grazes your cheek, his scent faint but persistent, a mix of cologne and something stale, like the night’s beer. His eyes flicker with implicit expectation before they flit shut, his lips a mere centimeter from yours.
You don’t pull away.
You don’t have the energy for that anymore. Not for the back-and-forth, the push and pull of deciding what’s right and what’s not. You’ve been worn down, layer by pitiful layer until all that’s left is this: the heat, the need, the emptiness that drives you to reach out and accept whatever is offered. You let it happen, your lips parting to meet his, the kiss tentative at first, but growing more insistent as the seconds pass.
It’s not good. His lips are too stiff, too small against yours, moving with a clumsy eagerness that reeks of desperation—like he’s been waiting for this and has no idea what to do now that it’s happening. But it’s something.
Something to dull the ache, to quiet the static in your mind long enough to pretend you’re not suffocating. Something to ground you, to remind you that you’re still flesh and bone, not just longing and regret. Something to forget in the morning.
Because why not?
Maybe if you drown yourself in something else—something that isn’t honey-brown eyes and a mask that hides too much—you can finally erase the impression Simon left behind. Finally silence the ache, the apparition of his touch that you still feel under your clothes, even within the pub. Even with Keith by your side.
Maybe if you let yourself unravel into someone else, scatter the pieces of what Simon broke and stitch together the fragments of what came before him, you’ll be able to move on. Maybe if you swallow it all, stretch yourself wide, dislocate your jaw just to fit it all in and swallow—you’ll get by. You’ll manage. Even if it never digests. Even if it all bleeds through the cracks anyway.
So, you push further. Let your fingers ghost over his knee, lean in close—just enough that your breath brushes his skin. You whisper, low and saccharine, asking if he wants to get out of here—head back to your place. A distraction. A mistake in the making.
Keith practically yanks you from the bar, his grip firm—too firm—as he steers you toward his car with single-minded determination. His fingers dig into your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, like he needs to keep you tethered. The street lights flicker overhead, casting fleeting shadows across his face, sharpening the hunger in his eyes.
The drive is a blur of speed and silence, the tension between you both is thick enough to choke on. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel, foot heavy on the gas, cutting the fifteen-minute trip to your flat down to five. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. There’s nothing to say. Just expectation hanging in the air, dense and stifling, laced with something desperate, something thoughtless. You let it wrap around you, pull you under.
Then you’re at your door, and he’s on you. His chest flush against your back, hands already gripping your hips, body pressing close, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. His teeth graze your skin, just barely, like he’s tasting his kill—like he already knows he’s won.
God, you feel like a slut.
The world keeps spinning. Traffic hums in the distance, the wind howls through the alleyways, life presses ever forward, indifferent to the choices you make. But here, as your hands tremble against the cold metal of the lock—it all shrinks to this. The frantic thrum of your pulse. The too-firm grip of his hands, insistent and wandering, pressing into places they have no right to be.
Because you don’t belong to Keith.
You don’t look back at him. You can’t. Because if you do, if you meet his lustful, haughty gaze, you might stop.
And you can’t afford to stop. Not yet.
When you both make it inside, you shut the door and Keith tries to kiss you, to make this something it’s not—some messy, desperate collision of lips and teeth, a lustful explosion—but you’re not down for that. You tilt your head and give him your neck, dodging his lips like it’s second nature. He doesn’t notice as you guide him to your room, too lost in the idea of getting his dick wet to realize you’re steering this whole thing.
And wet, he gets it.
He fucks you on your bed, and it’s got to be the most boring experience of your life. He’s got you prone, on your stomach, and you don’t look at him. You can’t look at him—because that would make it real. That would solidify the fact that you’re here, in your own bed, fucking Keith of all people.
You keep your gaze fixed ahead, on the dim sliver of moonlight seeping through your window’s curtain, as he ruts into you. The pace is off, mechanical like he’s following some half-baked porn script in his head. You have to fight the urge to ask if it’s even in, if he’s just finger blasting you. With Simon, you didn’t have to wonder. The stretch, the burn of him splitting you open, the way he had you trembling, leaking down your thighs before he even properly fucked you—that was something else entirely.
Keith leans over you occasionally, breath hot and panting against your ear, his attempt at dirty talk making you cringe.
“You like that, love?”
No, Keith. You’re jackhammering my cunt with your pencil dick.
You don’t answer out loud. You just lay there, belly pressed against the mattress, and try to conjure the feeling of someone else—someone bigger, rougher, someone who knows what to do with you. But even in the dark, even facing away, you can’t bring yourself to lie. This isn’t Simon. It’s not even close.
You wait. You endure.
Finally, he shudders and spills into the condom you made him wear, and you silently thank the universe that the miserable ten minutes are over. Simon had you writhing for at least thirty. After eating you out, too.
You continue staring ahead as Keith collapses beside you with a satisfied groan, murmuring something, pressing a kiss to your forehead like this meant anything. You don’t react. You barely register his voice.
Because out the window, across the street, there’s that shadow again.
Still. Watching. Waiting.
And for the first time all night, you feel something genuine.
You definitely could’ve found better than Keith. But God, he’s easy—easier than a prostitute in the back of a bar, and just as desperate.
It’s been a month since you first fucked him—two since Simon—and he’s like a goddamn pest, lingering, clinging, always there. But you don’t push him away, either. Not completely. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, it is nice to have someone in your bed, someone to text, someone to pick you up when you don’t feel like taking the train. He’s convenient. Reliable, even.
But his affections are only tolerable in small doses before they become suffocating. He’s a lovesick puppy, always trailing after you, those hopeful, stupid green eyes searching for something you’ll never give him. And God, you feel horrible for using him—horrible, but not enough to stop.
Each time he’s between your legs, each time his name pops up on your phone with a good morning, love, each time you toss him a scrap of attention—a lazy smile, a half-hearted hug, a peck on the cheek if he’s especially lucky—you see it. That flicker in his eyes, that glimmer of something warm and delusional, like he thinks this is leading somewhere. Like he thinks you’ll wake up one day and want him the way he wants you.
And maybe that’s the worst part. The way he clings to every half-truth, every unspoken maybe, every quiet moment that isn’t outright rejection. He’s a fool for it. And maybe you’re cruel for letting him believe in something that doesn’t exist.
But you did warn him. Laid it out in blunt, undeniable terms—this isn’t love, Keith. Just sex. No strings, no expectations.
But you suppose, for someone like him, being something to you—no matter how small, how insignificant—is still better than being nothing at all.
Simon doesn’t linger in your mind the way he used to. Not as much. Not as sharp. You shut off notifications for BBC, but couldn’t bring yourself to delete the app. Just in case.
But every time Keith is on top of you—grunting, sweating, trying—you’re reminded of what you had. What it felt like to be wanted in a way that left bruises, but you’ve accepted the fact that Simon is gone. Gone with the wind; traceless, like he was never here to begin with.
Keith stays over some nights, always making sure to slip out in the morning. Per your request.
At first, he obeys. But then the edges start to smudge. Morning lingers too long, bleeding into midday, stretching into afternoon like melted wax. Before you know it, he’s still there. Still there when you’re making coffee, still there when you just want to be alone in your dingy flat.
You wake up one morning to an empty bed and the smell of eggs sizzling, the sound of your cabinets opening and closing. You drag yourself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and there he is, standing in your kitchen, bare-chested and humming some god-awful tune as he tends to eggs and flips pancakes with a spatula that hasn't been used since you bought it.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, flashing you a grin like this is normal, like he’s your boyfriend.
You blink at him, groggy, disoriented. “Where’d you even get pancake mix?”
“Had some at my place,” he says, as if that’s a completely reasonable explanation.
You texted him last night for him to come over and fuck you, and he brought food—from his own flat—to cook in the morning. Was this supposed to be romantic? Jesus, fuck. You turn back to your room, ignoring the smell of breakfast permeating your walls, and throw yourself back under the covers.
It only gets worse from there, though.
He starts using your shower, stepping out smelling like your shampoo, like your soap, like your space isn’t your own anymore.
Even when he’s not here, he finds ways to insert himself into your day. You’re halfway out the door, ready to catch the train to work, when your phone vibrates in your pocket.
Keith: Hey, on my way to pick you up
Your stomach sinks. You didn’t ask him to do that.
You sigh, rubbing your temple as you type out a quick, You really don’t have to, I can take the train.
Keith: Nah, babe, I’m gonna.
And that’s the problem. It doesn’t matter what you say. He just does it anyway.
You’re on your lunch break one day, tucked away in the breakroom, enjoying a moment of peace with a granola bar you snagged from the petrol station days ago. The store is busy, but back here, it’s quiet—just the faint hum of the coffee machine and the distant chatter of coworkers.
Then, something tugs at a strand of your hair, pulled tight in your ponytail, making your head jerk back just a little.
Your throat tightens before you even turn.
Sure enough—Keith.
He plops down in the chair next to you, all smug, too close, legs spread wide as he leans back like he owns the place.
“How’s my lovely girlfriend?” he asks, tone playful.
Your fingers tighten around the granola bar, the wrapper crinkling. “I’m not your girlfriend, Keith,” you say, feigning a small, polite smile. “But I’m okay, thanks for asking.”
Keith just chuckles like you’ve made some kind of joke. “Yeah, totally. Y’know, we’ve been at this for a while, lovey. Think you’ll let me meet your parents soon?”
You freeze mid-bite.
There’s a slow, nauseating churn in your gut, a deep unease that coils tight around your ribs, squeezing, festering.
“You can’t—” you pinch your nose bridge, “You’re not meeting my parents,” you say, firmer this time, staring at him, hoping—praying—that maybe this time, he’ll get it.
Keith just shakes his head, still grinning. “Awh, that’s alright. You’re just scared, dolly. I can wait for you.”
Your mouth goes dry. You don’t even bother dignifying that with a response. You just shove the last of your granola bar into your mouth, chew like you’re forcing down something bitter, and push back from the table.
“Gotta get back,” you mumble, standing, already heading for the door.
Keith doesn’t follow, but you can feel his eyes on you as you leave.
The more he smothers you, the more you wish you never started this shit in the first place. What were you thinking? You should’ve just put on your big girl panties, pushed the memory of Simon as far down as you could, and moved on. But each time you think of Simon, it’s like a knife twisting in your gut, because God, just the thought of being able to moan his name makes you want him all over again. You crave the way he fit, the way he understood you without all the effort. You want him to give you what you need—what you crave, even though you know deep down that it’s a fool’s wish.
With Keith, the cracks are starting to show. In bed, he starts trying too hard, like he’s desperately trying to prove something to you. He’s fishing for praise, waiting for some kind of validation. He’ll ask, “That was better than last time, right?” as though the answer matters to you. As if you’ve been keeping score.
You aren’t. You never were.
Your room smells like him now—like cheap cologne and sweat. He just gave you the most disappointing dicking yet, and he’s already passed out. The light is off and you’re lying there, forced into a state of calm that’s not really calm at all. You can feel him beside you, his breath steady as he sleeps, completely oblivious to the storm inside you. You turn away from him, laying on your side, staring blankly at the wall in front of you, your heart hammering in your chest.
Fuck, what the fuck are you doing? Why the are you doing this to yourself? It feels like punishment. Like you've shattered some unspoken rule, a silent code, and now you're paying the price. You just wanted an escape, a moment to breathe. Not to be someone’s charity case. The questions spin around you, but there are no answers. No clarity. Just endless doubt.
You let out a soft sigh and toss back onto your back, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest as your head rests on the pillows. Your eyes catch the sight of Keith's hoodie, thrown carelessly over the desk chair.
As you stare at the hoodie, lying there where you first saw Simon, you truly feel it—he’s really gone. No longer in the fragments of your room, no longer in your bed, slouched in your desk chair, lingering on your dresser.
The room is suffocating, thick with heat that presses down on your chest, suffocating you with every breath. It’s heavier than it should be, the air stale and still, clinging to your skin like a second layer. Keith insists on keeping the windows shut. He hates the drafts. You hate him for it.
You sit up, your skin sticking to the sheets. The weight of the night lingers like a fog, clouding your thoughts. You sigh, lethargic, your body sluggish as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the coolness of the floor greeting your bare feet. Your panties are discarded somewhere in the mess. You find them and pull them on absently, the fabric sliding over your skin
You round the bed quietly, your footsteps muffled against the worn carpet as you approach the bedside table next to his sleeping form. Keith’s pack of cigarettes sits there, unassuming, but it calls to you. You tug one out, the familiar crinkle of the cardboard grounding you for a moment. You take his lighter next, the flick of the flame a cruel reminder of how the nasty, expensive habit has settled into your bones. You never meant to start smoking. You swore you wouldn’t. But now, it’s just another part of the routine, a pointless comfort you’ve grown too used to, another reason you should’ve never gotten with Keith.
You walk to the shut window and lift it open with one hand. The cool night air rushes in immediately, cooling your skin. You lift the cigarette to your lips, sparking it, and watch as the tip ignites. The glow is soft against the dark, the only light in the room for a brief moment before the flame dies and the smoke curls up, wrapping around you like a secret. You take a drag, inhaling deep, the burn of the nicotine settling in your chest, grounding you, if only for a second.
You lean against the window frame, half-sitting on the bottom portion as you lean to let the smoke escape outside. The night is unnervingly quiet. You guess it’s just about midnight, but you don’t bother checking your phone. You take in the sight of the street, the houses on your block, There's nothing across the way tonight, just the empty stretch of alley, and you find your gaze drawn to it, unable to look away. The stillness wraps around you, and the faint echoes of your own thoughts seem too loud in the silence.
Something coils sharp and tenacious in your chest as you stare into the emptiness. You let Keith in, let him slither into the cracks of your life, and now it’s rotting you from the inside out. You’ve been shoving anything you can into the hollow space he left—distractions, vices, fleeting touches—but it only stretches wider, gaping and endless..
A part of you aches for that shadow to appear, if only once, just to feel something. Because another part of you knows what it is—who it is. Knows that he’s gone.
And that, more than anything, stings.
The cigarette is nearly burned down to the filter, the last embers glowing weakly in the dark, a pale orange against the quiet night. A gust of cold wind bites at your skin, snapping you back to reality with a sharp chill. You turn to look over your shoulder, and Keith is sprawled across the bed, mouth hanging open in that obnoxious, ungodly way he sleeps. A snore rattles through the silence and your eyes instinctively roll.
You take a final drag, the smoke bitter on your tongue, and then snuff it out against the window sill and toss it, watching it smolder into the dirt below. You stand up, stretching your stiff limbs, and close the window, leaving just a small crack for the night air to filter in.
Fuck Keith and whatever it is he wants. This is your house. You’re not his mom, his girlfriend, or whatever the hell else he thinks you are. If you want the window open, then so be it
You turn back to the bed, your body aching for the solitude of your own sheets. You crawl under the covers, pulling them tight around your shoulders. The warmth is a small comfort, but it’s enough. Sleep tugs at your eyelids, beckoning you into the quiet. Your hands cover your ears, trying to block out the guttural snoring coming from Keith’s side of the bed. It’s like a fucking chainsaw cutting through the peace you crave. But you hold on to the stillness, the promise of escape—if only for a few hours.
You’re dead asleep when the sound cuts through the thick haze of unconsciousness—a soft, broken whimper. Barely a sound at all, more like a breath hitching in a throat, swallowed before it can fully form. It weaves itself into your dreams, threading through whatever meaningless fragments your mind had pieced together, distorting them into something unsettling.
Your body is heavy, limbs weighed down by exhaustion, but the noise needles at you, persistent in its quiet agony. You groan, eyes still shut, rolling onto your side as you mumble something incoherent—something about Keith shutting the fuck up, that you have work in the morning. Whatever it is he’s doing, you don’t want to hear it.
For a moment, silence settles over the room like a thin sheet, barely there but present enough to lull you back into the pull of sleep. Then the bed shifts. A slow, deliberate movement, like someone rising carefully, trying not to wake you. A footstep follows, then another, the faint creak of floorboards. You breathe a little easier, thinking maybe he’s leaving—maybe he’s finally getting the hint.
But then it comes again. This time, distant, muffled. A cry, higher-pitched, threaded with something frantic. It makes your skin prickle, not with concern, but with irritation.
You frown, eyes still shut, brain too fogged with sleep to process much beyond vague annoyance. He’s either having a nightmare or, worse, a wank in the corner. Neither interests you. You don’t even want him here, in your bed, taking up your space.
You sigh, pressing your face deeper into the pillow, trying to will yourself back into unconsciousness. Whatever it is, it’s not your problem.
Seconds later, you hear it again, more desperate this time, like a wounded animal with its throat ripped out, struggling to breathe. It grates against your nerves, pulling you further from sleep, until frustration bubbles up in your chest.
With a groggy grumble, you push yourself up, your movements sluggish and heavy with exhaustion. Your right arm props behind you for support as you rub at your face, knuckles pressing into your tired, shut eyes.
“Keith, will you shut the fu—”
Your voice cuts off mid-sentence, throat tightening as you finally blink the sleep from your vision. The dim light from the streetlamp outside casts long shadows across the room, bathing everything in sickly, pale yellow streaks.
Keith isn’t in bed with you.
He’s in the chair—your desk chair—against the wall and facing your bed, bound with ropes that are wrapped so tight they cut into his arms, legs, wrists, chest. A rag from your kitchen, dark with spit, is stuffed into his mouth, held in place by a strip of fabric wrapped around the back of his head. His chest heaves, his nostrils flaring with panicked breath as he stares at you with wide, frantic eyes, veins bulging against his skin.
Your body locks up, breath snagging in your throat.
“What the f—”
You barely get the words out before Keith starts thrashing against his restraints, his muffled cries breaking through the stagnant air of your bedroom. His whole body shakes with the force of it, the chair rocking slightly under his weight, but it doesn’t budge. The ropes hold firm.
You start to move, heart hammering, the slow creep of realization curling up your spine like a cold finger tracing each vertebra.
Then you feel it.
A large, cold, calloused hand slowly traces the curve of your upper back, dragging upward, a ghost of a touch against your spine. It lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the back of your scalp, tightening just enough to make your breath hitch.
Every muscle in your body locks up, your breath shuddering out in uneven bursts. The room shrinks, walls closing in around you. The grip on your hair tightens—not a yank, not yet, just a firm hold that makes your scalp prickle.
Then, a shift. A press of something solid and warm against the crown of your head. The unmistakable drag of breath as whoever inhales deeply, like he’s committing you to memory. A low, gravelly hum rumbles from his chest, thick with something unreadable. Satisfaction. Possession. Maybe both.
He's right beside you. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, that his presence warps the air around you, suffocating, intoxicating.
You don’t dare move.
Because you know exactly who it is.
The scent of him just like you remember—gunpowder, sweat, something faintly woody—clashes with the lingering staleness of your room. It seeps into your lungs, an old ghost resurrected, clawing its way back to the surface.
Then, finally, a voice—rough, undeniably Mancunian, curling at the edges with something almost amused.
“Been busy, huh, pet?”
The words slither into your ear, smooth and deliberate, sinking their hooks into you like they never left.
You swallow hard, the heat pooling low in your stomach at the deep, deliberate pull of his voice. It scrapes against something raw inside you, something that never healed right. Your heartbeat stutters, then picks up, but not from fear.
Still, you don’t move. You don’t look.
If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up—wake up and risk him being gone again.
Your eyes stay locked onto Keith’s, wide and frantic in the dark, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. He looks at you like you’re supposed to do something, like you’re supposed to save him.
But before you can, Simon makes the choice for you.
The grip in your hair tightens—no longer just a hold, but a command. He tugs, slow and controlled, and your head tilts back whether you want it to or not. Your breath hitches, your fingers twitch at your sides, but you let him. You’ll always let him.
And there he is.
Maskless.
Your breath snags in your throat, brain stalling, tripping over itself. You need a second—one long, aching second—to make sense of it, to stitch together the face you only ever caught in fragments. A shadowed jaw, a flicker of his mouth, the barest glimpse of his nose when he was buried between your thighs all those weeks ago.
But his eyes, his eyes don’t lie.
They’re the same eyes that have haunted you for weeks—dark, relentless, burning into you even in sleep. The same ones that linger behind your eyelids, that you’ve conjured in the dead of night, that you’ve chased with trembling hands and gasping breaths, desperate for something that feels like him.
And right now, they’re burning into you, unreadable as ever.
He’s here, in the flesh.
His bone structure is cut from marble—sharp cheekbones, a strong brow, a subtly clefted chin that adds to the undeniable masculinity of his face. Soft blond stubble shadows his jaw, catching the dim light as he tilts his head, studying you with those dangerous, all-consuming brown eyes.
Scars carve their history into his skin, some thin and white, others pink and freshly healed. One splits through his eyebrow, another drags across his cheek, and two more pull faintly at his lips. They settle among the freckles dusting his nose, a contradiction of softness and violence, of things that should never coexist but somehow do.
He’s devastating.
His other hand has found your throat, palm rough and massive against your skin. He could snap your neck with half a thought, with an eighth of his strength, and yet, all he does is trace along your jugular, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse beneath his fingertips. It’s possessive. Calculated.
His grip shifts, sliding up to cradle your jaw, just before his thumb drags across your bottom lip. He presses forward, slow, deliberate, until his thumb slips past your teeth, resting heavy on your flat pad of your tongue.
You don’t think. You just react.
Your lips wrap around the digit without a second’s hesitation, without him even needing to ask.
And the look in his eyes?
Like he never expected anything else.
With his thumb hooked in your mouth, saliva pools at the corners of your lips, threatening to spill. You can’t swallow, can’t do anything but sit there, pliant and open for him, while he holds you in place like some helpless, caught fish.
His grip in your hair loosens, but only so he can guide your head forward, tilting your chin with the hand still in your mouth until your gaze lands back on Keith.
He’s wide-eyed, panic threading through every inch of him. His breaths are ragged, desperate, as he tries to piece it all together—his wrists bound tight, the ropes cutting into his skin, the oppressive weight of the man looming behind you, and the sight of you. Sitting there, silent, pliant, unresisting.
Keith’s mind races, but there’s nothing he can do. No words, no pleas that will untangle this mess. You can see it in his eyes—the confusion, the fear, the realization that he’s powerless. He’s looking at you like he doesn’t even recognize you anymore.
Simon hums, low and contemplative, a deep rumble that vibrates through your very bones.
“This y’plaything, baby? What you’ve been fillin’ y’time with?”
You try to move your head, to make some kind of response, but his thumb presses down, firm, stopping you before you even begin.
His tongue clicks, a disappointed tut that rolls through your ears like a warning. Like he already knows the answer and doesn’t like it.
“Know I left you... Wasn’t very nice of me, now, was it?”
His voice is thick, rich with something unreadable, but his grip tells you enough, a warning and a promise all at once. He tilts your chin back up, forcing you to meet his eyes again.
You want to tell him no, it wasn’t nice, that he ripped something out of you when he left. That you’ve spent every goddamn second since trying to fill the void he carved. But all that escapes is a strangled, pitiful “mm-mm,” your lips parting helplessly as spit slicks your chin.
His smirk deepens, eyes darkening as they flick down to your mouth, to the mess you’re making of yourself.
“Wasn’t very nice of you, though, was it? Goin’ ‘round openin’ your legs for the first man y’see, hmm? First one willin’ to put his cock in what ain’t his…”
The words strike something deep, hot, and ugly inside you. His? If you were his, then why the hell did he leave? Why did he disappear like smoke, slipping through your fingers, leaving you clawing at the air, grasping at nothing? What is he doing here now, after all this time—after breaking into your home, tearing through your life like a storm and vanishing just as quickly, leaving you to sift through the wreckage alone?
Anger surges, reckless and unthinking, and you bite down on his thumb—hard.
He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even flinch. Just smirks at the pain like you’re some unruly little puppy testing its limits. His eyes gleam, a slow, predatory amusement playing across his features as he finally, finally pulls his thumb from your mouth.
You wipe the drool from your chin with the back of your hand, straightening as much as you can under his hold. “I’m not yours,” you say, low and firm, but your voice lacks the conviction you wish it had. “If I was yours, you wouldn’t have left so suddenly, you dick.”
His expression shifts—less amused now, more exasperated, like you’re missing something so glaringly obvious it physically pains him. He pops the same thumb into his mouth, licking the taste of you off like it’s second nature, like he’s reclaiming something.
"‘Course I left, love. Was on the run.”
You blink.
Oh.
He watches the realization flood your face, that sudden shift in your gaze that’s almost embarrassing to witness. You can feel the heat of his stare, the sharpness of it, cutting through the tension in the room. Simon leans down toward you, dropping to one knee to be at your eye level, his movements slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of your discomfort. His hands rest casually on his thighs, but there’s nothing casual about the weight in his voice.
“But,” he says, a playful edge in his tone, but the undertone is sharp, cutting through the soft hum of the room like a knife. “I guess if y’not mine, then I guess I should go, huh?”
The words hang between you like a challenge, testing your resolve, pushing at the walls you’ve built so carefully. You feel your heart pound in your chest, your throat tightening. You open your mouth, but the words catch before they can form. You shake your head, but it’s not enough to make him stop.
He stands up then, straightening to his full height, and it’s almost like the air shifts around him, “Fine then,” he says, his voice low, almost amused. “No problem. I’ll leave. Y’can stay here with Keith, yeah? Let ‘em keep y’ company.”
The words hit like a gut punch, a shock to your system as you realize you’ve completely forgotten about Keith. He’s still there, bound and helpless, and a grimace pulls at your face as you glance over at him. Sure, he was annoying, but this? This isn’t what he deserved.
How Simon knows his name is a mystery, but somehow, it doesn’t surprise you. It never does with him. Keith’s name slipping from Simon’s lips is an ugly reminder of something you’d rather keep buried. Something you regret.
Simon starts to turn, heading toward the door, and the world tilts on its axis.
You can’t let him go, can’t let him walk out like that—again—like it’s nothing, like you can just let him leave and keep pretending that none of this matters.
Your legs feel weak, like they might give out from underneath you, but you manage to stand. Slowly at first, then with more urgency, your hands reaching out toward him without thinking. They land on his forearms—massive, firm, like steel wrapped in skin—and you grip him hard, pulling him back just a little, just enough to make him stop.
Simon’s body tenses under your touch, but he doesn’t say anything right away. He simply turns back to face you, his expression unreadable. The quiet between you two stretches.
He lets you stop him. He knew you would, he wanted you to.
You glance at Keith, who’s dumbfounded as he struggles to comprehend what’s unfolding. Then you look up at Simon, where that insufferable, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t,” you say, voice tight.
He cocks his head, brows furrowing slightly, though amusement lingers in his dark eyes. “Don’t what?”
You swallow, feel the words stick in your throat before forcing them out. “Don’t go.”
Something in his expression flickers, shifts just slightly before settling into something heavier. He doesn’t waste time. He steps toward Keith, bending at the waist until he’s face-to-face with him, a lion looming over an antelope with its throat already torn open, arterial spray painting the dirt, limbs twitching in useless protest as the last dregs of life seep out.
“Hear that, lad?” Simon drawls, voice thick with condescension. “She doesn’t want me to go. Wants me t’stay right here—stuff her full o’ my cock, yeah? Bet she doesn’t want that from you.”
Your mouth falls open, lips parting in shock. Not because he’s wrong—Jesus, he’s not wrong—but because he says it like it’s the simplest fact in the world, like he’s reading it straight from the book of universal truths.
Keith is trembling now, his whole body shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He looks so small, so pathetic compared to Simon’s hulking figure.
Simon doesn’t look away. He watches him, studies him, his gaze slow and calculating before he hums, almost thoughtful. His voice is deceptively quiet, laced with something deceptively soft. “Think that pencil dick does ‘er wonders, eh?”
Keith whimpers, eyes wide, body rigid, already feeling the metaphorical teeth at his throat. Simon just reveles in it, feeding off the fear like it’s sustenance. And you’re dumbfounded.
And aroused.
You shouldn’t react to this the way you are. You shouldn’t feel your cunt growing wetter than it's been in months. shouldn’t feel your breath hitch at the way he’s openly claiming you without hesitation, without shame. But you do.
Because even if Simon doesn’t have the right to stake his claim on you, doesn’t have the right to act as if you still belong to him—doesn’t he?
You signed your name at the bottom of that letter all those weeks ago.
And to Simon, that was the dotted line. The confirmation.
You swallow, the sound too loud in the thick silence, your body frozen as you watch Simon’s one-man pissing contest unfold. It gets his attention, though. His head turns sharply, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you in place, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.
Despite the draft floating through, the air is thick in the room; it presses against your chest as you stand frozen, caught between two men—one holding you hostage with his eyes, the other trembling with frustration and fear. Simon’s smirk doesn’t falter as he straightens up, glancing over his shoulder at you with that same cold gleam in his eyes. He’s toying with you. You know that. He has been. But there's something different now. Something sharp and jagged in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s definitively claiming the space between your hearts, drawing lines you can’t ignore.
Keith’s eyes flicker between you and Simon, darting like he’s searching for an escape. You imagine he thinks Simon is some crazy ex, some jealous, unhinged thing from your past. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He whines through the make-shift gag like he wants to say something, to demand an explanation, to plead. But he’s frozen, paralyzed, locked in place as it all crumbles right in front of him, powerless to do a damn thing about it.
Simon, however, is unfazed. Barely even interested. His eyes flick back to Keith, sharp and dismissive, like he’s looking at a stale loaf of bread.
“You, lad… are just a stopgap. Temporary. Got that?”
Simon’s voice is steady, calm—like he’s explaining something simple, something Keith should’ve already known. Then, without warning, he grips Keith’s hair, yanking his head up from the scalp and forcing him to look into those cold, unrelenting eyes.
Keith lets out a sharp, choked noise as he makes Keith’s head bob in a mockery of a nod.
“Yeah,” Simon murmurs, voice laced with amusement. “That’s right. Now you’re gettin’ it.”
Simon releases Keith’s head with a sharp flick of his wrist, sending it snapping backward. Keith groans, but Simon doesn’t spare him another glance.
Instead, he turns back to you. Fully. His gaze is heavy, piercing—digging beneath your skin like he’s peeling back layers, searching for the fight in you, daring you to contradict him.
But you don’t. You can’t.
And he knows it.
You want to scream at him, to remind him that you’re not a prize to be fought over or a possession to be claimed. But the words die in your throat, stifled by the raw, undeniable tension curling in the pit of your stomach. Because he’s right.
He stalks toward you, closer and closer until you’re forced to crane your neck to meet his gaze. The room feels smaller, quieter, as if the world around you has paused in reverence of him. You can’t escape his eyes, those brown depths that see right through you. They peel back the layers of your mind.
His lips curl into a dangerous, knowing smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. “Thought y’could just disobey, sweet thing?” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with venom. “Thought y’could just fuck off and be so… disrespectful?”
His words slice through the air, every syllable hitting you like a lash against your skin, the sting burrowing under your flesh. His eyes darken, becoming something primal, like he’s waiting for the moment you finally realize just how much he controls you. “Thought I wouldn’t know?” His voice drops lower, almost a growl. “Thought I wouldn’t do somethin’ about it?”
You try to hold your ground, to summon the will to look away, but the weight of his gaze pins you in place. His eyes bore into yours, unblinking, unrelenting. There’s a coldness there that you never thought you’d see from him.
It’s unmistakable now. The contempt he feels for you—disrespecting him, breaking his trust—it’s palpable in the furrow of his brown and the frown lines on his lips.
Your throat tightens, a mix of shame and anger swirling inside you. You want to argue, but how could you? After everything? He’s right, isn’t he? You did disrespect him. You did go to someone else, let another man touch you.
You didn’t think he’d come back, but deep, deep down you knew he would. You knew he was still there, always watching, you just didn’t want to accept it. And now, as you stand in front of him, feeling the weight of his gaze, you realize the kind of power he has over you. Not just physical, but mental. Emotional. And that power isn’t something you can run from, no matter how much you want to.
His hand reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, the touch soft, almost affectionate, but you can feel the danger lurking just beneath the surface.
His breath skates along your ear, scorching in its proximity, his lips barely touching but still branding you like a slow drag of a candle stick on paper. His other hand settles on your throat—not choking, just securing, owning. Like he’s collaring you, like he’s locking you back in place where you should’ve been all along.
His voice is low, every syllable laced with quiet fury. “Gotta show y’little plaything who y’really belong to, huh?”
Your breath stutters, your pulse hammering beneath his fingertips, but you nod, eyes wide, body betraying you in how quickly you submit. His heat rolls off him in waves, seeping through your flimsy shirt, wrapping around you like a smothering embrace. It’s too much and not enough all at once.
“Words,” he murmurs, his grip flexing—just a tease of pressure, just enough to make your stomach drop.
“Yes,” you rasp, the word trembling as it falls from your lips.
And then you’re moving—you don’t know how, don’t know if he shoved, pulled, or if you just folded for him, but suddenly you’re laid back on the bed, looking up at him.
He towers over you, broad shoulders blotting out everything else, his presence suffocating in the way that makes your lungs tighten and your blood rush south. You stare up at him, and he stares right back, gaze heavy and dark, like he’s been waiting for this.
Like he’s already decided what he’s going to do with you.
Simon’s voice, a low, guttural growl, fills the room. “Look at him,” he commands, his fingers snapping the buckle of his belt. The metallic click echoes, a sharp, ominous sound.
You turn your head to the side, gaze locking onto Keith's. His eyes, wide and terrified, dart between you and Simon's hulking frame. His hands twitch against the restraints, his legs kicking feebly, a desperate, futile struggle.
The leather of Simon's belt snakes through the loops and he tosses it aside, metal clanking on the floor. Then, a sharp tug on your ankles yanks your hips towards the edge of the bed. You gasp, your head whipping back towards Simon, shock and fear battling for dominance in your expression.
But his hand clamps down on your chin, his grip like iron, forcing your gaze back to Keith. He leans over, his lips brushing your ear. “Look at him,” he repeats, his grip tightening. “If y’so much as blink, if y’look away, this stops. And we're done.”
The threat hangs in the air. A whimper escapes your lips, a small, broken sound of surrender. “‘kay,” you whisper, your voice trembling, your eyes glued to Keith's terrified face. “... Okay…”
The fabric of your panties rasps as he yanks them down, a swift, decisive motion that leaves your pussy bared to his hungry eyes. A gasp escapes your lips, a mix of surprise and a sudden, unwelcome heat blooming between your legs. Without warning, he’s on his knees and his mouth is on you, hot and wet, his tongue a relentless, insistent invasion. He licks and sucks, his ministrations both brutal and exquisitely precise.
Instinctively, your eyes flick downwards, seeking his own. His gaze, dark and intense, is already locked on yours, a silent, predatory command. He pauses, his tongue hovering just above your swollen clit, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.
You wrench your gaze back to Keith, your body trembling with a mixture of fear, embarrassment, and arousal. You fight the involuntary arch of your back, the way your face wants to contort in pleasure, the sounds that threaten to spill from your lips—sounds Keith has never heard, expressions he's never earned. The shame burns, a hot, corrosive acid, mixing with the raw, undeniable pleasure that pulses through you, a traitorous betrayal of your own body.
Simon senses your restraint, the tension that coils within you, the silent battle raging in your soul. It only fuels his desire, a cruel, possessive hunger. He slips his fingers inside you, two, then three, crooking them in a teasing rhythm, stretching you wider and wider.His lips tighten, nearly swallowing your clit, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity through your core. A loud, involuntary whine spills from your lips, a desperate, animalistic sound you can't suppress. Your back arches and you can’t help but look at him, your hips lifting off the bed, as he holds your thighs hostage against his shoulders, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
Keith’s panting, his chest heaving, still fighting against the restraints. But something’s shifted. His struggles are less frantic, less desperate. His eyes are half-lidded, glazed with a sheen of arousal. A flush creeps up his neck, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. The sight of him, both terrified and aroused, is a brutal contradiction, a twisted reflection of the conflicting emotions tearing you apart.
Simon’s fingers move inside you, stroking your g-spot while his tongue continues its work on your clit, slurping and sucking so lewdly. “Missed this fuckin’ pussy, God,” he murmurs, his voice heady with lust. “Needy girl, y’taste so good,” he groans as he makes out with your folds. He thrusts his fingers deeper, his tongue swirling and teasing.
“Look at him” he commands, releasing your clit with a pop, his voice a low growl. “Look at how hard y’makin’ him, girl. He wants you, don’t he? He wants t’be the one doin’ this t’you.”
You feel your peak building, the pressure mounting, a wave of sensation threatening to overwhelm you.
Your hand instinctively clutches at Simon's cropped hair, your fingers digging into his scalp as the pleasure intensifies. You drag your gaze back to Keith, his body a twisted tableau of arousal and restraint. His hips buck against the chair, a frantic, rhythmic movement, and he gnaws at the rag gagging him, a desperate, muffled sound. His eyes, glazed and dilated, are locked on yours.
You can’t handle it—you tear your gaze away, the weight of his shame, his helplessness, too much to bear. It’s unbearable, looking at him when the only man you’ve ever truly wanted is the one between your legs.
You hate that Keith is watching. Hate the way his eyes track every movement, every shift of your body. But fuck—if it doesn’t send a pulse of heat through you, knowing someone is.
You try to look away, to break the connection, but Simon's eyes hold you captive. They're dark, intense, burning. This time, he doesn't force your gaze away. Instead, his eyes silently beckon you, Come, they say, Come in my mouth, baby.
Your orgasm coils low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, heat licking up your spine like a flame searching for air. It swirls, thick and consuming, a molten ache that makes you want to cry. You arch your back, your body convulsing as you call out his name, a desperate, raw plea that fills the room. A wave of pure pleasure washes over you, and you unravel, gushing into his mouth.
Simon groans, a low, guttural sound of satisfaction, as he savors the taste of your release. Unbeknownst to you, he'd been rhythmically grinding his hips against the edge of the bed throughout your orgasm, his own arousal building each time you clenched around his fingers. He takes his time, meticulously licking you clean, his tongue lingering on your swollen flesh.
Eventually, he pulls away from your pussy, but not before slapping your sensitive clit, the sound echoing in the room. The force of the impact sends a jolt of overstimulation through you, a lingering tremor that makes you twitch and gasp. He chuckles at the reaction. Asshole.
You instinctively clutch at your shirt, pulling it off, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from your core. Your senses are reeling, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of your orgasm.
He moves to straddle your hips, his large, powerful thighs rooted on either side of your hips, anchoring you beneath him. He leans over you, planting his forearms on either side of your head, effectively caging you. His eyes bore into yours.
The space between you is barely a breath, just the warmth of his exhale mingling with yours. His lips are still slick, shining with the remnants of you, his cheeks streaked with evidence of just how deep he went—messy eater. You watch as his gaze flickers down, lingering on your mouth like he’s thinking about it, like he wants it, but he doesn’t move.
You mirror him, flicking your gaze from his lips back to his eyes, searching for something—an answer, an intention, a reason why he’s hesitating. Your brows pull together, your voice soft, uncertain. “Simon?”
A grunt. That’s all he gives you. A quiet, low vibration in his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable.
Your fingers creep up, threading into the short, soft hair at the base of his skull, anchoring him in place. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop you, just breathes. His eyes keep flicking down, but he still doesn’t close the distance. It’s unlike him. Unbecoming of him. A man who takes what he wants without hesitation—why now, when you're right here, does he stall?
“Won't you kiss me?” The words are barely above a whisper, but they break something in him.
He nods slowly, like it’s unpracticed. Like he’s never done something so intimate before.
He nudges his nose against yours first, like he’s testing the waters, feeling out the moment before he lets himself sink. And then—his lips press to yours.
Soft. Gentle. Everything you didn’t expect from a man who just slapped your overstimulated cunt.
Your eyes flutter shut as the kiss deepens, slow and unsure. His lips are dewy from where he’s been, the taste of you lingering, and for once, you have to guide him—slowly, patiently molding your lips to his, showing how to do something other than take.
And he lets you.
The kisses start slow, tentative, like he’s learning you. But it doesn’t last. Hesitation melts into something more primal, more insatiable, and you can’t help but reciprocate. His lips part against yours, and when your tongue brushes against his, he groans low in his throat—deep, guttural, vibrating against your lips.
It sets something off between you, a chain reaction of need. His hands start to wander, dragging over the curves of your bare skin, rough palms mapping the places he’s missed. His fingers press into your waist, then skate down to your hips, your thighs, then back up again, as if he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.
You arch into him, your body betraying you, craving the heat, the weight of him. His touch grows firmer, his grip tightening like he needs to feel you under his hands to prove that you’re real, that this isn’t just a fever dream.
Somewhere between gasps and swallowed moans, he pulls back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, revealing broad shoulders and a torso carved from marble. He’s still in just his boxers now, and it’s almost unfair—the contrast between his near-nakedness and your own, how he’s still clothed while you have nothing left to hide.
But then his eyes rake over you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, gaze dark and full of intent. He reaches out, slow, reverent, fingers tracing the dip between your collarbones before sliding lower, down the valley of your ribs, spreading warmth everywhere he touches.
“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.
You smile bashfully before your eyes flick to the corner, catching movement—or rather, the absence of it. Keith.
You’d once again forgotten he was still here.
He’s unnaturally silent, his breath shallow, his body frozen. But even in the dim glow of the room, you see it—the damp patch spreading across the front of his sleep shorts, dark and unmistakable.
He came in his pants.
Something cold prickles down your spine, a mix of disgust and something else, something twisted. The shame on his face is unbearable, carved into every trembling breath, every flicker of his glassy eyes. His face is utterly wrecked, drained of any fight, any defiance. Like he already knows he’s lost. Like he knew it the second tied him up.
Simon follows your gaze as he gets off of you and leans back against the headboard, legs spread, arms resting lazily at his sides. His gaze flicks between you and Keith, amusement curling at the edges of his lips. He scoffs, shaking his head as he watches the pathetic, trembling mess still tied up in the corner.
“Jizzed his pants? Christ.” His voice is dripping with disgust, but there’s something else there too—something utterly pleased. Like Keith’s shame only serves to highlight his own triumph.
Your breath is still uneven as you turn back to Simon, watching the way his fingers stroke absentmindedly over his own stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers. He exhales slowly through his nose, then lifts his hand, trailing fingers up into your hair, brushing over your cheek in one slow, deliberate stroke.
The touch is gentle. And maybe it’s that contrast, the tenderness hidden beneath all that violence, that makes you instinctively lean into his palm, nuzzling against it like you belong there.
Something flickers in his expression—something unreadable, something deep. But it’s gone just as quick as it came, masked behind an air of satisfaction. He stretches, cracks his neck, and then settles back against the pillows, arms behind his head, looking up at you with expectation.
“Go on then,” he murmurs, patting his upper thigh. “Give the bloke a reason t’cry.”
You glance at Keith again, slumped against the chair in the corner, his face burning with ignominy, his breaths uneven. His teary eyes are flicking between you and Simon, his hands twitching in his restraints like he doesn't know whether to cover himself or reach out for something that will never belong to him.
Simon watches you, tracking every flicker of emotion across your face. He tilts your chin toward him. His grip is firm, but not forceful—just enough to remind you of what he expects.
“C’mon, pet,” he drawls, his thumb tracing slow circles at the hinge of your jaw. “Let ‘em see what he was never gonna have.”
You don't hesitate, your body moving eagerly. Simon reclines, his fingers already toying with the elastic waistband of his briefs, a silent invitation. You crawl over him, straddling his hips, the rough fabric of his briefs a stark contrast to the slick heat between your legs. You settle your bare, slick cunt onto his clothed cock, a kaleidoscope of butterflies shooting through your core as you feel the girth of him beneath you.
Now, your back is to Keith. You can't see his face, but you can imagine the look that must be twisting his features. Simon’s enjoying the spectacle, reveling in the power he holds as he cucks him.
And, you admit to yourself, a dark, shameful part of you enjoys it too. The knowledge that Keith is forced to watch, to witness it all, fuels a perverse excitement, a thrill that makes you slicker than Simon’s touch alone does. The realization is sickening, but exhilarating.
Simon’s hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, urging you to grind against the clothed length of his erection. The fabric of his boxers, rough against your swollen clit, sends a jolt of pleasure through you, eliciting a soft mewl from your throat. His cock twitches beneath you, a hard, insistent pulse, and he hisses at the rhythm of your grinding, a low, guttural sound of barely contained desire.
You meet his gaze, your eyes wide and seemingly innocent, your hands resting lightly on his chest. “Can I fuck you now? P… please?” you ask, your voice soft, almost pleading.
“Fuck, sweets,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “Take it—it's yours.” He pushes his boxers down to his knees, and with your eager assistance, reveals the full, throbbing length of him. He cups his cock in his hands, pumping it lazily, his eyes fixed on the way it reaches just below your belly button. A low groan rumbles in his chest. “Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, his voice ragged.
He reaches for your hips, helping you lift them, guiding you as you position yourself above him. The anticipation is a tangible thing, a thick, heavy tension that fills the room as you slowly lower yourself onto him.
You hesitate, hovering above him, the anticipation a sharp, almost painful thrum in your core. Then you lower yourself onto him. The initial stretch is intense, a sharp, almost burning sensation that elicits a low moan from your throat. You bite your lip, bracing yourself, as you take him inch by agonizing inch, savoring the feeling of his thick length filling you, stretching you wide. A whimper escapes your lips, a sound that's both a cry of discomfort and a raw expression of pleasure.
He feels impossibly large, impossibly full, as if he's somehow grown even bigger since the last time. It's an overwhelming sensation, a raw, visceral fullness that borders on pain, yet is laced with an undeniable, addictive pleasure. It's the ultimate release, the scratching of an itch you didn't know you had.
When you finally take him all, a guttural groan erupts from Simon’s throat. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your ass, kneading and urging you on. His eyes, dark and possessive, are fixed on you, watching every movement, every subtle shift of your body. “Look at that,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “Look how you take me. So fucking tight.” His gaze lingers on the way his cock distends your abdomen, stretching your skin to its limit, a visible testament to his size.
Too lost in the pleasure, you barely register Simon's occasional, smug glances towards Keith, the subtle shifts in his expression as he watches.
You begin to ride him, slowly at first, savoring the feeling of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building with each rise and fall of your hips. The rhythm quickens, escalating as your body adjusts to his impressive girth, the pace becoming more frantic, more desperate.
The room fills with a cacophony of sounds: the slick slap of skin against skin, the wet, gasping moans that escape your lips, Simon’s rough whispers, a torrent of the dirtiest words imaginable, painting the air with sex. And beneath it all, Keith's muffled whines, the rhythmic bucking of his hips against the restraints, a constant, jarring counterpoint to your pleasure, a stark reminder of how he’s watching.
The muscles in your thighs begin to tremble, a burning ache that spreads with each thrust. The sensory overload, a chaotic mix of the lingering aftershocks of your previous orgasm, the constant, invasive feel of Keith’s eyes on you, Simon’s roaming hands, and the insistent, stretching pressure of his cock, begins to push you past your limits. His pubes, coarse and rough, scrapes against your swollen clit, sending jolts of raw, almost painful pleasure through you. It's too much, a tidal wave threatening to drown you.
Simon senses it all, the subtle shift in your rhythm, the way your breath hitches and catches the way the sodden walls of your cunt clench around him. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, and he stills your movements, halting your grinding just as you teeter on the edge. He holds you suspended, your bodies locked together, the tension building to an almost unbearable degree.
Simon pulls you close, your foreheads touching, your breaths mingling in the humid air. Both of you are slick with sweat, your bodies still thrumming with the aftershocks of your shared climax. He murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle, “Do you trust me?”
You nod, the affirmation barely a twitch of your head, your trust in him a strange, almost instinctive thing.
With a sudden, almost effortless movement, he lifts you off his cock, setting you aside on the bed as if you weigh nothing. He rises to his knees, his eyes dark and intense, and grabs you again, manhandling you onto your stomach. Your chest presses flat against the mattress, your ass raised high in the air, and your’re directly in sight of Keith
You clutch at the bed sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, as you brace yourself. You feel Simon's hand smooth over your ass, the touch both possessive and caring. Then, two sharp, stinging slaps land on either ass cheek, making you jolt. A gasp escapes your lips, but beneath the sting, a traitorous heat blooms between your legs, your cunt leaking.
He leans over you, his cock pressing flush against your ass, hard chest against your back, the heat radiating from him. He rasps in your ear, “He’s gonna watch, sweetheart. He’s gonna watch as I fuck y’till y’brains leak out y’ears, ain’t that right?” He continues. You whimper, a small, broken sound of acceptance, your body trembling.
Keith looks utterly defeated, his face a mask of exhaustion and a strange, twisted arousal. The dark stain on his shorts has grown exponentially. A flicker of guilt pierces through the haze of your cock-drunk stupor. A pang of remorse, a whisper of conscience, tries to surface, but it’s quickly swallowed by the need that simmers within you. The shame is there, but it’s overshadowed by the throbbing between your legs.
You're repulsed by the situation, by the violation of Keith, by the way Simon is using him to make a point—as a pawn in this twisted game. Yet a shameful part of you revels in the power, in the dominance that Simon exudes.
Simon leans back, his eyes dark and predatory, and grabs his cock, circling your entrance with the slick, glistening tip. He teases you, the anticipation stretching the moment into an unbearable eternity. “What do we say, hmm?” he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “When we want something?”
Your face is half-smushed against the bed, the rough fabric digging into your cheek, and a muffled plea escapes your lips. “Please,” you whisper, the word barely audible.
He continues to torment you, the tip of his cock dipping in and out of your swollen entrance, each teasing touch sending a jolt of desperate need through your body. A string of pleas spills from your lips, “Please, Si—” you beg, your voice thick with desire. “Please—I need it— I need you—”
Simon’s eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he watches your desperation. “Awh, baby,” he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery. “Don't ask me. I’m not the one y’need to convince.” He hums.
He reaches out, his hand weaving through your scalp wrapping around your hair, and he yanks it back sharply, forcing your head into an unnatural, painful angle. Your neck strains, and your eyes are forced upwards, locking directly with Keith’s.
“Ask him,” Simon commands, his voice a low, menacing growl.
Your eyes meet Keith's, and you whisper, your voice thick with shame and desperation, a string of broken pleas.
Simon's grip tightens on your hair. “Say it proper, pet,” he instructs, his voice hard. “Say, ‘Please let Simon fuck me, Keith.’”
You instantly repeat the words, verbatim, the phrase a humiliating echo of his command. Unshed tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill if Simon so much as grazes your clit again.
Keith looks between you both, his gaze shifting between your prettily arched body and Simon's monstrous, towering figure behind you. A flicker of something that might be resignation crosses his face. He nods lazily, a slow, almost imperceptible movement.
Simon smirks, a triumphant, possessive expression twisting his lips. He releases your hair, the sudden freedom making your head loll forward. “See what happens when you ask nicely?” he murmurs, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction.
And then, without further delay, he inches in, the head of his cock pressing against your swollen entrance.
He slides into you, the angle intensifying the stretch, filling you even deeper than before. The sheer size of him steals your breath, the slow, deliberate intrusion forcing the air from your lungs. You claw at the sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, tears wetting the fabric.
He grunts as he sheaths himself fully, then pulls back before plunging in again. He watches as your cunt clenches and drools around him, sucking him in with a desperate, hungry grip. “Greedy pussy,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “She’s so fuckin’ greedy.”
You whine, a broken, helpless sound, your body trapped beneath him, forced to endure his thrusts. There's no escape, no reprieve, only the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, stretching you, dominating you.
Gradually, he picks up the pace, the rhythm becoming faster, more brutal. You howl, your drool soaking the sheets beneath your face. He’s hitting spots you didn't know existed, stretching you to the brim, the feeling bordering on unbearable. You can barely focus, your vision blurred by tears, the world reduced to the relentless pounding of his cock, the wet squelches from your pussy, and the raw, visceral sensations that rip through your body.
Each thrust forces a wheeze of air from your lungs, a sound that more closely resembles a death rattle than a moan. Your whole body is ablaze, and he’s the one who struck the match—watching as you burn, as the flames lick higher, consuming everything in their path.
Simon suddenly hauls you upward, his hand looping around your upper chest, pulling you flush against his sweat-slicked chest. His hips don’t falter as they continue to snap into you, your body arching involuntarily with each powerful stroke. His other hand grips your waist, anchoring you, while he leans into the crook of your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there.
Your entire body, a raw, exposed spectacle, is laid bare before Keith. Your mouth hangs slack-jawed, your tits bouncing with each rapid, violent thrust that jolts through your frame. Even though he’s seen you naked before, he’s never witnessed you like this: so utterly debased, so completely at someone’s mercy.
He’s never seen anyone like this.
Simon licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your neck to your ear, his tongue tracing a path of fire across your skin, all while continuing to fuck you, his rhythm unwavering. You’re limp in his arms, your head lolling back, your eyes rolling towards the back of your head. The pleasure is so overwhelming, so intense, that you can barely even manage a sound, your vocal cords paralyzed by the raw sensation.
He harshly whispers in your ear, his voice a low, guttural growl, “Y’gonna cum,? Can feel y’clenchin’ ‘round me—fuck, y’so tight, baby—”
You manage a garbled, broken attempt at a “yes,” your voice thick with unspeakable pleasure.
“Good,” he murmurs. “‘M close too and y’gonna take it all— Gonna fill this cunny—fuck,” He pauses, his voice hardening, “And y’better not take a fucking’ Plan B this time.”
The words, a brutal reminder of your vulnerability, snap the last vestiges of your control. A wave of raw, unadulterated pleasure crashes over you, unlike anything you've ever experienced. You gush, your orgasm violent as you squirt, your release spraying across his cock and the sheets.
He continues to fuck you, his thrusts relentless as he chases his own high, his hands squeezing your tits, urging you on. “Atta girl,” he grunts, his voice thick with lust.
You go limp, your body leaning against him, your mind a blank canvas of pure sensation. Then, with a final, shuddering groan, he empties himself inside you, filling you to the brim, his cum a hot, pulsing tide that leaves you feeling utterly spent.
He stills, holding you close, his arms supporting you. He’s truly fucked you senseless, leaving you a shell of your former self.
Slowly, gently, he pulls out of you, the withdrawal leaving a strange, hollow ache. He lays you on your side, his touch surprisingly tender, and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. You let him, your body and mind too exhausted to offer any resistance.
He rises, his movements fluid and predatory, and stalks towards Keith. From your position on the bed, you can see the hard planes of his naked form, a stark, imposing figure standing before the bound man. He speaks, his voice low and menacing, the words barely audible. Keith looks up at him, his eyes wide with fear.
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Simon retrieves a knife he’d apparently left on your desk, the blade glinting in the dim light. He swiftly cuts through the ropes binding Keith, freeing him from his restraints.
Within seconds, Keith scrambles to his feet, his movements frantic and desperate. He doesn't look back, doesn't offer a word of explanation or apology. He simply runs, fleeing the house as if pursued by demons.
You lie there, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of Simon's brutal possession, your mind struggling to process the scene. You don't know what Simon said to Keith, but the fear in the other man's eyes, the sheer urgency of his escape, speaks volumes. It couldn't have been anything good.
The front door slams shut, the echo reverberating through the quiet house. The sound of hurried, stumbling footsteps fades into the night. Keith is gone.
Simon exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, before setting the knife down exactly where he had left it earlier. The metal clinks against the wood, sharp and final.
You haven’t moved.
Your body still hums, every nerve alight, the aftershocks of everything that’s just happened still pulsing through you. Your heart slams against your ribs, beating an erratic rhythm you can’t quite slow down.
Then, warmth—solid, steady, unshakable.
Simon sidles in behind you, his presence swallowing yours whole. One thick arm loops around your waist, the other sliding up to your sternum, pulling you back into his chest, into his heat. You don’t resist. You don’t even think to.
He presses his chin to your shoulder, his breath warm as it fans across your skin. His grip is firm, possessive, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
“Still with me, love?” he murmurs, voice rough, threaded with something unreadable.
You swallow hard, blinking yourself back into the present. Your fingers twitch at your sides, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
You choose the latter. Your hands settle over his arms, feeling the solid muscle beneath your palms, the way he holds you like you belong to him.
You hum in response, soft and instinctive, nuzzling just slightly deeper into the warmth of his chest. It’s comforting in a way you don’t fully understand—how you can feel so at ease wrapped up in the arms of a man who is anything but safe.
Your fingers trace idle patterns along the skin of his forearm, feeling the scars, the ridges, the history carved into him. You tilt your head slightly, voice still a little breathless as you ask, “What did you say to him?”
Simon chuckles. “Told ‘em if he so much as breathed a word about this, I’d track him down, carve his tongue out, and mail it t’his mother. After I made him swallow his teeth, o’ course.”
Your eyes widen. “Jesus Christ.”
“At least I didn’t go with my original plan.”
You hesitate, blinking, your heart skipping. “What plan?”
Simon leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, completely unbothered, “Killin’ him. Tossin’ his sorry corpse into the Thames.”
A beat of silence.
“…Oh.”
Simon laughs—an actual laugh, deep and rumbling, like you just told the funniest joke in the world.
And it’s only now, sitting here, still bare against his heat, his arms caging you in, his scent thick in your lungs, that you remember he’s still a criminal.
Simon holds you close, his chin resting against the top of your head, arms locked around you like he has no intention of letting go. His body is warm, steady—like he belongs here, like you belong here.
Then, quietly, he murmurs, “Y’mine now.”
You let out a small chuckle. “Yeah, I got that part.”
His chest vibrates with a quiet laugh, one of his hands slowly dragging up and down your arm, fingertips tracing your skin like he’s memorizing you. It’s gentle—too much so for a man like him.
You shift just enough to glance at the analog clock on your nightstand. The dim glow of the numbers makes your stomach sink.
“Shit.”
Simon hums in question.
“Sun’s coming up,” you sigh, rubbing your face, “and I have work in three hours.”
He doesn’t even pause. “Nah, y’don’t.”
You let out a tired laugh. “That so?”
“Mhm.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and sure. “Told you. Y’mine. That means y’don’t have t’work.”
You blink up at him, frowning. “Simon, I have a life here. A job, a flat. I can’t just give it up.”
He shrugs, lips twitching. “I’ll get your lease terminated.”
You turn to face him in his embrace. “Without penalties?”
His smirk is slow, lazy. “Don’t worry about it.”
You stare at him, not even bothering to ask what that means. You already know. You also know you’re too damn tired to fight about it.
With a long exhale, your fingers trace the pink scar just below his collarbone. “Where would we even go?”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“How do y’feel about Manchester?”
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THIS IS THE FINAL INSTALLMENT OF THE RETURN TO SENDER UNIVERSE. I WILL NOT BE WRITING ANOTHER PART.
Careless Accidents
jason todd x fem!reader
aka you get hurt and jason’s pissed
warnings: reader’s wrist is accidentally sprained from being grabbed too hard
You could hear scuttling from somewhere else in the garden, an estate more than sizable enough than the game afoot.
You were under the distinct impression though that the bats and birds are playing with you similar to how they would a child. Slower, weaker, and less experienced than the big kids. You weren't complaining though. Because, frankly, it was stressful. They tend to operate more like they’re in a warzone than a game, you felt like you were about to be sniped out at any second.
Rightfully so, apparently, seeing how silently Stephanie had crept up on you.
“Hey,” Stephanie hissed, ignoring the way you jumped. “We’re doing alright for ourselves,” she said smugly.
“Yeah,” you’d nodded, like you agreed with her more than you probably did.
“Okay listen, I think the flag—” what flag? “—is by the fountain so, I think because there’s three of us and two of them, we should bait-and-switch.”
“We’re on teams?” you asked, no longer completely sure you know what you’re playing.
“We are now!” she smiled, starting to run. “I’ll bait!”
She stopped briefly in her tracks and turned back to you hissing, “Don’t trust Cass,” before scurrying away.
Rather than sit around and wait there for…something?...to happen, you jumped up darting in the opposite direction with little to no indication whether this is a good move.
What you didn’t see is Cass rapidly approaching from your rear.
What you also didn’t see was Dick crouched down in a row of shrubbery, which gave him the perfect opportunity to snatch your arm up and yank you down with him. You’d mewled a bit as your wrist made contact harshly with the grass, immediately buckling under you.
Cass was keen to your pain immediately, slowing her sprint to a stroll as she observed you.
“Are you okay?” she signs.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”
The response was instinctual and you didn’t actually have time to register whether or not you were okay by the time you gave it.
You pushed up on your elbows, trying to figure out whether Dick is even on your team, but the way the others approached had you halting consideration. They’re savvy to the situation at a speed in which you can only attribute to their vigilantism, looking at you with concern.
“You good?” Tim asked, approaching languidly.
“That looked like it hurt,” Cass commented, crouching down next to you to see your wrist better.
Dick shook his head, “No, she’s okay.” He turned to you, prodding, “You’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m, um…” you winced, looking at your wrist. “It hurts a little.”
Cass examined it closely, tilting it gently to the side. “It might be sprained.”
Dick paled.
“No.”
Tim pointed a thumb back towards the manor, “We can get it wrapped upstairs.”
“No.”
You were only then able to clock the barely contained grin on Stephanie’s face, begging to break.
“Ooooh. He’s gonna kill you.”
Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.
“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—”
Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident.
“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him.
“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.
You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”
Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done.
You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.
He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”
“Dick.”
He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes,
He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.
“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.
You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”
Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”
You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically.
Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.
“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”
Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”
Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”
A deadpan from Tim.
“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”
Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”
Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”
Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?”
“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.
“Oh my God.”
He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?
He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.
The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”
The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”
Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.”
Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”
Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”
Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.
“I can’t help you.”
Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.
Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”
“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”
Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”
Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”
Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom.
You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you.
“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.
“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.
He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you.
Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back.
You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”
“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”
He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you.
You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”
The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature.
He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.
“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”
You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”
He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.
He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”
You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”
“Does it still hurt?”
“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”
He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.
Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt.
“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following.
“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”
He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”
He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”
You nod, happy to ease his mind.
You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.
You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.
You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.
He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.
“Fucking idiot—”
You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.
“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.
“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”
He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.
You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him.
He scoffs, “It better have been.”
You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”
“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”
You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”
“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly.
You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”
He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”
His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”
You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”
He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”
He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”
“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.
“Dick!”
The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.
He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes.
“Where is he?”
Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding.
Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.
He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”
But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.
He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.
There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail.
“Really? Really?” Jason shouts.
“It was an accident! It was a fucking—”
He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.
“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”
Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.
Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”
Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”
He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him.
Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”
Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”
“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option.
“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring.
Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to.
“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—”
Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”
“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”
Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”
“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”
“Yeah, of course I did!”
For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body.
The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.
It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more.
“Jason.”
Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption.
You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.
He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.
“I didn’t hit him.”
⭐️ your options are: (1) reblog fics or (2) be a little bitch ⭐️
protection - lucas (yandere oc) x reader (5.3k)
halloween has always been your favourite holiday. with your captor, though . . . perhaps not so much.
a/n: if i cannot be self-indulgent and write a fic about my cannibal murderer yandere oc for halloween when he is such a horror pastiche of a man, when can i? if you would like a primer on lucas, reading this is probably the best thing to do!
cw: yandere, cannibalism, kidnapped reader, descriptions of gore, non-explicit mentions of past dub-con/non-con.
Lucas has one of those perpetual calendars upon his mantelpiece.
You’ve never had much cause to look at it before. It’s another of those mix-and-match décor pieces that are so prevalent in the cabin; a boring block of wood and blocky white font that you suppose someone might describe as ‘minimalist’. It’s certainly not something you’d choose for yourself – and from what you’ve seen of Lucas’s own choices, his clothing, the items he gravitates towards in his little slice of home, it’s not something he’d have chosen either. Had it not, perhaps, been chosen by someone else.
You ignore the way your gorge rises when you consider that it’s one more piece of somebody who must be long dead by now. Lucas’s cabin is full of those reminders; embroidered tablecloths (your own hands are not so steady), handmade blankets (the wool used makes you itchy), clothes in the wardrobe three sizes too small and two sizes too big. A bookshelf of tattered paperbacks; crime novels and romance novels and horror novels, an eclectic mix you can’t imagine belonging to the same person.
That’s not important.
What is important is the morning after breakfast, when Lucas and you have gone out to collect eggs already and he’s held onto your waist while you carefully fried them along with the something-that-might-be-bacon that you’re growing more and more accustomed to cooking.
(It doesn’t even make you throw up any more).
He’s casual as he walks over to it; you’ve never really paid much attention to it before. It’s simply one of those rituals that he does; he likes the domesticity of a daily routine, and though you’ve always been rather more spontaneous . . . You’re hardly in a position to argue about it.
He moves the cube around and you glance vaguely towards it and you see the month and date, clear and bright as if illuminated by a shaft of sunlight.
The thirtieth of October.
You stop breathing, just for a moment. It’s been three months, then – time had lost meaning for you somewhat, after you’d realised you had no choice but to play along if you wanted to keep yourself away from the sharp end of an axe. But . . . three months. Three months of smiling nicely and forcing your mouth around the name ‘darling’ and letting his weapon-calloused hands curl about your waist, slide over bare skin. Three months of making yourself smile, of showering with a stranger in the bathroom (three months and he is still a stranger, though you suppose you know him intimately; three months, though, and you still do not know his surname), of sleeping beside him at night--
“I love Halloween.”
You don’t realise you’ve said it until it comes out of your mouth like the dry squeak of a frightened mouse.
Lucas looks up in surprise. You don’t often volunteer information readily; you answer his questions, but otherwise you’re a quiet obedient little home-maker for him, the way you think he likes you. That’s not to say you think he’d mind, but . . . you still keep some of yourself held close to your chest. You share hearth and home and body with Lucas; you think you’ve earnt the right to not have to share everything.
“S’that so?” He rumbles, after a moment. He doesn’t smile, the way he does when you tell him that you like the present he’s brought you back from town or when you let slip once that the western film he’d been watching on VHS reminded you of your childhood. “I’ve never been all too fond of it myself.”
His green gaze stays steady on you. He lets the moment stretch, waiting for your answer. You are walking a tightrope, as always; there is a right answer, you think, and a wrong answer. Which one are you supposed to pick? You’ve seen Lucas angry – that smouldering, teeth-grit explosion when he’d caught you, early on, trying to open a window.
(You’d sobbed and promised, sworn on everything you loved, that you just wanted some fresh air – that the August air was stuffy and pressing. Enough tears, and Lucas had repented, finally, drawn back his blistering anger. Calloused thumb wiping your tears away and a gruff apology, followed by; “Aww, darlin’, don’t cry like that. C’mon now.”
Followed by kissing your eyelids. Followed by the press of his body upon yours. Followed by hands on your hips, thumbs digging into your thighs to part them. Followed by him murmuring for you to cry for a different reason.
He likes the tears. It’s a good lesson to learn so early on in your life with him).
You shrug helplessly.
“I like the atmosphere?” You give him, your voice quavering at the end. “All of those kids in cute costumes, jack-o’-lanterns, cuddling up warm and cosy on the couch with a scary film on--”
His shoulders relax minutely, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.
“Yeah,” he says to you. “I s’pose those things ain’t so bad. I’m not a scary movie guy – there’re enough things to be frightened of out there in the real world, y’know?” He walks towards you, joins you on the couch. His arm wraps around your shoulder and you let yourself be drawn into his embrace, because you risk upsetting the balance again if you shy away. With a sigh of pleasure, he drops a kiss onto the top of your head. “Gets real busy up here around this time. Trespassers. I prob’ly won’t even be around mosta the night; gotta patrol the area. Think we can rustle you up a pumpkin and a coupla’ videos though, huh?”
You swallow. You know what he means by ‘patrol the area’ – you think of teenagers in local towns, daring each other to spend the night in the woods. You think about twenty-somethings with their tents and their camping and coolers full of beer, telling spooky stories about huge cannibals who live in the woods--
You think of Lucas’s weapons, the axe shining bright mounted on the wall, and the sound it had made as it had thwacked into the ground beside your head as Lucas had realised you were trembling and whimpering and sobbing and merely lost, not some ne’er-do-well out here for any other reason.
How much fuller will his freezer be, come the first of November?
He’s true to his word, as he so often is. Despite everything, he looks at you hopefully when he presents to you the things he brings back from his little foray into town; his head cocked, an echo of the earnest young man he might once have been beneath the scars and the greying.
He presents to you: one large pumpkin, three VHS tapes of movies you haven’t heard of that look like schlocky 90s B-movies, a multi-pack of sweet treats obviously intended to be poured into a bowl for trick or treaters, and a bean-filled plush of a fat black cat.
“I thought we could carve the pumpkin together,” he says, which you think is just an excuse not to leave you unsupervised with sharp implements. He trusts you to cook, now – but he still likes to be in the room, even if he’s not guiding your hand with his fingers entwined around your own over the knife.
“That would be nice,” you cautiously reply, and he smiles at you all soft and gooey-eyed. Your spine still feels like a rod has been shoved in it; being around Lucas can so often seem like a balancing act, and normally he does not come back from town in anything resembling a good mood. But giving you presents and the pleasure that had sparked in your eyes and the truth tinging your thanks have clearly set him well for the evening; he’s whistling as he rattles around in the kitchen to find the implements.
“C’mon here then, angel,” he calls, and you tuck the fat little black cat into the corner of the couch - it will be nice, you suppose, to have something to hold when you are alone later. You doubt the movies will provide much in the way of stone-cold terror, but the knowledge that Lucas is out there stalking the night and it would not take all that much for him to turn his rage on you certainly does.
It will be nice, too, to have something to hold that is yours and is not haunted by the echo of ghosts of Lucas’s past. Once, you had been uncomfortable in bed, rolling and writhing and whimpering through a nightmare – and Lucas had gently shaken you awake and placed a bear into your arms you had never seen before.
You might not have ever seen the bear before, but it had clearly once been loved; visible stitches re-attaching an ear, the velvet flocking rubbed off on its nose, the fur compacted from many nights of cuddling.
You try not to think about someone else, after you, having the little cat placed delicately in their arms.
When you enter the kitchen, you see that Lucas has spread newspaper out all over the floor, placing the pumpkin carefully in the middle with an array of carving implements and pens laid out for you. There’s a waiting candle and a box of matches on the table, waiting for the final touch.
The newspapers are all nearly twenty years old. The matches have packaging you’ve never seen before, the kind of retro artwork you’d see hipsters hang ironically on their apartment walls.
You crouch to get onto the paper he’s laid out, but Lucas clicks his tongue in annoyance at you.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, and he pats his knee where he’s knelt with them spread apart. “Come sit between my legs and let’s do it together.”
It takes you a moment to gather the courage to do it – touching him voluntarily is always harder than when he makes the first move – but you see that shimmer of frustration in the air, the imperceptible twitch of his jaw, and you clumsily climb over to situate yourself between them. You feel him let out a satisfied exhale as one of his arms wraps around your waist possessively.
“There,” he murmurs, directly into your ear. “Ain’t that better? More . . . cosy?”
You can feel every hair on the back of your neck, the thrum of your heartbeat, as Lucas’s hand fastens over yours and works at removing the top of the pumpkin. His chest is solid behind you, a barrel of muscle and scar – and when he shifts, and his crotch in his fatigues snugly presses against the curve of your spine, it takes all of your grace not to whimper at the feel of him hot and wanting.
Domesticity always seems to stoke something in him – and you suppose this would, under other circumstances, be a perfectly lovely Halloween evening. If Lucas were somebody you loved, and not a madman who kidnapped you from the middle of the woods. If that were so, Lucas’s breath against your ear wouldn’t make your head pound – his calloused fingers over yours wouldn’t make you wonder how he got all of those scars. The sight of a sharp instrument in his hand wouldn’t make you wonder how many have met their maker at Lucas’s behest.
There is none of the joy you would normally find in this activity, doing it with Lucas’s arm around you and his body bearing down over yours. There’s instead, the knowledge that he could break your bones if he wanted to – and a desire beating at your ribcage to get this over with as quickly as possible without alerting him to how much you hate it. Lucas hums softly under his breath as he helps you scoop out the insides of the pumpkin--
You feel your gorge rise at the sight of his hands scooping out the insides alongside your own, at the sensation of the stringy sticky pulp and seeds as they coat your fingers. The viscera of the pumpkin, laid out on the newspaper, as if some grisly crime has occurred right here in Lucas’s cosy cabin kitchen.
(He doesn’t like a mess inside the house. You know about the storeroom that you’re not allowed in, having peeked in it once when he’d left the door ajar to go and pick some meat up for breakfast whilst you stood in the kitchen with the chickens pecking around your feet. When he’d come out and seen you there, you’d stammered something about Dolly the silkie having wandered off – and though there’d been mistrust in his gaze, you’d kept your eyes wide and hidden trembling hands behind your back and eventually he seemed to have believed you).
The flash of a sharp knife in his hand makes you start against your will, your back pressing against him, your rear pushing into him. He lets out a noise that’s half a strangled huff and half a breathy chuckle.
“What’re you scared of, angel?” He murmurs, and you are stiff and frozen as he gently, gently, presses the flat of the blade against the palm of your other hand. “I won’t ever hurt you. Not less you give me a reason to. And you aren’t gonna, are you?” You’re glad he can’t see the deer-in-headlights look on your face, even as you give him a jerky shake of your head, and to your immense relief returns the knife to carving. “Good. Hurts my feelings thinkin’ you’re afraid of me.”
You don’t know how to respond to that.
“I—I’m not?” You guess, stammering it out, trying to weigh out all of the options in your mind. If he was threatening you – one of those late night murmurs of “I’d break you into pieces if you ever tried to leave me, darlin’,” - then perhaps you wouldn’t have said it. But right now, he is pretending the two of you are a perfectly ordinary couple doing a perfectly ordinary thing, and so--
He laughs again, good-naturedly pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The pumpkin has taken shape now; a classic jack-o’-lantern face, jagged triangular eyes and teeth.
“You’re so cute,” he says into your hair. “Here. Look at that. Ain’t that adorable?”
Shakily, you nod. It’s not your best work – in your own kitchen, at home, you’d mastered the art of silhouetting elaborate scenes in your pumpkins. You’d used your favourite horror stills as inspiration (you force yourself not to think of last year’s pumpkin, of spending so much time carefully carving that iconic scene from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre into the orange flesh, Leatherface holding his chainsaw aloft – it’s better not to dwell too much on fictional monsters when there’s a very real one sitting behind you, holding you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek and resting his chin on your shoulder as he admires your handiwork).
This pumpkin is a little lop-sided; one eye bigger than the other, the cuts jagged and messy. But Lucas is smiling at it, and you force yourself to smile too.
“Where shall we put it?” He asks you, as he pulls himself up and offers you a hand to help you too. He’s a little too rough with it; pulling you against him with a throaty chuckle as you stumble, off-balance. Little reminders of your own fragility, your clumsiness and all of the things you struggle with always seem to put him in a good mood. “Windowsill?”
You swallow.
“C-can we put it outside?” You whisper, softly. “I know we won’t get any trick-or-treaters, or anything, but . . .”
You trail off; he’s looking at you again, the green in his gaze impossible to understand. He might be thinking about exploding into anger, he might be thinking about kissing you – but as you feel your knees threaten to knock together, he smiles instead.
It’s another smile that, on someone else, you would read as utter infatuation. Love, in all of its gooey, saccharine sweetness. On Lucas, though--
“Of course, darlin’,” he says. “Come put it out with me.”
You reach for the box of matches, but Lucas’s palm comes down over your hand before you can get a hold on them.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that,” he says, as he picks it up himself, and strikes a match against the striker strip. You flinch at the sudden light, and Lucas makes a soft noise of satisfaction. “You'daa just hurt yourself. Leave this kinda thing to me, sweetheart.”
He lights the candle and places it in the lantern himself, before he turns to you and gives you an indulgent smile again.
“D’you think you can carry it?” He asks you, voice soaked in honey. “Don’t drop it, now.”
You nod shyly as you take it, hating yourself for playing along with him. If he wants a sweet, naive little thing who can barely take care of themselves and needs the big strong hunter in the woods to do it for them . . . well, you suppose your dignity isn’t so bad a price to pay for staying alive.
You are allowed out of the cabin, supervised. You’d earnt that right by being sweet and soft and obedient, by doing what Lucas asks and doing it the way he likes. You go out to collect eggs in the morning and you’re allowed to help him in the garden, planting vegetables and tending to those he already has. But still, every time you open the front door it feels like a treat – a thrill running through you at the reminder that there is a world beyond the four walls of home that have become your prison.
Lucas takes in a hissing sigh through clenched teeth as he opens the door.
“It’s getting’ later than I thought,” he says, to himself more than you. “I’m gonna have to get goin’ soon, sweetheart.”
You nod, and carefully place the pumpkin by the front door, where the candle inside flickers and wavers in the light breeze. You find yourself wishing that it would somehow escape its own cell of pumpkin flesh and set the cabin afire – wondering if it would really be so bad, to perish like that.
(How many more Halloweens will you spend with Lucas? Is it worse if the number is small or large?)
“Do you have to go?” You ask him, voice tremulous.
You don’t know if you want him to go. You don’t want to be with him; he terrifies you, leaves you feeling rattled and confused and conquered all at once, his presence looming over everything you do. But at the same time – you can’t in good conscience want him to go out there, to cut down Halloween revellers who merely thought the woods would be a good place for a spooky experience. Are you far enough away from wherever he might go that you won’t hear the screams?
You wouldn’t be able to pretend even if you don’t hear them. You’ll meet them later on, at the end of your fork.
“Awww darlin’,” Lucas simpers at you, grasping your chin in a hold like iron. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, I told you. I ain’t gonna let a single thing near this cabin; you ain’t gonna be in a jot of danger. I promise.”
Your face must betray your anxiety, because Lucas tugs almost painfully on it.
“Don’t you trust me, angel?”
Sickly sweet and bladed like ice, you mutely twitch your head in a meek nod.
“Of course I do . . .” You whisper, and Lucas smiles in satisfaction.
“Stay here at the door for a bit while I get ready, okay? Fresh air’ll make you feel better.”
Unspoken goes the ‘don’t you dare try and run’. You can’t see yourself doing it tonight of all nights, either – though Lucas has been sweet throughout the pumpkin carving, you can already see that as he considers the blanket of night out beyond the cabin he is shifting into a predator. So you stand there, breathing in deep, slow, controlled breaths. Trying to think about how pretty the stars are and the candy that Lucas has brought you to eat in front of his crackling old television. Trying not to hear the thud of Lucas’s boots and the sound of him getting down the axe from the wall, the swish of the displacement of air as he gives it a few practise swings.
“There we go,” Lucas says, as he comes back. His axe is slung over one shoulder, and he’s smiling at you. He hasn’t made a single allowance for the cold; he wears the same shirt in a shade of forest green, straining tight over his shoulders and biceps. The silvery skin of his scars shine in the moonlight. “Don’t stay up for me, okay? Get yourself to bed. I’ll try not to wake you up.”
(Will you wake up, hearing him drag a corpse into the store-room? It doesn’t matter – you know you won’t get much sleep tonight).
He stands there in front of you for a long moment. Anxiety sends a bead of sweat rolling down the nape of your neck. He’s waiting for something – he wants something, and you don’t know what it is, and he’s going to be angry at you for being a bad beloved and he’s going to lodge that axe in your skull--
“Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?”
His tone is teasing, but laced with simmering anger. Grateful he has thrown you a lifeline, you practically trip over your tongue as you reply in the affirmative.
One slow, lingering kiss – possessive. You’re shivering as he pulls away, and he smiles as he wipes his thumb over the corner of your mouth with something that might be fondness and might be triumph, like a hunter who has his prey cornered.
“See you later,” he says. “Don’t scare yourself silly, now.”
You stand at the door-frame, waiting for Lucas’s hulking figure to disappear into the darkness of the trees. His axe is swung over his broad shoulders. The jack-o’-lantern beside you flickers and gutters in the breeze, your only companion out here. Lucas turns and waves one hand at you, and then makes a very firm ‘shoo’ gesture that you interpret to mean ‘that’s enough, now. Get back in the house before I make you’.
You close the door behind you and turn the key as he disappears fully from your view. You’ve always felt awkward being alone in the cabin – about three weeks after your arrival here, he had given you heavy warnings and set out to the nearest town for the kind of supplies he couldn’t make himself – but tonight, it feels all the worse.
You jump at shadows and feel like you hear screams with every footstep, your brain already playing out thoughts of Lucas in the woods surrounded by corpses, bloodied and grinning and feral-bright. You have to try twice to get the video into the player, and your hands are trembling as you attempt to open a packet of M&Ms and spill them all over the sofa. You pull the curtains closed for full immersion and almost give yourself a heart attack when you see light flickering outside, until you remember the jack-o’-lantern.
Eventually, though, you do relax into the movie.
It helps that it’s a movie about a werewolf stalking a suburban town; you don’t know if your nerves would hold out if Lucas had brought you some kind of killer in the woods movie. Even he, though, seems to have realised that – a quick glance at the other movies show you that one is about giant bugs attacking and the other is set in a hospital.
It’s not a good movie. In a different lifetime, you’d watch this with friends and laugh and joke over the cheesy special effects and the over-acting. On your own, though, you at least feel somewhat comforted by the familiarity of the horror recipe. The coquettish blonde in the hot pink outfit will die first; the outcast girl in her too-big denim jacket will survive to the denouement and will perhaps kill the werewolf herself.
There’s a sound from outside.
You’re half-asleep in front of the sagging middle act of the movie, but the crunch of leaves under feet has you bolt upright. Lucas can’t be home already, can he?
Time stands still. There’s a muffled giggle, and then a low voice murmuring something. You slowly, slowly, pull yourself up from the couch. You’re grateful to have pulled the curtains closed. At least they can’t tell you’re in here.
A hundred scenarios run through your head, none of them ending well. You think of every home invasion movie in a holiday home in the middle of nowhere you’ve ever seen. You could laugh at the absurdity of dying like that, when you’re literally the prisoner of some cannibal psychopath already . . . all of that, and some other horror trope catches up with you instead?
Three knocks on the door, and a voice jokingly calls;
“Trick or Treat!”
Oh, saying all of that stuff to Lucas about trick or treating was so stupid. Wanting a pumpkin out there so you could pretend to have one little bit of normalcy left in your life.
A rumble of conversation floats through the walls; something about a dead phone battery, needing to find somewhere with a landline, a map that didn’t seem to have any of the landmarks they’d seen marked on it.
(You can sympathise with that; the map you’d been using, once upon a time, hadn’t made a single lick of sense after you’d gotten into the heart of the woods, like some nature spirit was messing with you).
But that could just be a way to make your defenses fall, you think. You’ve seen that in movies time and time again – I need the bathroom, I need to use your phone, I’m sorry I fell over and I’m injured can I rest here--
One of them has the nerve to try the door; the key jingles traitorously in the lock.
You’re shaking as you approach. You can hear conversation now; a male voice and a female voice, arguing. They sound about your age.
“There’s a fucking jack-o’-lantern burning, and there’s a key in the front door, of course someone’s in--”
“Look, this is some horror movie bullshit, I don’t like it--”
“Do you think anyone keeping fuckin’ . . . those fluffy-ass chickens is gonna be a murderer? C’mon. It’s probably some old couple with their hearing going. I’m gonna knock again--”
Three raps on the door and you find yourself collapsed against the cabin wall, your knees trembling. You know you should answer the door and you should tell them what’s going on here. You should beg them to run and take you with them.
But now you’re faced with it, you don’t know what to do.
“Hello?” The girl’s voice is louder now. “Is anyone home?”
Oh, she shouldn’t be shouting. Lucas can hear when you drop a fork doing the washing up from halfway across the yard, and always comes hurrying to make sure you haven’t hurt yourself.
“Look,” the boy, “We just need to use your phone, we’re lost—”
Another voice cuts across the squabbling – one deeper and darker and grittier. A thick Southern accent.
“You sure as hell are,” it says, and there’s outright hate in it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’ on my property?”
The girl screams. You can’t blame her; at six foot four and bound in scars and muscle, Lucas is a frightening prospect at the best of times. But when he’s appeared from nowhere, holding his axe, like a horror movie villain . . .
“Shit!” The boy is swearing. “Look, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t--”
You do not see the axe come down – how could you, from the hallway, behind the door? But you hear two screams, this time – both his and hers – and you hear the wet sound of something sharp meeting something soft. Blade striking bone – the slick noise of an axe blade being pulled out of a body and then swung back in. The sound of someone choking on blood, of someone sobbing--
You don’t know how long it goes on for. Your knees give out long before the girl gives up on screaming, as you sink onto the floor and hug yourself tight and squeeze your eyes shut against the noises.
It could last forever. You try and think of something else; somewhere happier. What would you be doing right now, if you were at home? How different would your October have been?
But the slosh of blood and the hacking noise of blade and flesh worm into your consciousness, the very real massacre going on outside the front door seeping into every memory you try and recall. Your pumpkins smashed to pieces, accusing staring eyes of the corpses of your friends at last year’s Halloween party as a man with an axe mows them down in your living room--
The noises have stopped. There’s not even heavy breathing, now.
“Darlin’?” Lucas calls out, from behind the door. “C’mon. I know you’re there. You can open the door now. You’re safe.”
You can’t disobey him, you remember, as you shakily climb back to your feet, using the wall as leverage. If you don’t do as he says, then you will also meet the business end of his weapon – and he’s already said, in those jealousy-fuelled threats that he whispers into your hair at the most intimate of moments, that for your betrayal, he’d make it hurt.
You turn the key with a trembling hand, and have to force your fingers to close around the door handle. Slowly, slowly, you pull it open--
The front porch is a mess of blood and flesh and organs and other things you carefully do not look at. These people have been butchered for more than just meat – but you look up at Lucas’s eyes instead and ignore them. You can’t think too hard on it.
There are splashes of blood all over his face, flecks of red in his stubble. His clothes are ruined.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, and he steps forward and the tang of blood invades your mouth and your nostrils and gets on your clothes as he pulls you into a tight embrace. “Don’t worry. I told ya’, I won’t let nothin’ happen to you. Not tonight, not ever.”
He says it like this poor lost couple were a threat, and not just unfortunates who happened upon the wrong woods at the wrong time. The wrong house.
(If you hadn’t put that pumpkin out, they wouldn’t have thought that there was anyone here. It’s your fault.)
His grip around you is tight. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest for a moment, and try to pretend nothing has happened.
It can’t last. Lucas pulls back, takes hold of your shoulders.
“Well?” He says – and bile rises in your throat as you realise you have to say it. You have to do it. If you want to stay on his good side--
“Thank you,” you breathe out, hating yourself for every syllable. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
And as you stretch onto your tiptoes and Lucas bends down to meet your lips for a thank you kiss, you pretend that there aren’t two corpses outside of the front door.
You carved a pumpkin. You ate candy. You watched a shitty horror movie. It’s like every Halloween before it--
He pulls back; a hand ruffling through your hair, a smile on his face.
“Happy Halloween, darlin’. You get back inside while I clean this up, okay? Night ain’t over yet.”
Frustration
Franklin x female!reader
Warnings: smut, dubcon, mentions of noncon, captivity, aphrodisiacs, drugging, spanking, manipulation, gaslighting
Word count: 7.5k
Your attitude towards Franklin could be best described as that of a tide moving to and from a beach.
You went to him when you needed the social interaction, when the loneliness of your new life hit you too hard and you needed to talk to someone just to keep yourself from losing it. You spoke to him civilly, starting with topics as basic as what the weather was like until you were willing to have more in-depth conversations regarding genuine interests. Eventually you would let him touch you without much fuss, not shying away whenever he would place a hand on your shoulder or lower back. Those moments you allowed were brief, and would end once he sensed that you were becoming uncomfortable.
With enough time, the short moments of physical touch turned into longer ones. You allowed him to keep his hand on your thigh when you were sitting close to him and let him to hold your hand in his. And it would soon get to the point where you would have no issue with him pulling you onto his lap and holding you; sometimes you held him back.
When you were at your most comfortable with him, there was no protest from you when his hands would begin to wander.
His touch would be tame at first as he continued the process of easing you in. When you would sit in his lap, he would take the opportunity to caress you, stroking your hair or massaging your shoulders you would relax further. Then his hands would wander further, caressing your inner thighs before he slipped one of his hands beneath your shirt so he could grope your breasts while he began to mark up your neck with his mouth. At that point it would culminate in sex. Unlike times in the past where you would cry, during these times you would reciprocate. You held him, kissed him and didn't hide how much you were enjoying yourself when he fucked you, your moans and squeaks of pleasure echoing through the room while he had you writhing on his cock.
Afterwards, late into the night when you were both exhausted, you always fell asleep before he did, not complaining when he held you and instead being content in his arms, resting your cheek against his chest while you slept peacefully.
Franklin always felt that he was at his happiest in those moments, when you were able to let go of the resentment you held towards him and allow yourself to feel good with him. When you freely gave him your love and affection. Less like his captive and more like his lover. The way he wanted it.
But those moments of bliss would only last for so long.
After that point, like a tide pulling out, you would begin to pull away from him. Days later you would go back to shying away from his touch, sleeping at the very edge of the bed so as to create a physical distance between you two and only giving him one word answers at best whenever he spoke to you. You retreated from him in all aspects that you were able to within the space the two of you shared and only interacted with him when you had no other choice.
It would stay that way until you couldn't stand being alone anymore and you would go to him, at which the cycle would start over again.
Franklin was used to it, and while the situation wasn't something he liked, he could live with it for the time being. Until you were able to better accept your new life and those instances of you shutting him out ceased, he would take what you would give him only when you were comfortable enough to do so. Until that time came, he'd be fine.
Or so he thought.
This latest instance of your refusal of him was lasting longer than normal, and the longer you went rejecting him, the more frustrated he became.
Maybe it wouldn't have been as bad if it weren't for the fact that the last time the two of you had been intimate, you had been the one to initiate.
He hadn't been expecting it as he didn't think he had worked you up to that point yet. But one night you surprised him when you climbed on top of him in bed, silencing his questions by pressing your lips against his. Your intent became clear when you slipped your hand into his sleep pants and began to stroke his cock.
That night was the first time you went down on him. The sight of you sitting between his knees, your tongue sticking out to lap at the metal piercings at the tip of his cock before you opened your mouth wide and took in as much of him as you could while you stroked at what wouldn't fit – those were images he was certain would be forever engraved in his mind. At that point, he didn't care what had brought this on. When you pulled your mouth off of him, he grabbed you by your hair and brought you up to his level so he could kiss you. He'd been rougher with you than he intended, but you didn't complain. If anything, you seemed to like it, and you kissed him back with just as much fervor.
You were desperate for him that night, placing kisses on his jaw, neck and along his chest, guiding his hands to where you wanted him to touch you and staying on top of him, riding him while you pressed your hands against his chest, your nails digging in and leaving small crescent shaped marks in his skin while his cock repeatedly disappeared into your cunt, engulfing him with your wet warmth. You shuddered and cried out when you came, and the way your walls squeezed him so tightly brought him to his own climax. When Franklin grabbed you by your hips and pushed you down all the way as he came inside of you, you cried out once again and reached out to wrap your arms around him as his cum began to dribble out of you.
You were completely spent after, falling onto his chest while you tried to catch your breath. A soft but appreciative moan left your lips when he ran a hand over your back to sooth your sweaty skin. He'd wanted more from you and part of him felt as though he was ready to go again, but at the sight of your exhausted form laying on top of him, Franklin told himself not to. There was no sense in ruining things by asking too much of you.
You placed a few more kisses on his skin before you fell asleep, and he felt content with the progress you had made.
The day after had been a different story.
Like someone had flipped a switch within you, you walked around like a zombie that morning, your gaze looking distant at times. Whatever thoughts had plagued your mind, you seemed to be struggling with them. That afternoon you had taken a long shower, and when you had gotten out, it was clear that you'd spent a long time scrubbing at your skin to the point that it had become irritated, and he saw that the damage was worst in the places you had guided his hands to the night prior.
When he tried to ask what was wrong, you only shook your head before you walked away.
At the time, he had told himself to think nothing of it. You were pulling away again only because you were still struggling to adjust. You would come back to him once you were desperate enough, and he would get to feel your loving touch once again. It wouldn't be long until you reached that point again.
Only the days had turned to weeks, and you were still avoiding him.
As a result, his frustration was mounting.
Before all of this Franklin never would've thought the lack of physical contact would bother him so much; with everything he'd gone through in life, he should've been able to deal with such a thing easily. Maybe before he could've, but it was different now. After the taste he had gotten of you freely giving into him and going to him on your own, it angered him that you would insist on pulling away.
But he wasn't sure what he could do about it.
His gaze returned to where you were sitting at the table with a book in hand, reading quietly with your back turned to him. Originally you'd been sitting on the couch, but when he sat down to join you, you got up and moved. You weren't even trying to be subtle about avoiding him.
Did you want him to get angry?
Franklin chose not to say anything. Lashing out wouldn't help the situation.
Even if it would be incredibly easy to do something to you.
No doubt because of what had happened the last time you went to him and how those images of you were still fresh in his mind, intrusive thoughts came to the forefront as he looked at you. They plagued his mind as he looked you over, running wild and distracting him. Thoughts of what he could do if he decided that he really didn't give a shit about what your reaction would be to any of it.
If Franklin really wanted to fulfill those urges right at that moment, all he would need to do was bend you over, kick the chair away and remove the clothes that covered you. Then he could do what he wanted. Take care of the frustration you had caused while he got to experience your warm pussy walls again. With how weak you were compared to him, he wouldn't even need to use much of his strength, and while the lack of recent intimacy would make it uncomfortable when he initially shoved his cock into you, the resistance on your part would die out soon enough. You would probably start to enjoy it after a time, and with some encouragement and a few orgasms of your own, he could get you to hold and kiss him again.
But that was a horrible idea.
He'd be taking several steps back if he went about it that way. When the next morning would come, you would go back to ignoring him – or worse, you might go back to the way you'd been when Franklin had first brought you here, where you would alternate between crying and raging in between pleas for him to let you go.
Forcing you into it would just make you resent him more.
Make you fear him more.
So he kept his distance, keeping the fantasies of forcing you into positions he liked in his head while you continued to read in peace. Franklin tried to do the same, though after a few futile minutes, he found he wasn't able to focus well on the book he'd selected. He closed it while his free hand went up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
Ah, right. He remembered what he needed to mention to you.
“I'm going to be leaving tomorrow,” he said.
You didn't say anything, but you glanced back at him.
“I'll be in Meteor City,” he explained, “if all goes well, I'll only be gone for a week. But it could be longer than that.”
A beat of silence passed, with you still looking back at him, as though you were waiting for him to say something else. When he didn't, you finally responded.
“Okay.”
The reply you gave was barely audible and you immediately returned your attention to your book.
Franklin frowned.
That was all you had to say, apparently. Though with the way you'd been acting, he wasn't sure why he'd been expecting anything different.
Despite knowing how useless it was, he kept trying to engage with you.
“Will you be alright being on your own that long?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
You didn't even look away from the book that time.
“Is there anything you need before I leave?”
“No.”
He stared at the back of your head while you turned the page. But even with your dedication to the book you had in hand, he saw the way you tensed when you heard him lean forward in his seat, as if you were expecting something bad to come after.
If you were that nervous then why the hell were you acting like this?
Franklin ignored it again as he spoke once more, saying “I'll be passing through Olsoria to get to Meteor City. The place with that bakery with those macaroons you liked. If you wanted, I could get some for you on my way back.”
“No thank you,” was your curt response.
I don't want anything from you
That felt like what you were really trying to say with that, and Franklin felt himself becoming irritated. You clearly sensed that fact as he saw your figure become even more rigid where you sat.
The question came again: why were you insisting on acting like this if you were really that scared of him?
His mind started to go wild with fantasies of taking you again. Of storming up behind you and forcing you against the wall, lifting up one of your legs and fucking you open after tearing away your pants and underwear, taking any and all fight out of you with every thrust of his hips.
He wanted you. And at one point, you had wanted him as well.
Since you seemed desperate to pretend it never happened, he could easily remind you of that fact.
…..
If he went through with that, all of that work he'd done in warming you up to him would be for nothing, he reminded himself.
With that, Franklin's self-control won out yet again, and he stood up as he decided to give you some space for now. He didn't miss the way you flinched when you heard him stand, nor did he miss the way your shoulders sagged in relief as he left the room.
You were having trouble adjusting, he told himself. You would come around eventually. You needed to.
Franklin's business in Meteor City had taken less time than he initially anticipated, so it was only just over the week mark when he had returned. While the more practical side of him anticipated that your attitude would be the same as before, another part of Franklin was hopeful that things would be different once he came back. That maybe you wouldn't push him away anymore, and that perhaps the week away was what you needed in order to warm up to him again.
Why he had such a hope, he had no idea.
The practical part of him turned out to be correct, as you had the nerve to look disappointed when he walked through the door, only offering a small nod in response to his greeting to you before you quickly disappeared.
Nothing had changed since he had gone: once again he would try to talk with you, and once again you never engaged in any meaningful way. If anything, things had escalated. You now made a point to move to another room whenever he walked into the one you were occupying, and that first night back ended with you laying at the very edge of the bed again, almost teetering on falling off the mattress completely in your refusal to be close to him. The day that followed was the exact same as you treated him with apprehension and barely hidden disgust. You said maybe five words to him that day, and the distance between the two of you in the bed stayed.
He truly wondered what exactly your endgame was in all of this – you needed to know that he wouldn't put up with this forever. The way you looked nervous whenever he came close was clear indication that you anticipated he would snap at some point.
But instead of again questioning why you would continue when you feared him in that way, Franklin didn't comment on any of it. While he still felt some irritation at how you rejected him, he was now having an easier time dealing with it. Because, unbeknownst to you, he'd returned from his childhood home with a backup plan that he'd tucked away among his things.
A chance sighting while he'd been back in his roots of Meteor City had brought forth an idea, and within the hour Franklin found himself in possession of what could possibly be the answer to the problems he'd been experiencing with you: a pricey bottle of pills that had made the seller snicker when he had asked for them.
Franklin wasn't a stranger to illicit substances. Just about everyone in the troupe had tried something at one point or another, and he wasn't any exception, trying various things alongside some of the others when they all were younger. Maybe it was because he was getting older, but such things didn't interest him anymore. Do too much, be it D² or some other drug that was popular, and you ended up enslaved to it. A fair amount of the residents in Meteor City fell into that hole, rotting their bodies and minds with drugs all so they could have some relief from the harsh life they lived in the junkyard they called home.
These pills were different. He didn't need to add to your erratic behavior by getting you addicted. All he needed was for you to let go of your fear for just a little bit.
Initially after buying them he'd found himself struck by a case of buyer's remorse, uncertain if it had been a stroke of genius or a horrible waste of jenny. There was also a great risk involved: if you managed to find out what he intended, you would never warm up to him again.
But if the aphrodisiacs worked in the way they were supposed to, you would go back to wanting his touch. Maybe even begging for it.
And with every instance of you pulling away from him, you made his decision to use them on you that much easier.
All he had to do was wait for the right time.
It was close to a week after Franklin returned that you needed to go grocery shopping, and you didn't say much to him beyond the fact that you needed to get more food. You walked away without any response when Franklin said that he would be going with you.
Franklin didn't comment on it.
Not much was said between the two of you after you left, though you managed to get out a half-hearted “thanks” when he complimented you on the skirt you were wearing. The only bit of conversation you initiated after that was to quietly mentioned at that he didn't need to come with you. Franklin's reply was that he wanted to spend time with you. You nodded, though based on your expression it was clear you would have preferred to have been alone.
Franklin again said nothing about it.
When the two of you made your way around the store, you were guarded around him. Not as bad as you had been in the past, admittedly, but every now and then you would look back at him nervously. Did you think he would try to do something? What exactly did you think he would do in a place as public as this one?
Only once did he step closer to you, intending to place his hand on your lower back when you were reaching up for something and it looked as though you were becoming unsteady. You saw it coming and darted away from him, throwing the item from the shelf into the basket as you mumbled some excuse about why you needed to be away from his proximity right at that moment.
That irritation in him wanted to bubble up to the surface, but Franklin once more remained silent.
By the time you had made it to the checkout lane, he had made his decision:
Franklin would use the pills on you tonight.
That was how he got to where he was now: standing close by with a single pill in hand as you began to separate the meal you had prepared into two different portions, all the while he waited for a moment when you wouldn't notice him slip it into the food. A bit difficult to do when you were currently standing over it, looking over to him every once in a while. It didn't seem likely that you suspected he planned to do anything – you were probably just unhappy that this was a situation where you couldn't get out of being in his presence.
He waited until after you had turned away before he made his move, telling you “I'll take the plates out if you want to set out the drinks.”
“Why?” you asked.
“You've done all the work; I'd like to help out a little,” he answered.
“… Fine.”
There was a slight frown on your face, but you didn't stop him as you grabbed two drinking glasses from one of the cabinets. With your approval, he collected the plates and set them on the table in the other room. And in the time it took for you to reach your seat, he had mixed the pill in with your food.
You didn't say anything when you sat down. Nor when you began to eat. With the rest of the ingredients you'd used, you didn't notice the pill at all. Once he was certain that you had taken it, Franklin told himself to wait as he kept an eye on you. The seller's words came back to mind as he routinely glanced over at you through the silent meal. The aphrodisiacs were fast acting, they had said. Guaranteed to get whoever had taken it desperate and needy enough to throw away whatever reservations they might have.
The moment of truth didn't take long to come.
In the middle of the meal, he noticed when you paused between bites as you suddenly tensed up. You stayed frozen like that for a moment, and while your face was blank, he saw a growing panic in your eyes. It only lasted for a moment before you ultimately continued eating your meal as though everything was normal.
Only it clearly wasn't. Your growing uneasiness was plain to see as your movements became more stiff and robotic, and he saw the way you glanced up at him as you though you hoped he hadn't noticed your change in demeanor.
Franklin chose then to speak as he said “it tastes good.”
The compliment caught you off-guard, and you blinked at him for a few moments before you replied with a small “thanks.”
Your voice was hushed when you answered him, and you quickly averted your gaze as you took a long sip from your glass of water. You were doing your best to act as though everything was normal as you continued with the meal, forcing yourself to take bite after bite in between nervous looks over towards Franklin when you thought he wasn't paying attention. An uncomfortable huff of breath left your lips as you shifted in your seat, causing a twitch ran up your spine. The softest noise escaped you, one that was stifled when you bit down on your bottom lip to silence it.
Even if Franklin hadn't been watching your every move, he would've noticed that.
“Are you alright?” he asked you.
There was a guilty look on your face the second he asked that, horror overtaking your features before you hurriedly shook your head in response.
“I'm fine,” you replied.
“Are you sure?” he pressed.
“I…. I think I might be a bit lightheaded, but it's not a big deal,” you said.
There was a breathlessness in your tone, and that caused a heat to stir within Franklin as well.
“Are you sure that's all it is?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
You tried to continue as though nothing was wrong. No doubt you were confused by your body's sudden reaction and horrified at the thought of Franklin finding out what was happening. No doubt that horror drove you to try and prove to him that you were okay with every bite you took. But eventually, you gave up.
You set your fork down as you said “I don't think I can finish this. I'm gonna lie down for a bit.”
You didn't wait for him to respond before you got up and left, heading back to the bedroom.
He waited a few moments before he began to gather everything up, taking the plates and bagging up whatever was left of the meal for leftovers. But once that was finished, he found that he couldn't be bothered to do a thorough job with the rest of the cleanup. Franklin threw the dishes and cutlery into the sink and rinsed them for a moment before shutting the water off as he decided that was good enough. He was more interested in seeing how you were doing, and how much of a mess you were by now.
If you were desperate enough to beg him to fuck you.
He again thought of that last time together, of how bold you had been and how you had grabbed at him. How you had directed him to touch you as you placed kisses all over.
He wanted that again.
He wanted you.
And tonight you weren't going to deny him.
You were curled up into a ball on the bed when he entered the room, facing away from the doorway with your legs pulled in and your arms wrapped around yourself. When he looked closer, he saw that you were trembling. The shaky breaths that escaped your throat were easily audible within the space of the bedroom, and Franklin watched you rub your thighs together in subtle movements as though you were trying to find some relief that way.
Desperation was beginning to take hold, but you were clearly trying to keep it under control.
He spoke your name softly, and you stopped, freezing in place on the bed. Had you not realized he was in there with you?
Franklin said your name again as he asked “are you sure you're alright?”
“…. Y-yeah,” you said, keeping yourself turned away from him as you added “just n-need to rest.”
“Hm.”
The sound of his footsteps coming closer to the bed had you curling in on yourself further, and you bit your lip again in an attempt to keep in any noises. Sitting down behind you, he watched as you tried to bury your face in the sheets to keep him from seeing what you looked like in that moment.
“It's really nothing,” you managed to get out.
You really thought he would believe that this was just some lightheadedness?
“It doesn't seem like nothing,” he said to you, reaching towards you.
“It's noth-”
He grabbed you by the shoulder and flipped you onto your back.
Your eyes were wide in surprise, your mouth gaping open as you stared up at him. When it looked as though you were about to say something in response to him grabbing you, his hand traveled up to cup your cheek. Once again you were cut off as you whined at the skin on skin contact, your legs falling open as you leaned into his touch. Your whole body was running hot as Franklin glided his free hand on top of your clothes, and more gasps left your lips in the wake of his touch.
Just hearing you make those noises was having an effect on him, and the sight of you so vulnerable, so needy, had his dick hardening.
Having reached the hem of your skirt, he pulled it up to reveal the state of your underwear.
There was a wet patch on the fabric of your panties. And it was only getting bigger.
You squealed when he pressed his thumb against the spot, rubbing the folds of your pussy through the fabric. That action had you moaning and you began to buck your hips to the sensation.
Despite how this current sight of you was starting to affect him, Franklin kept his voice level as he spoke to you.
“You should've told me that you were lonely,” he said softly, thumb still pressing against your burning pussy.
Hearing his voice had done snapped you out of your state somewhat, as you now pulled away from the hand he had kept on your cheek, though the way you bucked your hips against his hand didn't stop even when worry took over your features.
“I-I… I'm not…..”
Whatever sentence you were trying to form died when he rubbed your clit, a loud moan coming from you. You slapped your hand over your mouth, looking away from him.
“Leave it to me, I'll take care of you,” Franklin muttered.
For a brief moment, you took back the control of your mind that the aphrodisiac had taken from you, a look of horror returning to your face.
“No…. I can't…..”
You actually tried to move away.
Franklin snapped. That rejection was the last one that he could take and he ripped away your panties, shoving a finger into you before you could say anything else.
The sensation of that single thick digit being forced into your pussy had you cumming instantly.
You cried out, arching your back while your pussy clenched around his finger, milking the digit as your release came leaking out after. Your gaze was unfocused and you struggled to control your breathing while your legs continued to tremble. The hand of yours that had tried to push his away was now gripping him tightly.
Franklin was only vaguely aware of your reactions as he was far more concerned about the way you clenched around his finger. How your muscles felt as they pressed down on him. How your release dripped out onto the sheets beneath you. How with every mindless movement of your hips, you encouraged him to fill up that emptiness inside of you.
All of those sensations would feel better once it was his cock inside of you, and with the way his erection that was starting to get painful for him as it pressed against it's confines, he was more than eager to get to that part. Though a voice at the back of his mind told him to open you up a bit more – with how much time had passed since you had last let him fuck you, the stretch would be more than a little uncomfortable without a bit of prep.
He moved within you to press against your walls, and then he heard the way you moaned and felt how you moved your hips to full on grind against him. Just like that, he removed his finger as he chose not to bother with preparing you any further.
You could deal with it.
Your whine of disappointment was cut short as Franklin grabbed you by your hips to pull you so you were facing him, resulting in your skirt pulled up further around your waist while your legs hung off the edge of the bed.
The sound of a zipper opening and his pants falling to the floor brought your attention back to him, and when you looked back to find his cock rubbing against your slick folds, you bit your lip in anticipation. Now, instead of fighting him, you tried to move your hips so he could slip into you, an effort that was thwarted when he grabbed you by your waist and held you there. You looked up at him with dilated pupils and tears forming in your eyes, your hands going down to grasp his in an effort to encourage him to enter you.
The expression you wore was one of pure desperation.
Franklin shoved himself inside of you. Despite how wet you were from your previous orgasm, he only managed to go in about halfway, your walls having tightened up since the last time he had fucked you, and from the way your face scrunched up, he saw that you were in pain, tears pricking at the edges of your eyes.
Seeing the way you had cried in the past had killed his mood on more than one occasion, but all the sight did this time was spur him forward.
With a slow drag of his hips, Franklin pulled out until only the tip remained in you before he pushed in again, his large hands tight around your comparatively tiny waist as he bullied his way in further, intent on burying into you to the hilt. All resistance on your part was gone; unable to move your hips as he kept you in place, your hands reached out for Franklin, desperately grabbing at the sleeves of his shirt in an effort to pull him in closer. You wanted the closeness. You wanted to hold him and for him to hold you back.
Using those sleeves that you had gotten a death-grip on, you pulled yourself into a sitting position as you attempted to wrap your arms around his neck.
With one hand he shoved you back down onto the bed.
And after he readjusted his grip on your hips, Franklin picked up his pace as he began to fuck you faster.
Your cries of pain quickly filled the room, accompanied by a lewd squelching sound as Franklin thrust into you again and again. Every time the metal piercings that lined his cock scraped along your walls, it caused you to jolt, your voice going up a few octaves as you still tried to move your hips out of the iron hold of his hands. But even though you were full-on crying now, you weren't doing anything to stop him. The affects of the drug in action: keeping your mind focused on the burning feeling inside of you that needed to be satiated and disregarding everything else. Whatever worries you had about the whole situation would come later; right now, all you could do was take the harsh treatment he was giving you.
Franklin stared down at you, watching your pained expression slowly fade as you got used to the feeling of his length being inside of you again, though every now and then you would still tense up, a soft, short whimper interrupting your frequent moans.
It wouldn't hurt so much if you'd given in on your own earlier
With that thought in mind, Franklin kept up the harsh pace, his cock battering open your pussy until he was able to sheath himself in all the way. Your tears that fell as a result of that were numerous, but never once did you tell him to stop.
Eventually Franklin flipped you over onto your front, forcing you onto your hands and knees to fuck you from behind. He changed up where he held you, now keeping one hand securely in your hair while the other slapped your ass. Once again your shrieks and squeals echoed in the room, and Franklin alternated which hand was holding you, delighting in seeing the way your skin became marked up from the force of his hits.
The way he hit you combined with his dick hitting a particular spot inside of you had you cumming again, and the feeling of your heat pressing down around his cock was what pushed him over the edge. With one hand still in your hair, Franklin pressed you down into the mattress while he kept your hips raised, leaving you to squirm as you felt his cum spilling out and dripping down your thighs.
A satisfied moan left his lips as Franklin loosened his grip on you, keeping his cock inside of you as he began to stroke your hair softly as he looked you over. Your skin was still hot to the touch, a layer of sweat covering you as you trembled beneath him. A quick glance towards the quickly bruising skin of your ass and there was no doubt that the next day would be uncomfortable for you whenever you would need to sit down. With how hard he'd hit you, maybe it would last longer than that.
Good.
Franklin leaned over you, the brief reprieve all he needed before he felt he could go again as he moved you over onto your side. He began fucking you from a new angle, and with how sensitive your previous orgasms had left you, your throat was quickly turning raw from how often he had you moaning.
When you pushed yourself up by your arms and once again reached for him, he chose to indulge you. With a shaky hand, you reached out to cup his cheek and pull him forward, and the action ended with you placing a soft kiss on his lips.
He kissed you back, at first matching your softness, then he pulled away to bury his face in your neck, covering it in lovebites and resuming the harshness of his thrusting.
He took you several times that night, and it was long overdue for both of you. Franklin painted your hot little walls white several times that night as he claimed you, and any and all fight had completely vanished from your system. Even in your exhausted state, you still tried to meet his thrusts, the drug having you far gone enough that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.
By the end of it, you were fully naked and slumped over on the bed, your body still twitching as you tried to recover while Franklin's breathing was still calming down as he sat next to you. He reached out to you again, once more to pet your head after he brushed the hair out of your face. The noise you made upon feeling his touch sounded as though you were satisfied.
Not long after, the toll of the long night finally forced you into sleep.
Despite being early in the morning, it was still dark out when you got up from the bed, Franklin waking up shortly before you left the room due to the loud way in which you had stumbled about on your way out the door. A light on the other side of the hallway shone into the bedroom afterwards.
When he heard no further activity, Franklin got up to follow after you.
He found you standing at the sink, your hands gripping the edge of the surface to hold yourself up while you stared at the mirror before you. Your eyebrows were furrowed and you were frowning as you looked at the figure that stared back at you, taking in the sight of the bruises that had been left upon your skin. Your gaze went to him when you realized he was standing in the doorway, and it then seemed as though you were filled with a vague sense of distress just at the sight of him.
Franklin pretended not to notice that as he asked “everything alright?”
“….. I don't know,” you answered.
You looked back to the mirror as your hand left its place on the sink to trail over a mark that had been left on your collarbone, though you almost immediately placed your hand back on the sink when you unintentionally began to lean forward. Franklin was quick to steady you as he held you by your shoulders.
“You should come back to bed and lay down,” he told you, “I don't want you falling over.”
You didn't reply, instead looking down at the bruises that were scattered across your body.
“What happened earlier?” you asked suddenly.
Franklin blinked.
“What do you mean? We had sex.”
“Yeah, but….”
You trailed off as you looked away from him, your hands gripping the sides of the sink hard while your mind going over the events from only a few hours earlier. Then you opened your mouth as if you were going to speak, and after struggling to come up with the words, you spoke again.
“Did you…?”
Once more you left your sentence unfinished, and this time it seemed as though you were too scared to complete it.
“Did I what?” Franklin asked, making a point to raise his brow in question as though he had no idea what you were getting at.
“…. Did…. Did you drug me?”
Your question hung in the air while the seconds passed by in silence. Franklin didn't reply and you didn't look at him.
Then Franklin's hands fell from your shoulders. You looked back to him then, only to find an irritated expression on his face.
“Really?”
That one word that was dripping with disgust was all he said to you before he turned away, heading back towards the bedroom and making it a few steps into the hallway, intent on leaving you where you were.
Franklin was stopped when you grabbed him by the arm.
“I'm sorry!”
You were crying – sobbing, as you held onto him, both of your arms wrapped around his.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” you repeated, “I don't know why I said that. I'm sorry, please-!”
Apologies continued to spill from your mouth as your knees sank down onto the floor, still keeping your grip on his arm as your hands slid down to hold onto his wrist. He looked down at you, watching the way your tears flowed while you sat on the cold floor of the hallway, your weak hold on him likely the only reason as to why you were staying upright.
If Franklin wanted to be cruel, he would've wrenched his wrist away from you and gone back to bed, leaving you a sobbing mess in the hallway. Maybe he would give you the same treatment you'd been giving him for the past few weeks. How devastating would it be if you could only get one word answers from him? To have your only source of company not want anything to do with you? How well would you handle any of that now that you'd been forced into this state?
As interesting as it might be to find that out, he didn't want that right now.
While he did pull out of your grip, he did so gently and scooped you into his arms after, holding you while you cried. You wrapped your arms tight around his neck, as though you were scared he would vanish right then and there.
“It's alright. Don't cry,” he began, petting your hair again as he added “you haven't gotten a lot of sleep. That's probably making you say things that you don't mean.”
You nodded.
“The only reason you're feeling strange is because you've been feeling alone and stir crazy for a while now, right?” he asked.
You nodded again, eagerly accepting the explanation Franklin had provided for you without an ounce of hesitation. He wondered if you were actually listening to him or if you were just so desperate for him to not reject you that the words were going right over your head.
Regardless of what it was, at least it had you holding him again.
Franklin placed a kiss on your forehead, and that seemed to calm you down some, though your grip around his neck didn't loosen much.
“It's okay. So let's just forget about this and get some sleep,” he mumbled against your skin.
You nodded in agreement for a third time.
You clung to him even after he had placed you back in the bed, one of your hands on his chest while you cuddled up against his side. Franklin wrapped an arm around you to hold you close, and that further helped in calming your mood as your tears finally stopped, though you continued to sniffle for a few moments longer. He continued to give you reassuring touches as he caressed your skin, something you appreciated as you nuzzled your face against his chest.
Not long after the sad noises coming from you stopped as you finally fell back asleep. Your arms were still around him, and his body felt warmer in the areas where he felt your touch.
Franklin felt content as he continued to caress your skin.
This was the way it was supposed to be, he thought to himself.
You by his side, readily accepting his touch and offering your own affection in return. That was how things should be between the two of you.
And things would be like that from this point onward; Franklin would make sure of it. No more of the constant back and forth of ignoring his presence and then being all over him. No more of your barely hidden contempt as you went out of your way to avoid him. You were his, and just as much as you were meant to love him back, you were meant to give yourself to him so that the both of you could feel pleasure.
Franklin hoped you would remember that from now on.
And if not….
Well, he had plenty of pills left.
Who's your bias?
I’m trying so hard to be loyal to Yoonbin and Junkyu right now but Yoshinori will always have a special place in my heart
Bad Taste
A commission I was allowed to post! I had a lot of fun writing this and I hope you all enjoy reading it :D
WARNINGS: Yandere! Chrollo, PT member! reader, female! reader, explicit nsfw, casual sex, mentions of explicit violence, mentions of murder, mentions of character death, reader is kinda immoral but that comes with the pt territory, dubious consent
"You have bad taste, you know that?" You said, lying on your side, tired eyes slowly moving over every choice that had gone into the design of the bedroom. At first glance, you would've called the excess of gold and silver gaudy, but then there was that minimalist abstract painting in the corner, or the classical bedside table made out of gray marble, and you decided even that descriptor wasn't fully applicable. The maximalism of a rich hoarder, was the only term that felt somewhat correct. "None of these pieces work together."
Chrollo smiled as he looked up from his book, participating in your critique of his interior design skills. "I'd call it the curse of having many interests. If you ask me, committing to a single style or type of art when there is so much variety in the world is as much a sign of bad taste as you consider this to be."
"The art nouveau brutalist bathroom is an abomination, Chrollo."
"Or so you continue to remind me. Would you rather I hang the Klimt with the byzantine sculptures?"
"No. I'd rather you throw those away. Or sell them." You sat upright and pulled the sheets off your body, sitting on the edge of the bed so you could stretch properly, your fingers tapping against the side of the mattress while you thought of what you were going to do next. Shower or get dressed and leave?. "Such a waste letting them get water damage."
"Stop suggesting we have sex in the bathtub then."
"No." Something about the clumsiness of sex in bathrooms had always appealed to you, and if you liked seeing Chrollo with his hair wet while he was bent over you, who’d judge you? "I don't think I will."
"I figured."
You stretched your arms over your head, feeling a delightful pull on your sore muscles. You’d slept badly, you always slept too lightly when other people were around, but the calm and laziness of the morning made the slight exhaustion lingering on your body feel less bothersome. There was nothing on the agenda today, so you could truly just go your own way. Perhaps you’d train a bit later in the evening, or visit a botanical garden if the weather was nice. Visiting gardens was always your go-to activity on lazy days, since you always felt truly at ease feeling your nen curl around so many different specimens, all responding to your commands. Controlling flora was a tricky ability, especially in less habitable areas like the dusty deserts surrounding Yorknew, so to be in a location where nothing would ever be able to truly harm you was comforting. You didn’t know whether that comfort came from the security or the control.
At the thought of your ability, you wondered when you’d use it next. The last time had ended a bit anticlimactically. You’d wrapped nettles around a man’s throat, only for him to suffocate and die in mere minutes, apparently allergic to the plant. You’d gotten in a bit of trouble, since he’d been meant to give information, but luckily his colleague knew enough to save your hide. When you’d started to master your own ability, you’d never considered allergies being relevant so often.
You lowered your arms and rolled your shoulders, looking back at Chrollo who was smiling ever so slightly. “So when’s the next heist? Or are you leaving to find new members first?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You are under the impression that killing Hisoka has no priority?”
Ah. You should’ve figured.
“Didn’t want to assume. Aren’t you supposed to be quite strict with the ‘no leg matters, just the spider’ philosophy?” You suppressed a smile at the mention of Hisoka, knowing any sign of affection, as small as it was, wouldn’t be appreciated. You didn’t particularly care about Shalnark and Kortopi, only having worked with them in passing for a few years, so it wasn’t like you felt betrayed by the magicians actions. If anything, you’d found Chrollo’s continual leniency on the magician’s schemes to be surprising, and retrospectively quite an obvious mistake. “Well. With eight or so members it’ll surely work out fine.”
It would. You’d only seen a handful of them in combat, but if they managed to corner Hisoka, he was dead, an opinion that was supported by the fact that Hisoka was already supposed to be dead, having lost to Chrollo in the arena.
You’d watched the show on television, a bit disappointed when it had stopped being broadcast due to the deaths of most of the camera staff. Either that, or the producers had chosen not to show such a massacre, as exciting as it had been. Even with gyo constantly activated, you had barely been able to keep up with the quick movements and techniques displayed, which had definitely increased your respect for Chrollo, the trust and belief the rest of the spider had in him definitely not unfounded.
You’d asked Hisoka in private shortly after his quasi-death and expulsion of the spider how he intended to fight them all off, certainly in close quarters, but he’d just kept it vague and acted indignified at your lack of belief in his capabilities. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe him to be capable of somehow pulling off something most would deem impossible, but rather that you really wished to know how he was planning to do so. A mystery is only as compelling as the explanation that is served, and you were left only with curiosity and impatience.
Still, you’d decided a while ago that you would bet on Hisoka. The odds were high that he intended to kill you along with the rest of the spiders if he ever got the chance, but you doubted he’d chase after you if you made yourself scarce before anything big could happen. The parts of the plan he’d clued you in on were compelling enough to bet on, since even if Hisoka failed miserably, you still had enough time to work out a second plan of your own.
"Just to sate my curiosity on the matter." Chrollo asked, looking over the edge of his book as you grabbed a short satin dress you’d worn yesterday night that had been discarded next to the bed. Pulling it over your head, you were relieved to not fully be naked anymore, not out of a sense of decency or prudishness, but because Chrollo’s stare tended to be a bit too appreciative for your liking. "Are you two close?"
You didn’t need to ask for clarification.
Truly, you liked Hisoka. He was an interesting figure and so upfront with his betrayals that you wondered how he still managed to fool anyone into trusting him. His style, his humor, his fighting style. It was all so uniquely him and yet at the same time so inhumanly distant that you had trouble seeing him as an actual person. Instead, he felt more like a character you could enjoy watching, and you would be lying if it hadn’t flattered you that he’d enjoyed watching you too.
"We're not intimate, if that's what you're asking." This was edging a bit too close to a discussion on your relationship with him for your liking. Chrollo, ever the achiever, didn't bore you with such things usually. Instead, he'd either lure you into some quasi-intellectual debate or just leave you be. Your favorite ending to one of these meetings had been when he'd expressed interest in some blockbuster that was airing, and you'd surprised yourself into inviting him to come and watch it with you. The movie theater experience, complete with popcorn and a soda, had been fun in a domestic way you'd not experienced in a while. Ranting about the bad quality of the film was also a fond memory, though you were not the type to grow attached to domestic activities. "Didn't think you were the jealous type."
"I wouldn't call it jealousy." He said earnestly, chuckling when he saw the disbelieving tilt of your head. "If anything, I'm trying to see whether you've betrayed the spider too."
You forced your eyebrows to lift in surprise. "Oh. I'd never. How little faith do you have in me?"
Whatever playful tone you’d placed in your words, it seemed to be the wrong choice, as you were pulled back into bed by your hair. The casual atmosphere had ended, and the pretense of this just being a chat was broken. His fingers curled around locks of your hair, pulling at your scalp, and the book was discarded somewhere on the bed.
You let it happen, finding the sting of his grip on your hair more comfortable than this conversation, especially since it ended up with your barely covered upper body sprawled over his lap. He looked down at you, and if he spotted your gratitude at this turn of events, he did not show it. Instead, he actually seemed angry, his entire face frozen on a blank slate. If he could not even find the state of mind to force a neutral expression, you’d definitely crossed a line.
Luckily, he acknowledged his own anger too, which saved you from having to navigate what exactly he was taking offense to.
"You've chosen a bit of an unfortunate moment to joke with me. Safe to say, I wouldn't call myself completely stable at the moment." It was at times like this that you truly appreciated his features, his face and body made to be cast in marble. Bloodlust only enhanced the image, washing off the false domestic and normal air that he clothed himself in to blend in. "It'll pass, but for now I'd urge you to give me a serious response."
That made sense in retrospect. Last night he’d been quite a bit more rough than he usually was. His hand had found your throat on many occasions, and while you did not mind being manhandled a bit, the force with which he sucked hickeys into your neck and the pressure of his arms around your waist had proven a bit intense at times. You’d just explained it away as a mood, but this made quite a bit more sense.
"How about this, I’ll give you a quick rundown of everything I know: I haven't spoken with him ever since that entire mess with Shal and Kortopi," His hand tightened around your hair, and you figured he didn’t like you minimizing the events that had occurred, but to be fair, he would’ve been more suspicious had you acted all respectful to his dead friends. "But he did tell me something beforehand which I think you might find interesting."
His expression did not change, but Chrollo did seem a bit irritated that you were playing coy. "Well?"
"The boat led by the Kakin Empire heading towards the dark continent. Apparently there will be some kind of contest held on board during the trip, and Hisoka seemed quite interested in it. If I had to guess, he's going to be there, trying his best to make the entire affair about twenty percent more complicated."
If you felt any regret having spoken those words, you didn’t feel it yet, though you kept the possibility open that you’d feel a bit bad about it later. If only, if only.
The seed had been planted. Chrollo probably had an inkling that you telling him this was intended by Hisoka, but that didn’t really matter. Hisoka wanted a fight, so it’d be out of character for him to suggest a fighting stage and not show up. The spiders would crawl on board, head toward the dark continent, a place so dangerous every expedition you’d heard of had stellar mortality rates, and hopefully they’d never return.
On the day of the departure, you’d stay behind. You liked excitement and part of you wanted to explore the dark continent and its mysteries as much as any other, but it’d be certain death for you if you went. There were too many things left to experience on this planet, and dying at the hands of either Chrollo or Hisoka left a bad taste in your mouth.
They were both dear to you, but you really hoped they’d kill each other and sink the boat.
"A hobby you two seem to share."
"As if you don't." You lightly admonished, smiling as his fingers were still pulling at strands of your hair, his eyes murderously intense as he stared down at you. "Well, are you going to kill me or am I free to go?"
"You seem to be misunderstanding something." He grabbed your face and made you face the wall, a multitude of painted faces in varying degrees of realism staring back at you. "Whatever I don't get rid of, I collect. And since I am quite fond of you, even if I deem your betrayal to go too far, I won't kill you. Instead, I'll pin you to these walls like those paintings you seem to hate so much and enjoy the sight of you until I feel ready to throw you away. Act with that in mind."
You suppressed a sigh and realized you'd been right in your assessment of where this was headed. A shame, even if it was way too late for you to take back your countermeasures anyway. "Chrollo, do you hear yourself speak right now?"
"I do. I know what I sound like." He sighed and let go of your face. When you slowly remade eye contact with him, he was looking quite pensive before he bent forward, closing the gap between you and him. For a second you hoped that he'd kiss you, just to cut this conversation short. You knew what was at the end of that road, while this was inching further and further into uncomfortable territory. “Don’t act like this is coming out of nowhere. I think you’re quite aware of the effect you have on me. I myself find it quite interesting at times, and in all honesty, it would be much easier to see exactly what you’re made of if I keep you a bit incapacitated.”
"That sounds quite scary." You said, less sarcastically than you'd intended, the sincerity of his words sending a shiver down your spine. The slight quirk of his lips, the complete nonchalance with which he'd admitted to his plans for you if you betrayed him, all made you believe that he was not kidding in the slightest. You'd always known it was a bit risky sleeping with the head of the spiders, but that danger had been part of the enjoyment. What fun was there in hooking up if there wasn't a risk of death involved? "I wasn't aware you felt about me like that."
"You have your moments."
"I see."
Being proven right was a bitter victory in this case, as much as you wanted to pretend it didn’t bother you in the slightest. You and Chrollo had spent many a night like this, and a few months ago, you had been quite pleased with the set-up, your post-heist adrenaline and bloodlust always being channeled in the best way possible, but in that same period you’d felt something start to change.
During heists he rarely deployed you, something that was even beginning to be noticed even by other spiders. Your abilities were being questioned, and you’d even heard that little black-haired shit wonder whether you always slept your way to the top. Three members had to remind you of the rule not to fight other spiders, because otherwise you would’ve gouged out his eyeballs and thrown his guts to the dogs.
It was insulting, and the mere idea that Chrollo was in love with you was even worse.
It made you uncomfortable to see a man you had so much respect for debase himself in chasing you. He never did anything outwardly romantic, but he stared, and you could tell that any time you spent with him was intriguing him. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. He was supposed to be better than that. You couldn’t stand it when he sighed after kissing you or left books on the dinner table for you to take when you left.
He couldn’t betray the spider, not in such an awfully human way.
And so you’d decided one morning while waking up in his arms, his heartbeat thumping underneath your ear, that you’d prefer it if he died. Death would freeze the image you had of him, of the ruthless and constantly shifting leader of the Phantom Troupe. Death would freeze all of them, since after Uvogin and Pakunoda’s deaths you’d noticed more and more cracks in what used to be a perfect formula.
Feitan and Phinks, who used to go off on their own in between heists, now seemed bound to the hip, their cruelty and ruthlessness a mere façade for what even a blind person could see. Franklin called Shizuku every few hours, checking in on her location and how she was doing. Nobunaga had completely lost it, even if everyone pretended to not see it, and you weren’t someone who generally empathized with unknown faces, but the civilian woman he’d fixated on after the death of Uvo was clearly having to deal with a lot of delusional bullshit.
The changes spread gradually, but the spider was not what it used to be. Most of the members had grown up together and preferred not losing one another, the recent deaths of those close to them proving they were not as okay with being replaceable as they’d pretended to be all this time. None of them would ever utter such a thing, but you noticed it regardless.
Being annihilated on the way to the dark continent, or at their destination, would be the best way for the spider. All in order to hold onto its principles. In some way, you felt like you were saving the man whose death you were planning, whose body had been pressed against yours so often. You’d never been the sentimental type, but the idea that you were saving a legacy from dying out painfully was beautiful to you. Chrollo wouldn’t ruin himself in your name. The others wouldn’t slip away into insanity and sentimentality.
Hisoka was the only one who knew how you felt, and had even agreed with your views, meaning he was the sole ally you had in this perspective. You’d spent years with the Troupe, and in some distant way, you loved the spider. Vaguely, you realized you’d accept it if Chrollo killed you now. Maybe he’d prove you wrong. Maybe he would get rid of your traitorous self, kill Hisoka and purge the spider of all that had desecrated it.
You would accept it gratefully.
Chrollo let go of your hair and his thumb traced a line across your forehead.
“Fine.” He breathed out.
“We’re leaving it at that?” You asked, cursing yourself for even responding, and even more for the desperation you felt at the loss of his aggression. Chrollo immediately moved, languidly shifting your body and his so you were below him once more, your legs on either side of his hips. He pushed his hair back and rubbed his eyes a bit before taking another good look at you. You couldn’t decipher his expression fully, but decided a mix of exhaustion and exasperation came closest.
“We’re not.” A hand moved under your waist and lifted up your lower body, slotting you against him. He bent forward over you and out of the corner of your eyes you saw him slowly wrap a hand around his cock and pump himself a few times. When he was sufficiently hard, he moved the hand with which he’d touched himself up to your mouth, two fingers patiently waiting on your lips to be licked. Knowing this song and dance, you opened your mouth, your tongue searching and finding his fingers instantly. Whilst you were sufficiently coating his fingers in spit, his dark eyes moved over your body. “We’ll be done once I say we’re done.”
The authoritative comment did little to turn you on, his possessive and romantically laced comments from earlier still making you feel weird. Still, when he pulled his fingers from your mouth and lowered them to your pussy to lubricate your entrance, the few flicks he performed against your clit did make your chest rise from the mattress a bit.
Pressing his forehead to yours, he quickly grabbed his cock and pushed it inside you, a satisfied sound leaving his throat as he successfully entered you. The pace he set was slow, gentle in a way that made you want to cry.
“Don’t betray me.” He said, and you felt your stomach turn at the pleading tone accompanying it. It was hard to enjoy the way he rolled his hips against yours, pushing his cock further into you, when your mind was miles away. How could you be present when all you wanted was to leave and forget he’d ever disappointed you like this. “I’ll do much worse than kill you if you do.”
That wasn’t a lie. He’d probably lock you up, steal your ability and hurt you until you didn’t have the strength to fight him anymore. Maybe he’d cut your legs off, maybe he’d bind you to a bed until malnutrition and muscle decay did the work for him. That part didn’t scare you, it was what he’d do after that that terrified you. He’d keep you with him, sleep next to you, and trace your injuries. He’d insist you read with him, watch movies with him, make love to him instead of the distant sex you preferred. He’d love you, earnestly and in his own way, and you’d rather die than experience it, since it would mean the man you loved was utterly gone.
“You know, don’t you?” He asked. “Please tell me you know.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him, desperate for him to shut up.
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