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ghoulbunni · 3 days ago

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leland coyle x gender neutral!reader

tags 🔪⋆.*:･ֶָ֢ reader’s gender is not specified, explicit sexual content, 18+, blasphemy, non-con, forced oral, threats of violence, referenced electrocution, pet play, Daddy kink, dom/sub, humiliation, pet names, impact play, electrocution, choking, breath play, bondage, begging, degradation, forced orgasms, punishment, escape attempts, branding, electrical burns, oral fixation, masochism, voyeurism, dacryphilia, do I even need to say sadism when coyle's involved?

Coyle tips your chin up with the blunt edge of his cattle-prod, its end still warm with the afterglow of electricity.

The leather of his jacket flexes as he braces one heavy boot atop your crumpled chest. The soulless, black lenses of his aviators betraying nothing.

“Ain’t no use fightin’ it,” he drawls in a thick, hungry purr. And it feels that his eyes stroke down your shape. Taking it all in. Fucking starving for it. “You're my whore in need’uh judgement, now. Been a bad dog, gone ‘n pissed me off.”

He sucks a charred drag from his cig, its ember burned across his lenses.

“Gonna have you pleadin’ fer mercy ‘fore I'm done.”

reader's gender is not specified ❤︎ names like 'whore', 'honey' and 'bad dog' are used

previous chapter coyle playlist chapter 2: smokestack man

Life as Coyle’s pet is maybe worse than the trials themselves. And the fact you’ve thrown a ‘maybe’ in there makes you fear that perhaps you’re already developing some colorful shade of Stockholm. Though can you really get Stockholm if you’re aware of its influence? If you loathe the man who might be stirring it in your head?

No one comes to look for you.

They don’t come in to round you up or take you back to your cell.

They just let Coyle keep you.

Using you how he wants.

Punishing you when he’s mad.

And when he’s gone… you’re left tied up on that leash he so generously gave you. A handcuff linked to its chain, securing it to a thick, floor-to-ceiling drainage pipe that you've tried countless times to kick out or wrench desperately out of place, but no matter how you try, it doesn’t budge, and no matter how long you strain and scream and cry out for anyone to help, no one ever comes.

You’ve lost track of the days in a sunless place like this, but you think perhaps it's been a week of you being Coyle’s plaything.

Your 'master’s' underestimated you, though. ‘Cause if he thinks you aren’t hellbent on doing everything within what limited power you still manage to cling onto in somehow making it out of here alive—out of this hell within hell he’s created—he can think again.

In fact, he can think again right now. Because you’re already halfway through roughly carving through that padlocked, leather strap he’s had bound around your neck this entire time.

Last time he fucked you, he’d done so against the street just outside this makeshift police station—for no other reason than to give the ex-pops a show of your humiliation, presumably. Not that a whole team of doctors and scientists weren’t tuning in to watch your every moment with him, anyway. Regardless, he’d held your writhing form firm against the asphalt, arms wrenched back in his hold. Grit digging into your cheek each time he buried his cock in you as car-lights dazzled in your tears, stretched thin through your blurry vision like some sort of madhouse kaleidoscope. But still, it hadn’t stopped you from seeing that broken piece of bottle against the street beside you. Hadn’t stopped you from dragging it into your outstretched palm, which luckily Coyle hadn’t seemed to notice. You shudder to think what he might’ve done if he had, though desperation wouldn’t let you consider it, not right then. You just needed a route of escape. Something to hope for, to hold onto. You can’t keep living like this. Can’t keep being his pet. His dog. His possession.

You’d hid it between your teeth. A risky endeavor. If he’d hit you at all, which he’s apt to do, you might’ve choked on it or scraped your cheek raw. But desperate times…

And now: here you are.

Armed with a small, greenish piece of broken glass—not big enough to kill him with, unfortunately, but big enough to buy your chance at freedom. Whittling its jagged edge through the thick leather that bastard’s strapped around your neck, having started the very second he’d left you. And it’s taking a hell of a lot longer than every piece of you hoped it would…

You don’t know how long you’ve been at it—there’s no clocks, no windows from this elaborate, Murkoff construction—but it’s been a while, you fear, and you’ve only so far managed to cut the damn thing halfway through. Nicking your neck and jaw a few times in the process, such is your anxious hurry, but you’ve kinda put everything you fucking have on the line in order to do this.

If you don’t slip your leash before your 'master' comes calling…

...You refuse to think on it.

Just whittling your collar that much fiercer.

And you must be the most unfortunate soul on this planet, because it’s like this, with your collar half-sheared through, that you once again hear the heavy, tell-tale boots of one Sergeant Leland Coyle approaching your dog-chained, doorless cell.

Panic seizes your chest; your carving motions frozen at your neck. So alarmed you can’t even think as those weighted, languid steps draw slowly forward.

—Fuck…!

Eyes darting in terrorized hurry, you rush to soundlessly crouch down and slide that blood-stained shard of glass beneath the busted arm of what remains of a mannequin dressed as a cop within your cell; one Coyle sometimes talks to when he stops by to chat or use you.

The man is deranged, that much is obvious to even the fucking statues. And fuck, you—you should've worked faster—should've started this when he wouldn’t be back so soon, but you never know when he's coming, when he’s going, you—you had no idea cutting through your collar would take this fucking long, and—!

—Maybe…

…Maybe he won’t notice…

You tuck your chin down in the hopes that this is true, though you’ve so far proved unlucky. Wary eyes drawing to that busted mannequin beside you. The one charred and mostly blown to pieces by whatever blue-lightning horror Coyle put it through. Your chin tucking down tighter at the sight. Pulse rampant in your ears as those heavy boots draw closer.

The jagged sparks of the car battery strapped across your Master's back sigil his approach as he saunters around the bend of your little hallway prison, and why he hasn’t thrown you into one of the actual cells within this place to hold you prisoner, you haven’t wanted to actually ask, not wanting to fuel any bright ideas. You have no idea how you’d make it out of here if you were boxed in with bars of iron, let alone this goddamn leash.

Ribbons of smog trail from that electrified rod currently hanging on his hip. From the nearly burnt-out cigarette perched on his deformed lips. A smokestack man; a furnace whose touch will burn you. And as he saunters toward you, you do your best to gruffly swipe away whatever blood has dried on your neck and jawline with the collar of your filthy shirt, before tucking your head down tightly again. Hoping he’ll take your downward glance as a sign of respect for him and all his righteous glory or whatever the hell bullshit he believes, though the concept’s revolting, as in truth you feel nothing for this smokestack man but contempt.

Your heart skips thickly to the hollow of your throat as his heavy heels drag to a halt before you. The concept of personal space not at all occurring to him; not when it comes to his things.

“Well,” he gruffs around his cigarette, “if it ain’t my favorite troublemaker.”

When you don’t respond, don’t dare to even look at him, you see one hand hang heavy on that rod of lightning strapped to his narrow hip. Hear his cigarette burn as he drags from the fount of it; a religious man, even when it comes to his smokes. Gloved fingers rapped across that cattle-prod’s grip as it feels he eyes you up and down. Taking inventory.

“You don’t look too happy tuh see me, sweetheart,” he lowly observes. A mockery of being offended. Which even feigned makes you wince; every time he’s wronged, it’s you who feels the savage brunt of his forgiveness.

He spares a moment to inhale that last bit of smoke from his cig, before flicking the spent butt aside, careless for wherever it lands in this precinct’s dilapidated filth.

“Now why is that?” he wonders of your hesitant silence.

It sounds like he’s already piecing something together, whether or not it's actually true, and you wish you could just melt into that wall a ways behind you. Something about the way his interest crawls across your skin not exactly feeling to bode well. And he doesn’t exactly approve of your anxious quiet.

“Daddy’s home,” his serrated inflection growls, and you slightly recoil at his mercurial shift in tone, “an’ you ain’t even got a smile for me. Ain’t got dinner on my plate. Hell, you ain’t even droppin’ to yer knees to lick my boots like the sad, sorry sack’uh shit too witless to do either’ uh those things.”

It takes a lot not to back away from his touch as his knuckles brush up beneath your chin, easing you up into looking at him. Laughter like a devil’s purr in his chest as he observes you, and at least it seems he finds your nerves amusing.

“Yer lucky I’m feelin’ so nice,” he says, “Though yer temptin’ me toward actin’ nasty. So why don’tchyou gimme some sugar, sweetness. Keep me kind, ‘fore you got me treatin’ you any way else.”

You don’t exactly have a choice when it comes to obeying his every request, satisfying his every pleasure. Not until you finally escape this place. So you just do your best not to show that tightening noose of nerves around your neck, cinched as tight as your damaged collar, as you tip up on your toes to kiss him like he’s prompted.

Your lips brush against his, pressed chastely to the undamaged side of his smirk. And even nervous and fleeting, you can taste that heat and exhaust, like his blood is oil and his lungs pump with pistons. And your dog chain rattles as you back away; scraped on that pipe you’re leashed to as you waver to create some much needed distance. As much as you dare to, at least.

He smiles as he watches. Exhaling that sound he makes when you stir in him a predator’s appetite.

“Sometimes forget how soft you are,” he purrs. “Like a lamb in this slaughterhouse. You ain’t even…”

He stops.

As does your trembling heart, to hear his words so halted.

The abruptness of it drawing your fearfully fractured gaze, snapped warily up to his, and you see him staring hard through the black sheen of his lenses. See some tension locked along the muscle of his jaw, tugging his blistered lips far away from their previous smile.

“Darlin…”

It’s not an endearment. Drawled in far too deadly a cadence for that.

“...You got somethin’ you wanna get off yer chest?” he slowly asks. Words rough with speculation. With warning. “Or off of any other part’uh you…?”

When you don’t answer—can’t answer, despite your lips falling open in the attempt to—he steps through what little space you’ve balked from him in roughly grabbing the chain of your leash, unforgivingly jerking you toward him. Himself rooted firm despite how you choke out a panicked gasp and stumble right into him; nearly tripping over your awkward legs as you slam into the brick wall of his cord and leather-bound chest.

It’s the only warning you get before he exchanges your leash for your throat. Tilting your trembling jaw up and away from your uneasy neck with the brunt of his calloused thumb, this way and that in brutish inquiry, and it’s clear he’s taking a closer look at all that damage you’ve sought to hide from him.

That rumble harbored in his throat’s the kind a rottweiler makes when you fuck with something it owns, as his rough fingers comb across those marks and little gashes along your delicate throat, so freshly nicked and blossomed raw, and not at all caused by his doing. And he maps them with his fingertips; touch traced along your collar, its newly jagged scar. That testament of ownership, of possession, which you’ve been more than busy gnawing your own arm off to slip this trap he's leashed you to.

His fingers slowly tighten, strangling the air right before your fearful throat. Knuckles brushed against that guilt strung around your neck, and if fear could collapse you in on yourself like a dying star you wouldn’t exist in this hallway with him anymore.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice this?”

Whatever he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, it brands the air itself. Suffocates all else in this room besides he and yourself. Like whatever’s overtaking him’s too powerful to catch up and hit him all at once, but when it does, you’ll definitely feel it. And already you want to beg for his forgiveness—a thing that may not even exist—but the strangled words never come.

“Just how stupid do you think I am?”

Fear holds you hostage. Mute as one of his fucking mannequins. And like this, his giant fingers flex around your throat, constricting the blood your brain receives as your eyes flutter wide and you suck back some sort of whimper; gasping for a breath that barely comes.

“Answer me, you half-breed fuckin’ mutt!”

“I-I… I—!”

You can see how scared you really are in the dusky mirror of his lenses, alarm clenching your every muscle in his hold. And before you can sputter much else, he’s already dragged you close—dragged your craned up face beneath the dangerous mountain of himself.

“You gone ‘n fucked up this time, honey,” he growls. “Should'uh known it'd end like this... You whore’s’re all alike. Nothin' but cheats ‘n flirts an’ liars… Thinkin’ you can skirt the law before the law comes callin’ to collect. But I got bad fuckin’ news fer you, sweetheart—you only slip the law for as long as it takes to show up at’chyer door and fuck you in ways a person ain’t s’posed to be fuckable, and yet bein’ beat an' broke an’ fucked’s the only real cure for it.”

Before you can react, he’s thrown you back into the wall. The brunt of it slammed into the back of your skull as pain spears through your bones, clips a yelp on your teeth, and already he’s upon you; imprisoning you with his the breadth of his muscled heat. Your waist swallowed in his hands as he roughly twists you around-shoves your sputtering face against the grime-dashed wall.

He flattens your gasping cheek to it as his body runs flush against yours. Bearish words scraped up the side of your head, scalding you with their warmth.

“Grid search. Every inch. You been’uh busy dog, stowin’ contraband… Let’s see where yer keepin’ that bone.” He seizes the hair on the back of your head in his fist; shoves you rougher against the wall, like you’d even dare to resist him. “Spread’um.”

If you could speak at all past panic, you’d spill and tell him where it is he’d find what he must be looking for—that fucking piece of glass that’s likely spelled your ruin—but instead you’re forced to bite back a painful wheeze as the noose of his fingers flexes in your hair—a final warning not to fucking move—before he’s sinking low behind your trembling form. Large, gruff hands mapping every inch of you. Impatient in their search. Delved and pressed to every inch of your shape, ankles to neck; peeling you apart until there’s no place left for you to hide, no place left sacred.

Uncomfortable heat rushes up your neck and ears at the thorough roughness of his search, especially as one hand rises up between your legs, giving you a squeeze upon assuring you have nothing to hide there other than that heat he longs to make a meal of—cinching your already panicked thoughts that much more heady and tight.

“Comed up clean,” he says of his search, risen to full height again behind you. “What a surprise.”

His hand’s gripped tight on your skull again; shoving you flat to the drywall to keep you in place.

“What’d you chew yer leash with, honey?” he asks, each syllable more saw-toothed than the one before. “You turn it over now, an’ maybe I don’t slit you navel tuh neck with it ‘fore I put you in the ground.”

Fear unfurls your heart; infects your every nerve.

“I-… I—I found a piece of glass,” you waver to explain, and something like a snarl bates his breath; his upper lip risen in ire.

“Found it, huh?” he asks, tone toying some dangerous line. “How fortuitous… An' where might I find this fortuitous, glassy friend'uh yours?”

Shakily, you glance to that busted mannequin beside you, and Coyle tongues the burnt edge of his lips as he tilts his head toward it.

“Now why you gotta go an’ bring Garth into this?” he asks, his interest back on you. “He’s a good man. Was, a good man.”

Oh. Your cellmate has a name.

This crazy fuck is absolutely delusional—you need to get away from him, he—!

“‘N I s’pose this planned, little escapade of yours included leavin’ me high ‘n dry with naught but my dick in my hand when next I come around just tuh find you up an’ gone, without so much as a partin’ word, no “thank you for takin’ me in, Sir”, no tender ‘n sweet goodbye…” If a tone could coil like a snake, his would be seconds from striking. “Is that about right, sweetness?”

Your jaw clenches tight against the wall the harsher his hand that's fisted in your hair grinds you into it.

“I don’t like bein’ played fer a fool, sugar,” he says. “‘N I have a real short tolerance fer bein’ fucked with.”

He barely lends you space enough to breathe, let alone respond to him. Your helpless attempts to somehow defend yourself faltered as he peels your face back. Twisting your ear back to his lips, so his graveled words can better find you; better steep you in his torment.

”Thought I could keep a house pet,” his rockslide cadence drips roughly down your neck. “What can I say—the idea was temptin’. Especially with a hot little number like you, ’cause lemme tell ya… You really get me goin’. Get me achin’ to set you straight... It ain’t right what you do to me, sweetness. That devil in you gets me actin’ all kind’s ‘uh lecherous.”

His bearded mouth scrapes the shell of your ear, rousing a shudder through you; a tremble you fight against showing.

“But I’m afraid I’m a man of my word,” he softly utters. “Yer out of second chances. Out of what you lacked from the very start. ‘N regardless of what I’d hoped for… turns out you can’t tame a wild animal. Damn thing’s just refuse to come to heel, regardless ‘uh how many times you beat their sorry asses down.”

He’s so impossibly close. Inhabiting every inch of you. Pouring wicked words inside your head, and it's the only way you hear how soft his grating murmur sinks to.

“Can’t let’um go, neither,” he hoarsely breathes. “Sorry thing’s just can’t survive out there, all on their lonesome, after livin’ locked up... sheltered n' safe in captivity…”

You can feel the disproportion between the pity in his words and the thirst upon his predatory lips.

“There's not much else to do but put the sorry things down…" he says of you; his nervous pet. "Spare them their existential misery.”

As what that might mean for you sinks slowly past your nerves, panic beats even your fiercest edges flatter. Has any pride you have left lost to the mud as you hear yourself stammeringly insisting, “W-wait! I—I… I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t–” That name he insists you call him—one of many—recoils like acid at the edge of your throat, but you keep going. “Please do-n’t… don’t... put me down, I–I didn’t mean to—!”

Your words clip off with a wheeze as he shoves your face to the wall again.

“Yer beggin’ has its way with me, sugar,” he coarsely says. Seeming to weigh in his mind just what to do with you—his ill-behaved pet. “But it won’t save you this time.”

And yet you seek so desperately to be saved—playing the only card it feels you have left to you.

“I-I'm… I–I wasn’t thinking—I was sc-ared, I—”

You’re shoved too close to so dangerous an edge not to cling to any word that might spare you—pull you out from this hole that you’ve dug before he makes it your grave. Desperation wielding you in its ruthless palm, the same way he does.

“I'-m so sorry, Of-Officer, I… I can be good… I… I can be a good dog…”

You’re forced to swallow hard against how much it burns your tongue, comes out thick with buried loathing as you fight to keep it all down.

“I’ll be good for you, S-Sir, I just… Please don’t hurt me, please don't… please don’t get rid of me, I… I didn't mean to… I d-don’t… Please… I wanna be good for you…" Your pitiful voice fogs the drywall. The column of your neck screaming its pain at such distortion as you weakly fight to crane your neck and hold his gaze. “Please… I’ll be good for you… I'm sorry… I'll be a good dog for you…”

You hope it’s a compelling enough show. One that persuades him you’re already halfway tamed to worshipping the ground he walks on, which you’re definitely not, and yet too much about this feels real. Too much you refuse to give thought to.

He's silent for a time as he lets your begging drain out. Watching you with an intensity burned from the coal of his lenses.

“Sorry ain’t the kinda thing you can prove with words,” he gruffly breathes at length. “And yer not near as sorry as yer gonna be.”

He eases himself away from how he cages you in, like he knows you’re too weak and scared to bolt, even if you weren’t chained in place. And as you dare enough to tremulously turn and face him—doing so slowly, so you can stop if even his slightest, minute disapproval halts you in place—you watch as he rolls his barreled, leather shoulders. The breadth of him veined in cords and wires; a dangerous machine of a man.

“You hungry?” he asks; barely looking at you. Yourself tensing at the motion of him casually reaching across himself—afraid of everything he might do, though he merely slips a cig from the strap at his hip where he stores them like shells for a shotgun. Strung on the same side he pins his badge on—that badge he’s used to chew people up, spit them out or swallow them in whatever his previous life before this Murkoff hell, or so you’ve begun to suspect after spending so much fucked-up time with him. Lighting it up on the blue heat of his baton, still tethered as it sparks at his hip. Its ember sizzled between rough fingers and rougher lips as he draws down a lungful of fumes.

When you don’t answer, he flashes a wolf-toothed grin.

“I like you just fine, sweetness,” he says whilst exhaling that smoke. Leisured, like his stance. Something about that show you’ve performed inspiring some ease in him; a gate before whatever chaos lies beyond it. “But’chyou know that. Hell, I reckon you take advantage. But that’s the game we play.” His strong jaw slants to one side in adjusting that fire on his lips. “You push. I shove. And I been a certain amount of lenient to that. But if you don't know by now that I'm winnin’ every damn time, you're a helluva lot stupider than I thought. And it’s more’n clear to me that leash of yers ain’t tight enough.”

He sucks in sizzled black; the machine of him fueled by it. Light burned across the mirror of his lenses.

“Idle hands…” he slowly muses; gruff between his teeth. “Yer a toy that keeps mine busy. Keeps my every machination more’n occupied with all these sinful things I think up to have you do next…”

Even trained as you are in his vision, his focus feels further to hone. To drag across whatever cracks you seek to hide in your wilted expression.

“I ain't interested in’uh dog that’s prone to bite each time I fuckin’ feed it,” he says. “Dog like that’s only good for one thing, and it ain’t the sort’uh thing I need.” He taps off the ash from his cig. “But I digress, sweetness, ‘cause you ain’t even answered my question yet.”

He keeps you steadied in his gaze. And, blinking thick, you’re frazzled enough to eventually ask him, “What… what question…?”

He slowly smiles.

“Been a while since last I fed you,” he says, and it has been. More than a day, you think, though it’s hard to keep track in this horrible place. “Ain’t that right?”

You really don’t like where this could be going, seeing as how him being nice just isn't a thing. Then again, he hasn’t killed you or dragged your intestines out from a gash he’s carved belly to throat, so the prospect of feeding you isn't such a bad alternative…

He seems to actually be awaiting your response, allowing you patiently to speak, and so you hesitantly shake your head. Too afraid of what idea he must be spinning to hungrily accept. A painful ache in your stomach reminding you of just how long it’s been since last you ate.

His bearish, humored exhale does nothing but feed your dread.

“Don’t be modest, now,” he croons. “Brought my favorite bitch some dinner.”

He rolls his neck as you hear him siccing up gravel from his throat. Sucking up spit from the cragged depths of it, before he’s crudely hocking all that foul wetness on the ground before his boots.

“Eat up,” he growls.

You stare down at his ‘meal’ in nauseated horror. Though even now, when pressed so close to death, you can’t seem to make yourself move.

“Darlin’,” he lowly says, idle in its warning. “You really don’t wanna test me right now… And if you wanna stay in my house, you eat what I fuckin’ serve you.”

It’s enough to rekindle the strength of your will to live, to somehow escape him. Warring to keep some shred of calm after swallowing down what little pride you still have left that he hasn’t stolen.

You fight through revulsion before you finally, weakly manage lowering yourself down to your hands and knees. Refusing to look his way, not wanting to see the assured smirk upon his devil's face as you glare with fear and malice instead at his black-toed feet. Crawling over to him like his fucking dog as you hear him idly above you chuckling.

It's so hard to keep this act going. Especially as you stop and stare at his meal of phlem, the gristle of it wet on the filth-encrusted ground. Stomach seizing before you eventually glance up at him, like you're hopeful he might change his mind, but he seems disinclined to let this end for even as long as it’d take to blink. His salt-specked jaw set firmly with his own brand of hunger; that smile of his so softly hinting his rugged lips.

“What’chya waitin’ for, honey?” he asks, his ire with you baring its teeth. “Ain’t you hungry?”

Your gut’s further clenched as you eye that spit he’s served. But you don’t have a choice but to please him—you never did, not since you became his.

Obedient.

Pathetic.

This is what you are now.

What he’s made you, as you grovel down like he wants. Extent your tongue and lap up the charred taste of everything he gave you. Doing your best to ignore how tight your stomach's cinched, how fierce you gag, before you manage to roughly swallow it all down. Fighting not to think about whatever grime’s still stuck to your tongue, refusing to strip away as you swallow against waves of bile.

His laugh above your bowed-down, submissive head is gravel in his throat. A humored God from on high—your God, if you want to survive long enough to escape him. And you will escape him. You’re not sucking his spit down just to keep on being his dog.

You'll make it out of here. You will, you'll—

“Well look’ at’chyou,” he softly croons; the beast of him cleverly sated. “A well-behaved bitch if ever I seen one.”

Hate has your insides even more fiercely curling.

You will get out of here. You will. You’ll do whatever you have to in order to make it out of this hell alive; to make it away from the hell of him. And as you fight to keep down the meal he’s given, you can't help but glance up, fearful and sharp, at the motion of him reaching for that wisping cig gruffly perched at the corner of his lips. Sucking down and expelling exhaust as his pale eyes cling to you from behind their reflective black. Your body tensed as he sinks into a fluid crouching right before you. Height still towering over your own, even now; knees jut wide in his casual stance, with you so stricken by surprise to have him watching you at somewhat your own level that you bite back a sound that flinches up your throat, wary as you are of whatever new onslaught of pain he might present you, that he seems to hold back on.

His blacked-out stare sinks inside your fearfully wavered one, with you too tense to shift away from it.

“Could be yer lyin’ to yerself with all this bullshit you try ‘n spin,” he hoarsely rumbles. Pinning you there with that look alone. The wired-up and kitted bridge of himself lording over you with a discomforting brand of certainty.

“But you ain’t lyin’ to me.”

He sucks down a blackened breath as his cigarette burns upon his lips; lets the smoke of it curl from his nostrils.

“I know you’ll be a good dog for me, regardless of what you believe,” he says. “I know you will. ‘Cause I’ll make you.”

With a gruff hand, he plucks the cig from his half-burned lips. Dumps the ash of it in the air atop your head; cinder felled like snowflakes on your grimacing face, and he thrums at the mess he makes of you beneath him; at the filth of it painting your skin. His interest boring holes through charcoal lenses.

“Open yer fuckin’ mouth,” he huskily demands. “Stick that pretty tongue out.”

You absolutely do not want to do that. But as the black, reflective voids of his glasses stares you down, severity marring his half-burned features, you clench against fear and slowly force your tongue out, just as he's instructed. As much as you can seem to make it ease from your fretfully parted lips, anyway.

He slowly grins. Idly douses the glowing ember of his cig on your hesitant tongue; its cinder hissing as it meets the wetness your mouth provides it, with you wincing at the sting. A form of hunger in him feeling caged, locked up in himself as his focus roves across the shape of your mouth—your outstretched tongue, your parted lips—the sodden ashtray he’s made of it. Thrumming at the show; unfed thunder in his throat.

“‘N just when you got me thinkin’ you ain’t worth the trouble you cause,” he hoarsely purrs. “You tempt me right back with that sweet, invitin’ mouth’uh yours, and the heaven n’ hell therein…”

Flicking his tongue-wet cigarette aside, he takes your jaw in his hand. Drags it up more; close to his. Leans in and lets his parted lips ease across yours, so close you can taste his engine’s heat.

“I tell ya… It’s amazin’ the way a little excitement can focus a man’s attention,” he roughly says. Clenching your jaw like you’re a chalice he longs to drink from, though he tensely resists; a facet so unlike him and his usual brand of greed that it’s hard to find relief in it. Like you’re still caught in the silence before whatever storm he’ll bring. “Truth be told… there’s times you make it hard tuh focus on anythin’ other’n the ways I twist n’ tear you open inside my head…"

Time drags as he keeps you there before him. Sends your heart to your throat, your pulse to your ears. Until, at length, he eases his touch from how it seeks to brand his calloused fingers to your skin. Voice serrated when next he speaks; holding the weight of soon punishing sin.

“Let’s go fer a walk.”

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