hozierbabymomma

[hozierbabymomma]

Holy actual fuck 😃 i- like- idek man just slay...

COME AND KENNEDY ME ; ledger!joker/fem!reader (18+ smut)

listen to the playlist here

You are a young and up-and-coming journalist at The Gotham Times, when a unique opportunity presents itself. But who could have guessed that your interview with Gotham's most famous criminal would have such grave consequences?

word count: 25k

warnings: fem!reader, dubcon/non-con, manipulation, psychopathy; partially set at Arkham Asylum and thus: canonically dated depictions of mental illnesses/insufficient and harmful treatment; (imagery of) blood and violence, murder, imagery and discussion of anarchism and social injustice, nihilism; heavily undernegotiated kinks: unprotected sex (don't do this at home), age gap (reader is in her 20s, joker is in his mid 30s), power play and power dynamics, choking, spanking, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, name calling, corruption kink, knife kink, name carving, bruises and cuts, unsanitary treatment of wounds, rough sex, phone cameras/taping, pain play, sadism/masochism if you blink, teensy-tiny bit of forced anal fingering, multiple orgasms; you're a journalist, set between batman begins and the dark knight; features a cameo of Carl from Joker (2019) bc I love love love Brian Tyree Henry

a big ty to you nialler, for letting me yap to you days on days on end about this fic; this is for mel who didn't know I was writing this and holds such a deep deep adoration for Gotham and the Joker soo, yeah girlie this one's for you <3

Next stop: Arkham East. Exit to the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum -Thank you for travelling with Gotham City Railway! the automated voice chirps, as the trolley comes to a squeaking halt. The dented and tagged silver doors stutter open.

Cold air that smells faintly of autumn - rain and fallen leaves - caresses your face in a cool breeze, as you set your feet onto the dirty concrete of the train station. Behind you, the train chimes once as it takes off slowly - clattering and groaning - leaving you by yourself.

Your hand is still wrapped around today’s issue of The Gotham Times that you had taken when you left the editorial office earlier. Looking down upon it, the headline glares at you in thick, black letters - Bruce Wayne to Lose Fortune on Wall Street .

A small smile curls around your lips. Looks like he finally got what was coming for him. Throwing the paper into the nearest bin, you walk along the completely deserted El-train station, until you eventually descend the stairway and cross the street. After a short stroll you come close to the hospital.

You have never been here before, but it looks as looming and ominous as people usually make it out to be. The building raises and raises and raises into the concrete-grey sky in an equally washed out white. The windows are secured with two layers of thick iron bars, and you can hear electricity cackling over the metal. Moving through the open yard - where, next to a memorandum, an information plaque guides you left to the reception and visitor's area – a cold breeze makes you shiver.

Inside, you’re greeted by a chipped and faded wall paint, dry heater-warmth and the empty faces of relatives in the waiting area. At the reception desk, a young man (whose name tag introduces him as Carl) takes your personal information, and your press-card. He seems nice but overworked: in the very distinctive way employees in a chronically understaffed department, that only ever offers jobs on minimum wage, look.

A cheerful service announcement, crackling over speakers, informs the visitors that Everybody knows the stories of the so-called Supervillains that have been treated here. But that is only half the story; our low security wings are for normal but troubled individuals who seek a safe haven for recovery. We offer a wide range of medical, surgical, diagnostic and wellness programs in our state-of-the-art facilities. The staff at Arkham Asylum is happy to help you on all matters of the brain!

You look through the leaflets and brochures on the reception desk, learning that Arkham Asylum offers internships, while Carl registers you and informs a psychiatrist of your arrival. You pocket one flyer for your article.

"Your papers, please", Carl eventually says, typing away on an outdated thick, block-like white keyboard.

"Papers?", you echo, confused.

"Yes, like, your ID?"

Oh, you mouth, nodding, trying to silence the nagging question of why your press-pass won't suffice. Wordlessly sliding it over the counter, he takes it from you and exchanges it with a clipboard.

"Please fill in your personal information and sign the last page", Carl says mechanically. Skimming through the pages you fill in the blanks: Name, age, gender, address, workplace address, nearest living relative and phone number of said nearest living relative --, what?

You turn the page and come face to face with an insurance policy. It reads: The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane does not and under no circumstances assume liability for any damage caused to you in this facility. This includes but is not limited to serious bodily harm, minor bodily harm, permanent damage, physical limitations and loss of life. In case of a complaint, please contact

You realize the clerk is looking at you. "Does everybody get to sign this?", you ask, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably.

"No", he says.

You know what this means.

"Does this, like, happen often?"

"What?"

"Death. Do visitors die?"

Carl shrugs. Great. That probably means Yes.

You remind yourself, and quite desperately: This is good for your career. You got incredibly lucky that the doctor called you. Maybe, there will be a promotionawaiting you in the end. A higher salary. You could move out of your shitty apartment in Crown's Point.

Don't be such a pussy.

You take a deep breath - and sign the policy. It is not like you have much of a choice. If you screw this up in any way, shape or form you might as well just ask The Riddler if he could kill you himself. Might be better than your boss tearing you a new one.

The keyboard clacks again and you slide the clipboard over the counter. Carl takes it, gives his monitor another look. When his gaze lands back upon you, something in his facial expression has changed. He looks genuinely worried. "I have to inform you, that you are not allowed to take any sharp objects with you. That includes - uh - pencils."

"I brought a dictaphone."

"Alright, I'll call Doctor Quinzel then and let her know you're ready."

Doctor Harleen Quinzel, MD, turns out to be a woman around your age, with bright eyes and a friendly smile. She seems genuinely happy to finally meet you in person, after having spoken to you on the phone a few times. She leads you through narrow, sparsely lit corridors with high ceilings, and through heavy security doors that include various verification processes. It feels like being dragged through a maze and you turn around more than once, trying to remember the way back out.

After passing through multiple metal-enforced doors and by guards armed with automatic machine-guns, you come to halt in front of yet another reception desk. This time barred behind thick, reinforced glass. A woman, glasses deep on the tip of her nose, looks up. "Yes, Doctor?"

"The journalist has arrived. Here to see", she makes a small pause, nearly undetectable, "Patient 11940."

The woman raises an eyebrow and sighs, gives you a quick once over. She seems hesitant - unsure as she looks back at Dr Quinzel - and eventually, because just like you she does not have much of a choice, says: "I'll let you through."

Behind the door, a female officer awaits you and gives you a pat-down after ushering you through a metal detector. She takes your personal belongings from you and stores them in a metal box right next to the door of the visitation room, where a guard with a locked and loaded submachine gun stands. The only things you are taking with you are your dictaphone and a page you have torn out of your journal.

"There is a button inside, on the right side of the booth. If you want to get out, please, do not hesitate to push it", Doctor Quinzel's mouth smiles a friendly smile, but her eyes do not. She opens the door - "You have one hour” – that falls into the lock heavily behind you.

You got this.

Your footsteps echo off the grey walls as you enter the visitation room. It is mostly lit by the glowing emergency exit sign above the door you just came through. A window on your side of the room lets some of Gotham's finest gloomy light through, illuminating the grey plastic chair in front of the dirty glass pane - stained with dust and unidentifiable liquids - in a straight line of pale, feeble light.

The room is split in half by a trusty standard issue of prison non-contact visit appliances. Sitting down on the chair, an uncomfortable and hard shell, you look at the counter in front of you. On the right side you find a red button, a real fucking panic button, that immediately catches your attention.

You hope you won't need this one. In the middle of the desk a small drawer is embedded into the metal plated wood, like the ones they have at the bank teller's of Gotham National. You test it, discovering, that it allows you to pass items from one side to the other.

The image of him passing a ticking time-bomb to your side and holding the drawer shut flashes before your minds-eye. You physically shake away the image by shaking your head - once twice - before switching on the dictaphone and placing it inside the shute, levelling it in the middle underneath the glass so it will be able to catch both voices.

You can feel your heart pounding heavily in your chest, your stomach turning with nausea. The door on the other side opens, accompanied by a sharp alarm that pulls you out of your thoughts abruptly.

The man emerging, flanked by two heavily armed and armoured guards, is tall and lanky, but muscular, nonetheless. He is wearing a hideous white and orange striped jumpsuit, that reminds you more of a prison than a psych-ward - the colour clashes with his outgrown green hair. The print on the front gives him away as a prisoner of the Intensive Treatment Department, Maximum Security.

They sit him down, shackle his hands to the table and he lifts his head, looks at you.

Patient 11940. The Joker.

They even let him paint his face. How nice.

Before you can help it, your memory comes back to you in violent flashes. You were in your first semester at Gotham University when he wreaked havoc upon the city, and they closed your university down during the height of his reign. His painted face had been everywhere, plastered on television and the front pages of the newspapers. People barely went out if they didn’t have to, and you vividly remember the anxiety you had felt every single time when leaving your tiny flat. It took you a long long time to feel safe in the walls of your apartment and the buzzing clubs of Gotham's vibrant nightlife again after they eventually locked him up.

It all comes back to you, the gruesome images, and terror crawls up your spine. Blood and gore splayed over the pavements, people dangling from skyscrapers, hospitals laying in ruins. The fear suddenly paralyzes you, your mouth running dry.

He leans forward and you jerk back in your chair, metal scraping over the dirty concrete floor. He licks his lips, eyes flickering over your form as he gives you a quick once over. "Well, hel-lo, princess."

A weak impression of a smile flickers over your face as you try not to stare at him – but it is difficult to focus on anything but his ghostly white face and the mocking grin. Your anxiety is a thick lump in your throat that refrains you from taking deep breaths, not allowing you to speak. Your chest heaves and heaves and heaves, your hands breaking out a cold sweat, heart hammering away in your chest.

You think of the hostages. The masked men posing as the Batman, killed for their courage (or was it foolishness, believing the city to be capable of change?). The policemen. You think of the way he had killed them all. The videos of the abuse they endured flickering over your television. You wonder how he would kill you.

Tilting his head, the Joker's eyebrows twitch confusedly. Looks at you, while you are just sitting there, silently. A minute passes by. And another. "Aren't you going to uh", he raises his hands, chains and handcuffs clinking as he gestures vaguely, "Say anythin-g?" Pops the g. Grins. The pasty make-up around his lips crinkles, shows the scars beneath.

They draw your gaze in, and you swallow. You wonder if he did that to himself.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Focus. Breathe. Jesus, don’t fuck this up.

Nodding, before clearing your throat and grabbing your notes, you look down on the sheet of paper in front of you, "Yeah, yeah, sure”. Your hands are shaking. He tilts his head, chains clinking as he lays his forearms down onto the counter infront of him to learn forward. His voice is deep, sultry and velvety, as he speaks again.

"Am I your first?", he nearly whispers, licks the insides of his cheeks like he is swirling Listerine in his mouth, wiggles his eyebrows, "They say the first one is oh so special."

Your gaze shoots up, heat dropping from your shoulders down your back at the innuendo. It swirls with the anxiety in your stomach and crawls back up, sends your head into a spin.

"I will try to make it", the Joker pauses theatrically, "memorable for you."

The Joker's gaze gleams, twinkles, and a smug, provocative smile dances around his lips, his scars bending and twitching with it. His make-up is chipped at his forehead, gives away a tiny bit of tanned skin and

And that is when it hits you. Makes you feel oddly light in the face of your sure demise. He's a man. Just a man. Flesh and bone. Human.

It helps that there is reinforced glass between you. And a panic button. Armed guards just outside the door. You’re safe from him here. Nothing can happen to you.

You got this.

And you are sure as shit not going to let him win. He might be a psychopath - or whatever the fuck they diagnosed him with - but you are going to get him to speak. To answer. You are going to get what you need from him and then you will leave, never looking back. You got this.

In a few weeks’ time you will come to miss your naivete. You do not know it yet, but he will have you bent and broken in ways priorly unknown to you; and you will look back, missing the feeling, the playing pretend that he will not - cannot - hurt you. But you do not know this yet. Thus, you swallow against the dryness in your throat, take a deep breath to steady your shaky fingers.

Just a man. Just a man. Just a man.

You look at him. Straight in the eyes. Taking another breath. First question.

You got this.

"You have been in custody for -", you put on your best and steadiest facade of a professional, "Three and a half years. During the trial and your subsequent psychological evaluation, you refused to state your name. Has that changed?"

He tilts his head to one side and kisses his teeth, disappointedly. "That all you got, sugar?"

"Please, just answer the question", stern tone of your voice taking you a little by surprise. In a childish attempt to not give yourself away and let him see your own surprise, you take to looking at your notes.

Thus, you do not notice how his eyes narrow for a second, jaw twitching. You do not realize the danger you are in and that you have just signed away your fate; in a few months from now, when nuclear destruction looms, you will look back and suddenly realize. Realize this is one of your many many mistakes (taking the call from Doctor Quinzel being your first one) - but on your bruised knees with spit dripping down your chin onto your bare chest, and his cum plastered on your face you will not be able to critically evaluate your choices any longer.

"No", the Joker says, plainly. Well, seems like he won't give it to you then, either. Fair enough. You can hear him smack his lips, but you are still keeping your eyes trained on the paper in front of you - deciding to give him the cold, professional shoulder that your boss always uses on sources, and not falling for his provocations - skimming through your notes.

"Alright. Tell me", you say, gaze flicking over the numerous crimes the Joker had been convicted of, trying your hardest supressing your fight-or-flight, "Why did you do the things you did?"

A long moment passes with him staying quiet. Watching you through the glass.

"Why do you think I did it?" And that has your gaze snapping back up to him.

"You're crazy.”

He leans back, in his chair, hands flat on the surface in front of him - face full of contempt and full of bored superiority - as he looks down onto his hands; smack his lips with disappointment. Stays quiet for a looong moment, before his gaze falls on you once more, heavy. Curious.

"You wanna know what I think, sugar?", raising his brows a bit, playfully, seizes you up and down with a quick flick of his dark eyes.

"I think, we are not so different - you and I", gestures between the two of you with his hand, points at you lazily and licks his lips.

“What are you talking about?”, you hiss.

And he laughs at that - so violently, it shakes his whole frame, throws him forward first and then backwards a little - leaves him breathless when he finally says: "Oh oh oh, you uh you really haven't accepted it, huh? That you’re the bad guy, too?"

“Stop it”, you can feel your jaw tense, anger boiling in your stomach.

"Sweetheart", flashes his teeth at you, greasy red paint stuck to them, like they are covered in specks of blood – his voice sounding a lot like he's scolding a child, "You are not reporting the truth."

"I said Stop it."

The Joker giggles as he leans forward, his facial expression not mirroring the sound that leaves his throat. "You chase it. In a world that lies to itself. every. day.", he flicks his hands through the air, the chain between his handcuffs clinking, "But what you sell is uh, it's - it's fear."

Blinks at you, lets his hands sink back onto the counter. The chain clatters.

Bile claws at your throat, anger forming a tight know inside your stomach. He has no right. This motherfucker has no right to compare his mass-murdering, arrogant and sick self to you. You try to safe this town, to safe the people by letting them know what is really going on. He, oh he – fuck – he, what a --

"Shut up", your voice quivers with both - rage and fear; but as soon as the words slip over your lips you want to take them back, clutch your hands over your mouth, claw them back from the air shove them into your throat and swallow them down down down.

But he just scoots around in his chair a bit, rolls his shoulders from side to side, like he is trying to get comfortable. Then his tongue darts out, licks his lips.

"Don't be like that, sugar. I know just how you feel. It's terrifying to see the truth, isn't it?"

It’s not like you haven’t thought about it. Every single time your boss or the editors have handed back your article, demanding for a heavier, more polarizing headline so the magazine sells more copies. Economics of attention. You remember the disturbing number of times, you were asked to rewrite entire articles, use more graphic pictures, ditch a source. Working as a journalist is not what you went to university for.

Some days, sitting at the office, you wish you could bash your head in by simply thrashing it against the desk repeatedly, make a real mess out of the office – just out of sheer frustration.

"It feels like going mad sometimes, doesn't it? To watch them. They're so dumb, aren't they?", looks up to the corner of his side of the room like a cat seeing something a human cannot, his hand gesturing freely in a circular motion, "These people out there. Thinking that They. Are. Just. So. Smart. While not thinking at all - they just cling to their uh little rules. Believing that it will safe them."

"Y'see", he leans forward, chains clattering against the desk, "Gotham's the uh cancer." He gestures vaguely.

"I'm not so sure", you quip quietly but --

But suddenly, all the small examples of someone in your life doing a good deed, and not acting completely and utterly selfish when push came to shove suddenly feel - insufficient. Because they were never truly grand tales of altruism or selflessness. Never truly kindness.

It is all hollow. Depraved and meaningless.

"It has spread", he tilts his head, "Our oh so precious Civilization is uh, well rotting." Looks back at you, lips tilted in an awkward smile.

You look at him, your mouth going dry. He is not wrong. You think about the house you live in - rent is high, but there is mold in the stairwell, the yard is always dirty, and when it rains more often than not the water leaks into your walls. You think of the hand-full of fresh vegetables you can afford to buy, barely enough to nourish you, but sometimes it is all you can afford. And your salary is high, compared to those of the other people living in your apartment complex.

"This city is sick, sugar. Y’see, I’m just the fever."

"And your cure is -?", your voice sounds foreign in your ears, small and pressed.

And he gestures indifferently, smacks his lips, runs his tongue over the insides of his cheeks. "You tell me, beautiful."

You already know the answer. You have witnessed it. And you desperately want to prove him wrong - you really want to. Tell him a hundred things that one could try, could do to right all the wrongs plaguing this city. Combating child poverty? Wayne Foundation tried by constructing orphanages and shelters, but they are crumbling under the weight of increasing need. Combating crime? The police tried and succumbed to rotting away with corruption before relying on a masked vigilante, who in return caused crazed criminals like Scarecrow to run rampant. Combating the political disillusion of the citizens? Harvey Dent tried and died for it by the hands of the Dark Knight - no one else attempted it again after.

Hopelessness settles in, weighs you down like ice-cold water after being tossed in a dark and deep lake, frozen with no light inside. Words etch from your throat, before you can stop them.

"I wonder sometimes -", you look down upon your hands, clinging to the thin sheet of paper, then look back up at him. The white of his eyes huge in contrast to the dark paint surrounding them, like glowing ghostly orbs in a skull's empty cavities. "If real, genuine - well,change is possible."

"What do you mean, beautiful?", he keeps his gaze trained on you and you feel like he really listens. You scoot closer, the metal bars of your chair scraping over the stained concrete floor.

"I just--", you stumble around your words, "I'm so -." A sigh leaves your lips as you suddenly feel the weight of the world descending on your shoulders. It drags you down and your chest deflates as you let go of a breath you weren't aware of holding. "It's just so brutal out there. And no one's ever doing anything. I am wondering if, -- It's just -- sometimes I wonder if they will truly ever, like deserve it?", you lean forward, your nose close to the glass, "Change, I mean. I see all this injustice. People fucking starve, because they have to chose between food and rent. And then I hear these same people talk. See how they vote. Watch how they treat each other, and I can't help but wonder: Do they deserve change?"

And his lips curl up up up - a hyena's grin, all teeth and flesh and blood-red paint. But all you see are understanding eyes, dark pits that you're starting to lose yourself in.

"Does that make you sad, sugar?", and he tilts his chin down, looks at you through his thick, dark lashes, raises his hand like he is wants to touch you. Your own fingertips touch the bottom of the glass, right where it meets the table.

"Yeah", you say, voice small and quiet.

That's when the Joker smiles, scars pulling up up up in a spiteful grin, but all you can see are his eyes, dark brown and warm pulling you in.

And when he starts talking again, his baritone drowns all out the noise and pulls you in in in, until your forehead nearly touches the glass. The more he talks, the more you realize that he actually has a nice voice, beneath the cackling and the tone stumbling and wrapping over syllables.

Eventually, the door behind you unlocks - a heavy sound, that has you jolting back in your chair - a surprised No, I am not done yet leaving your lips but the guard insists that your visitation is over.

You turn around once more in the door frame, watching how the guards on the other side of the reinforced glass unshackle The Joker from the table and get him to his feet. He tilts his head, wiggles his fingers at you in a playful wave.

Outside the room, you expected to find Doctor Quinzel waiting for you, but she is nowhere to be seen. A guard escorts you out of the institution instead.

The air outside the asylum is cold and the sky is as grey as ever. Walking back to the train station you cannot help it: Somehow, the world seems a little bit bleaker than usual.

*

The weekend comes and goes, with you holed up in your tiny flat with its stained walls and leaky windows. His deep, coarse voice fills your apartment as you run the recording back and back and back to craft the article out of the interview.

Eventually, you only run it back to run your fingers through the folds of your cunt.

*

A week later you sit at your desk, in your crammy cubicle on the main editorial floor of The Gotham Times. The air is heavy with cigarette smoke and the ever-present smell of drying print. Your colleagues are on the phone with family members or sources; some are typing away on their keyboards furiously. You learned how to block out the noise months ago, but today it bores into your skull like a chainsaw.

You should be finishing up on an article about the newest art presentation at the Gotham Museum of Contemporary Art (tickets selling at a cheap 30 bucks each; Come on, dear working class, go and have a look at High Art that does not change your miserable lives one bit for an exorbitant fee that we will use to pay our chairmen ridiculously high bonusses), but you cannot bring yourself to care. It just does not matter. Your life seems oddly dull lately, and you stare holes into the room for minutes on minutes, eyes tracing the low-quality paint of the walls, the dried-out and long dead house plants next to the mostly always malfunctioning coffee machine. Time goes by slowly, like stale chewing gum - all tenacious and dry - and

And then the double-glass doors to the floor's hallway burst open. One of your colleagues storms in, eyes wide and cheeks red.

The beehive surrounding you comes to an abrupt halt, as he regains his breath, before coughing out: "There's been a mass-breakout at Arkham Asylum."

The anxiety of your colleagues - rising at both: sick criminals breaking from a high security ward and the next scoop lingering just around the corner - is palpable in the room.

"How public is it?", one of your colleagues stands up, phone already in hand, its beige cable dangling obnoxiously mid-air.

"Not at all, not yet - they are trying to keep it down. I -- I just had my source on the inside call me", and that is when all hell around you breaks loose. Think about throwing a bloody piece of meat - just one - into a pen of a dozen hungry dogs and then think about how they will react. You just sit there, unmoving and silent, as your coworkers rush to their phones. Cups fly, people yell, someone cries out in pain. And you, you just sit there, face blank and indifferent.

To you, it all feels strangely pointless. A few weeks ago, you would have bent over backwards for another opportunity like that but right now? Right now, you just sit there, zoning out hoping for peace and quiet to settle in soon enough.

"What the fuck is going on out here, you fuckheads?", your boss's voice cuts through the air loudly, like the bark of a feral Rottweiler. He even looks a little like one too, with his face red and nose showing signs of cocaine abuse.

The hive freezes. On the other side of the room a stack of papers whacks to the ground, files flying everywhere.

"Someone at Arkham Asylum just told Derek they had a mass break out", your colleague, Liza, says, brushing her fingers through the mess her hair has become during the past 80 seconds.

"Fucking --", he rubs his face with one hand, fingers yellow from smoking cigarettes like a chimney, "Who was over there last week to talk to the freak?"

Slowly, very very slowly multiple pairs of eyes flick over to you and you, equally as slowly - due to a mixture of intimidation and Not giving a Fuck - raise your hand.

Your boss looks at you. A little surprised.

"You?", he asks, surprise now very much audible. You simply shrug.

He looks around, at the fresh remainders of chaos that broke out seconds ago - ravaged the open space like a tsunami and his eyes land back upon you, the only person still sitting, still looking somewhat representable.

"Alright, Rookie", your boss flicks his coffee mug, some of the dark-black liquid spilling over the pristine white rim, dripping onto the wooden floor, "I want you up there at the Asylum, first thing in the fucking morning. Talk to that therapist you spoke to last week - and, for fucks sake, don't fall asleep again." He turns around, muttering something to himself about She better not embarrass us in front of clinic management, and you sigh.

You do not bother to correct him - it was Liza who had fallen at sleep in the conference room when you had the Luthor Industries whistleblower over, not you; but you just cannot bring yourself to care and simply nod instead. The rest of the day goes by in a blur, and you take note of the fact that only a very small portion of colleagues congratulate you on your scoop.

The sun is starting to set as you leave the office. After taking the sub to Midtown and shopping some groceries. The El Train is as packed as always during rush-hour and you feel like a sardine in a very sweaty can - only to be greeted by plundered shelves and a miserable, low-quality produce selection in the supermarket fifteen minutes later. Outside, a slight drizzle has settled in underneath the grey sky, like the city has caught a cold once more. A sickly, struggling poor little thing - trying its hardest not to decay underneath the heavy weight of its weakly condition. And you feel just as cranky as the city does, limbs all heavy and tired, exhaustion settling in like a thick fog. Like your self is slipping away from you, descending into the dirty mist surrounding the city.

Gotham is eating itself.

Gotham is the cancer.

It is going to swallow to you up whole next.

You trudge through the dirty streets, grey sky illuminated by the colourful advertisements and posters. You walk by some that would've sparked your interest just two weeks ago, advertising a thrilling clubbing experience at the Iceberg Lounge, as you first notice it.

The feeling.

It is strange, - a blistering cold that does not feel like it stems from the rain. It takes two more blocks and one angry junkie for The Feeling to settle in fully. It had appeared first in the subway from the office to the city, with a strange sensation crawling up up up your spine and nestling in the nape of your neck, had lingered at the supermarket with a slight unease in the back of your head.

And now, it returns in full swing - hairs on your arms standing up straight like little toy soldiers, a cold creeping up and down your body - a primal urge amidst the distant noise of honking cars, the usual number of sirens and stressed businessmen rushing by.

It is more than unnerving. It frightens you. Nearly makes you jolt, as you realize what exactly it is,

You are being watched.

Turning around in the middle of the walkway you are faced with nothing but the buzz if the city. You let your gaze wander, trying to memorize all the people surrounding you. It is impossible - some of them are rushing by beneath, opened umbrellas, entering or exiting buildings in a hurry or bumping into you, cursing you out or yelling into their phones.

You are the only person glued to the spot, right there on 5th street with Gotham pulsing lively, simply floating by. You turn around your axis - bicycles, taxis, stressed mums with strollers, expensive suits, homeless people, glowing advertisements, laughing teenagers, drug addicts fetching the next dose - it all becomes a blur. The usual, ordinary hum of the city beneath all the dirt and the shiny nightlife that slowly comes to life like creaking wheels of a stuttering machine.

However, the feeling remains, a primal tingling of your senses, and you stagger backwards ("Watch where you’re fucking going, bitch"), trying to get rid of it with a quick shaking of your head. You must be losing it.

You blame it on the incredibly strong coffee at the office that often gave you cold sweats and a sore stomach in the past, and thus, you shake of the unease as you hurry up the stairs to catch the train to your apartment. The trains are emptier now and you spend the ride looking at the advertisements, messily glued to the angular walls of the wagon. Ghost in Grey with Basil Karlo will arrive in cinemas later this month. In the back of the carriage, someone weeps. No one bats an eye, and neither do you.

Sighing, you eventually let the door of your apartment fall shut; locking it behind you, the door chain snapping in place. You feel safer that way. Throwing the keys into the small bowl - pottery, hand-painted by your friend as a Christmas present (she had moved to Metropolis a long time ago and sent this in a small, beat-up package) - that sits on the tiny desk next to your apartment door, you fall against the thin wood with a heavy thud.

You close your eyes, taking deep breaths. Once. Twice. And a third one.

You are home. Gotham and its insanity are locked out just outside of your apartment, running rampant out of sight and out of earshot and you relish in the complete and utter silence of your place for a few more breaths. It is calming. It is peaceful.

Your body feels weary and heavy as you eventually pick up the paper bags and carry them over to your small kitchenette, setting them down on the freestanding kitchen unit extending into the room which you have lovingly (and in longing of a higher wage) dubbed The Isle. This is where you mostly have breakfast, since your flat is too small to fit a whole dinner table. Mechanically, you start with taking your shoes off along with your jacket - dropping them into their respective places by the door - before returning to the kitchen to unpack the groceries. You just put the jug of milk away and started to rinse the apples in the sink as -- thud.

A sound that didn’t seem like it came from the neighbour's flat but rather

oh, oh no.

Your breathing goes flat, then stills completely as you hold it in, in a fully futile attempt to be quiet as a mouse. Besides the thundering of your heartbeat the flow of water from the tap is all you can hear, but it sounds muffled and far away as adrenaline spikes and spikes and spikes in your body, triggering your fight or flight. Your body opts for a secret, third choice, and decides to fully freeze instead.

Thud. Thud thud.

Someone is inside your fucking apartment. There is another fucking person inside of your motherfucking apartment. You can hear the footsteps so clearly, they sound like earthquakes rattling the building or bombs going off.

The same cold, unnerving feeling that you felt during the afternoon now creeps up your spine once more and you look around frantically for a knife or a pan or maybe you are lucky and a loaded gun found its way onto your kitchen counter - but it is hardly effective to only search with your eyes, hands still wet and aching from the increasingly cool water, all the while clutching to an apple.

At least you could throw that one. You consider how much time that would buy you. A second? Two? Depends on the hit, you assume.

Thud. Thud.

The steps draw closer and then the floorboards of your living room, that opens up into your small kitchen, squeaak.

There's no way to make it to the door, unlocking the chain and the lock in time to escape, even if you manage to slip past the intruder. You want to scream, but your mouth is too dry and your muscles are too tense as fear paralyzes your body. You have heard stories like these - for fucks sake, your colleagues write about shit like this. Young woman, home alone, robbed abused beaten. Killed. It is what this city runs on, the pure and only fuel in its gears: pick up the weapon or become the target.

You think about screaming. You think about running. But the primal parts of your brain remind you, that depending on the threat, you might actually be able to fight. And thus, clutching the apple like an anchor and shutting the tap off, you turn around.

You come face to face with a man standing next to the kitchen isle. Curly hair frames his strong face, and he just looks at you and looks at you and looks at you - while your apple drips water onto the floor; before he raises a hand, chain on his dark jeans jingling with the sudden movement, wiggles his fingers at you.

It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to recognize him. Well, in your defence: He does look differently. For one, he is not wearing that hideous Arkham Asylum-Standard Orange anymore but a modern dark green, which suits his complexion considerably better. Speaking of which --

He is tall. Taller than he looked at visitation. And he is not wearing any make-up. At all. His face is bare, a soft tan tone with dark circles under his eyes. He looks surprisingly, terrifyingly human in your small flat, illuminated by the warm and small light sources.

You do not know what you expected. No, wrong - you had clear expectations, but they weren't like

Like this.

You thought his face would be mutilated beyond recognition underneath the thick paint, an ugly swirl of meat and flesh, like people said Harvey Dent must have looked like after the Batman had been done with him. But the man standing in front you does not look like he has just escaped a horror cabinet (or a clinic, if one wants or dares to count Arkham Asylum as an actual medical hospital, instead of a torturous prison). His face does bare some pretty features. His eyes seem softer without the dark paint surrounding them, dark brown that sparkle like molten honey in the warm light of your kitchen, and he has quite a strong jaw with prominent cheekbones. His cheeks have a rosy tint to them, despite him looking like he hasn’t slept in days.

He looks like the type of man you would sit next to on the subway. Like someone you would not mind approaching you in a café. He looks like the type of man you want to spend a second glace on. Despite the Glasgow scars, contorting the lower half of his face into a sadistic mockery of a smile.

Nevertheless, you feel hot and stalked beneath his gaze, like he is going to lash forward any second and rip you apart, feast on your intestines like the Hyena he is. You know he is dangerous. And, he has found a way into your flat.

Looking at you, he slooowly drops his hand and tilts his head. And when you do not move, not even an inch, not even a muscle, his lips start to move instead.

"Hel-lo, sugar", he grins, flashes his teeth, licks the corner of his mouth.

"Oh my god", is all you manage to finally breathe out, words leaving your mouth like spillways, your blood running cold.

"Mh", he makes a small sound, like he is considering something, before deadpanning, "Not quite. Bu-t, I do appreciate the uh sentiment."

Your frontal lobe tingles with anxiety, as you are glued to the spot. Your mouth feels dry and like cotton, as you draw in a breath hectically.

"What do you want?", you say, hand clutching the apple tighter, voice shaky from the scream you are holding back.

He toys around with the few things standing around on the bar counter, rearranges them absentmindedly. "I was just checking in on your uh article", he lifts the candleholder up, weighs it in his hands, "It wasn't in the paper yet, our-"

Looks at you, voice dancing around the syllables freely, tastes the word on his tongue, smacks it,

"Our little cha-t."

"It's at the editors." You can feel shakes rippling at the edges of your body as anxiety rushes and pumps through your veins.

And his lips quip into a smile as he takes a step forward, looking more like he sways into your direction, the Cuban heels of his boots clicking against the wooden floor.

"Will they make big changes?"

"I don't think so", you say, sounding more like question than a statement.

"Good", he says, and you wonder why he cares.

Watching him holding the candle holder like a big fat club, you feel panic running through your veins. "Y-you need to leave", you say, trying to sound resolute and sure of yourself.

He chuckles, looks up at your through his lashes, taking another step forward.

"No", he says, playfully and sounding truly amused.

"Someone must have seen you", you try, "They must have called the police."

His eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. "What? For me?", then he grins, shakes his head and a cold crawls up your spine at the way he says: "I do no-t think so."

Then, he makes a noise like he has forgotten about something, lets the candle-holder clatter to the floor carelessly before he reaches back to the back-pocket of his dark jeans and pulls a black object to the front. He twirls it in his hand expertly, makes it snappp open and a silvery blade shoot from the black handle.

Fuck. The apple in your hand joins the candlestick on the floor, breaks in half, seeds and flesh flying everywhere.

He is going to kill you.

You flinch away from him, panic filling your every move and a sharp ringing noise in your ears.

"Scream, sugar, and I slice you up into so many little pieces, it will take them we-eks to find you."

Oh God, he is going to fucking kill you. The Joker is in your flat. Your home. And he is going to kill you.

You say the only thing you can think of, vision zeroing in on the knife: "Please, don't."

You look like you are about to cry. He wishes you would. You already turn him on so much, with your needlessly stone-faced resistance in the face of imminent danger. How you are trying so desperately to be strong. Just like you tried to remain a professional and hardened journalist last week at the asylum. Seeing you cry would make it perfect.

But he has time. You will get there.

He comes closer and closer, with deliberate strides of his long legs, twirls the blade in his hand. "Oh, I am not going to kill you", he sounds amused, and a little offended at your unimagitiveness, "It is going to be sooo much worse."

You can smell him. His scent is thick and looming; musk, grease, burned wood and gasoline. And a hint of cigarettes. Your inner journalist says: Smoker? and your inner cavewoman says: Run.

The latter wins, as your eyes wander to the window on the left instantaneously, that is just a few inches above the fire exit stairs. Maybe, if you were quick enough -

"Oh, nu-uh, doll. Do no-t even think about it", he snickers, "I'd have you gutted like a fish before you'd even reach the window."

A desperate sound escapes your throat and then he closes the distance between the two of you, crowds you against the counter. Your body jerks to the side, in a futile attempt to escape him, but he is too tall, too strong and thus, your body remains snugly pressed against the hard surface. Caged by him. It digs into your lower back unpleasantly, but you barely notice the dull pain over the thundering of your heart.

The cool blade rests against your throat. The metal feels like it is burning, etching its way into the tissues of your skin, and your body stills. You do not dare to breathe.

"Don't fret", his lips curl up up up, amplified by the scars, "I just wanna talk, given how much we both enjoyed our last conversation, hm?" Clicking his tongue, he tilts his head to the side.

Towering over you and crowding you against the kitchen counter, he looks down upon you. The scars on his face are prominent, drawing in your gaze. You gulp. Your mouth feels dry and your brain frantically searches for ways to get Help.

"Looks like someone's afraid of little ol' me", he shakes his head, eyes darting over your face, and then he grins like a cheshire cat, knowingly, "Oh oh oh, I really wouldn’t uh scream, if I were you, sweetheart."

You say nothing, his words barely reaching your brain - suffocated in a thick wave of panic settling in as his tone and the knife pressing against your throat - as you watch his tongue licking the left corner of his mouth.

"Your neighbour wouldn't like that, would she?", what.

Your eyes grow wide in horror as you realize. You remember climbing up the stairs just a few minutes ago, every step heavy as if you were carrying the world's weight on your shoulders. Unopened letters on her doormat. No sound of her children yelling behind the closed door.

"No", you say, voice small and defeated. She is a single mother. Her children need her. You shake off the thought that maybe her children are dead already. A shiver climbs up your spine, ice cold, but you suppress a shiver given the sharp blade pressing against your thundering aorta.

He tilts his head, eyelids fluttering in mock thoughtfulness as he looks up at the ceiling. "I wonder where she went."

"No, please -- please", and he tuts, looks back at you.

"Sh sh sh", presses the blade right below your jaw and your head tilts back with it, trying to flee the impending hurt, death. His other hand grabs your head at the crook of your neck - hard - and holds your head in place.

And your thoughts race, while your breath goes flat, heavy. This is your fault. You should have never followed the invitation of the asylum. You should have stayed away. You will have her killed. You will have yourself killed.

It is your fault.

His deadly hands keep you in place, as he leans in. "Do you want to safe her?"

"Let her go, she has nothing to do with -"

"You have something I want. And you are uh going to give it to me, do you understand?"

You make a desperate, small voice in the back of your throat. Unsure. Afraid. You cannot move, cannot think - all that exists on your mind is the knife, and his hands accounting for dozens of deaths holding you in place.

"Do you understand, sugar?"

You stare at him, mind racing, your brain cooking up images of her tied to a chair and --

His hand grabs your chin forcefully, so hard you yelp, and throws your head back, makes it collide with the hanging cabinet behind you. Pain blooms at the back of your skull and shoots to the front, makes your vision black out for a split second.

You choke out a strangled and pained scream, sacking backward and into yourself a little as but his grip on your chin is so strong, and his arms so strong, that he pulls you back up - repeats the assault. Your head hits against the cabinet once more, the sound of your skull meeting the cheap wood echoes in your head as the world in front of your eyes turns upside down and then pitch-black. You feel fuzzy and blink, sucking in desperate breaths as the world around you is turning turning turning slipping in and out of blackness, before your vision anchors on his face, looming above you. Tears fill your eyes, hot and stinging, as pain dances through your skull - from the back of your head to your jaw and back - zig-zaging so heavily that you feel like vomiting.

"I said", scolding, exasperated, "Do you understand?"

"Don't --", you sob, in agony and pain, "Please, don't hurt her, please." And when it does not seem to get through to him and his grip on your head tightens once more, you add, head spinning: "I-- I'll do whatever you want."

The corners of his scared mouth turn up and into a smile that bares teeth, as his gaze sets upon you with sick arousal gleaming in his eyes at your crying, your hurt sounds.

Oh, he is going to enjoy this. He is going to enjoy breaking you. This will probably be the most fun thing he is going to do all week, except of skinning that one guard at Arkham alive and plugging the other’s eyes out with his bare hands, but still - you will be a lot of fun.

He hooks his index finger beneath your chin, tilts your head up until you have nothing else to set your eyes on than him, before sweetly whispering: "Look a-t me, sugar."

Your eyes are huge with fear and a little glossy, distant with pain and the fuzziness that usually comes with blows to the head. His hand cups your jaw gently, rests his forehead against yours.

The gesture reminds you of a lover’s. Soft, sweet, caring. Gentle; in the way his thumb brushes over your soft skin and his gaze lands upon you. The pain, raging inside your head and his careful touch gives you whiplash, swaying against him, hands darting out helplessly and clinging to his arms; muscular and warm beneath the fabric of his hoodie. You clutch the fabric, holding on to it – to him.

“Oh, you sweet sweet thing”, his lips brush over yours, as whispers to you sickly sweet: “You need me to take of you, hm?”

You can feel him pressing against you, his heat radiating through his clothes – warm hands, his warm chest pressing against you and so does his hard, huge cock; jeans straining with its size as he presses the bulge in his pants against your lower belly. You gasp.

"Mh mh mh", he makes, a noise akin of approval, while he thrusts his hips forward, rocks into your soft belly. His dick feels huge already, half-hard, and hot and heavy through his pants. You cannot help yourself; your mouth waters, and lust pools in your loins. Oh, aren't you just fucked. Looking up at him, your eyelids flutter.

"I knew you'd want it", he whispers, all cigarette smoke, "You are - after all – nothing but a uh needy girl, aren't you?" Licks his lips.

And you now know better, you now know that if he asks you something you better reply. Thus, you nod Uh-huh, biting your lip as the praise runs through the crevasses of your brain; fires up your nerve-endings, triggering your want to please please please.

He has such beautiful eyes. Dark and strangely warm, a soft brown. You bet they looks like molten honey or fluid amber in the sunshine. You feel yourself getting lost in them, their cunning gaze that bores deep deep into your soul and you realize that you feel seen.

The knife is long forgotten as you feel yourself getting lost in his intense gaze, mesmerized by the look in his eyes, like he is looking through you. Like he knows you. Warmth pools in your stomach, spreads out to your loins sickly-sweet. No man has ever looked at you like he does.

Your head hurts. Terribly so, blood hammering against your skull and you wonder if you might have a concussion but a small, small voice in the back of your head tells you that you had it coming. For he sees you. Knows you. And it simply is your fault that he had to hurt you.

The tip of his nose brushes against yours as he lowers his gaze - all long and dark lashes - lips brushing over yours feather-lightly, as his eyes wander down your body.

The sudden loss of his closeness has you shivering - but one of his hands runs up up up your body slowly, feels you up, grabs your waist and bunching up the material of your blouse. And then, without saying much, he twirls the blade in his hand so that the handle rests against his palm securely, grabs the lapels of your blouse with both hands and tears. Rips the buttons clean off as he tugs at the fabric forcefully. You can hear seams and threads ripping and buttons ricocheting off the floor tiles, before the soft cotton sinks to the ground lazily.

The fabric rests on the kitchen floor in a pathetic little pile, torn and mangled. And you should be fuming with rage and grief - this was one of the very few proper and high-quality pieces of clothing you own, one of the very few things that make you look like a true professional and you sure as shit saved up quite a while for it - but you are strangely indifferent about it. Instead, your vision zeroes in on his hands grabbing and cupping your tits; large and slender, strong hands squeezing your breasts through the lace of your bra, the edge of the knife - blade pressing flatly against the left cup of your bra - gleaming dangerously in the low lights of your kitchen.

You feel its sharp coldness through the fabric of your underwear, but instead of a fresh wave of anxiety it sends a shiver down your spine, one that pools warmly in your loins and has your panties clinging to your wet cunt.

Hooking the blade under the strap of your bra, he quickly cuts through the fabric and flicks it expertly, snaps the other strap as well - only to take the knife to the lace on the side below your armpits and slice through it as well, tossing the torn fabric behind himself. And you just do not care anymore - the cool metal feels exhilarating on your hot skin, the tingles it erupts wandering down down down your body, making your loins clench with want.

And you can hear him breathe, a little too heavy and a little too quick, as his thumbs brush over your nipples. You are so pretty. You will be beautiful once he has marked you up. He really, really wants to take his knife to your tits and slice slice slice, cut you up and cut one off, but he knows something better is in store, waiting just for him, and thus he swallows the rummaging desire to mutilate you. Even though he momentarily deeply regrets leaving his peeler at the safe house -, he dives in, hands on your tits, lips on your throat. Places open mouthed-kisses to the smooth skin, his tongue darting out and licking your salty sweat away, moves down down down over collar-bone - pushes your right tit up with his hand and flicks his tongue over your hard nipple, before closing his lips around it.

Hips bucking you gasp, the way his rough wet tongue flicks over your nipple before his lips close around it to suck, and you watch him, greasy green hair falling onto the smooth skin of your collarbone and cascading down between your chest as he leans down a bit.

You wish you could touch him. But the knife, that presses cooly against your left tit, where his thumb squeezes the bottom of it occasionally with the way his large hand cups your breast, refrains you from it. Instead, your knuckles turn white as you cling to the kitchen counter, while he takes his teeth to you nipple, already hardened under his touch like glass, scrapes them over the sensitive flesh, nibbles gently.

Your eyelids fall shut as you gasp and whine with the sensation pooling in your stomach, pleasure shooting back and forth between your tits and your cunt and you cannot help yourself; your hips roll upward, meeting his firm frame, rutting against the leg that has made his way between your parted ones.

Moaning freely, your feel him biting down carefully into the flesh of your right tit, rather playful really, and a fresh wave of wetness floods your pussy at that.

You wonder if you make his dick leak. You want to, you really do. The mental image sends your head into a tailspin and you moan sweetly, just as his tongue rubs over your nipple.

Moving your hips, you rut against his thigh, desperate for any sort of friction. You mewl, as he eventually lets go off your tit - the air hitting your sticky, saliva drenched skin cooly, licks his lips and straightens back up. Your hips continue to roll against his body, your cunt rubbing over his rock-heard, huge boner that presses hotly through his jeans.

To him you are pathetic. But he also values how much you let your instincts take over and he can feel his cock twitching with it, and thus, he decides to be generous. It will be more fun this way anyway.

Let's go off your nipple with an obscene pop, and straightens back up. You mewl in protest as he retracts his leg, crowds you with his imposing frame instead; long legs caging you in, muscular thighs pressing against your hips as he places his boots left and right from your own feet. His lips, scars, and chin are wet with saliva and the air hits your wet tit cooly, but he does not bat an eye as his gaze bores into yours, shoves his right hand down your body.

There they are again. These eyes. Regarding you so so knowingly, like he really sees you. And you are certain he does.

He runs his deadly, deadly hand over your abdomen and slips it in your panties, dips it between your legs - runs two fingers across your folds, spreads your slick. "There ya go", he murmurs to himself as your eyelids flutter, nudges your clit with his index finger. Your heart misses a beat, before stuttering back alive in an erratic rhythm, all fast paced and heavy thuds.

His touch is electrifying, makes your head swim and skin breaking out a sweat. Your hole clenches around nothing as he starts to rub your clit oh so slowly in wide, languid circles. Eyelids fluttering, you bite down on your lip, trying your hardest not to make any noise, not to grant him the satisfaction. But your body betrays you nevertheless: While his touch makes you sick - fills your gut with a retching aversion that claws and bites its bilious way up your throat - your cunt seems to think otherwise and thus, instead of turning away you lean in; body rocking forward, meeting the motion of his finger with equally slow thrusts of your hips.

And he can see it, too. The way your shoulders dip, your jaw goes just a little slack and your eyes start to gleam. There she is: The little slut he had been promised you would be. He will make you remember what you are deep down, behind the façade, and he will make it stay, make it his.

"D'you wanna take this off?", his lips dance over the shell of your ear, his voice nothing but a gravelly whisper as he tugs at the waistband of your pants, the handle of the blade brushing against your skin while his fingers brush over your hole.

And the way he touches you feels so so good. Like he has been doing this for years, night after night, knows your body better than you know it yourself. The way he touches you has a thick, suffocating heat wafting through your body, licking at your skin and making you break out a sweat of desperation. And thus, you nod, hands moving to your hips and pulling the fabric down hastily. He gives you some room, gaze darting down between your bodies, taking in your half-naked body and how his hand vanishes in your lace panties; kicks your pants to the side once they drop to the floor discarded. Your hand moves to your panties next, but the sound he makes deep in his throat has it recoiling immediately.

His fingers breach your tight entrance, push into your hole. And you whine, hips bucking as his thumb strokes your clit, fingers slooowly pushing inside you. "Sugar", his voice sounds strained, as he huffs; and then his tongue licks a fat, wet stripe over your cheek, from jaw to temple - his breath hot and damp on your skin, and the whole thing has your knees bucking, brain going crazed with degradation and lust - before his lips cling to your ear, "Aren't you just so tight? I'll never fit in, doll."

You figured. But you do not care; the knife long forgotten, body taken by a sizzling lust you cling to his forearm, eyelids fluttering. "P-please", you breathe, and his finger sinks deeper, until it bottoms out. His digits are slender and long and fit inside of you perfectly, like your cunt is just another one of his leather gloves. He curls his finger just enough to give it more room, and brush alongside where he suspects your spot. Your knees buck as a groan slips past your lips.

"Y'like this?", he murmurs, nudges your ear with the tip of his nose and he is so so close, engulfing you in cigarette smoke and gasoline, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it oh so slowly.

"Uh-huh", you huff, your brain desperately trying to remind you of Who he is.

Pulling his finger out of you, he quickly presses back in with two of them, hums lowly as he pushes past your tight entrance into your hole with more ease this time. The way you moan and gasp has him grinning, lips latching onto your throat once more for he is nothing more but a depraved animal trying to tear you apart with his teeth, tasting the rushing pulse beneath your soft skin. He cannot wait to taste your blood.

Licking over the soft, hot tissue he looks up at you - your head thrown back a little and eyes closed, a traitorous rose tint to your cheeks. You look just like you did, just as pretty, when you touched yourself in the dim lights of your bedroom. Of course, he has seen it. Knows what you did. How you came around your vibrator, whining and shaking. But he must hear you say it, too. Fuck with you a little; bring the fear back because your sweet sweet moans are already starting to bore him.

Licking his lips, he breathes against your throat, skin wet with his saliva. Draws one, two deep breaths, hums.

"Did you touch yourself, doll? Hm, couldcha not keep your hands to yourself?", sucks your skin into his mouth, scars scraping over your throat, before he lets go off it with a wet pop, "Couldn't uh hold back, thinking 'bout me, huh?"

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

Your mind goes blank, trying to process what je just said. What. How. When.

Oh my God.

It's absolutely impossible. He was locked up. How could he possibly, how how how --

Part of your racing mind verbalizes itself, between gasps as his fingers rub along your walls just right: "H-how", all high-pitched and breathy, but he just tuts at that, shuts you up with a flick of his thumb that has you moaning.

"Sh sh sh", the pads of his fingers rub along your spongy walls, "I've seen you do it. It's alright, sugar. I'm here now." And he sounds surprisingly sweet saying it, like a blanket wrapping you in, calming the storm of your thoughts down to a breeze.

However, shame burns high on your cheeks at the memory. You remember how you had plunged your favourite toy into your cunt, bent over on your bed, sirens howling outside and you had been screaming with pleasure. After, you had been mortified, unable to look at yourself in the bathroom mirror as you cleaned yourself and the toy in the sink.

"What did you had me do to you?", he hums, licks over the shell of your ear, nibbles on your earlobe, his breath hot on your cheek. You moan, strangled, as his fingers brush over your spot once more, his thumb circling your clit faster now - and, fuck it, he feels so good you need him, you need him now.

Arousal rushes through your body in thick, hit waves; your spine ablaze, loins tingling and clenching with want, a shiver running down your limbs, hairs on your arms standing up.

"C'mon sugar, you can tell me", he whispers, the grin tugging at his lips audible, your cunt squelching as his fingers speed up and Yeah, you can, it's just him just him just him

"Y-you had me bent over."

He freezes.

Fingers plunged into your hot, seeping cunt and thumb on your clit unmoving. And you whine impatiently, your hips stuttering forward, but he does not budge. Your eyes flutter open, looking at him, his green hair cascading over your shoulder and your chest; his breath fanning over your neck, steady and slow. For a long long moment all you can hear is his steady breathing and the constant ringing in your ears, and you feel suffocated by his body being so so close to yours but you need more - need him to take it all, need him inside of you.

But he just

He just laughs. A bellowing sound, a little sharp and high-pitched, that sounds like it is tearing at his throat, stealing his breath away.

"Wouldcha listen to that", he murmurs, an amused tilt to his voice that is all raspy now, clicks his tongue. His body moves against yours, as he straightens back up, presses himself against you as best as he can with his hand plunged into your cunt, and you can feel his hard cock pressing against your waist nonetheless. A grin so wide that it might tear his scars back open once more tugs at his lips, his gaze wandering over your face: pupils blown wide, eyes dark and watery, cheeks flushed. Oh, he's got you now. "D'ya still want me to do that t'you?"

And you fucking do. You can feel him spreading the inside of you wide already, an itch inside your hole that longs for him to stuff you up until you cry and wail, knees buckling. Your pussy clenches around nothing, fresh wetness flooding your folds. "Uh-huh", you make, a little lost in his dark dark eyes, heat on your skin like sweaty thick blanket, "Y-yeah, please."

You want to touch yourself - so, so badly. Your skin crawls and itches with lust all over, and you would die to run your hands over your tits, your waist, feel yourself up, and squeeze. It feels like you are going insane with need, want.

Oh oh oh, he's got you now. He cannot fight the excited little flip his stomach twirls into, his hands shake a little with it, too.

His knees trap your thighs between them, the heat of his body radiating and making you sweat. Slowly, oh so slowly, he pulls his fingers from your seeping cunt and the he reaches past your head, fingers glistening - and you think he is going to grab you by the neck, slam his lips into yours and devour you - but he opens up the cabinet next to your head instead. Humming to himself, grabs the salt purposefully - like he has been here a hundred times, cooked meals a hundred times - places it next to you on the counter. Before you can form a question, he smacks his lips, mutters "Y'know, I've been wondering for a while now what you need so much cinnamon for", rummages through your spices, before throwing the door shut decidedly. There's a quiet clicking noise somewhere in the vicinity as he moves a bit, but all you can do is stare at him.

"Alright, babygirl", he leans in, his face so so so close it feels like you are drowning in his fucking eyes, before his nose nudges your cheek and his tongue licks over your lips, "Let's get to it." He grins wolfishly, and then something cold touches your lower belly, a few inches over your hipbone.

"Wh-what", you make, your head spinning, as you look down and --

No.

No.

No no no no

The words - all protest, all desire of survival - gets stuck in your throat, as the tip of the knife presses against your smooth skin; he looks at you intently, as he digs it in. Breaks the skin. You suck in a sharp breath, a small, pained whine escaping your lips. He is going to gut you. Like a fucking fish.

You half expect him to bury the knife up to the hilt in your belly in one swift motion and then drag it across your stomach, until your innards sack out wetly onto the kitchen floor. A part of you wishes he would do just that, end it quickly, rather than being subjected to whatever else he has planned. The other part of you is glad when he just flicks it in a tight but superficial curve instead. It still hurts like hell, and you howl.

The part of you that wishes to life, screams. Pathetic, helpless noises get torn from your throat as your jaw drops, eyes wide in agony.

The part of you that wishes to die, for whatever he is going to do to you to be over quickly, freezes. Your limbs feel stiff, numb and oddly detached from your body. Your brain realizes, as shock floods your system, that it cannot reach your body. You cannot move. It feels like lucid dreaming, but worse, pinned to the spot by his warm warm body and the cold blade, that has your belly erupting in stinging, searingly icy pain.

He will kill you. You will die.

You stare down at the knife, and your torn skin. Blood trickles from the cut. It's deep enough for the flesh to bulge at the seams, looking like it is rolling up to get away from the blade.

It's all you can do: watch. And wail.

He chuckles at that, a distorted, rough sound.

"C'mon, sugar, why aren't you fighting back, hm?", the blade drags through your skin slowly, breaks and tears it, draws blood as he carves the lower curve of an S.

You want to. You want him to stop. You can feel your heartbeat hammering away in your chest, dark spots dancing across your vision as you watch thin trails of blood trailing from the wound. But there is nothing you can do, body frozen in place, nothing to do against his strength and the blade in your stomach.

You realize that you're crying. So does he.

"Oooh", you can hear the laugh forming in his throat, dry but bubbly, "You really don't like this, hm? You must realllly hate me, right now."

You do. But there is something else, too. Your body is not only experiencing the certainty of a potentially fatal dread, but also hyperaware - mostly of his body heat. His warm, large hand holding gripping your waist until it bruises, his lean but muscular thighs caging your legs. And then there also is the hard length of his cock, pressing flatly against your groin.

You remember how he had touched you, just minutes ago. You realize you are still wet. Freshly so, with the friction of his huge, hard dick pressing against your body.

The pain mingles with your arousal dangerously, gives you whiplash, sobbing while your loins clench; a familiar pull in your lower stomach that has pressure building right after.

And he just grins, dangling the bloody knife in front of your face, holding it with his thumb and his index finger. "Take it, sugar", he grins, licks his lips, "Kill - me."

Your vision zeroes in on the silvery blade, wet with your red red red blood. Reflecting the dim lights of your kitchen, it dances in front of your face, and it would be easy for you to snatch it. But your head is so so fuzzy, the skin of your stomach burns and stings and your loins are on fire - and the worst thing is: your panties are wet.

"No?", he cackles, "Nooo? Oh, c'mon, don't be a bore. Take it. Hurt me. I know you want to."

You do. Maybe.

You certainly can't; he's too strong, too fast, too malicious. There is nothing in your pitifully small arsenal that you could throw against him to defeat him. Nothing.

But maybe, just maybe, you do not want to defeat him.

Maybe, just maybe, the pain feels - well - nice. It is something fundamentally different. It breaks the rhythm. Radical change to the routine of getting up, getting ready, making breakfast, going to work, working, going home, cooking, going to bed only to Get up again, get ready again, go to work again. It drowns out everything. And ultimately, it makes you feel alive.

Every nerve in your body is ablaze, your mind wide awake, the numbness of your limbs making way for a strange tingly sensation of your clenched muscles going slack. Your cunt begs to be touched.

You can feel ever single breath you take burning in your lungs - no, more than that; you can feel the oxygen rushing through your veins, your heart pounding heavily, your eyes burning as they zero in on the bleeding cuts.

That is when it slips from your mouth. A soft, sweet moan, as his knife cuts through your skin. It is so so small, nearly inaudible; breathless and horny. This must be freeing yourself from it all.

He is freeing you.

Looking up at him you blink, his face in and out of focus through your lashes thick with tears, and you blink them away. He looks up, too.

Oh, he is going to have so much fun with you. He will make you crawl back for more, after breaking you time and time again. He will plunge you deep deep deep into his chaos, engulf you with it, inject it into your veins and make you his. And then he will parade you around, his personal little plaything - maybe, just maybe if you are gone far enough, he will take you with him. Make you - his pretty little toy - get on his knees for him when he pushes a bullet through someone's skull; force his cock down your throat and come all over your face when he blasts a poor fool's brain all over some clean tiles. And it gets his dick fucking hard, straining his jeans - the mere thought of reducing your rational brain to seeping pudding. Turn you into his cock-sleeve, the one who can take a beating as well as a bullet wound.

But for now, he has to make do with what he has; even though anticipation makes his blood boil freely, all tingly and thrumming. And he hates you for it.

Hates you for how you make him feel. Hates you for the way that you make him wait.

He wants to snap your neck. He wants to gut you, see you going down in a bloodbath. Take a look at your innards. Skin you alive. Set you ablaze. Hang you from Gotham's tallest building.

But he also wants to touch you. Hear more of those desperate sounds, turn that pathetic shrieking and crying into a string of moans. He wants to take more from you than just your life. And he hates you for it. He wishes he could just kill you, but he needs you for something else first.

Oh, he hates you so so much.

Thus, he spits in your face - all growling and hard eyes as he leans in, a cruel smile deforming his scarred mouth, hits you across your wet cheek - before lowering the blade once more, slashing over your stomach, deep enough to draw more blood but not deep enough to cause serious injury, paints the looong body of the T. You moan with all of it, the pain, the degradation, the arousal that pools and pools and pools aways in your belly, shoots through your body up and down your spine, making your legs buck. Your face is wet with tears, rolling down your face hotly and through his saliva, smudging your make-up. Your whole body broke out a sweat long ago, that you start to feel now, skin clammy and sticky. He then allows himself to rush a little, finishes the T with a flick of his wrist. Your body shakes and he licks his lips.

"Ain't that just pret-ty?", he murmurs, drags his thumb through the cuts - and your limbs thrashes at the sharp pain, flinching and muscles contracting wildly. It tears an excited giggle from his throat and he looks up at you.

"Have a look at it, doll", but you shake shake shake your head, tears streaming down your face with sweet sweet sobs falling from your lips, your whole body shaking like a leaf in the wind. And as much as it gets his dick hard, pressing impatiently against his jeans and leaking into his boxers, he also feels a red-hot seeping wave of anger rising inside of him. It demands you to obey.

"Look. at. it", he growls, sounding nearly inhuman, and grabs your chin - his fingers still holding the blade that presses wetly against your cheek - as he forces your gaze down. Through teary eyes, you can see your bloodied stomach, the skin around the edges red and irritated. The blood flows freely, greedily sucked up by your slightly shoved-down panties.

You feel like you are going to pass out. The pain is amplified by your brain realizing, assessing and processing the damage done to your body, and you sob.

"Pretty, aren't you?", he hums into your ear, licks over its shell, "And did you already guess the uh best part, sugar?"

You cannot respond in any way, dumbstruck by the pain burning away in your body, the sight of your mutilated abdomen. "You get to keep it", he sounds so so happy, tosses the blade into the sink, before grabbing the salt shaker - his other hand grabbing your hips with such force, you just know that it will bruise.

"Do scream for me, doll, this will sting badly", and then he pours the salt on the cuts.

Your body goes numb for a second as your brain completely blacks out at the plethora of stimuli your nerves are experiencing. Then, it hurts.

So so much. Your own scream barely reaches your ears, your brain firing and firing impulses over its transmitters, your lower body twitching to get away from the pain - but his hold on your waist is so strong, you only wiggle a little, lower back hitting the kitchen counter repeatedly. Your throat hurts from yelling in agony, and you register fresh wallows of tears flowing down your face as you sob and sob and sob. Your vision is blurry as you watch unmoving how the salt dissipates into the bloody cuts, turns red quickly, and your brain rattles in your skull as it produces visuals to the danger - you can practically see how the small crystals penetrate your skin, tearing it further at the edges and drying out the wound so quickly, that it will never truly heal, scars forming instead.

He, apparently, does not deem it enough it yet, and pours the remainder of the shaker's contents on your belly. Another sharp scream gets torn from your throat, but it is quickly swallowed by a pathetic sobbing noise, as your body dances on the edges of fainting, all lights flickering about to going out at once.

He tuts, and then his other hand, sticky with your blood, grabs your chin. "Sugar, stay.with.me", he sing-songs, your eyelids flutter as he taps your cheek in quick succession, "It's nothing to faint over, doll. I could do uh so much worse."

But you can barely stand, hands clawing at the counter uselessly as your knees give in a little, has you sacking against it. A noise leaves his throat - something between amusement and annoyance - and he grabs you by the waist, hooks one arm around you, and pulls you against him.

Your brain short-circuits.

His warmth is oddly soothing - the contact with a steady surface, one you can sink against, feels nice and grounding. Your racing heartbeat calms down after a few breaths and you barely register how he turns you around in his arms, manhandles you until your back rests against his chest. The cotton of his hoodie is soft and smells of cigarettes and gasoline, and you close your eyes as his arm wraps around your middle, presses you against him. Pain still courses through your body, sharply erupting from your belly, but the warmth around you drowns it out a little. His heartbeat is steady and powerful, hammers away beneath your shoulder blade. And then you can feel it, digging into your lower back, right above your ass.

Huge, heavy, and hot, rock hard - his dick, its heat pulsating through the denim of his jeans.

And your body, torn and used, reacts in a way you would have not thought possible just a few moments ago.

Your hips buck, rutting back into him, lower back arching until you can feel your wet cunt rubbing over his denim, the rough fabric soaking up your slick greedily. And you moan, head sacking forward a little, the pain in the lower half of your body - amplified by the way your hips tilt and rut and tear at the wound - mingles with the sharp stinging and sore sensation of your pussy rubbing over his jeans, sets your loins on fire.

And he laughs, a rough noise. "Do you want my cock, doll?", he grabs your tit, sounds condescending when he says: "After everything I have done to you?"

Your head sacks forward in a defeated, weak nod, nothing more on your mind than getting off.

"Yeah?", you can hear the grin on his face, before he playfully drags out: "Yeeeah? You wan'it?"

An incomprehensible chant of pleas leaves your lips and that is when his hand connects with your ass sharply, once, twice; before he shoves you down, face first onto the counter. Your cheek and temple connect with the flat surface forcefully, as the palm of his hand presses you down. The pain in your head is unbearable, and so is the dizziness that comes with it, that swallows the pounding ache and leaves a fuzzy feeling behind. Your back and the torn skin on your lower abdomen protest with the stretch and the arch of your hips, as he kicks your legs apart.

Runs his large hand over your ass, and then it comes down on both cheeks in quick succession. Your hips buck wildly, moans slipping from your lips and he tugs at your lace panties - tears them off your form, shoves them in the back pocket of his jeans - before you can hear him rustling with something behind you; and then his hoodie falls to the floor with a heavy thud. You can see the black fabric pooling in the corner of your eye, and you would love to turn around, get a good look at him.

His free hand dives between his legs, guides his cock between your spread legs. It is rock-hard and hot against your wet folds, and you mewl, arching your back.

"All that got you wet, huh?", he rubs the length of his dick along your cunt, his large hand pressing your upper back down onto the counter. His body radiates heat, and you whine at the feeling of his huge dick running through your folds, already feeling so so much bigger than your pussy. "It's alright, doll", his hand rubs large circles over your left ass-cheek, gives it a good squeeze, before his hand comes down roughly, "No need to be uh ashamed."

And the joke's on you, because you are not. Not any longer. All that remains in your body is a burning lust, a twitching, tingling sensation in your abdomen, that runs into your thighs and up your spine.

The thick mushroom head of his dick brushes past your hole and he angles his hips, pushes. The tip of it slips in and he lets go off your ass, reaches between your legs and guides the head of his cock in further, presses and pushes. He stretches your tight, small hole so much already as he splits you open with his tip and your mouth falls open at the stinging and burning sensation, the heat his dick radiates - your own slick guiding him in comparably cool.

He is huge. You'd be able to describe what his dick looks like just by how he forces himself inside of you, your tight cunt clawing at him, indifferent about the way you mewl and beg for him to go slowly, the way your body strains against his hand pinning your down. But he is stronger than you, simply holds you in place.

"This is what'cha asked for, sugar", he raps, voice dripping with acid, "Don't fight it now, you're about to get it."

Jesus fucking Christ, you have never been fuller in your entire life. Your walls flutter around him, hole clenching and bile rises in your stomach as you feel your hole burning like he is going to tear you apart - a sharp, panicky whine leaves your mouth.

"Psh psh psh", he makes, pats your left ass cheek condescendingly, "No need to fret. I saw it, y'know?" Smacks his lips before rolling his hips back agonizingly slooowly, leaves a breathless Oh on your lips. "I saw it in you. Didn't even need to see you uh, touching y'self. Couldn't hide the way you were watching me, sugar - not from me, nu-uh. Like you were daring me to come over and uh help you out of your lit-tle misery", he groans as he bottoms out once more, followed by a shaky breath as his balls hit your cunt, "And here I am."

Your hands claw at the counter both: uselessly and aimlessly, as he starts to move inside of you, the hand on your back pressing you into an arch that hurts deliciously; the sharp, nauseating pain radiating from the torn skin of your lower belly bolting through your body. Your legs shake with it, already.

He goes slow at first; savours the feeling of your hot and tight walls around his cock as he pushes in and out in and out, the way your wetness pools around the thick base of his dick. Listens to your soft whines, feels the muscles in your back relaxing.

His strokes are measured and languid at first, as he rolls his hips into you, and you could get lost in the tenderness of it all: the calloused hand stroking your left ass-cheek, the pain in your back subsiding and the warm weight of his hand practically grounding you, while his cock brushes along your walls. Every single stroke feels purposeful, as he draws them out - glides into you fully, bottoms out and then deliberately pulls back out, makes you feel every little inch of his cock one by one. You can hear him breathing heavily, and it dawns on you - through the thick haze of lust, numbed pain and dizziness - that he has gotten lost. Lost in the way you feel around him.

The realization does something funny to your tummy, that flips excitedly, sends a traitorous thrum up up up your spine to your brain, that tingles and then fresh wetness pools between your legs, drenches your cunt, has your legs giving in and gliding apart a little further, inviting him in.

That's when he groans, a silent and breathless Fuck leaves his mouth, and his hands abandon your body, land on the counter next to your chest. He towers over you now, muscles in his back strained and dancing with every single roll of his hips into your cunt, dyed hair falling into his face like a streaky, green curtain.

"Dumb slut", he mutters, more to himself really and he gives himself just a second to relish in the way you arch yourself back into him, carving your body to fit his, before he speeds his thrusts up.

And shit, does he fuck you.

Ruts his dick into you like a caveman, grunting and breathing audibly; making you moan and twitch with the sheer speed and the feeling of his cock rubbing along your walls relentlessly. The sounds of his hips meeting your ass crack off the walls like thunder, mingling with your desperate, high-pitched noises, the sounds of your nails scraping at the counter uselessly.

"Look at you, sugar", his cock drags along your tight walls, and you arch your back further, mewling without restraint, shame, "Letting me touch you like that," chuckles, cut short by a groan tearing from his throat, "You're disgusting. No better than these people out there, huh?"

And you shake your head, eyelids fluttering and knees bucking a little as he speeds up, the thick head of his dick rubbing along your spongy walls, brushing over your spot over and over again.

"You're pathetic", his voice is ragged, raw as his strength fucks you into the counter; your sliced skin rubbing over the cold surface painfully, tearing and bleeding, your hipbones connecting with the sharp edge forcefully. You will be bruised in the morning, but the way he is so so deep inside of you makes up for it. Each and every single one of his thrusts rams your body forward, fucks up against the spot that has you screaming out in pleasure, eyes rolling back into your skull. And he feels needy with it, too. Like he really, really enjoys this. Oddly, so do you.

And you don't want him to stop. Ever.

The kitchen smells of sex and blood, musky and sweaty and of iron, while Gotham's incessant rain knocks against the window - barely audible through the lewd noises of his skin hitting yours wetly, your sweet sweet moans and his groaning.

"Don't--", you sob, arching yourself into him even more, "Please don't stop-"

You're ablaze. Throwing yourself over the edge, plunging into his ice-cold waters. Already sputtering gallons of blood, making yourself sick for him. And who is he, to refuse the last wish of a dying woman? Your demise will be most exciting.

Thus, he grunts - his jaw twitching and teeth grinding, over the strain he puts on the muscles in his lower back - pounds his dick into you.

"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck", your voice breaks, all whiny and desperate because it simply cannot be enough, as you start to fuck yourself back onto his dick, shoving yourself towards his relentless thrusts. The skin on your stomach protests, streaks of blood forming between your body and the counter as you scrape and scrape and scrape the wound over the cold wood, spreading red all over it.

And what a sight you are. He wishes he could bottle it up, frame it, keep it close. He wants to kill you, make this the last he ever sees, remembers of you. Something churns away in his chest, a pressing feeling erupting in his stomach that has his jaw clench and his fingers itch to feel you.

"C'mere, doll", he rasps and does not let a second pass before he hooks one arm around your waist and pulls you back onto your feet. Your naked back hits his firm chest, your skin rubbing against his stained, white jersey wife-beater. You can feel his muscles ripple against your frame as he manhandles you; the veins on his lower arm prominent as he snakes it around your body.

And he smiles. Really smiles to himself, smug and full of contempt as your tight cunt squeezes around him, your back arches for him. All this crying, all this pleading - only for your pussy to pull him in like his, for your body to beg him to fuck your lights out.

Your body rocks forward with the force of his thrusts, and one of your hands darts out aimlessly, lands on the cabinet with a loud smack instead, in a desperate attempt to keep yourself upright. Your body aches and pain shoots in waves from your stomach, but you can't help yourself: you moan, throwing your head back a little. His breath ghosts over your neck, the shell of your ear, and then one of his hands lets go off your hips; slender, long fingers snake up your body and close in around your throat, right beneath your chin.

The sudden asphyxiation has your hips bucking, and he manhandles your body by your throat to pull you back upright, your lower back arched as his dick continues to fuck into you.

You can't breathe.

"You belong-", a groan escapes his throat, cuts him short with his dick twitching inside of you, "Belong to me now, sugar." His tongue ghosts over your the crook of your neck - as your chest begins to heave with panic at the loss of air - lips latching onto the soft skin there; scars rubbing against your neck as he sucks and sucks and sucks, curly hair falling onto your shoulder. You barely register the slight stinging sensation, your chest heaving desperately.

You can't breathe. You can't fucking breathe. This is it, he is going to kill you now. End your suffering, your pain.

Finally.

Choke you out, use your body for his own amusement and then he is going to discard you in a pool of acid.

Oh God, oh fuck. No no no no no

Panic settles in once more - but he fucks it straight out of you with every single one of his thrusts, your body and brain both so overstimulated and overwhelmed that they buckle and break, cunt clenching and then squirting against his pelvis, his balls that slap against your ass relentlessly getting drenched in your juices. Like he is satisfied, like he got what he wanted, he loosens the grip on your throat just enough for your aorta to open up again.

Sucking in lungsful of air greedily - your head spinning as oxygen floods and floods your blood - your hands cling to his wrist, clutching at it uselessly. Like that is going to stop him.

He grins against your smooth skin, his scars scraping against your neck - before he presses his fingers down, onto your windpipe once more. Just for fun.

Your legs buck with anxiety, shaking and nearly giving out completely as he cuts off the flow of air, but the grip on your throat is as tight as a vice as he holds you upright with it. Coughing, you strain your neck in a futile attempt to suck in some air, get some relief and space on your windpipe. The effort proves to be fruitless, as dark spots dance across your vision; you sputter, retching dryly as your stomach starts to turn and turn, mouth running bone-dry.

And he can feel your heartbeat picking up speed quickly, until it thunders against his palm, and he wishes he could see your pupils dilate and your lips growing blue.

Starting to twitch violently, your upper body bucks and your feet start to thrash against his shins - and that is when he let's go off your throat once more, and relief floods your limbs just as he hits your spot again. The adrenaline in your veins, combined with the fresh oxygen, is running havoc through your brain, fires up your receptors on all cylinders; euphoria thrums in your body, crawls up and down your spine hotly, tears a high-pitched needy moan from your vocal cords.

"That's it, sugar, hm?", his tongue licks licks licks over your thrumming pulse beneath the sweaty salty skin of your throat, "Feels good, doesn't it?"

It does. Your body sings with the way his dick rams into you, even deeper now as your cunt flutters around him, sucks him in. The thick mushroom head hits your cervix, rubs along your spot with every single thrust.

You cry out between moans and gasps as he fucks into you, pulls you down onto his dick with one hand at your throat, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist; practically feels your limbs going a little slack under his vice-like grip. "P-please", you whine, the thick tip of his cock hitting your spot repeatedly and you really, really need it - you really need to cum. It's all too much - his cock too long, too fat, too deep - but far too little and you have long surrendered running from him, running from the pleasure he builds inside of you and so you beg and beg, sweet sweet pleas falling from your lips. "Please, it-it's too much, I--", you feel like you are going to faint with your whole body feeling like it has been set ablaze, burning-hot and sweaty and you mewl. You can hear him grunt as he rolls his hips into you, and then --

Then a moan slips from his lips, so guttural and wild that your cunt clenches around him at the sound, and you cannot help it, your body does not belong to you any longer, as you look over your shoulder at the sound.

He does not look like The Joker any longer. Instead, his brows are furrowed with pleasure, eyelids heavy and cheeks a little flushed. His mouth is parted, drawing in ragged breaths all strung out. The thought hits you like a freight train and is both, exhilarating and frightening, dizziness inducing: He looks human.

You should be appalled by him. He has cut you up, marked you like the fucking bark of a tree. He has killed dozens of people, wilfully and as a part of his schemes, his fucking games. But your memory of his crimes and the pain he had inflicted on you earlier becomes blurry quickly, gets replaced by the cunning gaze of his dark dark eyes, his razor-sharp wit. How he looks at you like he knows you.

You move before you can think about it, your hand reaching back, burying itself in his greasy curls, tugging at them. His jaw goes slack, mouth falling open a little and you can feel his cock twitching inside of you as you add more force, pulling his hair and his head sacks forward a little, lips clashing against yours, teeth and all.

He kisses like he fights. Dirty and messy, eyes set on the prize and always pushing pushing pushing, with the way his tongue presses into your mouth. And that, that gets you fucking going, sends your mind into overdrive - the strange intimacy of his kiss, the way he nearly feels like a lover against your lips - lust taking over your body so holistically, that your limbs go light with it, a fluttering and exhilarating feeling filling your stomach. His lips part from yours - and like he can feel the thrumming in your body taking over his own - he whispers against your mouth, gaze boring into yours: "Enjoying yourself, aren't ya?"

"Uh-huh", you make, and he grins Good; licks over your lips, before he dives in once more, assaults your mouth and smacks his against it. He is more passionate this time, practically unhinges his jaw, like he tries to eat you alive, and you moan into his mouth, while his hand wanders down your body, brushes over your hips and dips between your legs. Two fingers lay on your clit and then he rubs it, hard and fast, and you feel like you are exploding around his cock.

Tacky, high-pitched moans slips from your lips against his and he swallows them all as you clench around him, milking his cock as your orgasm rocks your body against him and he holds your quivering form close while pumping his dick into you and fucking you through it until he, too, comes; feels his balls tensing up and then growls, his head sacking forward a little, smearing your combined spit down your chin and he moans into the crook of your neck instead as he pumps you full of his cum. You stay like this for a while, his warm body pressing to your back and both of your breathing slow and worn-out, laborious and content - until your legs start to shake and he pulls out of you, drags his cum out of you, that trickles down the insides of your thighs.

You do not know why he carries you to your small bedroom. Maybe, it is because he wants to return just a little bit of your initial kindness; a small reward for you pointing him your way in the first place. Wants to thank the Lamb for dragging itself to the Wolf's den.

Maybe, he thinks, it is easier to get into your head like this. Maybe, just maybe, his dick gets a little hard at the way you cling to his arms, and sigh as he lays you down. Like you need him. Like he has already successfully pried your skull open, took a good ol' dig around your brains and left them scrambled and mangled and ready to be formed anew, like fresh clay.

It is when you grab his wrist, mewling - no, moaning, that he freezes. You look tired, worn, your eyes glossy and dopey with your pretty, pretty all lips red and swollen. But there is a want there, too, that makes his blood boil.

Oh, you're easy. Too easy.

Watches how your legs part eagerly, cunt glistening with cum and fresh wetness pooling between your folds. Dried blood on your stomach and he wants to lick lick lick it off. And he decides, because he always had bad impulse control and never been one to deny his free will, to do just that. Because he loves loves loves how you already come apart the edges, and he cannot wait to hold the shambles of you in his hands, really tear you apart and play around with what is going to be left of you. He pulls the white top over his head, and your mouth goes dry.

Time slows down as you watch him climbing on the bed and kneeling between your legs, grabbing your waist and pulling you closer. His arms are muscular and tan, black ink curling around his shoulders, the edges of his biceps, his sculpted chest and his stomach. There are tattoos everywhere and they bend and dance with every single one of his movements and just thinking about that he looked like this while he fucked you in the kitchen minutes ago has your head swimming, fresh wetness pooling between your thighs.

Looking at your stomach, perfect perfect soft and bruised skin, he cannot help himself. His hand strokes your sides, before he bends down, puts his mouth onto your belly; licks and kisses the soft skin and you sigh, burying a hand in his stiff, unwashed curls as he licks away the blood. It stings like Hell as he drags his tongue over the cuts, the dried salt dissolving and mixing with his saliva, like acid in your wounds.

You groan, inhaling sharply and squeezing your eyes shut with the burning pain as he drags and drags and drags his tongue through the wounds, tastes your blood and your agony. And then

Then he closes his lips around the mangled skin and kisses. Kisses the torn parts of your belly, thumb stroking your hipbone close by as he makes out with the hurt, he inflicted on you. Your eyelids flutter open with the sudden rush of wetness that floods your folds, as the pain subsides and gets replaced with a heavy, wanton clench of your abdomen. Your gaze wanders down to him and gets caught immediately by his dark dark eyes, looking up at you, curls falling onto your soft skin, tickling you softly. This is what he must look like if he ever ate you out, and your hole clenches around nothing at the thought of his tongue flicking and lips sucking your pussy like he eats away at the wounds he inflicted upon you.

His mouth wanders up a little, still close in proximity to the bleeding, seething cut and then he sucks. Sucks on your skin, marking you up and you yelp, legs kicking a little, tugging at his hair. But he is relentless, buries his teeth in your belly, crushing the epidermis. Warm scarlet trickles into his mouth lazily and you moan. Moan like a whore and he grins as he sucks at the bitemarks, tastes your fresh, warm blood. He sucks it riiight out of the torn bitemark and your hips buck, as the pain shoots down between your legs. "You like that, hm", he whispers against your skin, no cackling, no grinning, just dark eyes peering up at you.

You left rhyme and reason behind a while ago and thus you nod frantically, breathing weakly, voice coarse with lust, "Yeah, fuck yes."

"Let me see, sugar", his index-finger sneaks between your legs, and runs along your folds agonizingly slowly, feeling up your slick. He leans back a little to get a good long look at your pussy, all wet and leaking with his milky cum, pulls back the tiny hood of your clit with one hand, spreads your slick around with the other. And you groan like a porn star, all breathy and high-pitched.

And there it is again, the predator's grin. He tuts at you, playfully and sadistically pouting at you. "You poor poor thin-g", and then his lips land your stomach once more, kissing and sucking on an unbruised patch of skin right above the cuts, while his finger keeps stroking your cunt lazily, spreading your wetness and occasionally brushing over your clit.

And this time you moan freely, throwing your head back into the pillows; arching your back a little as he bites down once more, breaking through the skin. "Oh God", you breathe, your body feeling like it's on fire, head spinning and dizziness settling in with the tingling in your lower belly and loins, "Please, just--"

You feel like you are going to fucking explode if he does not touch you more, plunge his cock into you again and fuck you until you cannot talk, breathe, think. He lets go of your belly with a smack of his mouth.

"You want more, sugar, hm?", he licks his lips, red red red, even without the greasy lipstick, clicks his tongue and you nod like a woman possessed, fingers clawing at his skull weakly feeling his greasy hair between your fingers.

And he usually would bite your hand off for that. Grab it and tear at the tendons, crack your bones until they break and then bite and hack until it comes off. He always enjoys a little fight, loves it when they claw and bite and cry back - only for him to let them starve off of hope agonizingly slowly and eventually cut their throats like it means nothing - but he won't be touched like that. All sweet and wanton and intimate. But he also enjoys how you feel around him, how your body reacts to him and how your brain seems powerless against him and it is just so much fun to see you squirm.

He cannot wait for it any longer. His blood sings with it, runs hot and makes his heart thrum deliciously with anticipation. He deems you ready, the way your dark glossy eyes plead at him.

Your hands fall to the sides uselessly as he sits back up on his knees. "How about a deal then, doll?"

"Huh?", you make weakly, hips rolling into his finger, but he retracts it, whacks it in front of your face.

"Y'see", he looks up to the ceiling, eyes wandering from left to right as if he is reaching for his next words in thin air, "I have this uh friend. You let me show this to him" he gestures vaguely to your bleeding stomach, "And I will make you come, hm?"

Whatever. You nod - breathing out Yeah, alright - and his eyes widen a little at that, eyebrows shooting up and then he laughs, a raw sound that sounds like it might be actually suffocating him.

"What a good, good girl you are, sugar", he shakes his head in disbelief, reaches back to the back pocket of his jeans and pulls -

Oh. Oh no.

Pulls a phone out of it. It is an early model of a camera phone and if your mind were to still work properly, you would probably conclude that it must be a burner.

"Smile, sweetheart", the screen comes alive, illuminates his face, get replaced quickly by the flashlight of the camera phone flickering on, filling the room with a pale hue. He grabs your chin, grins, and points the camera at your face. Your make-up is smudged, dried mascara running down the sweat-caked and cracked foundation of your cheeks. His thumb strokes your lower lip, drags across your cheek in a way that mirrors his Glasgow Grin, before darting back over your mouth, pressing between your lips. Your jaw goes slack willingly, the fog in your brain so thick and heavy still, that you hum around his finger, pressing the tongue against its pad. He tastes of blood and sweat and your eyelids flutter as you look up at him, sucking on his thumb. His tongue darts out, licks the corner of his mouth, gaze glued to your lips.

"Hel-lo, Batsy", his voice sounds coarse, but it still springs and dances in the back of his throat and the sound makes your head spring, rubbing your thighs together, "Remember her?"

You barely register what he is saying, as he retracts his thumb from your mouth, your tongue following obediently, lips parting as you whine. He rubs your own saliva over your cheek, before his hand comes down quick, smacks you across the face. Your eyes fall shut as you cannot help yourself but moan, hips bucking upward.

"Bet you do", he grabs your face once more, but you are already too far gone, eyelids heavy and breath coming out in short huffs and pants, the wetness between your legs leaking onto your sheets, "Look at her, Bruce. Did she look that good when you had her? Did she?"

Bruce. If you were not so far gone - mind clouded with a thick haze of arousal and pain - your brain would most likely short-circuit with the revelation. With memories. Memories of you attending a Wayne Enterprises fundraiser years after having met Bruce in college; both of you reigniting the countless flings you have had in the dorms that one night. His sweetly whispered promises of getting you out of that shithole of a flat, of a life, only to disappoint you by suddenly disappearing shortly after. But your brain won't let you. Instead, you are fully at the mercy of the man kneeling above you, holding the phone and your body in his hands - a whimpering, wet mess.

Thus, his words waft through the air without impact as they barely reach your brain, your body simply thrumming with excitement just as much as his voice does.

"Let me uh show you something", he shifts on your body, the glowing and cold light of the flash leaving your face and wanders down down down, illuminates your body instead. The red marks and cuts on your belly gleam aggressively and bright in the light, that reflects off of the fresh drops of blood on your skin.

"Do you like it? She sure did", and then he giggles, the phone in his hand shaking a little with it as the laugh rattles his frame. His face grows stern as quick as the laughter bloomed, as he clears his throat, points the phone at your face once more. "Shall we show Brucie just. how. much. you enjoyed yourself, sugar?"

He does not wait for an answer, even though your mewling moan is a dead give-away anyways, reaches for his boxers with his free hand.

His dick is already hard again, fat and throbbing, an angry red as he pulls the waistband of his shorts down, his trousers still open - belt-buckle and wallet chain dangling freely.

Giving himself a few firm strokes, hair falling into his forehead, he angles his hip and presses the thick, hot and already slightly wet tip of his cock against the bleeding cuts and bitemarks on your abdomen. He rubs the head through the drops of blood forming lazily around the torn edges of your skin and his half-dried saliva lubricating the area around it, slicks his dick up with the liquids.

You hiss and mewl as his precum seeps out of his dick and into the letters, feet kicking a little and cunt pulsating traitorously, while he watches his tip getting coated in a tangy orange-red.

"Would'ya look at that", he groans, coats his cock with your blood, "What a good good slut she is, isn't she, Brucie?"

The rubbing motion on and in the wounds sting and burns like hell - the most prominent pill of pain in a blister full of agony - but the feeling subsides quickly as you watch the head of his dick, flush and hard and glistening, and saliva pools in your mouth, lips darting open.

"Looks like she uh really wants it, doesn't she?", he pans the phone towards your face, your dark and glossy eyes trained on his cock, lips opened, ready to suck, "We'll show him how well you suck my cock next time, doll. For now, Bats, I want you to see just how nice and wet she gets for me."

He lets go off his dick, his now free hand grabbing your leg and shoving your thighs apart. And he can smell your arousal, nearly knocks him out with the force of it. Your pussy is so so wet with your own juices and his cum, a small stain beneath your spread legs, the light of the flash dancing on the slick of your folds. His hand dives in, index and middle finger spreading your outer labia apart. "Look at tha-t", and he can feel his dick twitch, slapping obscenely against his abdomen, "Y'see that, Bats?" You couldn't care less about him pointing a camera at your wet cunt, all you have eyes and brains for is his cock, and your hands grab the sheets.

"Please", you whine, "Please, just--"

"Oh", his gaze shoots up to you and so does the phone, as he tilts it in your direction, "You want me to fuck you again, sugar?"

And you nod, a coarse string of pleas escaping your mouth. He grins at that. "Yes?", his voice has a playful tilt to it as he mockingly apes you, "Yeees?" And then bursts out in a short giggle, leans over you and grabs a fistful of your hair, a sharp sting dancing over your scalp, while his thumb caresses your temple.

"Then, why don't you tell me, hm, doll?", he pulls at your hair once, your neck straining as your head falls back into the pillow, and then runs the palm of his hand flat down your cheek, confusingly gentle, before giving you a light tap - once, twice; not hard enough to hurt, but forceful enough to be degrading.

Shame burns high on your cheek, red shining through your ruined make-up as you look up at him through the blinding light of the flash shining in your face. "P-please just", your breath hitches in your throat, "Please, just fuck me."

And then he licks lips, deliberately, slowly, with relish. "Good girl, hm", he hums, voice coarse, thumb brushing over your lips - soft like a kiss - before he leans back and shifts his weight fully onto his knees once more.

"Watch this, little Bat", he grabs his dick, precum and your blood glistening on his tip in the flash of the phone, runs it through your folds and slaps your cunt with it - once twice just for good measure - before pressing the thick head against your hole.

You can feel it flutter against his cock and your legs fall apart further, welcoming him in. Keeping the phone trained in on how his cock slowly slowly sinks into you, spreads your cunt around it tightly, he watches it through the screen, feeling your heat engulfing him. "See that, Batsy? How she pulls me in", your gasps are filling the air, with the weight of his dick - he is already filling you out so so much, even though he isn't even half in yet -, "Look at that."

The stretch is nothing short of delicious, even better than before, as he sinks deeper and deeper. The way his thick cock rubs along your spongy walls, pushes them apart to make room for himself burns and burns and burns, but it feels so so good and your eyelids flutter as his tip brushes past your spot. Throwing your head back, you pull your knees up and to your body, and you can feel him immediately sinking deeper. "What a good slut, hm, Brucie", he groans, his free hand grabbing your hips and the touch has your gaze flying back to him.

And does the sight smack all air out of your lungs at once, your cunt clenching around him weakly as it turns all soggy and sloppy, squirt running down your folds and pooling around the girthy length of his cock, making him sink in deeper. He looks like he crawled straight out of a porn (the one's you watch in the clandestine silence in the dead of night on your laptop - of muscular, lean men cruelly drilling into women, after they tied them up, making them cry with desperation and pain), right onto your bed and between your legs.

The flashlight illuminates mostly his crotch, barely trimmed pubic hair curling around the thick, thick base of his dick - glistening wetly with your slick - and spreads upward, over his defined adonis belt, soft hair dusted over his belly. Black ink curls under the tan skin, shiny with sweat and his muscles ripple firmly, laboriously, as he pushes inside you, rolls his hips forward. His curly hair falls into his forehead as he watches his dick stretching you out to the brim through the small phone screen, chest heaving with deep, quick breaths. Mouth agape slightly, the scars pulling his expression into a satisfied grin, cheeks glistening with sweat and a light pink tint - the strong jaw tensing, brows furrowed.

To you, he is beautiful. You wish you could touch him. Run your hands through his hair, over his neck, shoulders and arms, cling to his back. But he feels so far gone, separated by the phone, as he stuffs his dick into you.

He really does slip in easier this time, your walls still plush and slick with your own wetness and the remainders of his cum and your hole squelches around him, a soft groan escaping his lips as he buries himself fully in your cunt. And from this position he can see it, the slight bulge of your belly, the way your pussy is split around his cock, and he has to halt for a moment, steady himself. Then, he rolls his hips back, only to thrust forward in one fluid motion. Watches the bulge vanish and then return in its full glory.

And you - oh you - you gasp, mouth a perfect little o as you feel him filling you completely, so much heavier than earlier in this position. Your walls still burn with the friction and the strain, but it feels so so good, your back tingling and your mind zeroing in on chasing that heat in your abdomen.

Your legs fall to the sides and his hole splits open for him, and this time he grunts as his cock slips in easily, nestles itself into your snug pussy.

"O-oh", you whine sharply as he brushes along your walls perfectly, seemingly slipping inside of you forever and ever, until his thick mushroom head hits your cervix once more. Immediately, your cunt spasms around his dick and squirts again, liquid running down your folds and onto his cock. "Oh, oh God", you breathe out, eyes trained on where he splits you open on his dick, thick bush of pubic hair curling wetly with your juices.

"Don'tcha want me to stop, sugar?", he sounds cruel, a little breathless, and you should - you really should, but you don’t - instead, you weakly shake your head.

"You're just a little slut, aren'tcha?", he leans in, all dark eyes and sharp incisors between knotted skin, "Y'really need it that badly? Brucie not good enough?"

"Nu-huh", you make, feeling your limbs growing numb and light as he continues to fuck into you oh so slowly, tip of his cock hitting your cervix. And that's when it washes over you: it starts in your fingers and crawls through your whole body, bright and warm, as your mind goes blank and your body limp. It feels like floating, the sole thing you can feel is his cock slipping in and out of your hole that clenches wantonly around him.

He watches, as your eyelids grow heavy and your hands let go off the bedsheet, arms now resting uselessly at your sides. Grins, licks the insides of his cheeks. There you are. Finally.

"Gotta go, Bats, got a reeeal needy hole to take care of", he grunts, runs his cock through your folds, before he shoves himself back inside, bottoms out. You cry out in a high-pitched moan, throwing your head back.

The phone does a little ping sound and then he tosses it to side carelessly, where it bounces off the mattress and falls to the ground clattering, and then he grabs your hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into your flesh. His grip is so so strong as he pulls you up, manhandles you onto his strong thighs and into his lap, presses you against his chest - sinking back onto his calves in the process. The dim, colourful lights of Gotham's bustling night life is now the only remaining light source that floods your room, and it illuminates his skin, his face - in soft red and pink and orange colours, dances over the sweaty skin making the green of his hair gleam eerily.

The sole sound filling the cool, dark room is the noise of your cojoined breaths, ragged and exhausted, as you both feel his dick filling you to the brim; hole still slick with his cum and your own, fresh wetness.

"Such a pretty little doll", he whispers, voice coarse as he looks up at you.

Pretty.

He thinks you are pretty. Through the thick haze of lust, you can feel your heart skipping a beat, mind a little fuzzy with the praise.

Pretty pretty pretty

His cock presses against your cervix and you feel like you are going to burst. You want to answer him - tell him how beautiful he is to you, how delightfully he hurts you and how much you relish in the pain cursing through your whole body - but you simply cannot, unable to form a coherent sentence.

His slender fingers wrap around on your waist and neck as he holds you close, in a choke-hold grip of his strong arms that feels all-engulfing like you he can pull you six-feet under and down to Hell just like that. And you mirror him, a sharp pull inside of your chest that tugs you closer to him, arms wrapping around his chest - your hands flat on his back, as you cling to him. Like he's your saviour.

And he fucks you like it, too. Like he cannot be inside you deep enough. Pistoning his hips into you, he hoists you up to meet his thrusts and your head sacks forward against his forehead with a shaky, exhausted moan as his dick brushes along your walls, hits your spot and then prods against your cervix. The dull pain feels nice, truly nice, has your blood running hot and rampant through your body; lust cursing through your loins and up up up your spine to your brain, tingles alluringly before rushing back down to flood your cunt. Your pussy squelches around him obscenely, his unkempt pubic hair and the trail on his adonis belt rub against your clit, making you mewl and gasp.

"Just a little more, sugar", he grunts looking up at you, as he ruts into your abused and sore hole and you cannot think, cannot breathe, cannot do anything despite sacking against him and taking it all, your mind long lost in the thick fog of pleasure, "Y'got it, just a bit longer."

You do not think that you have it in you. Exhaustion and overstimulation make your head spin, jaw slack and breathing shallow and rapid. But you want to be good for him; partially because you are terrified of what would happen if you didn't. But another part of you, undoubtedly the larger, longs for his soft touch, his voice calm and eager; like he had been earlier, It's alright, sugar. I'm here now.

Giving in to him your head sinks down onto his shoulder. Your lower back protests at the pressure it adds to his thrusts and the way he manhandles you to meet them like a fleshlight, and Jesus fucking Christ, you cannot think anymore. Your body does not belong to you anymore, reduced to an archaic state of true animalistic desires; pain and pleasure mingling inside of you, making you feel like you are burning bright.

He loves it. Loves the way you let him ruin you. Loves, that you love it.

Loves it so much that he comes to you hate you for it, wishing you would struggle more. But he has torn you open, broken you enough already, and he knows that what is to come is so so much better than beating and abusing you into submission. He will leave that to yourself.

Bouncing you on his dick, he lowers his head to meet the crook of your neck and inhales your scent - sweat and lingering remains of your cheap perfume - and his dick twitches inside of you.

You turn him on so much. Your desperation: today and last week, at Arkham. How you looked at him like you held all the cards, like you were in power. As if you had anything to match his mind with, to maintain your agency. You were doomed the second the foolish doctor made her first call to your meaningless, corrupt newspaper. You are nothing. He knows you feel it, too - deep deep down - quivering and wailing in his arms tonight, body amped up for survival only to be plunged deep into painful pleasure.

He never holds them close. Never. He usually gets rid of them right after, enjoys the way his blade cuts and tears, slices and dices - but he enjoys your sounds, and the way your pussy clenches and cries around him, sucks him in so so much more.

And he decides that he needs more of this; more of the sweet and steady gasps slipping from your lips. No, scratch that. He needs to hear you scream.

You can hear him grunt into your hair, sticking to your sweaty neck, and then the hand on your waist moves down down down, grabs your ass. You gasp at the way his cock slips in even deeper as he pulls your cheeks apart. He looks down onto your crack, the way your ass bounces as he thrusts you down on his dick and then spits down onto his hand - spreads his saliva over his fingers with his thumb, before he dips his hand between your cheeks, runs his fingers over your puckering asshole.

You jolt, but the grip on your ass - the way his arms keep you caged against him - is too strong and you cannot get away from him. No one has ever touched you back there. "N-no", you stammer, pathetic moans falling from your lips as the tip of his cock repeatedly brushes over your spot and knocks against your cervix. You are so so wet, you can feel your juices running down your upper thighs and smearing along his as well.

He does not seem to listen to your exhausted pleas; instead, his finger presses against the tight, tight ring of muscles and you cry out as he breaches it. With his spit barely providing sufficient lubrication, he presses in roughly and dryly, has you squirming against him, your legs kicking out a little with painful discomfort.

"P-please, don't", you sob, your hands pushing against his arms in a weak show of protest, but he is not listening. Does not even notice your hopeless attempts of pushing him away. Instead he mutters something inaudible to himself; his stomach clenching and balls tensing with the way he can feel both your tight, little holes around his finger and his cock.

You are so hot against and around him, it makes him clench his teeth, jaw tensing so much his head starts to hurt and he wants so to inflict it all upon you - make you suffer, wail, and die.

Shoving his index finger in further, you howl, sobbing against his shoulders at the sudden and overwhelming intrusion. You notice that your cheeks are wet. Thick, hot streams of tears roll down your face, and onto his strong shoulder. Your hands are clawing at his back, nails tearing and ripping at his skin and drawing blood in long, red streaks. It makes him growl and, like he is trying to get back at you, he pushes past the tight ring of muscles. And you feel so incredibly fucking full already - his finger already feels huge in your tiny hole - but then he presses it against your walls, feeling the way his cock rams into you.

That's when your cunt spasms around his cock - your brain short-circuiting with pain and pleasure - squirt drenching his pubic hair like a broken hose, splashing against his lower abdomen, staining his jeans and dripping down onto the mattress. You gasp, as the dull pain in your ass subsides and gets replaced with a burning desire. It crawls up your spine and pools in your stomach, pure and utter euphoria cursing through your veins as it lights up the endings of your nerves, your skin feeling hot and feverishly.

Slowly, slowly moving his finger inside of you, you moan; tears still falling from your eyes. You do not feel the sharp pang of pain and your body does not belong to you any longer either. Instead, you feel like drowning in way too many stimuli and there is nothing but a thick fog that settles over everything. The only prominent feeling is the coil inside of your lower stomach, tensing up and chasing relief; with your hamstrings practically liquified from sitting in his lap and your muscles tensing, your throat raw and sore from screaming.

And thus, all that leaves your mouth when he retracts his index-finger and roughly pushes it back in together with his middle-finger - ripping the skin of hole apart, little pecks of blood pooling at his knuckles - is a pornographic and fucked-out whine, your legs parting further as you sink deeper on his lap, a spread eagle that he manoeuvres up and down up and down on his dick, while his fingers assault your asshole. You feel full, the pads of his digits rubbing along your walls, feeling his own cock abusing your cunt.

Oh, this is it. This is exactly what you are supposed to be like for him, this is your purpose. And he deserves this. He really does; with the way you led him on all these weeks, you dumb little thing you could outrun him, beat him at his own game.

And now you - you stupid, foolish little girl - dare to look up at him through teary eyes, your mascara running down your cheeks darkly. And he nearly, nearly pities you. But you'll have to take it. There's no way for you out of this now - he knows that this is what you wanted, needed.

And that is when his dark eyes gleam back at you with something so so sinister that it shakes you to your core; but to you - fucked out of your mind and too far gone for your own good - it resembles your own lust more than anything and you get lost in it, too. Get lost in the way he looks down upon you, jaw twitching as he bounces you on his cock, two fingers plugging up your arsehole.

"Fuckin' slut", he mutters, licks his lips and your eyes roll back, jaw still slack. Feeling saliva pooling on your bottom lip, you sigh and then it drips and drips and drips onto his shoulder and his chest. His cock twitches inside of you and you hear him grunt Imma make you scream and that he does, as he starts to move his fingers inside of you, fucks your ass fast and rough.

Your body moves like a ragdoll with the way he violates you, your spit running down both your sweaty bodies. You feel so so full and it is all too much, your body numb and your head all mushy, and then he buries his mouth against the crook of your neck - bites down.

The world around you goes silent, the only thing remaining is the thundering of your heartbeat and the way your pussy tightens around him. The last thing you feel is a burning, cold-hot pain blooming at your neck and hot ropes of his cum filling you up, like an endless stream, before your mind goes blank and your vision goes dark.

It is way past midnight when you come to. The mattress is soft beneath your body that aches beyond comparison and you groan. Stretching your arm you reach into the chilly air, only to find the mattress empty and cold besides you. Your sheets smell of sex and pain and pleasure. You inhale deeply, burying your face in the pillow. It smells like him, and shame and lust wash over your body in hot waves.

You do not know how long you stay like this, spread out on your dirty, blood-stained and sweat-drenched sheets like a dead starfish. Eventually, you crave water, mouth dry and head aching badly, nausea bubbling in your stomach; you roll around, opening your eyes carefully, before you get to your feet groaning and huffing. The skin on your lower belly stings as it stretches with every step you take, but you do not dare to look down.

In a week from now a thick scab will lay on it, the skin around it bulging thickly as it scars. In the silent dead of night, you will pick at it, make the letters bleed as you plunge your toys deep into your cunt.

Your flat is cold, dark and silent. You wonder where he went. If you didn't feel his dried cum on your pussy and thighs and the cuts on your body, you wouldn't be too surprised if it all had been just a dream - conjured up by your brain by long hours, little sleep and too much caffeine. You shuffle down the hallway, your vision unsteady and blurry, darting out with your hands for any sort of leverage, scraping along the hard walls.

Making it to the living room, you are greeted with the sight of Gotham's city light flickering and gleaming frantically outside of your window, painting the floor and walls of your living room in a ghostly, colourful hue.

There is a disturbingly upbeat hum coming from the kitchen. Warmth, just as well as dread, fills your gut and you stagger closer.

The Joker is standing at your opened kitchen window, nursing a cigarette. Outside, rain trickles down from rooftops and streetlights in a lazy drizzle. He looks at you, as you tap into the kitchen, bare feet on cold wooden floors. You yawn, your whole body aching and worn, your cunt sore.

And he lets his face give him away, the pang of amusement he feels as you cling to your furniture in a desperate attempt to keep yourself on your feet.

"Look at you", he muses, grins, and takes another drag from his cigarette, "Looks like someone rather oh. so. enjoyed. themselves." Clicks his tongue.

You shoot him a glance, still a little out of it and he swims in your vision - a blurry mosaic, its pieces setting themselves together as quickly as they dissipated - and he breaks out in cackling laughter that dies down quickly, as he nearly chokes on it, clears his throat.

"Oh, don't you worry sugar, I will be back." And,

And he sounds normal saying that. Earnest. No twirling of syllables or phonetics, no sing-songy voice. Just - him. A barritone, deep and oddly soothing.

And for some strange reason - one that you would not necessarily dare to pry into - the sudden surge of fear, that initially crawled up your back, gets replaced a tingling warmth in your belly that shoots down down down between your thighs, makes you fucking wet.

You grip the edge of the kitchen isle's counter to steady yourself. You feel like dying, even though you know you won't, not yet - nothing, no one is going to save you. "Yeah?", you breathe, sounding strangely hopeful, your heart beating in your chest like a buck-wild bronco.

The feeling inside your stomach is nothing short of acidic, traitorous and gnawing. It flutters, like moths, and nausea bubbles with it, raises up up up to your throat. With it, your heartbeat accelerates. If you didn't know any better, you'd say it feels like that one time you went out with that one guy.

And his eyes gleam with accomplishment as he looks at you, gaze darting over your face. Then looks out of the window once more.

"There's something coming", he says, sounding a bit absent, as he takes another drag from his cigarette, smoking curling from the stunted corners of his mouth into the cool air. Outside, sirens howl, people laugh, and a gunshot goes off that has you flinching, but he pays it no mind.

Truth is, he has no idea why he is just about to tell you who he met with underneath Gotham a few days ago. Maybe, he muses while watching the ashes sizzling away, it is because he does not want to give up his newfound toy yet. You were so much more fun than he had previously expected - he rarely ever enjoyed pumping his load into someone quite as much as he enjoyed filling you to the brim with it. Feeling you up and hearing you whimper and moan, coming apart under his touch. Maybe he just doesn't want to lose the best prospect to becoming his personal, pretty cum-dumpster, yet. Or - maybe - he is just finally losing it for real.

You, however, have a sinking feeling in your gut, nothing short of a premonition. The way he says it sounds foreboding.

"I will come for you then - to pick you up", he says, calmly, presses the stump of his cigarette out on your windowsill, before he shoves one of his ridiculously long legs out of the window and onto the rail of the fire-exit. "Until then - don't do something I wouldn't do, sugar", he says licking his lips and fucking winks at you, before climbing out of the window and onto the stairs, vanishing in the night.

The only thing he leaves behind is the sharp smell of tobacco lingering in the cool air, pain coursing through your body in shockwaves and a traitorous ache between your thighs.

[hozierbabymomma]

STOP PUTTING OC STORIES WITH "X READER" TAGS BRO WITH ALL DUE RESPECT YOUR STORY DOES NOT BELONG THERE....listen... im sure the story is great... BUT im literally gonna combust if i keep seeing ts. Im trying to feed my delusions and yall arnt helping. Sighhhhhhh

[hozierbabymomma]

COOLEST THING EVER LIKE HOLY SHIT?!?!?!?

This is genuinely so creative, it deserves way more recognition...

preemptive 5k and summer celebration event

when: june 29 - july 5 tags: #mariasredwhiteandbau #mariaversegetaway

text message thread - penelope's invite - main event post

daily extras

🎇 sunday (day 1) -> bau check-in texts - airbnb listing - rental website

🎇 monday (day 2) -> bau texts - what's in their bag?

🎇 tuesday (day 3) -> bau texts - playlist

wednesday (day 4) ->

thursday (day 5) ->

friday (day 6) ->

saturday (day 7) ->

drabbles:

aaron hotchner:

♡ clawed and ordered hotch discovers bright red scratches down his back and now you're scrambling to cover them (and yourself) before the team sees your handiwork.

♡ clothing optional a water mishap leaves you in hotch's pajamas and confronting some awkward, fluttery feelings.

spencer reid:

✧ cathedral of tongues while the team is exploring the town, you and spencer explore each other

♡ limerence you're not a fan of fireworks. luckily, spencer's not a fan of letting you suffer in silence, especially when he has obscure marine biology facts and lap space to spare.

[hozierbabymomma]

Heaven

✧*̥˚ aaron hotchner fic recs *̥˚✧ part 6

a/n: do i even have to say anything anymore?

part 1 I part 2 I part 3 I part 4 I part 5 I part 6 I my cm masterlist

✧*̥˚ smut *̥˚✧

long nails by @mariasont

priorities and pretty things by -//-

just the tips by -//-

positions (aaron hotchner x reader x derek morgan) by @mggslover

mile high by -//-

tied together by -//-

i did my time by @gemrambles

are you convinced? by -//-

sleeping beauty by @honeypiehotchner

backshots... back pain, sorry by @ssa-dado

lap it up by @alinathinkstoomuch

scars become stars by @softtdaisy

flower shop after hours by @kiwriteswords (Florist!Reader Masterlist)

a bad day by @ssaaaronmontgomery

✧*̥˚ fluff*̥˚✧

fresh by @cringeiknow

something stupid by @maladaptive-daydreamer-23

mystery girlfriend by @applereid

for a friend by @ssa-dado

✧*̥˚ angst & hurt/comfort*̥˚✧

dead from the waist down by @mariasont

let me love you by @hotchnersgirll

take care of you by @finelinevogue

if you want your work removed, dm me!

[hozierbabymomma]

IM SAYING LIKE WHAT??????? HELLOOOO? PLEASE MY BOY SCOTTY

So.... there's just NO Scotty Valens x Reader fics here? None? At ALL?!

[hozierbabymomma]

THIS.. Thats it literally just this...

Tommy loves to grumble And she loves to listen to him

Author's note: I love it when Tommy grumbles, I want to kiss him on the cheeks at that moment Pairing: Thomas Shelby / reader Genre: romance, ironic domesticity with a gangster overlay, fluff .

When He’s Grumbling, There Are a Few Ways to Calm Him Down

Thomas Shelby entered the house like a man preparing for war.

His steps echoed down the corridor, coat slung over his shoulders like a battered suit of armor, his face carved in stone. He didn’t glance around — just let the coat fall onto the armchair with the kind of disdain that made it seem like the furniture had personally offended him.

She heard him from the kitchen. She didn’t need to look — she knew the sound of his grumbling, the weight of his steps, the sharp inhale through his nose when the world dared challenge him.

A button had snagged on his sleeve, and he muttered something under his breath. Quietly, but with the venom of a man tired of everything — of people, noise, bad cigars, and his own patience wearing thin.

She didn’t rush out. Let him stew in his own storm for a minute or two. Let him curse the button, the weather, the weight of his name — and, inevitably, her, if she smiled too soon.

Then, and only then, did she appear at the doorway, graceful as if she had rehearsed her timing.

“You lose another fight to a button, Tommy?” she asked, leaning against the frame, arms crossed with a quiet sort of amusement.

He didn’t look at her. Just gave a disgruntled twitch of his shoulder.

“Buttons. City council. The sky. Everything’s against me today.”

“Strange. Thought you had them all in your pocket.”

Her voice was slow, lazy in the most deliberate way — the kind of calm that drove him mad because it made his anger look childish.

Which was exactly why he always came back to her.

He sank into the chair. Not sat — sank. Like a man dragging the whole day down with him. The lamp cast soft light over his face, drawing shadows under his eyes, over the creases on his brow, those unspoken war-lines no one dared ask about.

“Where are my cigarettes?” he muttered without looking up.

She stood near the window, wrapped in a blanket, cup in hand. Beautiful in the quiet way only women who knew exactly who they were could be.

“You’ve got two hands, two legs and a whole head. Find them yourself.”

No reply. Just a long exhale, as if he could release the whole cursed day through his lungs. She walked over, placed the cup on the table. No fuss. No coddling. Just tea — not whiskey. Whiskey made him meaner. Tea gave him a chance.

“This isn’t whiskey,” he noted dryly, eyeing the cup like it was betrayal.

“It’s better,” she said, sitting next to him. “Whiskey won’t calm you down. I will.”

A breath of a smirk. Barely there.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“You sound concussed.”

He opened his eyes. That look again — heavy, not cruel. Tired. She knew that look better than anyone. She’d seen it when he came home bleeding, when he stared out windows for hours, when his silence roared louder than his voice.

“You grumble like an old man,” she murmured. “Like the world owes you something and keeps forgetting to pay.”

“It does.”

“You know what’s funny?” she leaned a little closer, shoulder brushing his. “You look dangerous. But really... you’re just exhausted.”

“Exhausted from what?”

“Everything. People. The street. The fucking buttons.”

He said nothing. Just sat there, soaking in her presence like a man crawling out of winter and into warmth.

She didn’t touch him, but he felt her — her calm, her quiet defiance. The kind that didn’t demand, didn’t beg, didn’t fix. Just... stayed. That was what grounded him.

When he grumbled, there were a few known cures:

Cigarettes.

Silence.

The dark.

Lately, there was a fourth.

Her.

The one who brewed tea like it was medicine.

The one who matched him word for word.

The one who didn’t need him to be anyone but the tired, fraying, furious man he was.

He glanced over.

“You staying?”

“I’m always here, Tommy. Even when you’re too tired to remember it.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t know how. But his eyes — they softened.

And that was enough.

He grumbled again.

Of course he did. As if silence was too heavy, and words — even angry ones — made the weight of the day sit better on his chest.

“Bloody tea’s gone cold already,” he muttered, pushing the cup aside with a single flick of his fingers. “And the whole bloody room smells like rose soap. When did that happen?”

She didn’t reply.

Just looked at him — long and unreadable — before stepping in close.

Too close.

Tommy squinted. “What are you doing?”

“Interrupting your grumbling,” she said sweetly.

And then — she kissed him.

Not his lips.

His cheek.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Soft, precise little kisses like she was trying to erase every line carved by anger. Left. Right. Near the corner of his mouth. Under the eye he always narrowed when annoyed.

“Stop that,” he said gruffly.

She kissed him again.

“Stop it,” he repeated, turning slightly — so she just followed, kissing the other side.

“This is harassment,” he added flatly, but there was the slightest twitch in the corner of his mouth. The ghost of a smirk.

She ignored the words, leaning in to kiss his temple now, her tone mocking and syrupy:

“Oh no,” she cooed, “the mighty Thomas Shelby is under siege. Attacked by affection. How ever will he survive?”

He huffed, but didn’t pull away.

“D’you make it your life’s mission to be a nuisance?”

“No,” she whispered, pressing a kiss just below his jaw, “just to annoy you.”

“I’m trying to be serious.”

“That’s your problem. You’re always trying.”

He turned to face her fully now, brows low, voice dry.

“You know, most people would be terrified to interrupt me mid-rant.”

She tilted her head, studying his face with a maddening little smile — that maddeningly tender smile that always got under his skin.

“I’m not most people. I’m the woman who kisses your bad moods until they surrender.”

He exhaled through his nose.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t stop her.

Another kiss. Another soft mockery pressed to his brow.

“You’re lucky you’re beautiful,” he muttered.

She grinned, finally sitting down beside him again, curling a leg underneath herself like a cat too satisfied with her chaos.

“I know. You remind me every time you frown.”

He let his head fall back against the chair, eyes slipping closed, voice rasped with something that wasn’t quite defeat but certainly wasn’t war.

“Bloody woman,” he muttered.

“Say it again,” she teased.

“Bloody. Woman.”

And this time, he didn’t even try to hide the smirk

[hozierbabymomma]

HELLO??? 911??? MY FEELINGS HAVE BEEN HURT.. OK BUT REALLY THIS IS SO GOOD-

Grave

pt 2

b. barnes x reader

word count: 1.4k

summary: you find something bucky would like but can’t tell him because he’s gone. so you go to his grave.

warnings: angst, grief, lowercase writing, reader doesn’t know bucky was the winter soldier

a/n: my first fic that i’m posting. feedback is appreciated but pls me nice :) i also made a “steve tells you bucky is TWS after he fights him on the bridge” so lmk if yall want that :) masterlist

grief is so weird.

one day you're laughing at the memories that play back in your head. the next day you can't get out of bed because the memory of him hurts so bad. one day you have an unexplainable joy radiating from your heart and smile. the next day you're a sobbing mess on the floor.

the pain comes and goes. the joy comes and goes. they both stick around for a while but they always leave.

coming back out of this ice was a reset, of course, and it was more or less easy to go through it because you had steve. you both went through the reset together. he was there on the sleepless nights, the restful ones and the ones that just made you numb.

you knew you missed bucky. he had a piece of your heart you could never get back. he had a piece of your soul. the first time you realized how hard it was going to be without him was when you found out about the lord of the rings movies.

you'd ran into the common area where steve always sat reading what books he could about the modern world.

"steve, steve! you'll never guess what they made into a movie," you exclaimed sitting next to him, pulling your legs underneath you.

he closed his book and set it in his lap, "what?" he asked out of pure curiosity.

"lord of the rings! there's even a prequel of the hobbits too! bucky would absolutely love these, we have to tell him, he's going..." you stopped suddenly, "he... he would've loved them," you said slowly, "he would've have."

you could feel the joy drain from your body with every exhale. every inhale bringing in the saddest reality you'd still hadn't accepted fully.

steve laid a hand on your knee, he said your name in pity, "he would've loved them," he agreed, "we can still watch them."

you'd thanked him for the offer and apologized for the excited, for the reminder to him that bucky was really gone.

one excruciating night, you had looked up where his grave was. if he was gone, truly gone he'd have a grave. he did. it was in brooklyn, of course. it was a military cemetery. you finally built up the courage to tell steve about it.

he wasn't ready. you didn't think you were either, but you needed something. you needed something of him to hold onto. to touch. to see. nat had offered to drive you, but you declined. you didn't know how long you'd be there. you had a lot to tell him.

you took a blanket and lunch deciding to have a picnic with him. that was your first date with him. he'd taken you to central park and went all out. blanket, basket, flowers, chocolate covered strawberries- the works.

your brought the same things. the same kind of flowers, the strawberries, his favorite sandwich's and chips, his favorite soda.

now, you stand in front of the stone, stunned at the shape of it.

it's cracked down the middle, with chips in the stone on the sides and murderer spray painted across it.

you fall to your knees and touch the stone softly, "what have they done?"

you didn't even really know who “they” are but someone had to of done it. you didn’t know why they’d do it. what did bucky ever do to them?

there was sticker on the side of the grave, a punisher symbol. you hated seeing it. the punshier you could get behind, the cops who used him a their symbol? fuck that and fuck them.

you reach over and pull it off and decide right then and there to clean the grave. you call nat and ask her to bring some supplies and she does. an hour later she pulls up with a basket.

she asks if you need her to stay but you just shake your head and thank her. she leaves you with a hug and some kind words.

you scrub the grave for a couple hours. dirt and grim watered away in the soap and water but the spray paint barely faded.

"why would someone do this? you didn't do anything wrong. you just wanted to help," your tears haven't stopped since you saw the markings on the grave. 

did you miss something? did he do something awful during his time in the military that people felt so strongly that they just had to decimate his grave? you make a mental note to ask steve, nat, sam, anyone if they knew why someone would do this. no other graves around his were beaten and bruised.

you scrub hard one last time and sit back onto he blanket for a break. 

"okay let me eat and I'll try again," you tell him.

you pull your legs under you and begin to eat the now almost soggy sandwich. it was better than nothing and you were starving.

"I haven't looked for becca yet," you admit to him, "I know your parents must be gone but I don't know about becca. i'll find her and hope she'll want to see me. i've missed her too. remember when you got me that promise ring? later that night I called becca to come over to my house and I spilled my guts to how much i truly loved you. I don't think she liked how I talked about you but she was there for me and I hate I wasn't there for her after you died. I wish I was given more time with her. with you," you take another bite of the sandwich and a few sips of water.

"steve and I watched the Lord of the Rings a couple months ago. I don't know how true they were to books but I think you would've liked them. every time I saw steve furrow his brows together in confusion I could practically hear you explain what was on screen to him," you smile, "they even have special editions and box sets of the books now. one box set has illustrations by the author, you'd love them. would've been a great gift. steve and I work with howard's son now which is kind of mind boggling at times. I find myself wanting to tell tony how similar he is to howard when he's running around the lab. but I know he'd hate that, it seems him and howard weren't on the best terms." another bite. another sip. 

"I miss you a lot. I see you everywhere and its killing me. I don't know how to move on and keeping going when you literally everywhere I go. you're in the flowers in the garden at the compound, you're in the misty mirror when I get done showering, every time I make or drink black coffee your voice is in my ears reminding me its your favorite and i'm just copying you," you laugh lightly at the memory, "this pain, this aching for you is getting to be too much." 

"I think you'd want me to move on but I cant. nat has tried to set me up but you're in every face. every pair of grey eyes I see... its you. every time someone says 'james' I fin myself whipping around in the direction of the voice hoping to see you. you're not there. you never are and I can never remember or accept it."

its the worst pain you've ever felt: missing someone who is gone. the pain that follows after seeing something that reminds you of him and going to tell him but... hes not in your room, in the compound, in your phone or on the planet. how much more could you take?

you pack up your food into the basket and begin to scrub again. 

"I don't think is ever coming off. I'll get you a new one." you promise him. 

"promise?" 

the deep voice cracks on the word. fear laces the word as the rustling of footsteps come to a stop. you know the voice. you can bring yourself to turn around. your brain had to be playing another joke on you but you stop scrubbing anyway. you stand to your feet anyway. you turn around anyway. 

he stands a few feet away from you near a tree in the shade. a red henley and dark jeans with a brown jacket over him. a black baseball cap and black gloves cover hims further. he stands awkwardly not knowing whether to run up to you or approach you slowly like he's scared you'd run away if he moved even an inch. 

"bucky?"

a/n idk what to do with this but lmk if you’d like to see more!

pt 2!

[hozierbabymomma]

UM HELLO? THIS IS SO COOL- a series for this would be a freakin dream dude!!! Pleaseeeee author make this a seriessssss 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

random scenario my brain made up a few nights ago!!

you and bucky and steve had been childhood best friends. when the boys enlisted, you followed close behind, donning white as you learned your role as a military nurse.

after steve’s transformation into the captain, he specifically requested that you and bucky were assigned to stay by his side. although other officials tried to deny him this— they said it would be distracting— steve refused to fulfill his role without the two of you.

although unspoken, you had always had something more with bucky. steve knew, but it didn’t bother him. you were like a sister to him, and bucky was like his brother. he was ecstatic that his two favorite people were finding solace in one another.

and then the train incident happens, and you both lose bucky. it tears the both of you to shreds— all you can do is hold each other and sob, unable to articulate how soul-crushing it is to lose a man you both loved in your own ways.

a month after bucky dies, steve loses you too. it’s really unclear how it happens. one minute you’re there, tending to the wounded, dragging soldiers back toward the medical tents. the next you’re gone, your stained nurse’s cap left forgotten in the dirt.

steve is beside himself. two parts of him have gone, both presumably dead, and he struggles to cope.

he tries sacrifice himself against the red skull, but against his will, is reawakened a century later in a time he doesn’t know with people he doesn’t understand.

but then he starts to heal, starts to let others in again. after all, steve can’t help his kind heart. he empathizes with natasha, comes to understand tony. finds companionship in sam and finally feels like his two childhood friends, although gone, have come back in the form of a redhead assassin and the falcon.

and then he meets the winter soldier and his shadow.

her name isn’t known to shield’s records. those that have seen her rarely live to tell the tale. natasha is able to offer even less information on her than she is about the brute with the metal arm.

it takes steve aback, how in sync the soldier and his shadow fight. it’s eerie— the soldier tosses up a knife, a hand appears out of the shadows and grabs it. no words spoken, none needed. a deep understanding of one another, the trauma endured and the bond forged making the two into one.

the mask falls from the solider first, and steve swears his heart stops. bucky. his bucky. his best friend, his brother, alive and standing in front of him.

nothing happens for a second— a second that feels like a lifetime to steve as he relives watching bucky fall to his death. to holding you as the both of your mourned a body that would never be found.

the winter soldier extends a hand to the side, and his partner steps out of shadows, placing a knife into his open palm. she had taken to holding back natasha and sam while bucky fought steve. sometime during the fight, she had lost her mask as well.

and steve falls to his knees as you fully materialize out of the dark, shadows receding around you, curling from the tips of your fingers and finally dissipating.

hydra had gotten you, too.

it made too much sense. you and bucky had always had a bond deeper than friends, deeper than lovers, even. you were intertwined so deeply, one could not take a step without the other knowing. (if only the two of you had acted on things sooner).

the one key to bucky’s heart, the one that could influence him even more than steve could, was you. the greatest weakness. hydra capitalized on that weakness, turning you into something that killed instead of something that healed.

stressing your bond with your lover, manipulating it so perversely and making you into two killers, two halves of a whole.

at least you had each other, he thinks.

(he later finds out that having each other was no solace, no escape. it was double the torture— physical and emotional— as they took one’s transgressions out on the other.)

and even though this has happened, that he barely recognizes the two souls standing in front of him, he feels whole again. because you are both alive and seemingly healthy and able to be reached.

bucky tucks the knife into his belt and extends his hand to you once again.

you take it, and the two of you melt away, darkness filling the space you once occupied.

[hozierbabymomma]

AHSHGDHDJSJHSHDGEHHDHCUCUUD PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE-

an out there request ~ matthew lillard & skeet ulrich

word count: 4740

request?: yes!

“hi hi hiiiiii, i wanted to start this off with saying am in love with you. like your writing? perfection. the fact you do this for all of us? so gorgeous. this one is weird? kinda, maybe. skeet ulrich x matthew lillard x reader, current time. you go to that convention where you talk and meet them, and you got the thing where you can go back and get a picture with them. you ask them (as respectfully as possible lol) if the pose you guys can do is eiffel tower (your head in one of their crotches and your ass in the others crotch). they’re like shocked and stuff (idk why but i see the reader pulling out their id and being like trust me, i’m of age). banter and them agreeing to it, then when you leave you notice something in your pocket, like a note or something saying one of their room number and smut ensues. thank you”

description: after she makes a lucrative pose suggestion for a picture, she doesn’t expect for that pose to become a reality

pairing: matthew lillard x female!reader x skeet ulrich

warnings: rpf, swearing, smut (threesome, fingering, oral f & m receiving, praise, p in v (protected), multiple orgasms)

masterlist (one, two, three)

Keep reading

[hozierbabymomma]

Im in tears on the toilet yalll please help.

The Manuscript.

Aaron Hotchner

a/n; hey so i hate myself after this bc my heart hurtssssssss. Oh my god i cant breathe why have i done that ouch

warnings; implications of sex, heartbreak, age gap, light mentions of eating struggles, emotional hotch

---------------------

You and Aaron had a loving and happy relationship for the most part, no, for the whole part. You always felt safe with him, content when in his arms and no matter what was going on, you knew that it would be okay because you had Aaron, but... now you didn't. You no longer had him and that was the issue, the root of your internal pain- the feeling of claustrophobia as you're trapped within your own body, being suffocated and closed in on very slowly and agonisingly.

Your relationship had happened hard and fast. One day he was your boss, the next you were entwined in his arms and suddenly all you knew was him. Now and then you re-read the manuscript of your relationship. A silly, stupid, gutwrenching piece of paper displayed with your handwriting. The only place the two of you were still together.

The concept seemed silly now but the two of you promised to write out letters to one another on extremely special occasions. It held a greater sentiment than leaving a message when it was handwritten. You had only one but that one manuscript was the bane of your existence, drawing you in like a moth to the flame. It was enough to sentence you to a life imposing as a lamb to slaughter, at his hand. You hated how he always had an effect on you, even after all these years, he was always your because. The manuscript in question? His hand written confession of love. You scoff looking over the paper, tracing your finger over the ink scrawling and silently curse Aaron Hotchner and his utter romantic mind.

'I'm not a donor but I'd give you my heart if you needed it.'

A sentence that haunted the ghost of who she had become.

It had been a very long and passionate night between the two of you. Let's just say age had not effected you man's ability to perform when it came to you. Over and over and over. You were laying in bed besides him, tracing his cheek with the pad of your fingertips, memorising the features of his face. "I don't know what I prefer, being given the opportunity to be this intimate with you... or being able to talk to you about anything and know you still care." "You don't have to prefer one or the other," you reply with a smile, kissing his nose. "You will always have both." "Don't say things like that uness you want to be pushing our baby's stroller," he jokes with a loving smile and you laugh. Your pretty sure your heart just burst with love and adoration for this man.

But, soon it was over.

The reason he broke up with you was 'simple', because of you age gap, he deemed it to be inappropriate. Sure, you were in your late twenties and he may be in his fourties but it had never been a problem to him before.

In the age of him you wished you were thirty, if it meant that much to him. Just a few more years and it would have been fine. You wouldn't have lost the love of your life. Your soulmate, your person. Because that's what he was. He understood you, he accepted you and most importantly- he loved you.

You had dreams while in the relationship and post-relationship about making coffee every morning before work in his fancy new french press. Coffee was a huge part of your job enrichment so to start with a genuinely good coffee was always a reason to smile that day. Though, your favourite part of that damn french press was the coffee scented kisses. Every morning before you got in the car, Aaron made sure to kiss you with every ounce of love he had for you, no matter if you were both running late or urgently called out, he never forgot. The kisses tasted like him, it's strange how the smell and taste coffee could be so distinct to a person; to the point where it takes over all of your senses. You haven't drank coffee since you guys broke up.

After the breakup, you went back home to England to stay with your parents. You never understood how much a breakup could effect you until you stayed in bed all day, not even your own, your mother's bed. She held you as you cried for days on end, trying to coerce you back into an everyday routine once again but soon giving up because she knew it would not work. She regularly brought you a bowl of cereal, trying to get you to eat something. Though, you rarely ate it, especially in the first few days.

"It was your favourite when you were little, I thought maybe some nostalgia could help." Your mom explained with a soft smile, holding you like you were still a baby, because you would always be her aby and all she wanted to do was protect you.

Eventually you started dating again, this time a boy who was your own age. Though, you couldn't help but compare him to your Aaron. This boy was immature, didn't know what he wanted and cared only about parties. A bad choice, you knew that not all boys your age care about so little but they would never compare to Aaron. A man who wrote you a handwritten confession of love and kissed you so gently like you were soon to be framed in an art gallery.

He often told you that you were wise beyond your years which you accepted as a compliment. You had to mature sooner, with the actions of your irresponsible father, you were forced to learn to live without him in your life. Maybe that's part of the initial appeal to Aaron.

Years ad passed since your breakup and life no longer felt real, maybe you over-depended on Aaron but it was far from unhealthy. Your life felt like a cruel drama you watch on an occasional weekend. In the time apart, you went to university back in England, studying a psychology masters with hopes of diverting from police work into psychological fields. But goddamn, everything reminded you of him.

The professor had told us that looking backwards may be the only way to move forward in life, not appealing to us, but to the degree, though it played at your heartstrings and you knew what you had to do.

You booked a flight out to Quantico, Virginia as soon as you could. The plane ride was like a death trap for you. A feeling of distraught ripping at your insides, something that had never truly gone away these past years. Suddenly you wonder if he had been feeling the same these past years. They say water holds memories so when the tears stream down your face with adamant precision, you knew that you were about to rip open a half stitched wound.

The sheet of paper was the only thing you brought with you.

You started to get nervous at seeing him again for the first time in many of years and hopefully, it was the last. Hopefully the dreams would stop, the reminders would stop and you will be okay again.

You walk into the FBI building, the security still recognising you and letting you through the building and you press level 6 when you get into the elevator, for the very last time. You exist the elevator and look into the familiar building, seeing the team in the bullpen as you walk through. Emily looks up and catches your eye, immediately shocked to see you. A ghost of her unit chief's past.

"Hello you- what are you doing here?" She smiles and pulls you into a hug dragging everyones attention. Soon they all swaddle you in hugs and welcomes.

"I'm not here for long, I just came to... drop something off." You say with a flat mouth and you know damn well they can see the effect it is having on you.

"Do you want one of us to give it to him?" JJ asks kindly, placing her hand on your shoulder, offering a polite smile.

In reality they can all see that you had yet to heal from your breakup, you still looked exhausted, you looked hollow. Like a part was taken from you and it seemed all too familiar to them because you looked like Aaron, maybe even in a better condition than him.

"No, I want to seee his one last time." You say simply and point up the stairs. "is he up there?"

They nod and so you knock on the door and open it, your heart shattering at the sight of him. He was far from looking after himself, you knew him enough to tell despite him looking professional. He looks up from his work load and stares at you, his mouth falling into an 'o'.

"What..."

You shake your head, "Aaron, hi." you breathe out softly, a huge weight on your shoulders.

"Hi... please come in." You do but you don't sit.

"I'm here to give-"

"How've you-"

You both overlap one another, letting out a soft sigh with a smile.

"How've you been?" His eyes are glassy, probably from how he was rubbing them to see if you were really stood infront of him or not.

"Fine."

"How's London?" He asks again, softer this time.

"Good. I needed my mom."

"Yes." He nods and looks at you longingy. The silence is thick.

"I- I came to return this." You say softly, handing over the sheets of handwritten paper. "I think it is inappropriate to keep considering our circumstances."

He takes the sheet, his finger brushing against yours and you feel your heart shatter in your chest. Tears burned your eyes and you handed him it and he took it, opening it to see if it was true. He looked at the paper and visibly frowned, tears mimicing yours in his eyes. "You're giving it back? You flew here to...give it back?"

"The only thing that is left in us healing is the manuscript-"

"Oh," he wipes his eyes, not even hiding his feelings. "Can I hug you?"

You nod, knowing this is the last time you will get to experience this again. "Take it as my last souvenir from my trip to your shores." You laugh through tears, holding onto him like it was the last thing you will ever do.

You cry into each others arms, holding one another so tightly. "I re-read that so many times and i realised... the story isn't mine anymore."

[hozierbabymomma]

Now yall i dont wanna sound crazy but id suck his toes if he asked 🙏🏽🙂‍↕️

hotch being super touchy with bau!reader during a night out with the team and like cannot wait until they’re home or something ? (idk if this helps!!)

citrus

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader w.c. 1.5k c.w.: fluff!! suggestive content, established relationship, mentions of alcohol, needy touchy hotch <3

a/n: thank you so much for the request! i realize now while typing this that you may have been asking for horny hotch but instead i give you needy hotch with a touch of horny. not my best work but i hope you like it <33

You first start to suspect something’s wrong when Hotch sits next to you on the jet.

Not that Hotch sitting next to you was an abnormal occurrence, however ever since you two came clean about your relationship with the rest of the team, both of you made the effort to maintain as professional as possible. Which meant not sharing hotel rooms even though you’re sure the budget manager wouldn’t complain, no favoritism, and no PDA.

The no PDA rule was particularly difficult for you because, how could you not touch him?

The team had just finished up a kidnapping case in Florida. Nearly two weeks of suffocating in the humidity and dealing with swarms of mosquitos every time you stepped outside of the precinct. The relief from being in a familiar setting and the working AC is tangible when you plop down into a window seat facing the front of the cabin.

When you notice Hotch approaching you and taking the seat next to yours, you barely hide the surprise on your face. Hotch just merely raises an eyebrow at you before he jumps into debriefing.

Afterwards, when everyone has either fallen asleep or victim to playing chess with Spencer, Hotch knocks his knee against yours.

You look up from your book, a question forming on the tip of your tongue, when you notice Hotch hunched over his files and eyebrows creased in concentration.

It must have been an accident, you think. Except he does it again.

“You okay?” you ask, placing your bookmark and setting your book aside. It’s not like you were paying attention anyway, having had read the page at least two times by now.

“Fine,” he mutters, not unkindly, before scribbling something at the bottom of a file and moving onto the next one.

The past two weeks had been difficult for everyone, and the week before wasn’t any easier. You assume that Hotch was just itching to go back to your shared apartment to check on Jack before passing out in your bed.

And then he bumps against your knee again.

You don’t say anything this time, instead picking up your book and hitting your knee back against his. You just barely catch the corners of his mouth quirking up.

-

You could’ve sworn Hotch was going to decline tagging along with you when you decided to go out to O’Keefe’s with the rest of the team as soon as you landed. You were even expecting a glare, silently telling you that everyone needs to go home to get some rest and that he is driving you two back to the apartment whether you like it or not.

You start to think Hotch is really up to something now when he shrugs and agrees to tag along with you, promising just one drink.

And then, Hotch rests his arm on the console while driving, his hand worryingly close to your thigh despite Reid and JJ sitting in the backseat. Then, he’s placing a large hand on the small of your back when you’re walking into the bar, causing a shiver to run up your spine despite the warm evening air. Then, he sidles up next to you in the booth, thighs pressing against each other and his wide shoulder brushing against yours. It’s a lot of touching, which you’re clearly fine with, but touching from Hotch, at work, several times in the span of 30 minutes?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask, having to lean in to be heard over the music even with his good ear.

Hotch raises his eyebrows at you over his drink. “I told you, I’m fine.”

And it’s like you’re able to see the idea form in his head, having spent so much time with him on and off the clock that you’ve luckily gotten better at reading him.

You still nearly jump out of your seat when Aaron places his warm hand on your thigh, underneath the table where nobody else was able to see.

You’ve gotten used to how touchy Aaron can be behind closed doors. At home, he’s constantly touching you—an arm around your waist, a finger tracing the curve of your jaw, or a kiss pressed at the crown of your head.

But this? A hand on your thigh at a bar in front of your coworkers?

You can feel the heat of his palm seep through your pants, annoyingly close to where you really want him the most. Is that what this is about?

“You two lovebirds alright over there?” Emily calls from the other side of the table, looking spectacularly sober despite you witnessing her downing shot after shot.

The sudden weight of 7 different pairs of eyes on you has you even more frazzled because Aaron’s hand only squeezes the flesh of your thigh while he glances at you casually, his free hand wrapped around an old-fashioned.

“Just talking about how I need another drink,” you say, hoping that your voice doesn’t sound as strained to them as it does to you. And technically it is true as you shake your glass to emphasize the ice cubes clinking around with no fruity drink accompanying it.

When you notice Garcia’s mouth open to volunteer to come with you, you scramble up out of the booth, glad that you chose the outside spot, and weave your way through the crowd to the bar. You try to ignore the way the right side of your body suddenly feels colder without Hotch’s body pressed up against yours.

You’re waiting for your drink when you feel a hand snake around your waist. The only thing keeping you from spinning around to maybe unethically flash your badge is the familiar weight of Hotch’s palm pressed against your hip and the citrusy smell of whiskey on his breath against your ear.

A giggle bubbles out of you, instinctively leaning back against his chest. You’re secretly glad that he left his suit jacket in the car, leaving you to ogle the way the crisp white dress shirt stretches over his shoulders. “Seriously, what is with you today?”

His lips ghost over your ear, the low tone of his voice making your knees weak. “I’m not allowed to touch my girlfriend?”

Girlfriend. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing that.

You lean even harder into him, one of your hands coming down to grab at his toned forearm as you reach for your finished drink. “Of course you can. I just can’t remember the last time you’ve been this touchy in front of everyone, or ever really.”

“I don’t hear any complaints.”

“I might start if you don’t kiss me.” And it’s mostly to just poke fun at him because Hotch hasn’t even held hands with you in front of the team, much less kiss you in a crowded bar with them undoubtedly watching and whispering amongst themselves.

You’re expecting Hotch to huff a laugh against your ear, letting go and stepping away from you. Maybe even him holding your hand while he leads you through the dance floor and back to your booth to humor you.

You don’t expect Hotch’s free hand to come up and cradle your chin, tilting your face towards his almost uncomfortably to press his lips against yours. It’s soft, chaste even, but the fact that he’s kissing you in front of your colleagues and strangers, in a crowded bar with the loud music nearly thrumming through your veins, makes you feel hot all over.

His arm tightens around you, spinning you around until you’re facing him, and he swallows the gasp you unintentionally let out as he deepens the kiss, your mouth instinctively parting. You’ve been dating for months but kissing him still feels like that very first time in his office, the hard edge of his desk digging into your hip and the glow of the sunset highlighting the clear affection in his eyes.

When you pull back, you notice a pink tinge high on his cheeks and the way his tongue peeks out to lick his lips, as if chasing the taste of your fruity cocktail. “What was that for?”

“Just letting you know that I can’t wait to take you home,” he says, pulling you until the entire line of your body is pressed against his. Your hand unconsciously comes to rest on his chest and you’re not sure if you can feel the bass line for the song playing or the thudding of his heart.

His hands start trailing down to your ass and you seriously wonder how touchier he can get.

But, like you realized earlier, it’s been weeks since you’ve had alone time with Hotch. So, you untangle yourself from him despite his protests and slip your hand in his pocket to retrieve the car keys. You grin when it’s Hotch’s turn to jump.

“I’ll meet you at the car?”

“I already said bye to them for us, let’s go.”

And then he’s pulling you towards the exit with his thick fingers wrapped around your wrist. You barely have the chance to peer over the moving crowd to see the rest of your team waving at you, wearing shit-eating grins.

[hozierbabymomma]

HELLO⁉️ I NEED THIS NEOW⁉️⁉️

Me fr:

nobody does it like you do

pairing: dbf!aaron hotchner/fem!reader rating: explicit w.c.: 10k.... a/n: dbf!hotch party ended months ago but im still here

summary:

You don't mean to start something with your dad's best friend during your summer break.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI PLSSSS, dbf!hotch yippee, no y/n, reader is mid-20s and hotch is mid 40s, reader is kind of a brat and also very sexual and forward :), car sex, handjobs in car, v fingering, dom/sub, dirty talk, light degradation kink, size kink if u squint, light choking at the end!, unprotected sex, tbh some plot to mostly porn

read below or on ao3 here <3

You’re nearly half-naked when you first meet him.

It was the first morning back at home during your summer break in your first year of your Master’s program. You hadn’t been home in several months, blaming your rigorous coursework and the full-time job you had, but luckily you were able to use nearly a month’s worth of PTO to coincide with your summer off.

You had gotten in late after flying across the country, but your body still woke up like clockwork just before 9 am.

Currently, as you make eye contact with the tallest and most attractive man you have ever met while wearing a tank top and shorts that barely covered your ass, you couldn’t tell if that was a blessing or a curse.

You had heard your dad rave about what basically sounded like a crush he had over the phone for nearly a year. Aaron Hotchner apparently works with your father at the FBI, albeit in a different department, and they hit it off at a recent gala by discussing golf, expensive scotch, and being annoyed about the latest budget cuts. One Saturday at the country club’s golf course later, your father was hooked, and Aaron has been over at the house nearly every weekend since.

You remember your dad saying something about how he’s hardworking, better than he is at golf, and much nicer than he looks. He didn’t say anything about how hot he was.  

You were stumbling out your bedroom and rubbing at your eyes when you had nearly run into him on the way to the bathroom. You’re still waking up, but you see the genuine surprise and something like want on his face before it’s gone, a neutral expression taking over his handsome features. The clench in his jaw betrays him.

“Excuse me,” he says. His voice is low, deep in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. “I was just heading into the restroom.”

You blink at him, your mind still not having not caught up yet. “Uhm.”

“I can just go to the one downstairs,” he says, giving you an easy smile. It makes him look even more devastatingly attractive and you feel dazed. With that, he turns on his heel and makes his way back downstairs without another word.

You distantly hear your father downstairs calling your name and asking if you’re awake. You feel rooted to the spot, flustered.

You try your best to go through your normal bathroom routine, but your heart still hasn’t calmed down yet. It’s been a while since you’ve dated and even longer since you’ve slept with someone, thus you’ve had a lot of quality time with yourself recently, so seeing the way this older man reacted to you was enough to have you preening a bit. You weren’t imagining it, right?

You tell yourself that you’re feeling lazy after a long day of traveling and not wanting to change yet as you head downstairs into the kitchen, absolutely not hiking your shorts up a little and shimmying your tank top down.

“Good morning,” you chirp as you step into the kitchen. Your dad is already sitting at the dining table, most likely finishing his second cup of coffee, and his face lights up when he sees you as if he wasn’t the one to pick you up from the airport late last night. Aaron is standing in the kitchen next to the coffee machine, pouring into a travel mug.

You ignore the way you can feel Aaron’s dark eyes rove over you; the top of your breasts nearly threatening to spill out, your hard nipples poking through your top, and the curve of your ass peeking out from underneath your shorts.

“Morning, pumpkin,” your dad says cheerily, clearly oblivious to what’s going on between his friend and his own daughter. “This is Aaron, he works at the Bureau with me, I told you about him?”

You vaguely remember when you stalked through his Facebook profile several months ago after your father was tagged with him multiple times. The pictures of him were always blurry, never giving you anything to go off of.

As you stand next to him in the kitchen and crane your neck up to look at him, you realize the pictures really don’t do him justice. He’s handsome, almost boy-ish with the way his hair is clean and not gelled down like in the pictures, flopping in front of his forehead. He’s wearing a tight red polo, showcasing his broad shoulders and forearms in a way that makes you want to drool a bit. His brow is pinched, jaw tense, and you almost think you can hear his teeth grinding when he attempts to keep his eyes on your face and not on your chest.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hotchner,” you say, giving him an innocent smile. You ignore the mug your dad must have left on the counter for you and stand up on your tiptoes to retrieve one from the overhead cupboard.

You feel a rush of exhilaration when you hear Aaron suck in a breath at the way your tank top hikes up your stomach. When you turn back to him, because he is technically in the way of the coffee machine, you catch the way his eyes sharpen and the way his hand grasps at the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white.

And then it’s gone, just like earlier, replaced with something almost professional, probably the same expression he makes when something ticks him off at work.

Interesting.

“Aaron is fine,” he says, stepping out of the way of the coffee machine and then holds his hand out for you to shake.

You can feel your dad watching you, so you make an effort to tone it down a bit. You put your hand in his, swallowing when you notice just how large his hands are and the way he grips you a bit tighter than what would be considered professional. When you look back up at him, there’s something almost like a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Nice to meet you, Aaron,” you repeat. It’s worth it to see a smile grace his face, replacing that smirk, and causing something fuzzy settle in your chest.

When he lets go and makes his way to sit across your dad at the table, you ignore how your hand suddenly feels like it’s burning.

“We’re about to head to the golf course here in a couple of minutes if you wanted to join?” your dad asks as you pour your coffee and sit down at the head of the table.

You hum and experimentally kick your feet out in Aaron’s direction to where he sits to your left. You make contact with his knee, and you watch almost gleefully as Aaron just barely jumps in his seat. He doesn’t make eye contact with you, just quietly sips at his coffee. It really shouldn’t turn you on the way it does. “I’m okay, I was just planning on hanging out here and catch up on my shows.”

“You sure, pumpkin? I know it’s been a while since you were out on the course but…”

“I think that’s exactly why I shouldn’t come with you,” you laugh. You pull your chair up closer to the table, making it look like you were just trying to get comfortable, when really you just wanted to cop more of a feel of Aaron’s thighs.

“Alright, alright,” your father says, putting his hands up in defeat. “But don’t forget about the retreat later this week with the guys.”

You pause from where you were just about to dig your toes underneath his thigh. “Retreat?”

“I told you about it when I picked you up last night!”

“I think you forgot that you picked me up at one in the morning and I was half-asleep in the car,” you roll your eyes. “But of course I’ll go with you.”

“Great!” Your dad says with that big smile on his face that always makes you feel nostalgic. You don’t really want to go, was honestly just planning on relaxing at home, but if it makes your dad happy and you get to spend more time with him, then you’ll do almost anything.

And if Aaron’s coming too, then well…

Your dad gets up to put his mug in the sink and starts making his way out of the dining room. “You ready to go, Hotchner?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Aaron says, a barely detectable rasp to his voice that has you hiding a smile in your mug.

You’re about to put your foot down when you feel thick fingers circling your ankle and lifting your leg up until your ankle is resting on Aaron’s knee. You nearly squeak in surprise, but the look on Aaron’s face stops you.

He would look calm, composed even, if you didn’t pay attention to the way his eyes have darkened. His brow is pinched, lips pressed into a thin line, as he tightens his grip on your ankle and asks in a low voice “What kind of game are you playing here?”

Not expecting confrontation, you don’t know what to say. Your breath gets stuck in your chest, something about the glare he’s giving you keeps you rooted in your chair.

Because there’s really only two options here. He’s your dad’s best friend, at least 20 years older than you, and you really have no business in sexually riling up this guy you’ve never met before until today. You can apologize, give him a genuine and friendly smile, and go back to your room and pretend this never happened and you weren’t just throwing yourself at some hot older man.

But there’s something about Aaron that you can’t quite put your finger on. You wonder what it would be like to see him without those walls he undoubtedly keeps up all the time, see him come undone. You can tell from his Facebook pictures that he’s a bigshot of some kind, always wearing a fitted suit and not a hair out of place. You can see that now, in his pressed polo and matching belt, that he likes control, his skin nearly thrumming with it. And that’s something you’ve always enjoyed playing with.

You noticed the lack of a wedding ring on his finger, and the way he’s gazing into you now. The hot trail his hand leaves behind as he starts running up your shin, past your knee, and grip at the meat of your thigh says all you need to know.

“What game?” you say, innocently. You even play it up a bit by batting your lashes at him.

His grip on your thigh tightens, and it feels so good, and it’s been so long, you resist rolling your eyes back and instead spread your legs just a bit underneath the table.

“Your father didn’t tell me you were such a brat,” he mutters.

“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him,” you say, hoping you don’t sound as out of breath as you feel.

Aaron doesn’t say anything at that, just hums thoughtfully. You don’t have a chance to backpedal, redirect the conversation if you were reading the whole situation wrong, before he’s placing your leg back on the floor with a gentle hand on your ankle and getting up.

“We can talk more about what you want to do after school later,” he says, raising his voice a bit in an effort to appear like he wasn’t just groping you underneath the table.

You almost don’t hear what he says because your gaze is fixed on the obvious tent in his khakis. Your mouth nearly waters, and just knowing that you’re having the same kind of effect on him as he has on you has heat pooling between your thighs.

You shake your head, resisting the thoughts of throwing yourself on your knees in front of him and taking him in your mouth right in the dining room. You grin up at him and, in an impulsive decision that you’re secretly proud of, you reach over to put a hand on his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch.

“Absolutely, Mr. Hotchner.”

Your smile grows wider at the stormy glare he gives you before he heads out of the dining room, imperceptibly adjusting himself in his pants. Your eyes follow him out, cheeks nearly starting to hurt from how hard you’re smiling because damn, does his ass look good.

It’s your summer vacation, you may as well have some fun, right?

-

Since then, you’ve barely seen Aaron.

You had made Aaron and your father sandwiches, knowing they’d be home by the afternoon. You tried not to let the fact that you were upset, disappointed even, show on your face when your dad came home by himself and told you that Aaron got called for a case.

You knew from your dad that this was a normal occurrence for Aaron and that they’ve both gotten used to it. So many times there would be a gala or a party at the house and he would be called away to chase down a murderer or a rapist or a combination of the two.

You tried not to let it get to you, because seriously, you just met him, but also, it’s not like he owes you anything. But you really hoped that he wouldn’t miss the retreat later that week. Just imagining spending time with him in your lone hotel room was enough to make you dizzy.

So, you distracted yourself. You caught up on your emails, watched those shows that had been piling up in your watch later list, and spent time with your dad at the golf course or whatever else he wanted to do that day. It was nice spending your summer vacation with your dad and catching up on what he does at his boring administrative job and the lack of both of your love lives.

By the time Friday rolled around, there was still nothing but radio silence from Aaron, at least you assumed since your dad hadn’t mentioned him. You almost wish you had asked for his phone number before he left, but it wouldn’t have done you any good to waste a whole week sitting by your cellphone, waiting for a probably dry text from some guy.

A really hot, older guy that definitely has control issues and could toss you around like a ragdoll.

You’re throwing your bag in your car’s backseat and was about to admit defeat, that maybe he really wasn’t going to make it, when a black Range Rover comes skidding down your street and into your driveway.

“There he is,” your dad said in a sing-song voice, sounding about as giddy as you felt.

Your breath catches in your throat when you see him stepping out of his car, because how the hell is it possible for a man to look so attractive doing something so mundane?

And then your eyes nearly bug out because he has his suit jacket hanging from his arm, a duffel bag in the other, and is wearing a white dress shirt so tight that you could see the bulge of his biceps and the softness of his stomach.

“Sorry I’m late,” Aaron says, jogging up to where you and father were. “We just got back a couple hours ago.”

He looks at you then with those pretty brown eyes, looking genuinely apologetic, and the disappointment that you were afraid was going to take a permanent place in your chest gently unravels.

“It’s no problem, Hotch,” your dad waves him off. “We’re still waiting for some of the other guys, so you made it just in time.”

“Great,” Aaron breathes in relief. “I’m going to go change then, I’ll be right back.” His eyes flit towards you again, and you would’ve missed it if you weren’t still staring at him. They’re piercing, undoubtedly beckoning you to follow him, and there’s a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

You feel a rush of excitement shooting through you as you watch him head towards the front door, eyes fixated on his hips. There was no clearer sign than that one, though you try not to roll your eyes fondly at the fact that your dad evidently did not notice as he goes back to playing Tetris with his bags in the trunk.

You wait a couple of minutes, pretending to play on your phone, and then exclaim “Oops, I almost forgot my phone charger! I’m going to run upstairs and get it.”

Your dad just gives an “Okie dokie, sweetie,” and then his phone rings with who you assume is one of his friends you’re waiting for.

You try to not sprint to the front door, instead taking a deep breath and walking in what you hope looks like a normal pace. However, as soon as the front door clicked shut, you run up the stairs, hoping Aaron chose your bathroom rather than the one downstairs.

Not spotting him waiting outside the bathroom, your heart nearly drops out from underneath you, however you notice the closed door and the soft golden light from underneath telling you that you were right.

You were right and maybe you weren’t imagining things. He knew you would listen to his unspoken instructions and follow him. You weren’t a profiler like him, not an expert at studying other people’s body language, but there was nothing fake about the fact that he got hard at your dining room table and you had only known each other for 10 minutes that Sunday.

The click of the door opening disrupts your thoughts. You’re about to grin up at Aaron, say something cute like how you’ve missed him or something more playful like asking why he hasn’t called you.

But you don’t get the chance because you’re suddenly being pressed up against the wall, warm hands on your hips, and Aaron’s soft mouth pressing into yours.

He swallows your gasp, his fingers inching up the hem of your tank top to touch the skin of your waist and kisses the life out of you. His lips are chapped and he tastes fresh, like he had a breath mint on the drive here, and the thought that he had that foresight just for you makes your knees weak.

He kisses you deeply, not even bothering to start gentle like so many other boys have tried before, and it’s overwhelming and not enough at the same time. You’re helpless to kiss back, your body finally catching up, and your hands come up to tangle at the soft strands at the nape of his neck.

He hums against your lips at that, his hands starting to move underneath your shirt to trace the swell of your breasts through your bra. It tickles, and you squirm a little and huff a laugh against his mouth before you can help it.

Before you could apologize and tell him to stop tickling you, his hands press your hips harder against the wall and his lips break away from yours. You attempt to chase him, because you were definitely not done making out, when Aaron tuts at you.

“Behave,” he warns lowly, but he has a full-blown smirk now. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, and his lips red and glistening. He looks so unbearingly sexy when he’s reprimanding you, he just makes it so easy for you to tease him.

“Or what?” You ask, smiling up at him. You watch as his smirk falters, brows furrowing, and something like frustration and exasperation blooms on his face.

“You’re ridiculous,” Aaron breathed, before he’s leaning in and pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and down your neck. He scrapes his teeth against the spot where your shoulder and neck meets and your knees actually buckle this time, something like a strangled moan coming out of your mouth and catching you by surprise. “Looks like you do know how to watch that mouth of yours.”

Any snarky comeback you have dies in your throat because you did not expect Aaron to have that kind of dirty mouth on him. Molten heat starts to pool at the bottom of your stomach, between your thighs, as he slips the strap of your tank top down your shoulder to trace your collarbone with his lips.

“Aaron…,” you whisper, letting your hands fall from his nape to grab at his shoulders, trail down to grope at his biceps. The sleek muscle you can feel even through the fabric of his polo that he changed into, tensing and flexing as he pushes at you, sends your mind reeling.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he mutters against your shoulder, his warm breath and the pet name making you feel paralyzed. “Cat got your tongue?”

Your eyes roll back as you feel him biting a mark onto your chest, right underneath your collarbone, the pain and pleasure tingling all the way down to your cunt. You say something unintelligible, brain feeling muddled, because holy shit.

“Hey pumpkin, did your find your charger? We have to get moving!” You hear your dad’s voice from downstairs and barely swallow back a gasp before Aaron’s hand is pressed over your mouth to quiet you. You hate that that does absolutely nothing to help the growing arousal between your thighs.

Aaron’s eyes meet yours. His eyes have gotten impossibly darker, soft hair falling against his forehead. The wild desire and excitement are clear on his face, but he raises his eyebrows at you to signal you to behave before he lifts his palm off your face.

“Coming!” you yell back at him, hoping the strain in your voice isn’t as obvious to him as it is to you.

Aaron hums, something smug playing at his lips. “Maybe later.”

And it’s ridiculous. Aaron Hotchner, stoic Unit Chief of an FBI unit, best friend of your dad, and 20 years older than you just made out with you so hard that your knees buckled and made a joke about making you come?

You huff a laugh, pushing at his shoulder so you can wriggle out of his grip. He lets go immediately, stepping back to give you several feet of space, and you try not to think about how you already miss the heat and weight of his body against yours.

You’re about to run downstairs, an excuse about realizing you already packed your charger on the tip of your tongue, when Aaron is circling his fingers around your wrist. You look back at him curiously, because as much as you want to, there definitely isn’t time for him to ravage you in your bedroom.

He looks much more composed now, more like his professional SSA Aaron Hotchner self, but you catch the way his eyes linger on the way your shorts ride up high and the soft expanse of your thighs. “I’m serious. We’ll finish this later.”

And it’s the way he doesn’t pose it as a question, but rather a guarantee. Like nothing is going to stop him from having his way with you.

The thought of being completely at Aaron’s mercy has you breathless, feeling a flush rise on your face and your pulse between your legs. He has you stunned speechless, because you’ve never been with someone who has made you feel complete and utter want. You look at him now, chest imperceptibly heaving and making that olive green polo tug across the wide expanse of his chest, you realize that he may just ruin other people for you completely.

Your throat clicks when you clear it, and you only feel a little embarrassed when Aaron doesn’t hide his smirk at you. All words have died in your throat, so you nod instead, hoping that he will take that as an answer.

If possible, Aaron looks even more smug at that.

“Good girl.”

-

The drive to the hotel where the retreat is being held is only 2 hours away, which would’ve been perfectly easy, if you weren’t stuck in the car with Aaron.

You were planning on driving your own car with the top down, wind in your hair, and music blasting. You wanted to spend at least part of your summer vacation doing girly summery things, such as driving into the night with your hair whipping your face and feeling the humidity making your tank top stick to your back.

You also thought you would have time to yourself to think about Aaron and what the hell you got yourself into.

Instead, because you can’t tell if the universe loves or hates you, you have to take Aaron’s Range Rover because everyone else’s cars are packed full, and your dad wouldn’t let you drive by yourself. You tried not to show the excitement bloom on your face when your dad told you, but by the pointed look that Aaron gave you, you didn’t do a very good job.

So, it’s just you, Aaron, and the incredibly tangible sexual tension between you.

The first 30 minutes was easy. It took a while for everyone to find the correct route and there was a lengthy discussion over the phone about whether anyone wanted to stop anywhere for any reason. Eventually, you and at least 4 other similarly lavish cars made it onto the highway.

Aaron was silent for most of the phone call, saying that he didn’t have anywhere he wanted to stop at, and was just looking forward to the fancy clawfoot tub the hotel advertised on their website. You threw a glance at him at that, wondering if he was trying to tell you that he wanted to fuck in the bathtub, but nope. His eyes were firmly on the road, both arms on the steering wheel like a responsible adult or whatever.

You weren’t sure how he was able to act like nothing happened—like you weren’t about to let him just fuck you up against the wall in your childhood home, because currently, you felt like you were about to jump out of your skin from the nervous energy thrumming through you.

You fully ogle him now since it’s not like you have anything to hide. Even his side profile is attractive, but at this point you’re not surprised. Everything you’ve been noticing about him has been steadily driving you wild; the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint traces of stubble, and the way his hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white.

You watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he deadpans “You’re staring.”

You grin at him before you could help it. “It’s not my fault you’re so handsome. They should study you in art classes, maybe you can even get naked for it?”

The snort that comes out of Aaron’s mouth is sudden, and by the way his eyebrows pinch together like he’s thinking hard, he notices as well. “You really are insatiable.”

“You say that like we’ve even done anything yet,” you mutter, mostly to yourself, turning your head to the window to stare at the sun setting. It would be nighttime by the time you got to the hotel, but you’re already sleepy and debating taking a nap while Aaron drives.

You jump when you feel his hand on your thigh, large and warm. You’ve had other men put their hand on your thigh while they drive and it’s nice, maybe even comforting at times, but with Aaron, the action feels darker. It feels more possessive, heated, and just the sight of his huge hand squeezing the flesh of your thigh has you unconsciously squeezing your legs, trapping the tips of his fingers between them.

“Can you behave?” he wondered out loud. “Because you’re not showing me that you can until we get to the hotel.”

The challenge is clear in the deep timbre of his voice, nearly condescending in a way that makes your breath quicken. You vaguely thought about what he had planned for you at the hotel, luckily you had a whole room to yourself since none of your dad’s friends’ daughters wanted to come. You don’t necessarily blame them—you probably wouldn’t have come either if it weren’t for Aaron and the undoubtable promise that you will have the best sex of your life.

And you do want to wait, honestly. But right now, watching the way his biceps flex in the golden light and remembering the way he desperately grabbed at your hips has you rethinking.

So, you give him an innocent smile, reminiscent of the one you gave him earlier this week, and take a hold of his hand to intertwine your fingers together. The action is slightly risky, implying something about your relationship that neither have you discussed. You may be overthinking it, worried that Aaron would think you’re jumping to conclusions, but all of your reservations disappear when Aaron’s hand squeezes yours and brings your joined hands to rest in his lap.

He gives you a soft smile, one you’ve never seen before that makes your chest tighten, and turns his gaze back on the road.

The following 10 minutes are quiet besides the soft roar of the engine and the gentle hum of the radio. The sun setting washes the interior of the car with a warm gold, and you can’t help but notice the way both of your hands, still clasped together, just look so good together. Like you perfectly complemented each other.

You blame it on the fact that you’re starting to get bored when you wiggle your hand to free yourself from Aaron’s grasp to run your fingers along the top of his hands. You trace each knuckle before tracking the visible veins with a light touch, your fingers running up his wrist and to his forearm. The dusting of hair is soothing when you place a firmer hand onto his forearm, gripping it, and your heart thuds in your chest when you notice your thumb and middle finger can’t even touch each other.

He's just so big. His arms, his hands, his shoulders. The way he can so easily overpower you, manhandle you, domineering in a way that makes you want to act out even more just to see what he would do.

He throws you a curious glance when your hand moves up to his bicep, squeezing and feeling.

“Just touching,” you say, and then Aaron’s eyes are back on the road.

The next thing you do is completely spontaneous, out of character for you even, however you know being impulsive is what got you here in the first place.

You place your hand on his crotch.

He doesn’t jump because, of course not. If anything, he was expecting it by the way he just gives you another curious look. Your eyes are instantly drawn to the way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips and the sudden clenching of his jaw.

“Still just touching,” you repeat and turn your focus to your phone with your free hand, leaving your other hand in his lap.

You scroll mindlessly through several different apps for a couple minutes, not even reading anything because you’re too stunned with the fact that Aaron didn’t say anything or remind you to be on your best behavior. Your hand is still precariously placed on his crotch, the seam of his jeans warm against the palm of your hand.

You start scrolling more intently now, reading the entirety of at least every other post, before you start tentatively rubbing your fingers on where you can definitely feel the head of his dick through his pants. Aaron inhales sharply, so quietly you almost don’t hear it, and it’s all the permission you need.

You start pressing more firmly, grabbing him through his jeans to the best of your ability and tracing the line of his slowly hardening cock through the rough material. You grope at him, nearly shamelessly now, and it takes all of your willpower to not throw your phone to the backseat and jump into his lap.

Instead, you place your phone at your feet and turn your body towards him. His back is ramrod straight and his hands are grasping at the steering wheel like his life depends on it. If anyone passing by looked through the window, they would just assume that Aaron was one of those extremely attentive drivers. However, up close, you can see the tense line of his jaw, the way his brows are pinched together, and the way he’s attempting to hide the way he’s starting to breathe heavily through slightly parted lips.

It's intoxicating, and you want more.

Your hand begins to move up his zipper to the top button of his jeans. His eyes dart to you then, craning his neck slightly to look at you but also making sure to keep his eyes on the road, as if the road is even that busy.

“You really can’t listen, can you?”

That condescending tone again makes your brain nearly short-circuit. It’s like a dam breaks because suddenly you’re leaning over the console, making your breasts nearly spill out from your tank top, and you want him in your mouth and coming down your throat if it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. “Can I?”

 “Can you what, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Christ. “Please, can I suck on your cock?”

He hums nonchalantly, as if you can’t see the way he shifts in his seat or the way he’s hurriedly unbuttoning his jeans with one hand. “’Please?’ Looks like you do have some manners.”

And then he’s taking his cock out and you nearly combust on the spot. He’s not fully hard, but you still want nothing more than to feel him on your tongue.

You’re just about to unbuckle your seatbelt to throw yourself into his lap before he stops you by placing his hand over yours.

“Not your mouth, we don’t want other people to know what a dirty girl you are. Use your hands,” he says, nonchalant again in a way that makes your heart race and the ache between your thighs grow.

Although the idea of being caught with your head in his lap and cock down your throat suddenly sounds extremely appealing in a way you’ve never thought of before, you have no choice but to listen and follow his instructions.

You hesitatingly wrap your hand around him, watching in near fascination at the drop of precum that leaks out. He’s big here too, satisfyingly thick and warm in your hand. You move your hand up to smear the wetness around him and then start a steady rhythm of pumping his cock.

A strangled groan comes out of Aaron eventually, and you watch as he attempts to throw his head back in ecstasy while still watching the road with half-lidded eyes. The wide expanse of his pretty throat tempts you, imagining what it would be like to pepper kisses up to his tense jaw to help him relax.

He’s fully hard now, precum steadily leaking out and coating the palm of your hand. You attempt to vary your actions; twisting on the upstroke, squeezing when you’re at the base, or tracing your thumb against the head of his cock. The loud squelching noise makes you feel embarrassed and hot all at the same time, the way it’s drowning out the radio’s music. Your mouth waters as you watch the head of his dick disappear in your fist, wishing you could taste him or see the sheer bliss on his face as he fucks your mouth.

“You couldn’t even wait to get your hands on me, could you?” Aaron murmured, nearly sneering at you. “I bet if I let you, you would let me pull over and fuck you here on the side of the road.”

You swallow nervously, clenching your thighs and trying to ignore the obvious wetness you can feel in your own panties. You squeeze him harder, enthralled by the feeling of his hot flesh against you, and breathlessly whisper “I would.”

He hisses at that, nearly bucking his hips up to follow your hand. “You would let me fuck you anywhere I want.”

It wasn’t a question, but you still feel compelled to answer. “Yes.”

Just then, Aaron’s phone rings from the phone mount on the dashboard. Dread and something awfully similar to delight prickles at the back of your neck when you notice the caller ID being your father. You’re about to retract your hand until Aaron gives you a look out of the corner of your eye, almost like a glare, before his own hand is hot over yours to keep you there.

“Keep going.”

Before you can think of a snarky remark, Aaron swipes at his phone to answer.

“Hotchner.” Nonchalant, casual, as if he doesn’t have his leaking cock in the hands of his best friend’s daughter.

“Hey Hotch, we’re coming up on a great burger joint here in a couple of miles and I wanted to see if you guys were alright with that? I think we lost you.”

You must have been extremely distracted because you’re just now noticing you can’t see your father’s car ahead of you anymore. There are only a few cars on the highway now after finally passing all the city traffic, now driving through a somewhat rural area. You don’t blame yourself after all, because how often do you find yourself giving handjobs to hot older men in their cars?

“I was actually thinking of pulling over at a rest stop, someone’s not feeling well.” Aaron cranes his neck, raising an eyebrow at you.

Even in the darkness of the summer evening and the sparse streetlights bouncing off the dashboard, the pure and primal desire swimming in his eyes is clear and causes a flush to rise to your face.

“Yeah, it must have been lunch,” you attempt to joke, hoping that the rasp in your voice doesn’t give you away. You feel Aaron’s cock twitch in your hand.

Your dad hums through the tinny speakers. “Yeah, you don’t sound so good.”

You notice the car slowing down, not realizing that you were pulling up to a secluded area of a rest stop, right underneath a tree. You glance out the window and take in the fact that the nearest car is over 10 spots away and the closest streetlight is burnt out. You think of the discreet dark color of the car and the tinted windows. Anticipation curls at the bottom of your stomach.

“We’ll let you know when we’re back on the road.” And then Aaron immediately hangs up, parks the car, and leans over the console to kiss you with a hand cradling your cheek.

He cuts to the chase again, kissing you so deeply that your head spins. His mouth is soft but he’s assertive even like this. His hand moves to the back of your neck, taking a hold of you, and your mouth opens in a moan before you can stop yourself, allowing Aaron’s tongue to brush against yours.

When he pulls back, something like a needy whine erupts from your throat. You don’t realize that your hands moved to grasp at his polo, leaving Aaron’s cock free and pressed against his stomach.

“You drive me crazy,” Aaron mutters, brushing a lock of hair behind your head. His gesture and words are impossibly soft, a complete contrast to how he was kissing you, making your breath stutter in your chest.

“You drive me crazy,” you whisper breathily. “Please fuck me?”

He huffs a laugh at that, something you’re slowly starting to become familiar with, and tightens his hold on the back of your neck. There’s nothing soft in his eyes anymore. “Get in the back, now.”

You scramble to get out of the car, legs nearly shaking. The summer humidity is cloying, suffocating, and you rush to open the door to crawl in the backseat.

The seats are just as large and plush as up front, however there’s definitely more foot room that you’re sure Aaron will appreciate. You’re waiting in the middle seat, legs tucked underneath you, as you watch Aaron tuck himself back into his jeans and step out of the car with an air of nonchalance that somehow makes him even more attractive.

When he opens the door to climb into the back, your eyes meet and you suddenly feel frozen to the spot, because he starts to encroach into your space, nearly predatory. There’s a glint in his eyes as he places his hand on your back, lowering you so you’re laying on the seats. You unconsciously spread your legs so he could situate himself between them, and the feeling of his large and warm body between your thighs has you hitching them up on his hips.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been thinking about this,” Aaron murmurs before ducking his head to press his mouth against your jawline, down your neck, and finally finally sucking a mark where your shoulder meets.

You exhale a shaky moan, bringing your hands up to run down his back and feel how wide his shoulders are and how you can feel his muscles tense as he moves. The wet heat of his mouth, his obscenely large hands on your hips, and the way his figure nearly engulfs you is mesmerizing.

He pulls back to take a look at you, thumb coming up to press into the mark he made and putting light pressure against your neck. There’s something wild and possessive in his eyes, his lips parted like he can’t believe what’s happening. “There you go. Now you’ll remember who you belong to.”

It feels like your breath is knocked out of you and replaced with something equally possessive. “Are you going to fuck me or what?”

Something dark passes over his face. “And here I thought you were going to behave.”

Before you could say anything, Aaron is swiftly lifting your tank top up and over your head, throwing it somewhere towards the passenger seat, and groping your tits. He thumbs at your nipples, watching in awe as you arch your back and push your chest further into his hands. The sudden sensation, pleasure zinging up your spine, after being teased for an entire week is dizzying and you want to drown in it.

“You’re so needy for it, aren’t you?” Aaron says, casually, as he pinches at your nipples. You choke on your moan, the initial sting melting into pleasure that makes you feel drunk. “You’re practically begging for my cock.”

“Yes,” you manage to gasp out. Your hands scramble at his shoulders, running up to tangle the soft hairs at the nape of his neck between your fingers. “I need your cock inside me.”

He leans down to suck one of your nipples in his mouth, deft fingers continuing on the other. His mouth is so deliciously wet and hot, expertly licking around you in a way that’s slowly unraveling you, and you shiver when you think about where else his mouth can be of use. Your eyes nearly roll back in your head and you cant your hips up desperately in an effort to gain some sort of friction against the nearly overbearing ache between your thighs.

His hands come down to press your hips down in an effort to make you stop squirming and you feel him shift until his knee is pressing between your legs and against your pussy through your shorts. The feeling of his warm hands on you and the seam of your shorts rubbing against your clit causes an embarrassingly high-pitched whine to escape your throat.

“You’re teasing me,” you pant, tugging at his hair experimentally.

Another raspy groan erupts from Aaron and, if possible, you feel hotter. His mouth detaches from your nipple and you instantly miss the hot heat of his mouth, until he says “And what if I want to taste that pretty little cunt of yours?”

Imagining Aaron pressing open-mouthed kisses against your thighs, breathing hotly against your panties until he’s pressing his tongue against you, smearing even more wetness around until you’re nearly dripping onto the expensive upholstery has you whimpering. Your mind races as you imagine him pulling your panties aside so he can press his soft mouth against you, licking and lapping at your pussy like you’re a five-course meal, sucking on your clit until you’re screaming his name and begging him to stop.

No words come out, mind nearly melted just at the thought of Aaron looking up at you from between your thighs and his mouth on your cunt. Instead, you let out a breathless moan and attempt to grind down against Aaron’s knee, chasing the little stimulation you can get.

Aaron licks his lips as he watches you, eyes dark and predatory. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” His thumbs briefly traces your hips, and you nearly miss the tender touch, before he’s hooking them into the waistband of your shorts and tugs them down. “But we don’t have time for that, so I’m just going to fuck that needy pussy of yours.”

It took quite a bit of wriggling and Aaron hitting his head against the roof of the car to get your shorts and panties off of you, and you’re about to joke that this was an exercise in of itself, until Aaron is settling back between your legs with his own legs crammed underneath him. You suddenly realize Aaron is still wearing all of his clothes, polo wrinkled and pants hanging loosely at his hips, while you’re completely naked and vulnerable, desperate and needy like he said.

His fingers dance across the soft expanse of your thighs until he presses a finger against you, so close to where you need him. You breathe unsteadily and have to close your eyes, suddenly feeling overwhelmed, when Aaron gently grazes between your folds. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me, honey. Is this all for me?”

You nod rapidly and push your hips down in an effort to tell him to hurry the fuck up.

Aaron tuts at you. “What did I say about using your words?” And then he’s forgoing your clit completely and pressing a thick finger inside.

You gasp, eyes shooting open and meeting his from where he’s watching your face so intently it would’ve been intimidating if you didn’t feel white-hot pleasure take over your body. “Yes, I’m wet, just for you,” you rush out.

He hums, satisfied. “Just for me, right?” He begins thrusting his finger inside of you, and the feeling of being filled and something finally happening has you arching your back against him again, soft whines escaping your mouth before you can help it. The lewd noises from your sopping pussy rings out in the small space of the car, jarring, but it just makes you feel hotter.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you babble, attempting to rut your hips down to meet his thrusts, steadily growing in pace. Your hand shoots down to take ahold of his forearm, nearly distracted at the veins popping out, when you feel a second finger prodding at you. “Please just fuck me already, I’m ready.”

You watch Aaron’s mouth form what has to be a reprimand, scolding you for being so desperate, but then it closes and forms into something softer even as his gaze is fixated on his thick fingers thrusting in and out of your pussy. He leans in and kisses you before you realize, just a soft press of his lips against yours. When he pulls back, he’s still wearing a faint smile, and tucks a stray strand of your hair behind an ear. It’s all so painstakingly affectionate, you feel at a loss for words again but for a completely different reason you can’t name.

“How can I say no to you?” he mutters, almost to himself, and it shocks you to your core.

He doesn’t wait for a response and pulls out a condom from his back pocket. You watch as he’s about to tear the foil packet open, thoughts turning over and over in your head, before you exclaim “It’s fine, I’m on the pill.”

He pauses and stares at you, serious based off the pinch of his brows. “Are you sure? I don’t mind…”

“I’m sure,” you say, throwing your arms around his neck so you can run your fingers through his hair. And you are absolutely sure, confident, because you know the cherry on top of this whole experience would be feeling his cock spill in your pussy and filling you up. “I want to feel you.”

You watch as he groans, closes his eyes, and leans his forehead against yours, staring at the flutter of his long eyelashes. “You are killing me, sweetheart.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Are you kidding me? I can say the same for you.”

Because if you thought Aaron looked good wearing a suit in those blurry pictures on Facebook, it doesn’t even compare to how he looks now. His polo tightly stretched over his shoulders, slightly disheveled from where you were grabbing onto him, belt unbuckled and pants hanging deliciously half-open from his hips, and hair tousled, the gel maintaining his professional appearance giving way to make him look younger. He’s so unbelievably hot you almost believe you’re dreaming.

You watch as he pushes his jeans and boxers down enough to where his cock pops out, the head a sympathetic dark red from where he must’ve been achingly hard this entire time. Before you make another attempt to have him in your mouth, he’s pushing in, stretching you deliciously open and making you grip harder at the hair at his nape.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight for me,” Aaron grunts, his hands flying to grasp onto your hips.  

Although you can feel him sink into you, inch by inch, you’re mesmerized by the sharp focus on his face, the pinch in his brow and eyes clenched shut. As if he’s trying not to throw away all abandon and pound into you, and the thought is so intoxicating it makes your head spin.

“Oh my god,” you mumble. He bottoms out, his cock finally pushed all way in your pussy, and he’s much bigger, thicker, than you realized. It feels so, so good—being filled up with his hard cock, his hips pressing against your thighs as they splay out the way you’ve been dreaming of for the past week.

“You okay?” Aaron asks, gentle again, and before you could answer, he’s pulling back and thrusting back into you.

A gasp wretches out of you and your hands scramble at his back, pulling him down because you need him to be closer, need his large body pushing down on you and making you take him.

He lets you, giving you a mockingly sympathetic look, and leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss against your jawline. He starts a steady rhythm then—thrusting in and out of you and knocking the breath out of you. “You’re going to take my fat cock, baby? I know you’ve been begging for it all week; you need it so bad, don’t you?”

Jesus Christ.

Words escape you again, instead, your mouth hangs open as you attempt to nod in response. Even though the car’s AC was blasting, you were covered in sweat and sliding up the seats with every thrust of Aaron’s hips. You definitely weren’t complaining, probably wouldn’t even be able to because sounds you didn’t even know you were capable of making kept coming out of you, eyes nearly permanently rolled back in your head. It felt so good, you didn’t think fucking could ever feel this good, but Aaron continues to exceed expectations.

You hitch your legs up his hips higher and let out a high-pitched whine at the change in angle, hot pleasure zinging up your spine. Aaron grunts, something dark and masculine that makes you preen, and his hips start snapping harder, faster.

“Look at you,” he murmurs lowly right into your ear. “Being fucked so good you can’t even speak.”

He shifts again, hands hooking underneath your thighs and, with your nod, presses your knees to your chest until they’re next to your ears, legs dangling over his shoulders. You wrap your arms around your thighs, holding them in place, and your eyes nearly roll back into your head when Aaron’s cock slides even deeper into your cunt with a wet sound. He feels heavenly, even despite not having touched your clit at all.

He fucks you relentlessly and you think your brain has melted out of your ears because you just take it. The sound of his skin slapping against yours, the litany of groans and praises that fall from his lips, and your nonstop whimpering gasps is heady. You don’t even care if you can’t come just from him rutting into you alone, it feels too fucking good.

He sits back up, not once breaking his brutal pace, and makes unwaveringly intense eye contact with you. “My beautiful girl takes my cock so well, making such pretty noises. I can’t wait to fill this pussy up with my come.”

You really did not expect Aaron to have the dirty mouth he does, but again, you’re not complaining. Instead, you bring one of your arms down to snake between your thighs where you’re absolutely soaked in your combined wetness and sweat to circle your clit. The added stimulation, finally, has your thighs shaking and your pussy clenching around him. You squirm a bit, because his belt buckle has started to dig into you from where his pants are pooling around his knees, but you’re suddenly so close.

“Fuck, Aaron…”

He licks his lips at that, starts to fuck into you faster somehow. He knocks your hand aside to replace with his own and you absolutely mewl when you feel the rough callous of his thumb gently circling your clit, impossibly slow. “Is my good girl going to come? You’re going to come all over my cock, sweetheart?”

Your heart is pounding in your ears, and you can barely detect the strain in Aaron’s voice, like he’s close too. “Yes, yes, please,” you stutter, feeling your gut tighten and sweat breaking out on the back of your neck. “Harder.”

Aaron lets out a shaky laugh. “Since you asked so nicely.”

And then he’s rubbing your clit mercilessly, almost too rough if your nerves weren’t already so close to snapping. You let out a string of strangled whines, your hands coming up to hold onto Aaron’s free arm for dear life. You’re so wet that his fingers just glide over you, the wet noises of him fucking into you getting you hotter, making the coil in your stomach wind tighter, but it’s still not enough.

You watch with half-lidded eyes as Aaron lifts his right hand from where he was definitely leaving bruises on your hip to place at the base of your throat. Your eyes widen but you don’t stop him because the feeling sends your mind spinning, realizing that you have placed so much trust in this man and he’s thoughtful enough to care for you, treasure you, and fuck you so hard he’s definitely ruined you for anyone else.

His eyes are impossibly dark, hair falling into his face, and you meet his gaze unblinkingly as he puts light pressure on your throat. “Come for me.”

You don’t know if it’s the hand on your neck, his cock frantically fucking into you, or the soft baritone of his voice that has you pushing over the edge. You come with a choked gasp of his name, hips and thighs shaking almost uncontrollably. You swear your vision whites out because you don’t think you’ve ever come so hard in your fucking life.

You distantly hear Aaron grunt your name, feel him fuck into you desperately and erratically. He lets go of your throat, you secretly already miss the weight of his hand, and he clutches at your hips as he chases his own orgasm. It doesn’t take long for his hips to stutter, coming into you with a guttural moan that sends a shiver down your back. He grinds his hips into you, like he’s making sure he’s giving you every last drop he has, and the thought has you whimpering.

You stay like that as both of you catch your breath. Your thighs and hips are starting to ache uncomfortably, pussy sore in a way where you know you’ll be feeling it tomorrow, but you watch the way Aaron runs his hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes so he can lean in to kiss you, and it’s all worth it.

He pulls out slowly, dick twitching half-way inside of you when you moan at the empty feeling. You feel his come instantly start to drip out of you and onto the seats, and the dangerous glint in Aaron’s eyes has you squirming, heat licking up your back.

“Are you okay?” he asks, leaning over to open the console and hopefully rummage around for a hidden towel. You hope he doesn’t pull out old and scratchy fast-food napkins like the ones you have crammed in your glove compartment.

You laugh breathlessly, slowly dropping your legs down to dangle a bit more comfortably. “More than okay.”

He comes back with a pouch of wet wipes, slightly used, and you’re surprised at the sudden twinge of jealousy you feel when you imagine why he has wet wipes ready in his car and how many other women he’s fucked in his expensive car.

He’s thorough in cleaning you up, chest rapidly rising and falling as he continues to catch his breath. As if he can read your mind, he looks up at you curiously with no trace of the stern persona he had when he was fucking you mindlessly. You had thought you hid your jealousy well, however you find yourself glaring at the wipes in his hand.

He gives you an achingly sweet smile, a surprise dimple making an appearance, and leans over you where you’re still sweating all over his backseat. “Every parent has wet wipes in their car.”

You feel your cheeks heat at being caught, that he somehow knew you were drowning in the sudden onslaught of jealousy clawing up your chest. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He throws the used wipes on the floor to pick up later, and then he’s wrestling around with you until you’re somehow laying on top of him across the seats, both of your legs bunched up and tangled together.

You’re sticky and sweaty, and Aaron has nearly sweated through his polo, causing it to cling to his chest in a way that has you wanting to put your hands all over him. So, you do, running your palms up and down him so intently that it gets a chuckle out of him.

“All of your clothes are still on.”

“Well, I was a little busy.” Oh, he’s a little cheeky after sex.

Both of you are laying in comfortable silence as you still catch your breaths, Aaron moreso than you, when his phone goes off where it hasn’t moved from the phone mount. The bright light causes you to squint, and you turn to press your face into Aaron’s chest with a whine. “Don’t pick up.”

“Alright, alright,” Aaron says despite him making no moves anyway to get up. He cranes his neck to get a good look at the caller ID and you can feel his body stiffen. “It’s your dad.”

And just like that, a bucket of cold water is splashed over you. You just had sex with your dad’s best friend in his expensive Range Rover in some sketchy rest stop.

You must have froze as well because then Aaron is running a hand up and down your back, making you shiver. He’s trying to comfort you, you know that, but honestly your thoughts immediately melt into other things that rely on his hands on you. Like pushing your head down between his legs. Maybe he’s right and you really are insatiable.

“Come on, let’s get going.”

-

The car ride the rest of the way to the hotel is mostly silent between you two, the only noises being the wind deafening you and your hair slapping into your face since he rolled the windows down.

To air out the stench of sex in the car, you remember.

You would almost think Aaron was mad, the way he didn’t try to make conversation with you, and you knew that you would be spiraling if it wasn’t for the fact that he held your hand in his lap the entire time.  

You probably wouldn’t be much for conversation anyway—you’re already trying not to let your mind race about what you were going to do.

You’re only here for a couple of weeks, you go to school across the country, and technically, this was only supposed to be a summer fling. You don’t technically need to tell your dad about what happened.

You turn to look at Aaron, unabashedly. His hair is still tussled, thanks to your fingers, and there’s sweat beading along his forehead from the summer humidity. You stare at the sharp slope of his nose, the way the lights from the highway reflect in his dark eyes, and you’re suddenly wracked with the feeling of not wanting to let him go.

He squeezes your hand when he notices you staring for too long. He turns to you, most likely seeing the desperation on your face. He misinterprets it, thinking you’re running over what you’re going to tell your father over and over in your head. He has no idea that you want to keep seeing him, that you want to make this work somehow, whatever is between you two.

“We’ll figure it out.”

When you notice his gentle smile, the methodical way he runs his thumb over the back of your hand, you believe him.

[hozierbabymomma]

I freaking LOVE this story

MASTERLIST FOR THE CHAPTERS OF "OLD SCARS"

Fem!reader is kidnapped by the joker and his henchmen while just trying to get a moment's reprieve from her boring, soul-destroying job ✨️

Tw: I mean, we all saw TDK, right? I'd say this is on the same level/rating. Kidnapping, violence, mentions of minor characters (not J) being misogynist/threatening SA, reference to past traumatic injury. NSFW in one or two places but mainly this is narrative/story based first and foremost.

Title graphic by me, dividers by @strangergraphics ✨️

MASTERLIST CONTINUED ⬇️

[hozierbabymomma]

You know when you watch/see something and find a new person to crush on so you search them up to find out they were CANCELED.....

.....

...

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..lawd this is when writers really come in clutch cause they lowkey be making up whole new personalities for these people 😭😭

[hozierbabymomma]

Me when i reach the end of the oneshot/blurb/fanfic:

[hozierbabymomma]

YALL

I fear.... i need.... him.

PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT, RIGHT? - N . CHAVEZ

Mature Content Ahead

Nicholas Chavez x F!Actress Reader

Warnings: SMUT

Summary: You and Nicholas are costars in a new show - Grotesqueire. When it is time to film a sex scene, you aren't ready; awkward tension takes over, but you know what they say; Practice makes perfect.

Note: I just want to say thank you so much for 1k followers and I hope you enjoy this one - and if you are new here, check out my other works. I have new stuff coming, feel free to request in my inbox for a specific character.

If you are looking for a part 2, please read this post as it explains my reasonings behind not making a part 2.

The filming for Grotesqueire has been underway for a few weeks now, this is your first big role in any media which you are extremely excited for. The show has an extremely interesting script, which is one of the reasons you wanted to put your all into your audition - which got you here.

"Y/N, I need you on set B in 5 minutes" Someone shouted from outside the trailer.

You sat up, taking your glasses off as you put them aside as you grabbed your contact case, quickly putting your contacts. You grab your veil, before exiting your trailer and walking towards the set. Crew preparing sets around you as you pass through different hallways, so much going on in one place but somehow you still felt at home.

"I was wondering where you were" You heard Nicholas laugh behind you as you turned to face him.

You laughed, turning to him as you smiled. Nicholas was your co-star playing a weirdly odd but kinky priest - and well, he was definitely lovely to look at.

"Nicholas, what are you doing?" The costume leader came scrambling over. "That isn't your costume for this scene- come!" She grabbed his arm, pulling him out of the set.

You laughed at Nicholas getting dragged away before walking upon the director and listening to your scene directions.

You sat upon your position on the set, the hairstylist coming to fit the veil upon your head properly, fixing your hair under it as you noticed Nicholas enter the set from the side of your view. You turn to look at him, your eye quirking up at his costume- well lack of costume.

"Nicholas why are you wearing just a towel?" You laughed.

"I have no idea- This is what Marissa gave me-" He spoke but was quickly cut off by the director on the megaphone.

"Alright! So can we get Talia on set please!"

You watched a girl walk up to you and Nicholas, smiling as she held a clipboard. "Y/N! Nicholas! I am very grateful to meet you, I am Talia your intimacy coordinator"

You blinked. You read the script you knew it was coming but you didnt realise it would be so early on. Nicholas shared a similar face to you.

"Now, don't worry, we will go over the main aspects and go over any boundaries the pair of you have" She smiled.

The next twenty minutes were spent with you, Nicholas and the intimacy coordinator. You were still shocked. It wasn't that you couldn't do it - Nicholas was attractive, and all, and the attraction for the scene was definitely there; it was just the awkwardness of it.

After talking Talia deemed you guys to be okay to proceed, the horn sounded round the studio as the pair of you prepared for your scene.

The tension loomed in the air as you stared at Nicholas from the doorway, reciting your lines.

"Can you dry my back sister... please" He hummed, passing a folded white towel over to you. You took it, walking behind him as he kneeled infront of the bed. You took the towel, slowly sliding it over his back full of gashes, cleaning the blood from his back as your finger ran over the bumps. You let your hand reset to his shoulder, softly gripping it as he hummed, it was what was scripted but it felt.. awkward.

"CUT!-" Shot through the studio as alarms sounded once more. Talia and the director came over, looking at you and Nicholas.

"Maybe lets take a break, you two talk through the scene and try and coordinate something. It feels.." The direction tapped his chin as he spoke.

"Awkward. It was very tense and not good tense" Talia sighed.

The pair of you nodded, walking out of the studio and towards the trailer as you groaned, flinging open the door as you tore the veil off your head yet again.

Nicholas sat on the couch looking up at you snickering as you groaned, sitting beside him, tossing your legs over his as you leaned back on the couch.

"I had no clue we were filming.. that today. It's just.. awkward" You looked at him, watching his body face yours completely as he held your full attention. The way his eyes stared into yours as you spoke.

"I mean if it makes you feel any better, I was pretty nervous. I didnt really know what to do and its just unfamilar i guess, its not a regular sex scene its gotta be.. kinky" He chuckled.

He made you feel comfortable. No pressure at all, the awkwardness was lifting bit by bit, showing the light under the fog.

"I mean what if we just.. you know" You blurted.

"If we just what?" Nicholas looked at you confused. "Fucked?"

"I mean you said it not me.." You looked around the room, trying to break the obvious tension as he laughed at your reaction. "I mean, for the scene right?" You smirked.

"Yeah for the scene." You sat up and looked at him as he spoke, crawling towards him slightly. You paused just before him. One of your hands gripping his thigh as the other held his shoulder.

The pair of you looked at each other for a brief moment, the balance of friends and coworkers about to be broken. As much as you wanted to chant in your head, 'it's for work, for work,' it wasn't, was it.

Your lips softly connected with his, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulled you in, sitting upon his lap, your legs wrapping and encasing him between. His lips mimicked your movement, slowly moving against yours, matching your pace and rhythm.

You pulled away briefly for a moment, looking at him. "This is work right..?" You chuckled.

"Definitely work" He smirked, pushing himself up, sending you up as he pulled apart your dress, the top clasps undoing as you kissed him forcefully. Your arms flew around his neck as he tugged the dress down slightly.

Your lips interlocked as you kissed each other hungrily, your hands combing through his locks as he slid all over your torso, pinching and grabbing at the flesh.

You both wouldn't admit it, but this was a long time coming. With the subtle flirting on and off set, you both were excited for the sex scene to finally be able to 'get a taste' as Nicholas said - but you didn't expect this.

You pulled away, gripping the waist of the dress as you dragged it up your body, pulling it up over your head as you dropped it to the floor, allowing yourself to fall back against the couch, your arms around his neck as you guided him ontop of you.

"Fuck-" Nicholas groaned, towering above you as he stared down as you adored in your black lace set as you stared up at him. "Is lingere supposed to be apart of the costume.. I mean stockings? Really? The dress covers it" His hand slid down your thigh to your calf, feeling the silky sheer material covering your bare skin.

"Personal touch" You smirked at him, your hands holding his shoulders as he licked his lips.

Nicholas's head turned to the side, kissing the wrist of your hand as it held his shoulder, taking the hand as he kissed up your arm slowly, gaining closer and closer.

You pulled him down towards you, rubbing his neck softly as you pecked his lips softly. "Nick- This is mad" You laughed out.

A smile covered his lips as he kissed your cheek, to your jaw and slowly down your neck, nipping occasionally. "Its practice... for work of course"

"The for work excuse has been.. overused~" You melted into his touch, your hands resting softly upon his hips above the towel that fixed upon his body. You tugged his hips closer, noticing his lips depart from your collarbone as he peered up at you.

He licked his lips, sitting back upon his knees as he stared down at you, that cheeky grin on his face. "Now, got to act suprised in the scene, I'll give you a little preview" He snickered.

You reached forward for his towel, tugging it as it puddled at his knees. You gawked for a moment, you didnt expect him to actually be pare naked under the towel - acting and all, you'd think he'd have some sort of cover.

"The director thought it would be more authentic to be completely naked under the towel.... For gravity purposes" He winked, his hands sliding down your waist, hooking his fingers through the sides of your underwear, slowly pulling them down your body.

"That's a terrible excuse" You laughed as you lifted your feet out of your underwear as he dropped them on the floor. You sat up, pushing his chest as he sat back on the couch.

"Calm down, cowgirl", He snickered, leaning back as he stared at you; one of his heads reached to rest upon your hip, the other clasped around himself as he gradually began to pump.

You reached back, unclasping your bra and sliding it off slowly as you threw it at him, the pair of you laughing. The sight of him leant back against the couch, hot and bothered as he stared at you while touching himself was all too much, it was making you hot and bothered.

"Fuck me, you are so hot Nicholas" you brought your hands to your face, covering your eyes as you let out a loud drawn out sigh.

"Genes.. what can I tell you" He smiled, as you leaned forward pecking his lips softly a few times. His grin seeping into the kiss as you stared at him, your noses touching eachother slightly.

You leaned in, capturing him in a soft kiss, instantly reciprocated as both his hands gripped your waist. You sat in his lap, softly grinding down against him - humming softly within the kiss at the friction.

You noticed his eagerness as his hips would occasionally buckle up against yours, one of his heads to your neck, gripping it softly as he pulled you closer - the pair of you intensely making out.

Your hands raked through his hair, tugging and stroking it as his hand tested with pressure around your neck as you hummed softly, lightly moaning within the kiss.

You pulled away abruptly, looking down as you took him into your hand as you slowly guided him into you as you let out a light and soft moan, which was sounded out by his own moan.

"Fuckkkk-" His head fell backwards as his hands fell upon your waist, guiding you slowly.

You looked down at him, your hands holding his shoulders as you slowly rutted your hips against his, grinding down against him. Watching his face twitch in pleasure as his breathing stuttered at each movement.

"You are so vocal" You laughed, pecking his lips softly as you rested your forehead against his, continuing to grind down against him, watching his body for every single twitched movement.

"Cant help it- Does it bother y-you.." He stared up at you, slightly breathless as he grinned, his eyes half lidded.

"Absolutely not.. turns me on if anything" You chuckled, kissing his cheek softly as you leaned down to nibble on his ear lobe as you continued to ride him.

Nicholas continued to groan in your ear, making you smirk as you speed up your movements, dropping your body weight down against him harshly as you bucked your hips back and forth. Cusses spewed from his lips as you continued to do so. 'Fuck' 'Shit' 'Holy Fuuuck-', continued to fall from his lips as you hummed softly, soft moans leaving yours.

You watched him intently as his eyes rolled back, his eyes staying hooded as he tried to steady his breathing. Smirking as you noticed the effect you had over him, especially how cocky he is normally.

Your movements slowed down as you panted softly, leaning against him for balance and he noticed. Nicholas picked you up, causing you to yelp momentarily as you pushed you up against a desk.

"Getting tired?" He smirked, pressing his hands against the wall behind you, as he thrusted harshly forward - causing you to gulp back a moan. Your fists clenching as you stared up at him.

"I thought-" You groaned, at each thrust he made, pressing your hands against his chest as you steadied your breathing.

"Mhm.. You thought wrong; I was definitely enjoying before, though.." He pecked your lips softly, leaning to your ear. "My turn now" He whispered.

His hands hooked under your thighs, lifting your lower body up slightly as he continued to thrust into you. You yelped out, shutting your eyes as you tried to control yourself from the overwhelming feeling of pleasure, trying hard to not let go so soon. His lips harshly locked against your neck, as he sucked and bit down against the flesh.

"Nicholas-" You gasped out, moaning softly as your fingernails clawed down his back harshly.

"Shhhh" He cooed, as he licked up your neck, his hips continuing to slam against yours as the desk rocked below the pair of you.

"So fucking good- holy-" You gasped, staring at him as you laughed out slightly, his lips curling up into a smile as he continued to thrust, his hands holding your hips up just above the desk as you locked your legs around his waist tightly.

He dropped you harshly against the wood, placing a hand on your neck, kissing you roughly as you raced to reciprocate. His tongue halfway down your throat as your hands slid down his chest, your fingers feeling between the crevises of his sculpted chest. His free hand, cupping your breast as he squeezed it occasionally.

You hummed needingly into the kiss as his thumb pressed pressure against the front of your throat, causing you to tighten - which he felt. You could feel the smirk on his face as he kissed you, his tongue exploring your mouth as you helplessly allowed it.

You felt his whole hand clamp down on your neck with pressure. Your breath hitched for a moment at the sheer shock as he pulled away, your foreheads resting against one another, beads of sweat falling and mixing within each other as you gasped, staring into his eyes as he thrust deeply, holding himself within you.

"...Nick.." you croaked out as he stared at you, his eyes blown out with lust as he leaned in, biting your lip between his teeth as he held his eye contact with you, his thumb still pressed hard against the front of your throat.

He took his free hand, sliding his middle finger and index finger past your lips and into your mouth as you stared at him. You gave him no indication against it which caused his dick to twitch. He began to thrust against yet this time harder but slower. Your body rebounded each time, pushing yourself into the wall that you could've meshed into it. You sucked on his fingers, tugging his hair as you run your hand down his face, caressing it as you let out a guttural moan as he trusted once more.

"Good girl.. cum for me" He whispered, withdrawing his fingers from your mouth and removing his hand from your neck as his face flew to yours, your lips instantly crashing upon one another as he gripped your hips, pulling you forward and roughly thrusting into you.

You moaned into his mouth, panting heavily as you drew closer and closer to your high. Your leg twitching as you threw your head back as his lips sucked and nipped at your neck as you screamed out loudly. Your hands clawing down his back as you came undone.

You were too dazed in your high, groaning and panting as Nicholas pulled out, groaning as he pumped himself watching as your whole body twitched.

Your legs flung closed as you stared at him, exhausted as he whined before he came on your thigh, whimpering and panting as he did so, his arm leant against the wall behind you as it supported his weight - his face mere centermeters away.

"Holy fuck-" You chuckled, out of breath as you stared at him.

His chest rose and fell as he stared up at you with hooded eyes. His finger swiping his cum off your thigh as he held it up to you.

You smirked, leaning forward and sucking it off his finger as you looked at him. He smiled at you before pushing himself off the wall as he stumbled back to the couch, laying back on it as he sighed - catching his breath.

"That was more of a workout than my actual workout sessions.. jesus Christ", Nicholas groaned, his arm resting up above him.

You pulled yourself off the desk, your legs slightly wobbly as you slowly approached him. You sat beside his head, lifting it and resting it against your thigh as you sighed.

"I think we've got the sex scene down, don't you.." You laughed, running your fingers through his hair.

"Oh, definitely" He smirked up at you.

It was safe to say, when the pair of you finally caught your breath you showered and got rechanged into your costumes. You had to cover up all the marks on your neck but for Nicholas it was fine, he was already marked by makeup so hopefully no one could tell the difference.

When the pair of you got to set, you definitely delivered the sex scene, going beyond the script. Hair pulling, finger sucking, tit grabbing, ass grabbing - the lot. Safe to say everyone was impressed.

"CUT! That was exactly what we needed, guys!" The director clapped as you and Nicholas stared at each other, panting slightly. You smirked, looking down at the tent under the towel Nicholas was wearing.

"Please don't move- it'll be so fucking embarrassing", Nicholas begged. You chuckled, patting his chest.

[hozierbabymomma]

My new obsession 🙆🏾‍♀️ thank you writer 🙏🏽

a casual movie night with your boyfriend 𝜗𝜚 𝓷. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐳

MDNI. +18 only ◜｡ ࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 smutttyy — unprotected piv, choking.

"focus on the movie, hmm?".

you tried. you really tried, but it was nearly impossible as you felt nicholas' girthy cock slip in and out of your sloppy hole, a memorable, squelching sound echoing in the room every time he did so.

your eyelids felt heavy as you rested your head on your outstretched arms, trying your best to focus on the screen in front of you. what were you even watching? you couldn't tell. every coherent thought left your mind as nicholas' hand found itself on your lower back, pressing hard enough to make you arch towards him. you heard him mumble something incoherent — or maybe you were just too fucked out to hear it. you bit your lip, wincing in discomfort every time his tip pressed against your cervix. his thrusts were slow and deliberate, perfectly calculated to drive you insane — it just wasn't enough, but at the same time, it was too much.

nicholas' hands travelled up your back, massaging the sore muscles of your shoulders, as if he knew that was exactly what you needed. your soft sighs filled the room, along with the slapping of skin, and you let your eyes fall closed just for a second. your boyfriend wasn't having it, though — his once soft touch became increasingly more intense, now, as his hand slid down your body only to slap your ass harshly. he watched your backside wiggle against his lower abdomen as he did so — your hips beginning to grind down onto his own to chase the pleasure. you cried out, supporting yourself on your forearms as your head fell back, soft pants leaving your mouth every few seconds.

"no, no, no, baby. you wanted to watch this movie so badly. what happened?", nicholas teased, pushing into you harder, deeper — one of his hands clamping down on your neck, pulling you towards him until your back rested against his chest. you could feel the warmth emanating from him, his shallow breath tickling your collarbone as he left sloppy kisses on your shoulder.

"i want— jus' need to cum, nick, please", you managed to let out, your hips working harder in order to bring yourself to the edge. nicholas' chuckled, his teeth grazing your skin, tongue darting out to soothe the pain immediately after. his movements became erratic as though he tried to hold back, wanting nothing more to see you slowly fall apart under him.

"not yet, sweetheart", he cooed softly, squeezing your neck before pushing you down onto the bed again. "watch the movie f'me. if you behave...", his fingertips run down your spine, gently enough to give you goosebumps. your back arched even more, your ass pushing back against him mindlessly until you felt him hit your cervix again.

"will you be good f'me? hmm? can you be a good girl and do that?", nicholas mumbled, his palms flat next to your head as he leaned over you, practically straddling your shaking form. the slight change of angle caused him to reach even deeper, his cock bullying its way into you as if you were nothing but a toy. and you loved every second of it.

"yes, nicholas", you whined, gulping audibly as his hips met your ass again. tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you fought to keep them open.

everything for your boyfriend, though.

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