#mafia eclipse things | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeyinde · 9 months ago

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bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i

mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader

You don't question your brother when he sends you to drop off packages to his friends, but when the enforcer for the 141 shows up to teach the small-time dealer selling on their turf a lesson, you realize there are different ways to pay someone back with pounds of flesh.

(OR: your brother owes them, and Ghost is content to let you settle the debt. after all, if you wanted freedom, then you shouldn't have caught the eye of the butcher of the 141, should you?)

18+ SMUT. noncon. objectification. marking. kidnapping. threats of violence. unsafe sex (manipulation into unprotected sex). rough sex. size difference. breathplay. 10k of foreplay. light pussy slapping. overstimulation. mafia au.

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

The goal is to be as quick and discreet as possible.

In and out, he says, looping the baggie around his index finger. Inside, a snowfall of white powder settles at the bottom.

Meth this time. Oxytocin the last.

He ties it tight before giving the bag a quick shake, breaking up the clumps. Satisfied with the way it looks, he turns toward you. Levels you with a sombre look, the picture of a concerned older brother.

You almost fall for it. Believe it. But the clouded, flat edge to his gaze undercuts his worry for what it really is. A farce.

“And if it seems sketchy—”

—run.

But your knees are locked, soles glued to the pavement. You can't move even though everything is screaming at you to flee.

The problem, maybe, is that there's nowhere to go. Escape cut off, filled by a body, a man—even though the idea, the mere notion, of thinking this behemoth as human, flesh and bone; blood and tissue, is laughable when he's so clearly a beast. A monster.

He fills up your field of vision. Your line of sight was eclipsed by the thickness of his waist, the broad expanse of his shoulders. Thighs that are as wide as the trunk of a tree. Arms boxing you in. A prison of obsidian. A black shadow.

In the panic that surfaces, surging to the top like an oil spill, you catch a pocket where he doesn't root. A small alcove between the bend of his elbow and the slot of his knee perched against the wall. Enough room for you to—

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.”

His voice seems to shake the earth, rolling out of his broad chest like the low, brassy roar of a lion; a rumbling thunderclap.

You feel sick—

The leather covering his hand is cold when it closes around your arm, grip tight. Bruising. Trapping you with just the slightest effort.

“Go’ a problem, you and I,” he starts, and it's almost conversational. Might be, perhaps, if the clean, sleek outline of his gun inside the unclasped holster around his ungodly thick waist wasn't threatening you more than the grip he has on your arm. “How do you reckon we can fix it?”

You have a meagre twenty dollars in your pocket. Less money for them to take if things go awry. If they decide that the little girl standing in for her older brother was an easier target to rob—money and drugs—than to settle things fairly. Money, goods. Hand over hand.

Just like the movies, he'd said.

Just like the movies, you think when he leans in closer, bulk swallowing you whole.

There is a pockmark in the corner of his crooked, misshapen nose and the crease of his eye. A scar, maybe. It's circular—almost perfectly so; a silver-pink moon on the angular ridge of his nose. Uneven, craggy, like crumpled printer paper.

It looks almost like—

You think of the mark on your arm. Soot-stained. The smell of burning hair, tissue. The searing pain.

“I–I can pay you—” you stammer out, tearing your gaze away from the ugly mark on his skin. A cigarette burn. It makes you shudder.

He cocks his head slowly like a big, dumb dog, but there's something eerie in the ink spill of his eyes. The soft matte of a saltwater crocodile staring at you from beneath the murk. Calculative. Hungry.

“Pay me?” He echoes slowly, dragging the words out mockingly. “D’you know ‘ow much trouble your brother is in? For sellin’ ‘ere of all places?”

“No,” you swallow. It feels like your heart is stuck inside your throat. “I–I just—”

“Run ‘is errands,” he finishes cruelly but you can't deny it. “Ain't you a good little sister? Almost makes me wish I ‘ad somethin’ as sweet as you f’myself growin’ up.”

You don't answer. He doesn't seem to be looking for one, really; just empty words to fill space. To echo in your head, barbed wire around any sense of comfort you might have felt. Punishing cruelty.

He has the upper hand, it says. He's the one who makes derisive jokes while you tremble in his grasp, and try to make yourself as small, as unassuming, as possible. Hiding from the predator in plain sight. Hoping he passes you over for something bigger, more calorie-dense; the effort to catch and consume you expends more energy than the return. Hardly worth it in the long run. The comfort of a risk-reward ratio, right?

But he's opportunistic, it seems. A snacking scavenger.

Could eat, it says, like a basking tiger keeping a mouse trapped between his paws, letting it squirm and squeak as he slowly licks his lips. Not enough to fill its belly but enough to satisfy the gluttonous urge a predator has to eat. Sharpening its teeth on flimsy bones. Child’s play.

It's a fitting image, especially with the way he arches over you, looms; fingers looped around the thick of your arm, holding firm, but not—

Not as tight as he could.

It's a loose-fisted grasp. Lazy, almost. He knows you won't run—or, at the very least, knows you won't get far.

You peel your gaze away from his, dropping it to the curve of his shoulders—the width of them is just as dizzying as his height; broad, muscular. Pulling it further down the length of his arm, covered in a thick jacket. Black corduroy. Ashes stain the cuffs. A bulky watch juts out from his wrist. Gold. Glinting even in the grey-blue gloom of an overcast evenfall.

His muscles tense. Hand tightening around your arm, fingers digging hard. Rubbing muscle painfully against bone.

A warning, maybe. Stop looking—

But something else catches your eye. Blood red. The colour of meat. A fresh kill.

The back of his hand has a blooming rose. Petals spread out, unfurled. In the middle, a milky skull sits. Stencilled in boxy, yellow letters is ONE-FOUR-ONE—

You know what it means even as your mind whirs, gears turning, turning; plummeting into a tailspin, making excuses as it falls, dragging your heart down alongside it. An area code. Some special date. An inside joke.

But you've seen the marking around town before. Heard whispers about them from your brother, his friends. 141, they say, and then: mafia.

The real deal, he said, puffing around a joint his friend rolled. It's too tight. He scoffs, and rips it out from between his lips. Shitty roll, man, make another one—

Mob. Mafia. Gangsters. It seemed so extreme, Hollywood. Fiction, fantasy, all rolled into one. Tony Soprano. Ralph Cifaretto. Michael and Vito Corleone. Tony Montana. Larger-than-life men created on paper.

You think your brother thought so too. Child's play. Grown men selling weed to kids for two hundred an ounce. Buying themselves sleek, black cars—G Wagons, Escalades, Cullinans—on the Xanax they sell at clubs, parties. Cocaine. Heroin.

Nothing to worry about.

Then his friend went missing.

Sent out on a routine delivery to drop off cocaine to well-dressed men in suits outside of a local butcher shop. A normal, nondescript Tuesday.

But he wouldn't answer his phone. Texts were being delivered, read, but no chat bubble appeared. Nothing sent back. Calls went straight to voicemail. He wasn't at home. Wasn't at his mum's. No one saw him. Heard from him.

Your brother didn't call the police. Didn't report him as missing.

It's just not what they do, he said. You don't involve them. Ever.

The most shocking part of it was that no one saw anything. He just vanished. Disappeared—stock an’ all, your brother angrily spits—without a trace, picked up off the streets.

If it was the police, someone would have said something by now. They're hardly discreet. And a rival—

Well.

The biggest problem was that your brother was blindsided by his own small-time success. An accumulation of little wins bolstered his confidence. Overfed his ego. This fallout was tunnel vision. A refusal to see the bigger picture.

Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon.

You'd heard of the 141 in passing. Little quips, anecdotes from the passel of friends that congregated around your brother—often getting high on the couch and watching old cartoons; sharing a joint back and forth between gossip.

Through rheumy eyes, they'd talk about the real gangsters in town—much to the irritation of your brother—and swap tales of run-ins and feats they heard from a friend (of a friend, of a friend). Most of the guys were known already. Soap and Gaz are the biggest names that cropped up on the streets through reputation alone. Both fighters for a gym. MMA, mostly, but whispers of street fighting and extracurricular activities weren't uncommon.

Liked the thrill of it, they said. But the worst was a man simply known as the Ghost. An enforcer for the 141—a fucking butcher, more like, Liam cut in, jaundiced eyes widening—the guy who took care of problems.

“Can't be,” your brother scoffed, lifting off the couch to reach in his back pocket for his wallet. A small anthill of white powder poured into the glass table. “They don't get involved in our shit—”

And for the most part, you're sure that's true. Dealing to the same circle of people—outreach spread through word of mouth—seemed paltry in comparison to the scale of an operation that had a money laundering gym. But the problem was that your brother lacked common sense. His ego often got in the way of foresight. The shadow greed casts blocking out the bigger picture.

Like—

Territory is territory—regardless of what's being pushed.

You wish there was a modicum of surprise when his friend turned up. Barely recognizable. Sent right to the morgue as a John Doe.

Most would see the marks on the man's skin—the distinct lack of blood—as an indicator to abandon ship, find the boss, beg for forgiveness, and maybe even try to strike up a deal. But—

That picture is hidden under his anger. Greed. Selfishness.

He sends you instead.

You're somethin’ they ain't expectin’, he said. Won't mess with you.

Right.

He catches the realisation dripping down your brow—beads of sweat gathering at your hairline; anxiety, fear, churning your stomach—and hums. Cocks his head to the side.

“Was expectin’ ‘im t’show up, though—” he murmurs, hand tightening around your arm. The pressure, the sting, is eclipsed by the gnawing sense of dread biting viciously into you. “Told ‘im if I caught ‘im sellin’ on our streets again, there'd be trouble. Thought we ‘ad an agreement after ‘is friend. But—”

His eyes cut to yours. It feels like a knife to your guts, sinking into soft tissue. A pain you can't breathe around.

Won't mess with you, you think, and then viciously—sadly—he knew. Was warned by them and still sent you out. Let you take his place for whatever comeuppance they decided he deserved.

It should shock you. You almost wish it did. Desperately clinging to the threads of surprise that slip through your oily fingers, grasping onto the nothing but empty air. Numbed to the resignation that trickles in.

Of course he would leave you here to save himself. Letting you fend off whatever they threw at you alone. Leaving you trapped between a brick wall and a wall of a man.

The excuses are there. They pool on the tip of your tongue—it isn't me, don't do this, it's my (stupid, selfish) brother you want, not me—but you swallow them down and try not to wince at how quickly they dissipate when you do. It doesn't matter in the end because whatever you have to say won't negate the drugs in your backpack. The empty house you'll lead them to—your brother probably squirrelled away somewhere until this blows over. Half-hopeful you'd call him and say everything is fine, the deal went smoothly. You're on your way back. Or that the debt he racked up with them is settled by you.

It's half-hearted when it slips out again, caught between resignation and dread. A brittle whisper. A prayer—

“I can pay you. Whatever he owes, I can—”

He's already shaking his head.

“Too late for that, birdie. ‘sides, I don't want your money.”

He moves back, rocking on his heels to put a small measure of distance between your bodies. In that scant space, he drops his gaze, sweeping it over you. His eyes darken.

When he pivots them down, catching yours, you can't stop the shiver that crawls up your spine.

That calculative gleam is back.

“But I think we can work something else out.”

Something else turns out to be ushering you into the backseat of an old Ford pickup.

The door whines when he opens it. Rust flaking off, falling to the ground by your feet. Your mind reels. Spins comparisons to falling snow, dried blood.

He hauls you in with his hand wrapped around the nape of your neck, thick thigh sliding between your own to boost you up. The protest—a mindless, reactionary squeal at being manhandled—only makes him chuff. A brief flex of his fingers around the skin of your neck is the only warning he gives before it pulls away, and wraps tight around your waist. His thigh flexes, muscle drawing taut as he shifts his foot up to the running board, lifting your feet off the ground and seating you fully on his leg like a child.

(In his hands, you feel like one, too.)

The motion makes you slip, back glueing along his broad chest with a shallow thump. You feel the rumble of his laugh trembling up your spine before you hear it.

“Careful,” he drawls, oiled with amusement. “Might slip.”

Anything you could say in response is choked back when he bumps the corded steel of his thigh into the seam of your legs, pushing tight to your clothed cunt. His intention is unmistakable this time. Unignorable. And with the rasp of filtered, balmy air against your crown; the pull of a groan when you rock back into his groin, the noise still slicked with mirth, you feel a knot of dread spool tight in your belly.

Something else is dragged back to the forefront, coiling like wisps of smoke around you.

And you knew. It's shocking, you think, but not necessarily a surprise. To call it a dichotomy would be lying to yourself, and so, you settle against it. This notion that what he wants—wanted—is flesh. Not money. Not retribution.

Not to talk things out like you'd hoped he’d try (grabbing onto the idealistic thread, holding it tight to your chest); bringing you in and forcing you to convince your—stupid selfish greedy—older brother that quitting was the only option. Dangling you—baby sister—over his head in an appeal to his emotions. Familial bonds. Love.

That thread is cut. Snipped.

Probably severed when they first came to him with an offer. No strikes against him and yet—

The idea of using you to make him bend was expunged from the drawing board. It's not even a plan b, or c, or z.

And—

You knew. Have known. Maybe that's why it's so easy to swallow around the panic when it lances through your chest, climbs up your throat. You can think and feel and breathe around this dagger in your back like it was there the whole time and you've only just noticed it now.

Nothing but a small, whispered oh in the roiling polyphony of your emotions.

It sits there as he manuevers you into the passenger seat of his truck, your head spinning around the indescribable sensation of being woefully cognisant despite the paralysing fugue pressing against the bubble of stark awareness that keeps it at bay. It manifests itself as a numbed sort of shock. Or more accurately—

Indifference.

Defeat.

His hand brushes your cheek, the snag of dry leather against humid skin tugs uncomfortably at your flesh, stinging as they dance down to your jaw, the delicate line of your vulnerable throat, skimming over the curve of your breast—

And it's too much. Too present. Too real.

Autopilot. Dissociation. Derealisation. All of these concepts slip past the bubble of hypervigilance, skidding the surface like a pebble thrown over a lake. Out of reach as he unashamedly gropes you, barely making an effort to mask his actions as just buckling you in.

You pretend, though. Curl your fists around the sides of the seat, fingers digging into the worn foam. Head lulling back on the headrest. Eyes fixed out the window as he walked around the front, head and shoulders still visible in the windshield despite the height of the truck. It makes your heart leap, stuttering in your chest as the absurdity of his size is brought back into focus. Too big, you think. Grossly so.

There's a moment when you think about running. Toying with the idea of sliding your hand over the lock, pulling the door open when he's too busy on his side to notice. It'll give you an advantage—a head start. Enough time to slink through the dense forest of concrete buildings lining the industrial zone, and into somewhere safe. Help, a behemoth is chasing me—

But the door clicks. Swings open with a squeal of rusted metal just as your fingers twitch toward the handle. Hope evaporates with each lurch of the cab as he climbs inside, metal creaking under his weight when he settles in the seat.

From the corner of your eye, you can see his head tip. Chin angling toward you. Staring. Assessing.

When he speaks, you feel the words like cold fingers dancing maliciously down your spine.

“‘pected you t’run.”

It's said idly enough. Nonchalant. Tone even, if a little cruel, and you wonder if this is some test. One that you passed—and failed—in equal measure.

He doesn't look away. It takes less effort than you wish it did to peel your lips apart, to breathe in the stale, mulch scent of the cab—something overgrown, rotting, and damp—and mumble:

Where would I go?

It seems to amuse him. He hums around a mouthful of mockery before turning away, pawing at the ignition. Gloved hand curling over the wheel.

“Smart girl.”

You don't feel very smart. In fact, you feel very small. Stupid. Maybe you should have taken a stab at it—running. Tried, at least, to save your own life before the jaws of the beast closed over you like an iron bear trap around your ankle. Fought like hell. Clawed and kicked and screamed.

When most kids read the back of a cereal box, you learned about secondary locations. You know better than this.

But the truck sputters to life in a belly-deep rumble, hacking up soot into the air as he pulls the lever into DRIVE. The fight inside of you—however ephemeral it might have been—dies inside the smoke spilling out of his exhaust. Gone so quickly that you begin to wonder if it was even there at all—

Must be, you think, eyes listing outward. Keen. Mapping the twists and turns—a futile effort in the end: he doesn't bother hiding where he's taking you, and you've been down these old, grim streets more times than you can count.

It doesn't surprise you much when he turns down the street leading to the butcher shop. An old relic that still carries the marks of a booming farming town before it fell victim to industrialisation. Concrete skyscrapers in place of lush cornfields. Warehouses over old barns, ranches. Cattle, meat, produce—it all used to be a mainstay here but now hides under layers of steel.

The dark windows of the small shop gleam with hazy smears of neon blue, red, when you pull up, catching on the array of rowdy bars across the street. All clubs that belong to the 141. A playground of drugs, sex. More money than you'd ever see in your lifetime.

It's an uncanny juxtaposition to the quiet, assuming street right across from it. Barber, butcher, accountant firm, antique store. All dark inside and bathed in the smeared stream of glimmering neon as lights flash in the fading glow of twilight.

He pulls up to the curb in front of the shop. A bold move if the streets weren't so empty. Lifeless. The clubs won't be open for four more hours. Everything else follows the same nine to five as the rest of the world. The shops closed an hour ago, and everyone in town seems to know not to linger here after dark.

The air seems to stagnate in your lungs when he cuts the ignition. Slips the key into his pocket.

“Don't get any funny ideas in tha' pretty little ‘ead o’yours.”

“Funny ideas,” you echo, toneless. Flat. It rolls out with your exhale. Words that might have been smarter to swallow down. “Like following a stranger to a butcher shop?”

“Lippy little thing, ain't you?” He scoffs. The truck creaks when he shifts. “Ain't go’ no one t’blame but yourself. Told you what would ‘appen if you kept sellin’ in our territory. You should ‘ave known better.”

“That was my brother.” The words slip out before you can stop them. “Not me—”

“‘ow am I suppose t’know that? You were sellin’ where I told ‘im not to—” he has the gall to shrug. Spit these careless words at you like it wasn't life or death. “That's all there is to it, birdie.”

“That's not fair—”

The truck groans under his weight, shaking from side to side as he leans over to push his door open before turning back to you, rolling his eyes.

“Life ain't very fair, is it?”

The acerbic words are flicked out from between his teeth; an apathetic, droning curl clinging to each syllable. He doesn't care. Won't. What happens to you next is your choice, and yours alone.

And he's just doing his job—

“When I get out of ‘ere, you ain't gonna do anythin’ funny—”

His hand lashes out. Gloved fingers close over the thick of your throat in a blink. Fear lags by a beat, giving him enough time to sink his fingers over your neck, and when it catches up—heart rabbiting in your chest, thudding in your ears; roaring as your pulse thunders beneath the press of his thumb—he’s already got you in his hold. The width forces your chin to lift, stretching up to accommodate the curl of his hand around you.

Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter.

He tilts his head down, keeping his eyes on yours as he forces your crown into the headrest, chin lifted up. It's uncomfortable. The curve of your neck cuts off your airways. Constricts your breathing to shallow gasps. An ache grows in your nape.

The swell of panic, fear, in your eyes makes him hum. But there's nothing echoing back. An absence of light in the deep, placid pits. It looks like still water. A stagnant lake.

It's unnerving how dispassionately expressive his eyes are. Wild, wild. Vats of ink. Pools of obsidian. Ringed in red-lined ivory. Long, ashen lashes dusting over the smears of charcoal under his eyes. Sleepless nights, maybe. Fatigue. The corners are tattooed with coal, leaving behind a thumbprint in the crease.

But empty. Barren. No light.

Like black holes. Eating everything around it. Devouring all that gets too close, but giving nothing in return except a bottomless crater in the bruised-plum nebulous of space around it.

You're not sure you like it. You can't look away.

But in staring back so hard (getting pulled in deeper and deeper), you catch the twitch in his left eye. A shallow spasm. It throws off the symmetry when he blinks, one eye a sliver of a second behind. Desynchronized in a way that seems so—

Unlike him.

Disjointed.

You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous.

His lid twitches again. Just once. Brief. Pale, pink eyelids drop, unveiling a nebula of indigo veins on the smooth, thin surface as they roll down to half-mast over his eyes, now narrowed slightly in contemplation. Thought.

Whatever is happening in his head can't be good. It causes a ripple over the lake. Little rings rebound outwards.

He looks away first. A quick slide of his eyes to the corners, glancing out of the passenger side window. Whatever catches his attention is unknown to you. The anchor on his hand around your throat keeps you still. Immovable.

(Every instinct in your body compels you not to look away from him because nothing outside could ever be scarier, more dangerous, than him.)

A second later, he breathes in through his nose. The fabric of his mask is pulled into his nostrils from the force, forming little black holes under the crooked arch.

You hadn't really given much thought to his appearance outside of big, massive. But there's a strange asymmetry to the slopes and valleys beneath the balaclava. Trying to map his face, fill in the blanks with just black cloth and vague, lopsided outlines, is impossible. There are too many gaps. Too many missing pieces. You can only wonder, then, what he looks like under it.

Monstrous, you hope.

It's just a coincidence that he looks at you the moment the thought passes, but you flinch like a naughty child getting caught doing something you shouldn't when the heavy, dour weight of his impenetrable stare is levelled at you once more. Your heart stutters. It's loud in your ears. In the truck.

You wonder if he can hear it just as loudly as you do—

Another blink, and his gaze flickers down, settling on the gap between your lips, watching the little tremble they make with each shallow hiccup of air you greedily suck in. His head tilts to the side, eyes never leaving your mouth even as he leans down, masked lips brushing over the beading sweat gathering on your hairline.

It's a brief touch. A taste. You tremble when he pulls back, fingers tightening around your flesh.

His eyes are lavascapes.

“Are you, birdie?”

You almost forget what he's asking. The conversation hidden between the scant beats it took for him to measure your worth with the blistering intensity of his stare, and the tumult of your feelings still looping around each other in your belly. Knotting up tight into a ball. There's fear, of course there is.

But the rest—

You'd rather not think about.

The grip on your throat eases just enough for you to shake your head no to whatever he is asking. Doing anything funny, you think, scrambling at the tangle of memories flipping past, trying to connect the pieces to a puzzle you've already forgotten.

It must be the right response. Or maybe it's another question like before, a test where there’s no right answer.

Run, stay.

Smart and stupid.

But it seems to appease him—marginally. His eyes crease. Tightening. His other hand folds over your throat, sliding until his palms kiss the sides of your neck in a near-perfect symmetry.

Something frissons across the blank, placid lake of his expression. Another ripple. A shudder. He leans in for a moment, nose touching the apple of your cheek, and when he breathes in, it’s sharp, reedy. Cold air ghosts over your skin. Long, pale lashes flutter when you swallow.

He hums quietly under his breath before peeling back. The flatness to his gaze is back; a cold, impenetrable distance widening like a chasm as he uncoils around you. You almost fall for this—this indifference. An icy nonchalance. But you've been eating the minuscule quirks of him just as ravenously as he's been devouring yours.

There is something there. A fracture, maybe. A splinter.

But what leaks through from the other side isn't anything close to warmth. It's—

Hunger.

The shift in your throat draws his molten gaze to your neck, still wrapped tight in his firm grip. Your reflection blooms in the vat of black; eyes wide, all white. Pupils narrowed to a pinprick. Mouth slack, corners tugging downward from the pressure of his hand. The tilt of your head. His thumbs press under your chin, pushing you back further until it feels like your neck might break—

He stops. Shifts. You puff out a shallow breath.

What looks back at you is unremarkable in the murk. A sliver of fear. A slip of unease.

Eye of the beholder, you think when his breath chuffs out shallowly through the mask. When that hunger is ground down to a raw, esoteric fissure hairlining the black of his eyes. The widening expanse of his pupil.

You wonder if it's your fear that itches under his skin, dredging up something predatory in his hindbrain. The urge to chase. To bite.

But the nearly indiscernible flicker of his gaze has you brushing that idea aside when it snags on the expanse of his hand coiled around your throat. Easily swallowing it whole with just his palms.

You're not a small thing, but the indomitable size of him makes you feel insignificant.

You think he feels it, too.

His fingers flex over your nape, stretching. Pulling. It pushes the flat of his palm into your throat, ridges crushed against your trachea. But you can still breathe. It's shallow. Hoarse. A touch painful. Dizzying in a way that makes you feel like you're on a rollercoaster. A teacup ride that just spins and spins and spins—

The gap closes. A sliver of air snakes down your throat. Muscles flexing, shifting. Struggling to swallow around the pinch of his hand. A harrowing task when you feel the gloved fingers link to the first, then the second knuckle, tying together in a too-tight, impossible, noose around your neck. Thumbs overlap. Fingers slide into place. It forms a chain of his hands with no gaps between them. Not a single sliver of skin shows from under the leather of his gloves.

He makes a sound when they meet—a nasal groan in the back of his throat, mouth clenched shut so the air has no choice but to tear through his nose. It's raw. Fractured. The devastating moan of a tiger nuzzling at its meal.

Your vision blurs. A black fog presses into the edges, seeping over the arch of your peripherals. Dripping down slowly over the hazy smear of the man. The way the ochre sun peeks over the angular roof of the accountant's office illuminates his back and casts swaths of shadows over his front. Drenching him in murk.

Despite the flickering darkness shuttering over your sight, you don't blink. Even as the tears prickle at your eyes, they stay open. Fixed on him. Black holes, you think, watching as the fever marbling those obsidian pools recedes. Cools.

He makes that noise again. Softer this time. A purr from deep in his chest. A breath. And then he peels back. His hands go slack. His shoulders slumping back into the lax, easy spread from before as you gasp hard, nearly choking on the flood of air that roars down your throat.

Your cheeks feel hot for a moment, and then cold. Icy. You don't have to touch them to know that you're crying. That the deluge clinging to your lashline spilt over, dripping messily to the collar of your shirt.

The placid lake is back. In the stillness, you heave. Mouth hanging open, chin quivering. His thumb lifts, slides over the curve of your chin. You don't feel it. Numbed, maybe, by the brief kiss of hypoxia. But you see it. Watch as he slides it up to the jut of your lower lip, the black, angular tip tickling over your skin. He follows the seam between skin and lip, tracing it to the corner of your mouth. It's slick. Drool pools in the crease, dribbles over the top of his finger. His eyes drop when he mops it up, catching it on the pad.

He makes another noise. An arid rasp bubbling between the soft tissue behind the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue. It's ugly. The shiver you try to fight back slinks through.

His hand peels away from your neck, movements lax. Slow. The unwinding gait of an idling tiger in no real rush, no hurry, because there's nothing in the frigid Arctic that can touch him.

You watch him with flared eyes as he brings his thumb to his clothed mouth, and rubs your spit into the fabric of his mask.

His eyes don't break away from yours once.

Your spit doesn't stand out against the black of balaclava, but the idea of it burns through you. Throwing you headfirst into a dazed stupor. Dizzy. Confused.

Satisfied with whatever it was supposed to mean, he clambers out of the truck before coming around to your side. Distantly, you're sure this is what he meant by funny ideas when he passes the headlight, head straight and eyes gliding around the empty street. An opening to run. You know where you are. It would be easy to flee. Hide in the construction zone just ahead, tucking yourself into the tightest corner you can find until help arrives.

Help, though.

Officer, please. I got caught selling meth in the mob's territory and now they're going to skin me alive. Please hurry—

Right.

They'd rather help bury your body than get in the way of the mafia. Gangland violence isn't their concern unless it tumbles out into the street. Fat wallets keep even the most compassionate person quiet. Willing to turn a blind eye.

You'd be thrown in a cell. Or dropped off at their doorstep.

Either way—

You won't be coming back alive.

There's nothing to steel, harden, when he pulls the door open, your nerves long since ground down to fine powder. Nothing to fight against, either. He hauls you out of the truck, hands firm on your skin. Bursting blood vessels easily between his fingers. Barely any effort at all to crack your bones.

The moment in the car seems miles away when he pulls you in front of him, hand curling over your nape. Any flicker of humanity rendered out when he pinches you tight and shoves you forward. Dragging you back to the butcher shop by the scruff of your neck, leading you down a narrow set of stairs to the basement where pale white carcasses hang from hooks on the ceiling. He laughs when you tense. When your heels dig into the brown-stained linoleum.

Ain't gonna hang you, he mocks, fingers dipping punishingly into the sides of your neck. “Not yet, anyway—”

It brings little comfort when he drags you to a room in the back, kicking open the door with the toe of his boot before pushing you inside with a nudge against your nape.

It's dark. Walls covered in stains; mould, mildew. Something you hope is just rust. A single mattress is shoved into the corner; sheets stained with sweat and grime. Tinged a pale brown. Two pillows sit at the top, lopsided and matted with use. Threadbare. A twisted, black heap of fabric sits at the bottom. Wisps of cotton poke out from the cigarette burns.

A pair of muddy, black boots sit against the wall at the end of the bed. A basket of clothes—jeans, black shirts, black sweaters—is piled on the wall across from the door.

The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes.

You don't want to be here. The thought is abrupt. Immediate. Unease prickles along your nape, warmed and damp under his gloved palm. Between the look of the room—the floors stained the same suspicious brown, the rumpled bed in a corner—and the smell, you know this is not a place you want to stay. To be trapped inside with a man cut from Everest; whose hands are more dangerous than the sharp end of a knife.

He must feel the tension brimming beneath your skin; the spark of adrenaline surging through your veins. The clamp of his hand on your nape digs in tighter. Holding firm.

A breath tumbles out, thickening with mockery. “Like I said,” he leans down, pressing the mountainous width of his chest into your spine. The accentuation in your size difference, how big he is in comparison to you, makes you feel like prey. Small. Brittle, thin. He eats you whole. Spares nothing for later. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Another nudge and you're pushed further into the room. He leans away, foot shoving back on the door until it snaps shut with a noise that cuts through the gossamer that spun around you, bifurcating reality from dream. The haze is wafted away, and all that remains is a barren room with a lumpy mattress, the smeared stain of rotten blood coagulating on the floor, and his body boxing you in. No escape.

The rumble of his chest shakes loose the cobwebs spooling across your thoughts. A brush of humid air ghosts along the line of your jaw, dampening the skin below your ear as he leans in close, too close, and purrs:

“Go on now. Strip for me.”

Each scrap of clothing you slowly roll off of your body is exchanged for a slip of information about him—who he is (Simon Riley, the name rumbled through the split between his teeth; a low, brassy purr as his eyes gleam in the dark, drilling into the expanse of skin unveiled to him)—and what he wants—

Nothing, he tells you, lifting one massive shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. Jus’ what's owed to me, pet. For stickin’ my neck out f’you.

You don't think he did. Not really. But you're harshly reminded of the unsubtle threat. The gun balanced on his massive thigh. So wide, so big, it seems to make it look smaller in comparison. Tiny. A toy.

Child's play.

It's made worse, somehow, as he lounges. Sprawls out on the bed, legs spread, pulling taut on the jeans that stretch around the thickness of his upper thigh, bunching around his calves in a half-tuck inside his black boots. Arms flexing. Folded over his broad chest. He rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbow, showing off an impressive tapestry of harsh, faded black ink. Crisscrossing lines. All asymmetrical. Guns, barbed wire. A bullet with a wide, toothy grin—

All of it knits together; woven into a tangled mass of muscle. Of man, hidden under scar tissue. Rope burns on his wrists cut so deep that the skin is permanently dented in. More cigarette burns hidden inside the mess of ink. Jagged lines—from a knife, maybe; bullet wounds.

His skin tells stories of a terrible life. Ink spills over the worst of them, but they're visible under the fading charcoal. A series of burns—acid, fire, chemical—and raw, torn skin. He looks like he's been mauled. Pressed into the cold metal of a wood chipper until chunks of flesh were taken out. But even with these deep gouges, craters of missing tissue, he's big. Bulky. Soft—like a tiger. Predatory muscle tucked away under a thick layer of fatty tissue.

The pillowed pouch of his belly, the softness around his biceps—

It belies the danger underneath. The steel.

But as scary as it is, it has nothing on his eyes.

Glinting in the dim room. Dark pools of obsidian that follow each movement with an almost clinical keenness. Sharpened to a razor's edge.

They might be pretty, you think, if they weren't so intense. So liquid. His eyes gleam like wet ink, languidly rolling along his lashline as you clumsily shed your jacket, your blouse. Shoes, socks. Pants. Until you're in nothing but your panties.

Swallowing around the influx of panic that flutters like little birds beating their wings against the soft walls of your throat, you slip your fingers into the hem, now or never, and—

And you hesitate.

There's a difference between undressing willingly and doing so to save your life. It should spurn you on—survive, survive, survive—but you freeze at the apex. The summit is within reach.

You know what happens when you climb it. Cross over the invisible threshold.

What you've been trying to ignore this whole time, ever since he shoved you into the room with a huff, taking his perch on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, but in such a terrifying state of vulnerability, nearly nude, you can't any longer. Can't avert your gaze to the stained linoleum in a thinly veiled effort to keep from glancing at the thickening bulge lying prone against his thigh.

His—

Well.

You knew what he wanted when he grabbed your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pursed, puckered for him to run his finger along the inseam. Prying your teeth apart. Rubbing his finger over your tongue, eyes dark—full; black holes pulling, tugging you in, dragging you closer to the event horizon framed in a ring of arsenic—and locked on to the sight of his gloved knuckle disappearing into your mouth. Wanting. Hungry.

You knew. And now—

Committing to it is legions above what you’re mentally prepared for. Nausea brims, churns your stomach. Unease curdling inside of you like rotten milk.

You don’t want this. But you don’t have a choice, do you?

That notion, the idea, prickles along your nape, raising the fine, peach-fuzz there until it stands on end.

You freeze. Movements still as every muscle in your body tenses. Coils. You can't do it. Can't—

A huff is dragged out of his chest as he sits up, knocking the gun carelessly to the mattress. His eyes daggering, sharpening into needlepoints, as he stares at you.

“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?”

A grunt and he’s up. Pulling himself to his feet with nothing but the flex of his abdominal muscles.

There's no reprieve. Not a moment graced to gather your bearings before he crosses the distance between you. Once a comfort, a chasm, now conquered in a single stride.

The tips of his gloves are cold when they brush over your skin, sliding down the slope of your waist until they meet the hem of your panties. The last piece of modesty you have—

But he doesn't wait.

You're aware that this isn't a non-consensual thriller where the lead looms over the hapless love interest, eyes blazing with passion and need. That each interaction is drenched in a thick, palpable tension tethering the two together. Urges coalescing. Threads pulling taut, magnetic, dragging them closer and closer to the brink until they tumble over.

This is reality. And he doesn't stare into your eyes with an all-consuming desire as he slowly removes that last scrap of fabric keeping him from devouring you. No.

His skin-warmed fingers push under the elastic band with a rough shove, curling into the fabric until it tightens across your pelvis and thighs, and then he huffs, annoyed, and pulls. Pulls—

Until something gives.

The lace yields to the tension in his flexing bicep, and scrapes over your skin as it rips apart in his hand, threads snapping. Popping.

It hurts. Stings. You hiss, but the noise is ignored when he peels the ruined scrap of fabric from your legs, shoving it into his back pocket with a grunt of satisfaction. He looks back to you, eyes rippling like the dark, ink-black surface of a lake during nightfall, and coos, mocking and mean—

“Not s’hard, was it?”

He leans closer to you, a hand skimming up your spine before his fingers curl around your nape, keeping you still for just a breath before he pulls you into him with too much force. Your hands lift, palms slapping against his thick stomach when the movement nearly topples you over and threatens to break your nose on his chest.

“Makin’ me do all the work when y’supposed t’be payin’ me back? Ain't very nice o’you, is it?”

He touches you like he's taking stock of your worth. Grabbing a heavy, rough palmful of your beast in his hand, squeezing. Testing the weight, the softness, how supple you were between his fingers like he might with a piece of fruit. Meat. Prodding into the flesh, feeling the ripeness there. Gauging whether or not it was a piece he wanted to keep.

It's demeaning. Humiliating. He treats you like cattle; presses into the elasticity of your muscle, examines every inch of your skin for blemishes. Scouring for imperfections. There's no softness in the way he grabs handfuls of your body—squeezing your breasts, pushing them together, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger; pinching your belly, your sides, your waist; curling his fingers under your thigh, lifting it until it hitches over his waist, cunt exposed and pressed tight to the bulge trapped in his jeans. Your ass is handled rougher than the rest. Each cheek sitting in a hand, squeezed and punched and spread embarrassingly wide.

He ruts into you as he does it. Pushes the thick, fat length of him into your belly, rolling his hips against you with a heavy, ragged puff of air.

He feels big.

Everywhere, of course—it’s not so much his height, but the absurd width of him that really digs into your hindbrain, crossing all those intricate wires until they're tangled up, knotted together. Seeing his thigh, the same scale as a tree truck, slotting between yours—a mere branch by comparison—makes your belly flop. Turn over itself.

The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.

He could crush your head between them like a bear pushing its paw down on a watermelon.

It's fear and heat.

The two work in tandem, forming a seamless cohesion, as they flit down your spine, brimming up the urge to sink to your knees, the need to roll over and show your belly. A paradoxical desire to both run and be chased.

You're not sure if he's tendering your meat to eat later or if this is the usual type of foreplay he engages in, but once satisfied you're softened up enough for him, he shoves his fingers between your thighs with an abrasive hum that reverberates through his belly, tickling your palms.

“Tired o’waitin’,” is what he says when your head jerks up, eyes widening in shock. Terror. Horror. “Don't look so surprised,” he huffs, dryly. Voice a rough scrap over your cheek. “What'd y’think was gonna ‘appen?”

“Wait—” but he doesn't.

His fingers twist, pushing through your folds to graze your clit. It isn't gentle. It's sudden, quick. You gasp more from shock than pleasure; the rough slide of leather feels strange on your flesh, and your head is too muddled to separate fear from bliss.

Despite that, your body heats. Reacts to his touch. Your lower lip wobbles. You bite back another sound that crawls up your throat when his knuckle catches on your clit again, the pressure just shy of too much.

The burn, the fever, melts the unease. Shallow gasps spill out. Your cunt clenches, fluttering around nothing—throbbing, growing sticky, slick; achy and empty—when he starts to glide his digit between your folds. Little sawing motions drag each groove and stitch of his gloves over your pebbled clit, each thrust of his hand between your thighs making heat pool between your hips. It's done so clinically, so detached, like his hand rubbing over your leaking pussy was nothing to him. An action to get done, a task to complete.

It's the shame of that, the embarrassment, that makes you want to weep. Your fingers dig into his chest, nails pulling uncomfortably on the pleated bumps of his jacket as you grip the fabric right between your fists, clinging to him like a newborn fawn—all wet-nosed, teary-eyed; knobbly knees threatening to buck.

“S–stop—” you mewl when the monotonous rhythm melts into something harder, more intense. Heart thudding in your chest, heat burning you up as he turns his hand, palm up, between your sticky, shaking thighs. He rubs his hand back and forth, curling his middle finger up when he passes your hole, tip pushing against your leaking rim.

The friction aches. The stretch stings. The leather feels strange, foreign when it pries your folds apart and dips inside of you.

You don't like it. It's too much—

He makes a sound—a tut—when you pull away from him, standing on the tips of your toes until the blunt curve of his finger slides out of you. He sucks his teeth in a mockery of disappointment before digging his fingers, hard, into the sides of your neck. A warning. You whine. Whimper—

It goes unheeded. And when you press your thighs tight together, shivering at the slip-slide of your skin rubbing against each other, he growls. The noise is inhuman. Animalistic.

Your act of deviance comes with a swift, bruising punishment.

His fingers tighten on your neck once again. A warning squeeze as he reaches down with his other hand, grabbing your hip. It keeps you still, immobile, as he bullies his boot between your feet, kicking your legs apart. You're not expecting it. When you stumble, he huffs in amusement. Can't hold yourself up? Want me that bad, huh? Needy fuckin' thing, ain't you?

You don't get a chance to respond. His palm splays wide over your hip, leather creaking as he flexes, stretching his fingers out, tapping some soundless beat out against your skin. Touching you like he's owed the privilege. The right. And in many ways—

Go’ a problem, you an’ I

—he does.

Brute strength, and an unmatched, almost laughable, dearth in your physicality ensures that he has the upper hand—even without the gun he left on the mattress; darker and flat, a full matte compared to what you were expecting.

(They're always so shiny in movies, aren't they?)

The threat of it—dull as it might be—roots you to the spot as he slides his hand down, thumb brushing over your belly button, dipping in; pressing until your stomach starts to ache—

It peels away when the whine wells up, sloping down, down. Teases your mound with the tips of his fingers, gentle swipes along the sensitive seam of your belly and pelvis, the sensation is an odd tickle that pulls at your navel, pulses at the apex of your thighs. You mewl—a slow, soft thing that barely makes it out from between your teeth—and he lets his hand drop. Palm flat against the soft flesh of your mons, fingers reaching, spreading, until they curl over your folds. Index and ring finger tucked tight into the hollow bend of your pelvis and thigh. The tip of his middle rubs gentle strokes over the skin above your clit. It's a whisper of pleasure. The idea of a touch.

Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—

“Needy.”

It cows you. Douses you in icy shame. There's barely any mockery in his even, observant tone, but you feel it unfurl over your shoulders all the same.

He doesn't give you a moment to think, to let the ripples of humiliation take over, forcing you to pull away, hide. His fingers trail over your hood, the pebble of your clit. The sensation, the cool undertone in the leather of his glove, is unlike anything you'd felt before. The thick stitches in the fabric catch on your flesh, nerve endings flaring in pleasure. Heat blooms in your belly.

It feels good.

You gasp, head tipping back. His hand winds around your waist when your knees buckle, catching you with a rasping huff—

“Feelin’ good, ain't you?” He pulls you tight to his chest, finger rubbing circles around your throbbing clit. Your cunt clenches, empty, and you whine, needing something more. Something to fill the ache inside of you—

His finger slips. Slides easily between your folds, parting your lips around the thick of him until he reaches your drenched hole. The sounds it makes when he taps his finger against your fluttering core makes your toes curl. Has heat blistering over your cheeks, down the slope of your neck.

It makes him groan. The low growl makes you throb, clenching in needy little pulls, pulses, as his finger dips into the slick dripping out of you.

“Suckin’ me in,” he grunts, and pushes his finger inside, thrusting up to the last knuckle. Palm tapping against your folds as his index and ring finger close to give him more room to sink deeper into you. The messy, slick squelch is loud, rolling over the mewling gasps that tumble from your lips.

Heat floods your belly at the belly-deep groans he lets out when you squeeze around him.

“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—”

He leans down, knocking his forehead against the side of your face. It's more intimate than you were expecting. Jarring. The proximity plays a twisted game inside your head—the urge to run, to roll over coalescing into a paralyzing tailspin. Rooting you to the ground when the warm, damp knit of his mask grazes your cheek.

The intimacy of his head on yours is eclipsed when you can feel the shape of his mouth through the fabric.

It's softer than you expected. A plush, fleshy give when he presses his lips against your skin. And—

A gap.

On the side of his mouth, there's a gouge. A pockmark. You feel the gap, the absence, of his flesh when he rolls it over your cheekbone. You try to read the asymmetry of his face—mapping all of these misshapen parts; his mauled lips, the crooked nose that digs into your skin and leaves behind a tacky smear of condescension when he breathes out through his nostrils in a heavy puff of air—and convince yourself that you're doing it so you can bring these patchwork pieces to the police later.

Survival, you think, your head tilting back as he noses down your neck, tickling along your skin.

(And when your cunt flutters around the rough, thick drag of his finger petting along your walls, you add: a bodily reaction. That's all it is.)

He takes another lungful of your scent before he rocks back on his heels, pulling away from you. Straightening up. Looming above you once more.

“Now—”

He pulls his finger out of you slowly and you try not to whimper at the empty feeling that brims up. The way your hips rock toward him, seeking and eager. Wanting.

Needy, just like he said.

Just a bodily reaction—

He holds his hand up to the dim light flickering over his head, fingers spreading apart as he takes in the glossy shine of his middle finger.

The gleam of it makes your ears feel hot. Shame pools in your belly as he makes another noise—a groan, deep and low, in the back of his throat. Eyes darkening as his pupils bloom, eclipsing his irises in an endless pool of black. They flicker toward you, listing half-mast in a way to leonine, so predatory, that it shudders through your bones. Run, run—

His hand flexes around your waist when you twitch. A warning. A threat. You tremble when he leans in, masked lips brushing over your cheek once more. Breath ghosting through the fabric, tickling the inside of your ear.

He smells of war. Of fire and brimstone. Napalm and nitroglycerine. You want to close your eyes, look away, but you can't. His proximity alone roots you to the spot. Turns you into a prey animal, frozen on instinct alone as he prowls around, creeping closer. Maw stretching wide, drooling dripping off razor-sharp canines—

“Let's see if y’worth all the trouble.”

—and he bites.

Knocks his palm into your sternum, roughly shoving you down on the mattress.

His hands fall to the button of his jeans. “Ready?” He asks, but doesn't seem to care about your answer. Opts, instead, to fall to his knee beside you. It pulls on his zipper, tugs it all the way down with a sharp, metallic sound that cuts through the stagnant air as each ring of teeth is pried apart.

You can't help it. You look. Dragged there by something primal, magnetic—the morbid curiosity to see the monster for yourself as it tries to take a bite.

And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't.

The spread of pale skin, dark curls jutting out from the split of his jeans, makes everything feel more real, and moving fast. Whiplash quick. Happening in a blink:

The shift of fabric as he pulls the mask up over his lips, letting rest on the crooked bridge of his nose. A flash of his mouth, mangled. Mauled. Full of ugly, pale pink scars. A gap where tissue once knit his upper lip together. The bite of crooked teeth as he brings the sticky, wet tip of his glove to his mouth, sinking in. Pulling. Tugging. The roll of skin—a rose, a gun, a skull—all encased in barbed wire; thick rivers of blue-green veins.

Another pull and it's free. Dangling between his teeth for a moment as he reaches up and shoves the jacket off his shoulders. Rolling and thick. Wide. A broad chest. Soft belly. There's an inch of flesh around the expanse of him—biceps, thighs, calves, chest, stomach, shoulders—but it's a buffer for the corded, streamlined muscle beneath. A layer of fatty tissue.

Like a tiger, hiding its dizzying musculature beneath a thick, loose pelt.

When he moves, it flexes. His shoulders roll; muscles bunching together, pulling taut under soft skin. The jacket slides off. Falls to the ground behind the mattress. Forgotten, discarded. The glove is next to go. Dropping from between his teeth, landing just beside your ankle with a muted thud.

He follows after it. Ink spilling over his lashline as his eyes drop, staring at the roll of his skin tucked on the outside of your thigh. Trailing up to your knee. Your hip. The split of your cunt beneath your other leg; knee tucked to your chest.

A flash of something, a flicker, is the only warning you get before the back of his hand is nudging the glove off of your skin, replacing it with the rough, calloused grip of his palm.

You jerk at his touch, flinching back—

He's intimidating above you like this. Leaning back on his haunches but still as tall as you are standing up. The sheer absurdity of his height—his width—is dizzying. Gives you vertigo when you look up.

His throat shifts when you move. A swallow. Coarse stubble grows down the column of his neck, dusting over his lower jaw, chin. The rest is swallowed by the balaclava bunched around his crooked nose.

He's not—

He's not handsome.

A smattering of crisscrossing scars, burns, skin pocked and gouged out in deep pockets along his flesh—the slide of a knife carving away at him, you think; digging down to his marrow—all take away from any sense of modern attractiveness you might feel for him with his broad, jagged nose and full lips.

But there's something rugged about him. Untamed. Wild. Appealing in a dangerous way.

You don't know if you would have let this happen under different circumstances. If this minacious beauty of his would have worked on you enough to want it outside of this awful, almost unfathomable trade.

He's too big. Wouldn't even fit inside of your house—

The graze of his thumb on your angle knocks the thought loose, and you're dragged back to the heat of his hand. Rough and coarse; palms slightly damp from the glove. It tugs on your flesh as he draws it up, a rubbery sort of pain as it catches on the soft, dry skin of your ankle. Your shin.

He follows behind a second later, pulling himself into the mattress with a huff, knees shuffling forward as he crawls over you. The jostling rocks your body. Makes your breasts shake as he lumbers on the bed, hand still sliding up, up, until his fingers curl over the bend of your knee.

The bed dips under his weight. Your body sagging, rolling into the divot beneath his knees. Tucked under him. Loomed over. He stares down at you through the cutout of his mask, eyes liquid in the gloam. Pools of melting, dripping obsidian. Black holes. Event horizon—

You look away before it drags you in. Submissive. Softened under the harsh burn of his flat, wide stare. He chuffs when your nose brushes over the thin skin of his wrist, mouth sliding over the thick, pulsing vein stretching down from his inner arm and curling into the bend of his hand. Your lips purse, and he makes that noise again.

Quietly amused, and—

He shuffles forward until the backs of your thighs are pulled over his, spread out on his lap. Bare. Open to him.

And he looks.

And looks.

Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—

The notion is wrenched out of your head when he shifts his weight. Watches the folds of your pussy open for him as he pulls your knees wider apart, head dropping between his massive shoulders, gaze drilling into the split of your thighs. Gasping at the sting, the sudden stretch, does little to deter him from shoving your leg down until the outside of your knee touches the bed. Muscles straining. Pinching. It hurts; hipbones twinging in agony.

But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain.

You're spread open under him. Bare. Legs tangled around his waist, stretched wide around the width of him. Ankles knocking into the hard plains of his lower back each time he shifts.

“Fuckin’ hell—” he grunts. Snarls. The word ripped up from the back of his throat, forced through the twisting channels of his nose. Nasal and ugly when it scrapes out between his teeth. “Gonna ruin this pretty pussy, birdie.”

It's a threat. A promise. You twist, mouthing your protests into the warm skin of his wrist.

There's something about his voice—that airy, brassy tone—that strikes a chord deep inside you. Makes heat pool between your thighs, leaking out in a syrupy mess—

His hand peels away from your knee, sliding down your sticky, damp inner thigh until his knuckles graze the sensitive slip of skin sitting between your outer lip and hip. That ticklish, belly-fluttering sensation blooms in your groin as he rubs his scarred knuckles over the crease, catching the slick gathered there on his thick, meaty thumb.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he groans, shifting his fingers until they cover the whole of your cunt, cradling you in his hand. He holds you like that for a beat, eyes locked on the way you're swallowed up by the broad stretch of his palm.

The rough drag of his skin over your folds feels good. An all-encompassing heat spreads over your tender flesh from the curve of your ass to the bump of your mons where his middle finger rests, almost touching the strip of skin between your loins and your belly. Held in his grasp. Cradled in his palm.

Your thighs twitch. A shallow jerk as your knees try to bend over his hand, but you can't. With his thumb and pinkie tucking into each crease between your outer lip and leg, it keeps you from closing your legs. Hinged by the wide, flat cup of his palm.

And it shouldn't bludgeon through you the way it does. All heat. All want. Need. A growing ache you can't think around.

(bodily reaction, you think even as the image of his hand—big with thick fingers, scarred knuckles; streaks of faded, ashy ink etched into milky, veined skin—laying over your pussy, swallowing it whole, sears into your mind—)

“Can feel your little cunt,” he grunts, feeling the pulse, the little throbbing pulls of your muscles as they twitch at the sight. The feeling. Clenching down around nothing. “Greedy little thing, ain't you, birdie?”

Anger paints his words as he rasps them out. A teeth gnashing, jaw clenching frustration that needles into the scorn, the fury, forced out between the tight seam of his crooked teeth.

You don't understand it. Can't, maybe.

But it's tucked away as quickly as it appeared, shifting into an ugly, mocking derision. Dry. Acerbic. His teeth flash, lip pulling upward in a sneer—a snarl—before he hums, sliding his hand down. The drag of his damp, rough fingers over your swollen folds has your knees falling open wider around his thick thighs, baring yourself willingly to him.

Want it bad, don't you? He mocks, and the sound of his voice alone has your pussy clenching tight, belly fluttering around the abrasive scrape of his tone. Brassy and full. Gritty. You whine, hips inching up—

His hand peels off of your slit. The rush of cold air drags another whimper out of you, hips pushing up to chase the heady, molten feeling of his skin on yours. And he's amused by it—a laugh echoes out, crackling in the hollow of his throat at your desperation—but you're too achy, too hot, to feel the simmer of humiliation nipping the apples of your cheeks.

He's not even making a real effort to pleasure you, to make you feel good, and yet—

Your hips twitch toward him in needy, mewling cants; please sits on the tip of your tongue, cradled between your teeth. Slips out on a shaky, breathless gasp when he meets you on the next buck of your hips, palm slapping over your wet slit.

The crack echoes through the room. Rough, dry skin on soaked flesh.

And it shocks you more than it hurts. The sting is there, of course, but it's just an afterthought to astonishment. An eye-widening disbelief masking the way your cunt smarts, throbbing from the slap. Nerves muffled behind the burn in your eyes, the searing heat pooling in your sinuses.

Wrenched open, unblinking as you stare up at him, your eyes begin to sting, to water. You blink, and feel something hot trickle down your cheek. A tear. His eyes snap to it. Pupils narrowing to a pinprick as he watches it slide down your face, little droplets clinging to your jaw.

“Poor baby,” he mocks, tilting his head as he tracks the teardrop. “Better behave.”

Behave. Like he's admonishing a child and not an adult.

It morphs; rots. Becomes yet another thing you shouldn't feel feverish over. The slick, sticky feeling grows between your thighs as your cunt flutters at the humiliation of it all.

And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—

(Punishment is affection in its own, special (awful) way and you've been aching for something just like it, haven't you—)

It's pushed down. Swallowed. And you know in the back of your head that if you keep eating these feelings, you're going to be sick. But you can't stop. Barely breathe around the idea of them sometimes—

“Tha’s’it,” he coos like he knows. Sees them bright and burning behind your irises. Little flickers of need, a smouldering want that you'll never grasp at yourself.

So he gives it to you.

The rough slide of his hand, all scarred and dry and calloused, scrapes over your slit once more. A full, flat stroke upward until your clit bumps into the ridge of his palm. Then down, down—

His fingers spread. Ring and index prying your folds apart as he pushes up once more, opening your seam to slip his middle finger through the slick, sticky mess that drips out of your burning cunt.

“Gonna be good f’me?”

The slide of his fingers drags the tip up to the bump of your clit. You stare down at it, fixed on the jut of his ink-black knuckles threading through your folds. The crease of his nail as he slips his fingers up higher, pad pushing over your pebbled clit. They're dirty. Grey-black under his nails. Congealed with dirt. Blood, maybe.

Your stomach churns even as your hips lift. Eager, searching. Hating yourself each second of it. It's gross. Disgusting.

You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—

“When I ask a question—” the tip circles over your clit. A shallow roll that pools heat between your thighs. “I expect an answer.”

“Y–yes,” you stammer out, hips flexing against his hand. Seeking more of that white-hot bloom of pleasure he brings with each pass of his finger.

“Good girl—” and you hate how it burns you up from the inside out. “Wasn't s’hard, was it?”

The retort is bitten back with the slow swipe of his finger drawing tight, small circles around your clit. His fingers are rough, scarred. Too dry. The abrasive drag over your soft sensitive flesh makes you whine—a drawn-out whimper nestled between clenched teeth.

It's too much.

Too harsh. Too sharp.

He rolls your clit under the pads of his fingers in jerking half-circles. Puts too much pressure on the bundle of nerves than you ever would—your touches are always soft, sickeningly sweet; gentling your flesh until you cum—and the sting, the burn, of it makes your toes curl. Body burn.

It's good.

And that's the problem.

It shouldn't be. His touch shouldn't make you so wet, growing slick and sticky between your spread thighs, bare to his hungry, prying gaze. Shouldn't make you moan. Hips twitching with each stroke of his fingers—

And then he peels away from you, but the time to mourn the loss of his touch, the fear of losing this trembling ember pleasure, is snuffed out when he presses his wet, slick fingers against the inside of your knee. The touch is intentional. Insistent. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat before pushing it down to the mattress. The twinge of pain swallowed up as quickly as it forms when he drops to his elbows between your thighs, forearms curling under your legs, and tugs you sharply into him.

Heat floods your belly when the backs of your thighs press tight to his broad, muscular shoulders, but it's nothing compared to the sight of him on his knees between your legs. It's so obscene you nearly weep—

And then he leans down and licks a long, broad swipe of his tongue over your cunt.

You hadn't expected it, maybe. His mouth on your pussy, his broken, jagged lips sealing over your pebbled clit. Going down on you seemed too intimate for what he was after. His end goal. It does nothing for him at all—

You realise your mistake when he dips his tongue into your hole and his hips jerk forward. Unconscious. Eager. Seeking. The shifting drags his jeans down his hips, and his cock slips free.

Most of the cocks you've seen—in porn, pictures, art—jut out from the person's groin. standing at attention, the nasty comments used to say. Jokes whispered on the playground. But his falls. Droops down between big, folded thighs. Skin marbled in shades of red, peach. Deep gouges dot his upper thighs, some sinking deep enough to reach bone. More scar tissue than flesh.

—than man.

It looks raw. Fresh. Some injuries not too dissimilar to the Wagyu hanging in the front of the storeroom, on display and oh, so out of place in a town where the richest man must be just a hair above the poverty line.

On paper, anyway.

You swallow, avoiding his gaze as he pauses, dark eyes watching you with his mouth pressed against your seam. Unmoving. Still as a predator between your thighs, cock visible between the bow of his torso, jutting sickeningly from mangled legs as you gawk at this hideous thing that makes several, half-hearted attempts to spring up towards you, spitting clear, milky liquid all over with each jerk. Tugged down by its own weight. Too heavy to fight against gravity like the rest of the cocks you've seen have done—

Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook.

His is anything but.

Ugly, you think again, stomach churning. Roiling. Obscene. An odd thing considering what you're looking at but all too fitting with the way it droops, big, flared head drooling pre-cum all over the bed in long, dangling stands that prickle over your jaws—half nauseous, half hungry, too. Saliva pools in your mouth even though the sight of his cock scares you. Fills your belly with dread. Misery.

It looks like a bruise. Skin smeared with purples, reds. Patches of pink. Long, thick veins run up from the fattened, full base to the divot of his frenulum. Thick. It hangs low. Drips.

He raises slightly and shoves his hand down between his thighs, big hand curling over the fat base of his cock. His grip is tight around himself, and he strokes up, from base to tip. It squeezes more precum from the flushed, fat head, and dribbles between your spread thighs in a thick, pearlescent puddle.

It makes your mouth dry. That twinge in your jaws coming back. Festering. You wonder if he'll make you take that thing in your mouth. Choke you on it. Taste his precum—

“Fuck,” he snarls into your cunt, hand jerking over his cock. “Keep lookin’ at my cock like tha’, birdie—”

You gasp at the rough grunt, the way it seems to tremble through your sensitive flesh. More, though, from the way he sounds. His voice brassy, rough. Unkind, but the words bloom a fresh heat behind your navel.

His voice does things to you. Things you're not allowed to like.

Those thoughts are knocked from your head when he bows down again, eyes still fixed on you, and seals his wicked mouth over your cunt. It's hard to compare it to anything else other than being devoured. Eaten in the truest sense of the word.

His tongue splits down your seam, tip digging into your slick hole. A groan bubbles up at your taste—the soft, fluttering clench of your body trying to drag him in deeper. Needing him deeper. A huff of air ghosts over you, dipped in the same derision as earlier but the harsh slap of skin on skin, his hand working furiously over his cock, makes you acutely aware of how much this affects him.

“Taste good, birdie,” he grunts, and then sucks your fold into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and teeth until the skin is tender, swollen. “S’fuckin’ good—”

Your breath catches when the crooked arch of his nose presses taut to your clit. Pleasure twisting in a dizzying pirouette inside your belly, winding tighter and tighter—

His nose jerks up on your clit. Lips moulded to your seam, you hear him rasp eyes on me, birdie. Don't fuckin’ look away—

The rough snarl trembles through your body, sinking its teeth into the coil until it snaps under its jaw. Your knees snap around his head as your release locks your joints tight. His name, Simon, a hoarse cry on your lips. You barely have time to bask in the ripples of pleasure throbbing through your body before he rips away from you with his teeth bared, and his chin wet.

“Fuck—!” he snarls again, shoving your knees apart as he lifts his massive body up from between your thighs. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gotta be inside your tight cunt—”

He towers over you, grinding his cock into the apex of your thighs. The drag of his cock—a little damp from being stuck inside his jeans all day; balmy—against the dry skin of your belly makes you shudder. Shivering beneath him as he huffs through the mask. Head bowing. Dipping to look at the way his cock slaps down on you. Cockhead nudging above your belly button, dribbling a small puddle of pre-cum that gets smeared into your skin when he rocks back on his haunches.

His hand wraps around the thick base of his cock once more, squeezing tight as he grips himself above you. It makes the head swell, engorged with blood. Thickening in his hand as globs of pre-spend leak out onto your belly. That feeling in your jaws comes back—nauseous and wanting.

He leans back with a hum. “Like my cock, eh, birdie?”

The crass words bring a fresh bloom of heat simmering in your veins, creeping up your collar. Like doesn't really cover what you feel when you stare at it—his inked hands running along the long, veined shaft—and the unsettled feeling in the pit of your belly rears when he nudges forward, the weeping head of his cock bumping your mound.

It's humiliating how much want floods through you just looking at it. At him. Disgust, dread, desire.

You don't answer. Not that you really need to—

Your silence is loud enough.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, the rasp thick in his throat. “M’gonna give it to you, pet—”

And he does just that. Slips the head of his cock down the slope of your mound, letting it graze your clit until you're panting, whining softly for more, and pulls it over your slit until his pre-cum is smeared over your drenched folds. You know exactly what this is even without glimpsing the ugly burn of his possessive desire smouldering in the back of his eyes—ownership. Greed. Hunger. It revels in the stain on your skin, from belly to slit; his, all his. Outside and soon—

In.

It shocks a creeping sense of worry into you. “Wait, what about a condom—”

He snorts, ugly and caustic. “What about ‘em?” He taunts, and it's flat. Playful.

“You should—”

He drags his gaze away from the pearlescent smear of his spend on your folds, your clit, and the even, placid look in that stagnant lake tells you everything you already knew.

“I've never—” you start, wincing at the kernel of fear lacing your hoarse words. “Not without a condom—”

It's the wrong thing to say. Near cataclysmic. He drops his head back with a groan that rumbles out of the slope of his throat, sounding like the rip of a chainsaw.

“Firsts for everything,” he purrs, and he nudges your entrance with the bare, weeping tip of his cock.

“But—”

His hand lifts, catching your jaw in the too-wide span of his palm. The force makes your teeth clack together.

“Need me to gag you, birdie?”

You swallow. It's not much of a choice. Gagged and fucked raw, or—

Just fucked raw.

No gag. No condom. You fight back a shiver and wish it was all just from fear.

“No,” you murmur, like you have a choice. “No gag.”

“An’?”

“Um. No–no condom, either—”

It's not enough. "What are you gonna let me do to this pussy, birdie?"

You know what he wants. What he's angling for. But there's a line, you think. A delineation between unwilling participant, coercion, and giving into the need that slinks down your spine, and rots inside your belly.

(Being forced to ask for it isn't permission, but what happens when you want it more than your next breath?)

The shame can come later, you think, and feel yourself give in.

"Cum—cum inside me—"

“Good girl, birdie.”

You hate what that does to you. How eagerly your body reacts to the dark possessive curl in his eyes when you do something he likes.

He nudges your entrance again, this time with purpose. Intent. A heavy pressure pushing on your rim. Too tight, you think, and the sting of the first inch he feeds—forces—into you burns, pulsing behind your navel. His tip isn't even in yet, and it's already too much.

You think about telling him so, offering up your mouth instead, but he leans down on his forearms, and catches your lips in a bruising, biting pantomime of a kiss. A blood-soaked parody with more teeth and tongue—sinking into your lips, nipping hard until the skin splits; catching all that spills with his tongue.

With his weight pressed against you like this, there's nowhere to run when he cups your throat in his hand, winding the other up above your head, forearm tight on your crown to cage you in. And then he shifts. Bears his hips down on yours until the fat head of his cock pops inside of you.

Your squeal is chewed up between his teeth, swallowed down with a rumbling groan.

Caught beneath him, trapped, he works himself into you demanding, heavy thrusts. Each inch burns more than the last. A stinging stretch that brings tears to your eyes. It's already too much and it's not even half. Barely even the tip.

“Can't—” you slur into his wet, demanding mouth. “No more. I–I can't—”

The breath rushes out between his teeth. Your watery eyes drop to the divot above his canine. A permanent snarl. A condescending sneer.

“You can,” he says decisively, words ground out from between crooked teeth. He presses them to your cheek, nipping at the skin under your eye. Possessive and wanting—

(Hungry for something you can't name—)

“And you will.”

—Or maybe you just don't want to. Can't look at the thunderous need draped over his mangled, battered face without thinking of the rumble in your chest that echos back against his thundering call—)

Stupid, foolish thing—

The dark promise of his words isn't a threat until his hand tightens around your neck, nails grazing your skin, and he adds, all of me, birdie as he grinds his hips into yours shallowly. Broad chest expanding with each ragged inhale. Cementing his taunt with a steel edge as you try not to come undone beneath him.

You'll take every fuckin’ inch—

He pulls back until only his glands stretch you open, and you know what's coming when his fingers grip the sides of your neck tight. Holding on. Anchoring you to the bed as he nudges his forearm tighter between your skull and the wall, a protective hold.

Before you can tense up, bracing for it, or even cry out no, please, don't, you can't take it, he huffs, and then slams his hips forward, splitting you open on the fat stretch of his thick, too heavy cock.

Maybe it's hysteria, delirium, but the blunt press of his length against your tender, sore walls balms the ache, the sting. The deeper he pushes, the less it hurts. A paradox that leaves you whimpering under his hand, heels digging into the broad stretch of his waist as you struggle to decide if you want to kick him away or pull him closer.

A war you don't have the power to win when he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt with a growl that shakes the fragile tendons surrounding your heart. Fear, misery. Pleasure, pain. It admixes. Coalescing into a dizzying sense of fullness, unbearable pressure. Catastrophic in its heaviness as your mind reels, struggles to come to terms with the gut-wrenching, heart-aching uncertainty of how you're supposed to go on without having him seated as deep inside of you as he can get. You've never known emptiness before him. Before now. Mere seconds ago.

And now, the thought of it leaves a palpable hollowness itching behind your ribs. Festering. Rotting tissue and bone.

“Simon,” you choke, sobbing his name out under the firm press of his hand. “Simon—”

But he knows.

His arm curls over your head like a crown, and you can easily forget the pinch of each thorn when he holds you tight. Protectively. Possessively. Securing you in his arms before he lifts up, palm sliding over the mattress, touch tender against your cheeks, and then settles it on the indent of your knee. Widening you for him as he spreads his thighs under yours until you're opened up for him.

Those dark eyes are dragged down to the split of your legs where his cock disappears into your slick, swollen cunt. You follow it down, gazing at the impressive width of his stomach bowing over you until they land on the jut of skin pushing out from a messy smatter of damp curls around the base of his cock.

The coarse hair of his groin unfurls as it sticks to your wet lips, and he rolls his head back over his shoulders he heaves through the too tight stretch of your walls over his length. You feel the pulse of him inside of you, thudding like a heartbeat. It blooms molten under the feverish weight of his lidded, dark gaze.

“Fuck, birdie,” he rasps, and it's scorched. Charred. “Look at you—”

As the world is condensed, narrowed down to nothing but the near impossible stretch of his cock seated as deep inside of you as he can get, he leans down, scarred, mangled lips brushing cruelly over your ear, and whispers, see? Told you'd take me.

Every fuckin’ inch.

Your hand jerks to your belly, fingers dancing over your navel as if to feel him there, bulging from under your skin. Nearly hysterical as you try to come to terms with the pulsing, white-hot ache of him inside of you, slowly acclimating to his girth, his length.

He grunts when he sees what you're doing, eyes flaring as your fingers skirt around your navel.

“It's—” you shudder, gasping for air. “It's too much, Simon, I can't take it—”

He rolls his hips with a groan. “m’cock too big for you, birdie?”

His usual cadence is flat, droll, but an unmistakable sense of masculine pride, a deep, egotistic sense of satisfaction, drapes itself over his brassy words. Glueing to the scorching rasp of his voice in a way that makes you unerringly certain that he likes it. Likes that his cock is too big for you. That it hurts.

“Y’can take it,” he prompts, forcing more of himself into you until something snaps. Splits. Makes room. Carves out a space for him to fit.

The brief flash of pain is soothed when he's seated deep. That same paradoxical balm making itself known as he flattens his hips into yours with a noise—half a grunt, or a growl; a lazy, pleasure-soaked snarl. You're not sure what it is, but the sound knocks the air from your lungs, igniting inside of you like a spark inside a tinderbox.

It's only when his balls are flush against you that the same masculine pride brims up again. Primal. Animalistic. The urge to present your soft belly rears up suddenly, and it's only stifled when he grunts again, looking down at you with lidded, black eyes.

“Now, be good and let me fuck your tight cunt.”

He's not looking for assent. Nothing you could say at this moment will sway his mind one way or the other. There's a nasty spool of determination welling up like blood on a pricked finger. Beading up to the surface in a clean, neat droplet as he rolls his broad shoulders, and shuffles into a comfortable position on his haunches between your spread thighs. The motion jostles his cock in a way that makes your breath hitch with each jerk.

It's not painful. Not particularly. But you're overwhelmed by the sensation of utter fullness in a way you've never experienced before. Each grind of his cock against your overly stretched walls deeping that incipient feeling of anxiety brewing in your belly that one wrong move and you'll tear. He's just—

Too big.

And despite his claims—or rather, in spite of them—you don't think you can do it. Don't think you can take him. It's too much. It feels like being turned inside out and then put back into place. An uneasy sense of discomfiture blooms with each too-tight, too-sharp tug of his cock pulling taut on your rim.

Almost deliriously, you think you can feel the pulse of his cock inside your goddamn throat.

“Simon—” you start on a tremulous breath but he cuts you off with a hum.

“Relax.”

You can't. Can't—

“Fuckin’ hell, bird,” he rasps, leaning down suddenly until his face was pushed tight into the curve of your neck, breath shallow on your thudding pulse. “Stop squirmin’ ‘round me like tha’ or I'll cum right fuckin’ now.”

Your heart stutters. Gallops painfully in your chest. His words make you dizzy because for as much as this feeling of him, his cock, inside of you dances on a delicate precipice of being more than you can feasibly handle and somehow the most incredible thing you'd ever experienced before, you hadn't considered how he'd feel.

Inexplicably, it pleases you.

There's something so strange—so extraordinary—about bringing a man like him, like this, to his knees. Pleasuring him by just heaving through the white-hot stretch of his cock inside of you. Making him bury his head in your neck, groaning about how he was gonna fuckin’ bust, pretty thing, fuck—

It was a powerful feeling.

Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless.

“Fuck,” he grunts, and you feel his throat work around a thick swallow. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gonna fuck this pretty cunt so fuckin' hard until you beg me stop—”

And he does just that. Rears back from your neck, and settles again between your thighs—quicker this time. With an urgency that makes you whimper when his cock grinds against your walls hard enough to bruise.

When he finally pulls out until only the flared head of his cock remains, you knot a fist into the thin pillow, clinging on, and latch the other onto his hip as if that could somehow stop the vicious promise in his eyes about poundin’ you into the goddamn mattress. There's a flash, a brief flicker of his eyes, and then he thrusts back inside of you with a grunt that makes your belly clench, and your back arch.

True to the promises he gave, it's brutal. Violent.

Any pleasure you feel is leached through osmosis. A tether bound around his own.

His arm is shoved under your back, angling your pelvis up. Thighs dangling over the thick spread of his own, ass seated in his lap. He drives into you, thrusts deep—grinds his hips until your moans break into hoarse screams, whimpers. Makes your eyes roll so far back, all you see is black even when you blink your eyes up at him.

He carves a spot deep inside of you with each delirious piston of his cock, pounding into you with brutal thrusts, and then holding tight when his balls slap against your ass. Digging the head of his cock into the seal of your womb until it aches behind your navel. Each breath feels like glass in your lungs—

“Tha’s it,” he slurs in your ear, mouth damp against your skin. “Take my cock so good, pretty birdie. Little pussy was made for it, weren't you? Tight cunt all mine—”

His gruff words tug on that tether until you're wrapped around him like a bow. Following him down this endless spiral as he slams inside of you over and over again, cooing in your ear about the sounds you made for him, pretty cunt so fuckin’ wet f’me, birdie, hear tha’? all f’me—

“Cum f'me, birdie. Want this pussy cummin’ ‘round my cock—”

“Can't—” you gasp, arching into him, desperate and needy. It rides a line between pain and pleasure; a needlepoint you wobble on. “Need—”

You try to reach down, to touch your clit, but grinds his hips into yours with a snarl. “Cum ‘around my cock, birdie.”

“Touch me—”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

It edges on too much. Pain and pleasure teetering on a knife's edge, split apart by a line the width of a razer. Looping and tangling around each other until you can't differentiate between the two. But it makes sense, you suppose, staring up at him arched above you like a black cloud of smoke. All hunger and fire. Consuming, devouring, everything in its path. A wildfire.

Butcher, you think again when his hand wraps around your throat. A mimicry of what he did in the truck, forcing your eyes on him. Your life tucked neatly against his palm.

These hands take lives. It's what they're made for. All scarred, and thick. Scar tissue and bone. Muscle and cartilage. Meant to render meat of cattle. Slaughterhouse in the shape of a man. Consumption personified.

But where there should be fear, all you feel is an echoing sense of hunger. Leatherbound to each other, maybe—

The look that passes over his eyes as he stares down at you, cupped in his palm, seems to fit perfectly into the fractured gaps inside yourself you try so hard to ignore. And what doesn't—

Well.

He'll make room to fit.

You reach up, curling your fingers around his thick wrist. His eyes flash, but he doesn't slow his thrusts. Doesn't stop. Just watches as you peel his hand away from your neck, bringing it up to your mouth.

On his palm, there's a piece of skin that's unblemished compared to the rest of his worn, burnt hands. A strip just big enough for you to sink your teeth into.

And you do.

“Fuck, Birdie—!” The snarl is ripped from his throat. His thrusts grow harder, sloppier. Each bit of strength in his muscled hips and thighs is used to pound into you until your vision blacks out. It hurts. Aches. Your heels slip down, catching on the broad expanse of his lower back. And you tighten them around his waist, pulling him closer. Deeper. “Fuck, Birdie, fuckin’ cunt was made f'me, wasn’t it? So cum on my cock. Now—”

Whining, you shake your head. “Can't. I can't. I need—”

You don't get to finish. With a huff of anger, he rips his hand off of the mattress, leaning back on his haunches, and shoves his hand between your thighs, scarred fingers stroking over your pebbled clit. It's rough. Sloppy. His anger hums through his body, skewering into you as he glared down, gaze swinging like a pendulum between the split of your thighs where his cock disappears into your swollen cunt, his fingers rubbing over your clit, and back up the hand around your neck, the tears staining your cheeks.

There's an edge to his thrusts. A viciousness in the way he pistons his hips into you. Dark eyes catching every flicker—each wince, gasp, moan, whine all meticulously catalogued and exploited. He finds the spots that make your hips jerk, twitching both toward and away from him. Angling into the ones that have your eyes rolling back into your head, drool dribbling past your slack lips as you gasp his name out into the dank, humid air.

It smells of sweat, sex, and him. Something brutal, bloody, and dark. Rotten leaves. Charred forests after a rain shower. Dangerous. Tinged with a slight acrid, chemical stench—benzene, oxidizing iron. It drips down your throat, and drenches your lungs. Staining you from the inside out.

And he exploits that, too. Leans in, and breathes heavily against your upper lip, your cheek. Drowns you in his scent. His sweat beads along his jaw, droplets raining down over your brow. Soaked in his essence. Unable to see, smell, or touch anything that isn't him.

With his hand over your mouth, teeth sunk into his palm, all you can taste is him, too. Leather. Gun oil. Blood.

The ravenous look in his eye sharpens, turning into deadly points.

“Such a pretty fuckin' bird.” He rasps, the words shattered, mangled in the back of his throat. They carry the scent of blood when you breathe them in, and you wonder if he forced them through glass. Pushed them out with his bloody fists.

You bite down harder in response, keening through the white-hot pain of his cock spearing deeper than before, stretching you past your limits. The taste of blood on your tongue, the rasping snarl pulled from his chest, his fingers toying with your clit, push you over the edge once more. Again and again, and again, and—

His hand peels away from your oversensitive clit, dropping down to the mattress beside your face. He follows quickly after several impossibly deep thrusts that shove you higher up on the mattress, pressing in until his balls sit flush against your ass, cockhead battering against your cervix, and he groans—deep and liquid—when he comes, spilling inside of you. Rooted deep, cock twitching, Simon drops to his elbow beside your head, smothering you under his weight as the tension in his body bleeds out.

Your teeth stick to the divots in his hand, and the sensation of ungluing them from the wounds you gave him makes you shiver. Slowly, you roll your tongue out, chasing the drops of blood, and breathe heavily through your nose as he burrows deeper inside of you, chest shuddering over yours.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, hips jerking into yours with a slap that echoes through the room. “Little tease, ain't you?”

Even with his cock softening inside of you, it's still thick. Fat. Stretching you open as he yawns out above you, bloodied hand dropping down to cup your neck again, forearm resting heavily between your breasts. He raises slightly on his elbow, black eyes glinting in the shallow dark of the room. Piercing as they drill into your sweat-slicked face.

It aches when he moves. When he presses his hips harder into yours, the muscles in your legs throb as his broad waist splits them apart. Your feet dangle, sliding uselessly down his back, over his ass, before coming to rest curled around his thighs. Melting into the mattress, tender and sore and all chewed up—

You feel like a massive contusion instead of a person. A pestle. His.

The thought makes you shiver, and his eyes flash in triumph like he knows.

The feeling of him pulling out of you draws a whimper from your lips. The drag on your sensitive, bruised walls is a strange mix of tender pleasure and pain. He chuckles at your mewl—dark and low; the sound of nightmares, you think. Crackling sap on charred wood.

You try to pretend it doesn't make you shudder, but the way he hums in response dashes the feigned oblivion before it can form. All you can do is heave on the bed, and watch him through narrowed slits as he leans back on his haunches once again, head cocking to the side. His dark eyes fixed on the split of your legs. The ache in your cunt growing sharp under his molten stare.

“Fuck,” he rasps, the shallow groan pulled out from between clenched teeth. You wonder if the mangled curse was unintentional. Ripped from his throat before he could clamp his jaws around it—a crack in the facade. A hairline splinter in the indomitable mask he wears.

Your heart lurches. None of this makes sense, but your head is too muddled, too syrupy, to think much at all. A quandary for later when he throws you from his bed with a harsh slap on your ass and a and don't think about doing this ever again.

But you don't think you can move. “Give me a minute,” you start on a trembling breath. “And I'll—”

His brows move but his eyes stay fixed on your sore cunt. You can feel him leak out of you, spilling on the mattress in thick globs. The sensation makes you shiver.

“You'll what?”

It looks like he has to forcibly tear his eyes away from you, reluctance forming a cold, angry crater between his brows. The brunt of his ire—white, burning—makes you want to supplicate yourself at his feet, roll over on your belly and show the beast you mean no harm.

(Run, and run far—)

He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”

It takes a minute to find your voice through all the panic clogging your throat. “I'll leave, um—”

He peels away from you with a loud, rough snort, and drops to his his elbow beside you. Hands curling possessively over your waist, fingers tight. Unyielding.

“Not goin’ anywhere, birdie. Told you, didn't I? You're mine.”

“I'm—”

“Go to sleep.”

He pulls you roughly to his chest until your head is pillowed on his shoulder, and then rolls on his back, keeping you cushioned at his side. You try to move, but his arm wedges under your neck, curling over your shoulder. Trapping you to him.

The panic wants to come now. To rage against the shackle of his embrace, to run home and scrub your skin until it bleeds. But the exhaustion collapses over it all until your eyes feel too heavy to hold open. Too painful.

As you drift, aimless and dreamless, his voice cuts through the fog. “Gotta learn ‘ow to cum with nothin’ but my cock inside of you sooner or later, birdie. Or you won't be coming at all—”

It sounds like a threat. A promise. You fall asleep with the words echoing in your head, his arm an anchor around your waist.

He wakes up hungry.

A gnawing in his belly pulls him from the thin doze he fell into after fucking you three more times—with your face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air for him to rut against like a beast; teetering over his hips, the spread of them too wide for your thighs to split over leaving you precariously unbalanced and shifting your weight above him as neither knee sat comfortably on the mattress; and on your belly with him crushing you to the floor under his bulk. The memory of which makes his spent cock stir, twisting limply against his damp, sticky thigh. Matted down with drying cum, sweat, the slick wetness of being buried inside your messy cunt.

Filled now with his cum.

He groans low in his throat as he thinks about it. The sloppy way you let him take you over and over again until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, passing out before he finished. Letting him fuck his cum inside of you as you whimpered in your sleep—

Perfect little thing, aren't you? So good to him.

Simon can't remember the last time he fucked someone, much less when it was this enjoyable (an understatement, of course; in the back of his head, wheels spin round and round as he tries to come up with a plan to keep his cock buried inside of you at all times while still doing his work—), and the overflow of unquenched lust churns in his belly. A hunger he can now slake on your willing body. In the silence, he purrs—

But the effort, the exertion, dredged up a different need inside him.

Simple hunger. An appetite.

He could eat—

his eyes slant toward the top of your crown in the dark, and he amends it, quickly, to: in more ways than one.

He'll go home in a minute. Make himself a steak from the prime cut he butchered a few days ago, leftovers that no one had any qualms about when he took several pieces home with him.

(and really, why would they argue with the butcher who keeps their wallets fat and their bills paid?)

It was left on the counter earlier before he got the call that your brother was making another move. Now a perfect room temperature as it waits for him to come back. Cook it the way he likes—

Rare.

The perfect grill is a nice char on the outside, but bleeding red on the inside. Basted in duck fat and garlic. A sprig of rosemary in the pan, but not touching the meat. Just enough to give the juice that earthy, sweet flavour. Let it rest for ten minutes under foil with the rest of the fat poured over it from the pan. Served as is with maybe a dash of salt and pepper on the side.

Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds.

Everyone tries to make it fancier than what it needs to be, but at the end of the day, meat is meat. And going from picking scraps from the garbage outside of the Italian butcher on the corner to ordering his own pretentious filet mignon still gives him a sense of unease. Whiplash, perhaps. Nothing to something—how about that, Tommy?

Maybe that's why he prefers to raise and butcher his own cattle. A never-ending supply of meat for him to sink his teeth into even if this whole thing goes belly up and he's back to begging for morsels on the corner. Tommy hiding in the shadows with a baseball bat waiting to ambush the richer men who happen to feel altruistic that day.

This practice bled over into his current occupation, too. The basement of that same Italian butcher shop he used to sneak expired sausage from out of the bins is now his home base of sorts. A money laundering front of the 141. Headquarters for them to congregate in secrecy upstairs. And here—

A torture chamber for those who tried to cross them. Strung up on meat hooks like the cattle they eat, the ones he feeds them, until he makes up his mind on what he wants to do to them.

It's where you should have been, he supposes, thumb brushing a spot of dried blood on your shoulder, right below a nasty bite mark on your forearm. The ring nearly black from the clotted blood pooling in the indents. It matches several others on your thighs—top, insides, back—and neck, belly, collarbones, sternum. All chewed up. Marked by the butcher.

In working for the old Italian man who ran the shop when he was eighteen, he learned that most of the butchers preferred to mark their carcasses when they came in. A little x on the fat to signify they'd be the ones carving up the prime meat.

He didn't think you could handle his knife, so he gave you his teeth instead. But the implication is clear.

His.

It's overkill considering his reputation, and the claim he already had on you. Because even before this, back when he saw you through the window of his shop as he was moonlit as a legitimate butcher and businessman instead of the enforcer, the brute, everyone already knew he was, his interest was clear. You were off-limits. His to deal with.

And while Price refers not to get involved in small-time street dealers, the warnings Soap and Gaz impressed onto your brother should have been the end of an irritating situation and not the beginning of a fuckin’ headache. But no. He had to push. And push.

Until Price gave the order to take care of it.

And that he did.

(With the added benefit of killing one bird and keeping the other in a pretty cage.)

Price probably won't like his solution, but Simon racked up enough favours to keep a little pet of his own. Been a good boy for a long, long time now, and he supposes he's owed a bone.

Or a sweet thing tucked tight to his side having passed out some two hours ago after he slaked his dizzying thirst on you over and over again even though it doesn't feel like it's been enough.

It's rare that he has an appetite for people. Even rarer that he lets this meagre hunger consume him like this. But there's something about you that makes his teeth ache in the same way they often do whenever he's hungry for meat.

He wants to devour you. Consume you. Eat you alive and save nothing for anyone else to taste.

(So—

Price will just have to let him keep you, won't he?)

The mattress vibrates under him. His phone buzzing with an incoming text. He reaches over, pulling it close enough to read the notification on his screen. It's from Soap.

All her stuff is on your porch.

He hums, but doesn't reply. Simply opts to drop his phone on his belly, and tug you closer to his broad chest. He'll wake you in an hour, and the stirring in his groin tells him it'll be for another round. Maybe he'll take you in the freezer. Make you cling to the hook hanging down from the ceiling as he fucks you like that. He has a pair of ties for ox, lamb legs, that he can loop around your wrists and heft you up on.

It'll hurt, he's sure. The binds weren't designed with comfort in mind, but he can easily bear your weight as he pounds into you from below, your pretty legs wrapped tight around his waist.

The image, the thought, alone has him thickening against his thigh. He reaches down, gripping the base tight in his hand as he pulls you even closer, burying his nose in your crown.

At the very least, he wouldn't be lying when he told Price he strung you up.

Three rounds—on your back, your hands and knees, perched above him like a pretty goddess he stole away from a temple—and he still isn't satisfied. Fuck. He breathes in your scent and doesn't think he ever will be.

He'll get you out of here, take you home. Make you the steak he likes for a late dinner, rare and simple—the same one he gave your brother weeks ago when he dragged him into the shop, strung him up on a hook, and demanded payment for his disrespect.

Who'd have thought that his payment would be you?

(fitting, though, since he'd had his eye on you for a while now—)

He nudges you when his phone chimes again with another message doubtless from Soap telling him all your things have been tucked away. Matters dealt with.

“C’mon,” he grunts, running his hand down your spine. “We’re leavin’.”

You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “Get dressed.”

You're quiet as he turns, reaching for his jeans left in a heap beside the mattress, but he hears the hitch in your throat. The click when you swallow. Unbothered by it, he turns, giving you his back as he wedges his feet inside the trousers, pulling them up his legs.

The bed shifts behind him. “I—I can walk back to my brother's—”

The hope in your voice is a delicate thing. Fragile like fine china. A pretty, vulnerable tchotchke meant to be seen, admired, but not touched. Not handled roughly.

Unfortunately for you, he's never had much of a gentle touch.

When he throws a glance over his shoulder, he's not surprised to find your arm folded over your bare breasts as you kneel on the mattress, your palm resting flat between your parted thighs, wrist and forearm covering the slip of heaven between them from his greedy, prying gaze.

It paints a startling picture, he finds. One with you looking thoroughly ravaged. Taken. But presenting it in a soft sort of sensuality meant to make a man feel both hot under the collar and like an unrepentant voyeur.

Pretty bird, he thinks, and feels his cock stir.

He rises swiftly, hiking up his jeans around his thighs as he goes, and then turns to you with a heady desire to crush that gossamer of hope between his greedy hand like a silken cobweb that will stick to his fingers.

“Not goin’ to your brothers,” he says, pushing his tongue against his cheek to stem the ache burning in his muscles.

You shiver, eyes growing wide, frenzied with fear as you stare up at him. The shift of your throat when you swallow makes pre-cum dribble out of his fattened cock. He's never really had much of a taste for it, but he's overcome with the urge to see you cry—

“Where are we going?”

Amid the ache in his loins, the flickering fantasies of your pretty, lachrymal face gazing up at him helpless, hopeless, and needy, he catches the edge of panic when you speak. The razor-sharp tremble of fear.

But buried amongst it, hidden in the bruised look you give him as he towers over you with his cock bulging in his slacks and his eyes burning with want, he finds a keen sense of eagerness amongst the rubble. Agog, almost.

And fuck. If that doesn't do something awful to him.

“What?” He taunts, cocking his head to the side as your breath grows shallow and your eyes wide. “Did you think that was enough to pay your debt, birdie?”

“What? You can't—”

“Don't like it—” he lifts his shoulder up in a cool, indifferent shrug, enjoying the dismayed expression that falls over your brow more than he should. “—go to the police.”

“The ones on your payroll?” You spit, eyes flaring wide like an angry cat. “You—”

Several things might have continued in place of your choked, angry sob, but it's swallowed down as pragmatically as it was the first time he cornered you earlier today. And as beautiful as your ire is, he finds the cornered look on your face to be much more pleasing. Prettier.

“C’mon, bird,” he mocks, holding his hand out toward you with a tick of his lips. “All your stuff is at home. Don't be stupid.”

“Stupid?” You gasp in indignation, but there's a bruised look in your eyes. A wounded thing that makes his breath hitch in his lungs for reasons he can't really ascertain, but just knows that he likes it. Likes it a lot. “This is—insane.”

Again, he shrugs, but the indifference this time isn't the same manufactured callousness meant to inspire fear. The conversation is stale already. Grating on him. He's not used to having his orders ignored or questioned. What he says usually goes—either through association or reputation, or just the fact that no one has ever come close to filling the same measure of space as he does—and questioning him like this makes him feel too much like a boy, and not enough like the living ghost he pretends to be.

“You can't do this. It's not right.”

An appeal to his humanity. Cute. He huffs, reaching down to fasten the button of his jeans. The sound the zipper makes cuts through the room. “You're mine, birdie. Better get used to it.”

Catching your eye as he says it was only meant to reignite the kindling fear you have of him from extinguishing. A scared prey animal was a better pet than an angry one. But the look on your face catches him off-guard.

It reminds him of a flightless little bird shivering in a child's shoebox. Tiny broken thing his mum warned him not to touch or its mother would abandon it to die on its own.

“Until the debt is paid off.”

A statement, not a question. He shrugs, but doesn't respond. Tilts his head toward the door. “Let's go.”

His lack of reassurance doesn't soften the flint in your gaze, but the prospect of recompense seems to spurn you on. Another wishbone of hope to cling to. And despite himself, he lets you keep it. Lets your little finger wrap around the delicate bone for comfort because as much as you might think there's a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bigger piece, he has no intentions of letting something like that get in the way of his appetite even if you do.

(And his hunger has always been particularly voracious, hasn't it?)

“Come, birdie. Gotta get you home, and fed, don't I?”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #series: dogmeat #for only being 19k this really took a lot out of me #simon riley x you #ghost x you #ghostfics

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yoonmetogether · 1 month ago

Text

chapter 2. take it

pairing: bodyguard!Yoongi x CEO!fem reader - brother/mob boss!Seokjin, brother/mob boss!Jeongguk genre: mafia, e2l, sloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow burn, age gap summary: jin is gone and it’s up to you and jeongguk to start running the city. d is right behind you. warnings: angst, arranged marriage, drug addiction/rehab, family drama, parental loss, alcohol, smoking, crime, drugs and weapons trading, guns, references to murder, reader’s future-FIL is a d*ck, reader's fiance gets a little touchy, namjoon is judgmental but supportive, boxing, 2seok if you squint, surprise cameo minors pls dni wc: 10.8k oof my bad i'm incapable of keeping shit short apparently @glossdebut my girl aqua ate this banner upppppppppp do yall see this??????? she had a vision and she brought it to lifeeeeeeeeeeee i only gave her a little idea and she just turned it into a work of art!!!! I look at it about 20 times a day 😅 her mind is so sexy for this MWAH and then on top of that she beta’d this chapter (twice!!) she’s really just a queen thank you aquaaaaaa ily!! <3333333333333333333333333 another huuuuuuuuuuuuuugeeeee shoutout to @moochii-daisies for also giving my rough draft a read ughksndn words cannot express how much her enthusiasm and interest in this story means to me thank you my lovely!! <333333333333333333

masterlist

Jin leaves in the middle of the night.

Your breath comes out in thick, white puffs as you tiptoe out of the house at 1am where there’s a black Santa Fe SUV idling in front of the stairs.

The shadow you despise waits for you at the bottom, and not a single word or look is exchanged as he opens the rear door, although faint remnants of his cologne and cigarettes follow as you slide onto the leather seat, opposite of your brother. While you buckle up, a morose ambiance fills the silence between you, Jeongguk’s hand finding yours and giving a gentle squeeze that grounds him.

“So he’s heading out on a fishing boat?” you ask to crack the sullenness after the SUV speeds out onto the road towards the highway.

“Mhmm,” he responds in a dull tone.

“He’ll enjoy that.”

“Yeah.” He turns his head to swallow a bittersweet expression. “A while ago, I caught him looking up his chances of getting into NASA. That was always his dream.” A smile breaks out onto your face, eclipsing the force of intense gravity weighing in your chest.

“He’d make a good astronaut.” A lump in your throat, you look out of the tinted window, frowning at the sky blocked by pollution and the fog of an oncoming snowstorm. “Maybe on the boat, he’ll get to see more stars. Can’t see shit in the city.”

“Remember when we tried to buy him that star for his birthday?”

“Oh, yeah!” You half-laugh, brightening at the memory. “He wouldn’t have been so pissed it was a scam if you hadn’t stolen his card to pay for it.”

“It was your idea!”

“Well, you were the one who spent all the money we both saved up to buy that jacket for-” You close your stupid mouth when Jeongguk’s expression drops and hardens.

“I’m sorry.” Remorse builds in your gut at the way his teeth gnaw at his lip ring, a dent between his brows, and that distant glaze in his eyes takes over. You grab his hand again before he can drift too far away.

“Don’t go there, okay?”

To try and keep him with you, you pull his arm to rest over the console, and start tapping your fingertips over his jacket to a tune you hear in your head, visualizing black and white keys.

“‘Merry go round of life’?” he inquires after you get through the first few phrases of the intro.

You smile, happy that he was able to pick up on it so quickly. “Your favorite.”

“When’s the last time you played?” The shakiness in his voice dissipates.

“It’s been a while. But Jay has a nice Steinway in the living room that I’m pretty sure is just for show, so I’ll play that whenever I have time.”

“Hm.” The car hums in silence for a few moments.

Now that you’re back home, things won’t ever be the same as before but at least you’re on the same side of the world as your brother. You won’t be in the same house, but you’ll be in the same city, doing the same things - in a way.

Most importantly, you’ll be there for each other. And that’s what gives you hope that everything will be okay. Even if Jin won’t be here, at least you have- Oh!

You sit up straight, turning to face Jeongguk fully, suddenly remembering what you’ve been itching to ask him about.

“Do you think something’s going on with Jin and Hope?”

“Huh?” his eyebrows raise as if you caught him off guard, but a small smile follows. “Oh. Yeah.”

You gasp excitedly. “Spill!”

“There’s not much to tell.”

“Then how do you know?”

He shrugs. “Hyung’s not as subtle as he thinks whenever Hope comes around.”

“You never tried asking him?”

“You know he doesn’t talk about anything like that.”

Yeah. Jin has always had a penchant for dismissing or deflecting any talk of his relationships outside of work, instead turning the conversation back on you and Jeongguk. Not once has he mentioned friends beyond the capos in his circle, and it’s always made you sad just how much he’s missed out on because of circumstances out of his control.

“Maybe now he’ll have some more freedom to make connections.”

“He’s on the run, Angel. He won’t get to stay in one place long enough.”

“Mm.” You almost retort that you know very well what that’s like, but decide against it. Jin is going away for a completely different reason. Still. Neither of you were left with a choice.

“I wish we could go with him,” you whisper with a tug in your heart. It’s been ages since you’ve all been together, but now Jin is being ripped away. It’s not fair. You just want your family.

Why is the universe hellbent on keeping that out of reach?

“Me too,” Jeongguk replies quietly. “But we have duties to fulfill.”

“You really think this is what we were born to do?”

Jeongguk’s eyes flit between you and the back of the seat.

“It’s what hyung and I were born to do.”

That’s a small punch to your gut. So just like everyone else, your brothers think you weren’t supposed to be here at all. Which is why your father never paid attention to you. Although that Lee Dongwook prick was right - your brothers were merely pawns in his empire and had no real connection to them otherwise - they were planned.

They weren’t a mistake. They were wanted, if only for business. It stings, that your brothers have been used by your father, even now from the grave. It should be a good thing that you were almost always invisible to him.

So why doesn’t it feel that way?

A faceless woman flashes in your mind. Your mother left before you developed a memory. Like she wanted to make sure you wouldn’t remember how she didn’t want you, either.

Would she want you now?

“Hey,” your brother says, breaking the silence and the dissonance in your head. “It’s good that you’re here.”

“Well, yeah.” You muster a smile, turning back to him. “Can’t let you mess everything up all by yourself.”

He rolls his eyes at your teasing and shoves your shoulder. You snicker and lean back over, holding up your fist.

“Ride or die, remember?”

He tries to maintain his scorn but ultimately sighs and knocks his fist against yours, and you do the handshake you made up when you were kids. It ends with a mutual slap on the side of the neck and finger guns, and you wear matching smiles as you sit back against the leather seats, the air becoming a little lighter between you.

“Y’know, that shit you pulled with Dongwook last night, hyung’s been bragging about it.”

“Really? He’s not… mad?”

“Are you kidding? He’s proud of how you handled that.”

“Oh. I thought you both would be upset that I stirred up trouble.”

Jeongguk shakes his head. “Nah. You just proved to them that you’re one of us.”

You tense. There it is again.

One of us. Cut from the same cloth, capable of spilling blood without consequences. And without getting your hands dirty.

You glance to the front where D’s sitting in the passenger’s seat, back straight as he focuses on the dark road ahead.

He’ll probably be the one to keep your hands clean.

I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.

Well. What did you do to deserve it?”

You pick at your nails as you speak with false nonchalance.

“Y’know, I almost came back home a few years ago.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I missed you guys, and I thought Jin would let me come see you, but you weren’t doing well and-“ you stop yourself.

“Anyway, I was at this bar, and I may or may not have played some poker and won a whole bunch of money to get a flight home. It really pissed off a bunch of the men, and this one dude actually ended up following me to my hotel to steal back 500,000 won. Isn’t that pathetic?”

Jeongguk’s head snaps to you, a perturbed expression taking over.

“What? Why didn’t you say something?”

You shrug. “He was just a desperate, low-life, sore loser. He wasn’t worth it.”

Still isn’t, you wish you could say.

“Did you get his name?” He asks ominously enough to make you feel a tad nervous.

So who knows how the man you secretly speak of is feeling.

“Um,” you pretend to think. “It was something insignificant, so I don’t remember.”

“That was dangerous, Angel. If something happened to you…”

“I know. It was a reckless mistake and it won’t ever happen again.”

“Good.”

D has not moved or shifted once and you wonder if he even heard you.

The car finally turns down a road lined with a chain-link fence, enclosing the expansive marina filled with fishing boats. After weaving through a narrow maze of warehouses, Jin suddenly comes into view, standing in front of an empty dock with his arms crossed and upon seeing the SUV, he quickly strides over.

Before the driver has had a chance to brake, Jin grabs the handle, swinging it open with a huge smile on his face. You slide out and into his arms that wrap you up in a tight hug.

You breathe in the smell of him; of homemade makgugksu and bungeoppang after a long day at school; of leaves falling on your evening strolls along the river banks as the autumn sun set on the horizon; of food cooking over a crackling fire while frogs and crickets chirped among the pine trees.

The smell of home.

“Can I get out?” Jeongguk demands behind you, boot nudging the backs of your thighs and you stagger forward still in Jin’s arms, turning around to ram yourself against the door.

Jeongguk is strong, but your will is stronger as he pushes against it, and you snicker at his muffled, “you annoying piece of shit!”

“Yah, language!” Jin exclaims, tugging you away from the door.

“She’s the one trying to trap me in here!”

Your oldest brother rolls his eyes as he pulls you to the side so Jeongguk can step out.

“You two can’t go 5 seconds without fighting?”

“We’ve gotta make up for all these years!” You defend.

Jeongguk glares at you as he straightens and slams the door behind him and you just hide yourself in Jin’s embrace.

Seconds later, another door opens and shuts, and Jin’s muffled voice rumbles above your head.

“Hey, D. Thanks for bringing them to me safe.”

You don’t hear a response and assume he just silently acknowledged your brother, his swift footsteps against the gravel growing farther away. You peek away from Jin’s chest to watch him join the other guards across the yard.

Upon observing all of them surrounding the perimeter, you’re a little heart-stricken that you can’t spend these final moments with your brother alone.

“We’re good out here,” Jin assures you, taking your scanning of the docks as paranoia. “Cops are on the other side of town. Hope made sure of it.”

You can’t stop the teasing quirk of your lips as you tilt your head up at him. “Hope, huh?”

“What?” he asks, looking between you and Jeongguk as you sneak a glance at each other.

“Nothing.”

By the slight uptick in his brow, it’s obvious that he’s curious about what you know, but time is limited, and you figure he doesn’t want to waste time finding out when this is about just the three of you.

“Oh my god, is that a hoodie?” you ask in a teasing manner, changing the subject as you fully look at your brother’s casual, comfy outfit under his big coat. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in one since I was nine. And that was because bro threw up on you after going on that roller coaster twelve times in a row.”

Jeongguk shoves you roughly to the side and you laugh, the sound echoing in the old harbor. “At least I was tall enough to even get on the roller coaster. Or any of the rides for that matter that weren’t for little kids.”

“You surpassed the height requirement by the time you were 5, you extra large kangaroo!”

His eyes narrow and he holds up his fists, bending his knees in a typical fight stance. “Come at me, bro.”

You mirror him and circle each other while pretending to spar, neither of you flinching when your fake punches get close to being real.

“Oh, lord,” Jin laughs, running a hand down his face as he stares between you again with a soft gaze when usually he would be telling you off for bickering and play-fighting. “You made it past a minute this time.”

You jut a thumb back at your brother, ignoring his air punch to your shoulder. “He’s gonna bully me way worse now that you’re leaving.”

“No, he won’t,” Jin says, fixing Jeongguk with a semi-stern stare until he holds his hands up in mock defense.

“Sure. As long as she’s not a pain in my ass,” he harmlessly spits, mocking the way you stick your tongue out at him.

“You two are the most dangerous people in the city now, you know that, right?” Jin muses.

A lull breezes past as that reality winds around this small bubble cradling you and your brothers, tightening until it pops with the truth that there is no time for fun and games anymore. Not outside, not where people can see.

Now you notice the bags that sit in a small pile just paces away from where you stand with your brothers. A couple of medium-sized suitcases, three duffels, and two totes. All of Jin’s worldly belongings, all that he can bring, are packed up in those bags.

Fuck. This is torture. To have to watch him carry his life on board but leave you behind.

Noticing that you’ve been staring, Jin turns back to grab the totes, and you and Jeongguk walk up to accept them.

“Here’s some food, it should last a few weeks,” he says, the heavy insulated bags containing various packed containers. “And I left all the recipes in there for whenever you get around to missing my cooking.”

“It won’t be the same,” Jeongguk pouts.

“It’s better than nothing,” you point out.

Jin smiles at you appreciatively, then reaches into the pockets of his big coat and pulls out two square white velvet boxes, passing one to each of you.

“And this is something a little extra special.”

You both open them at the same time, eyes widening when stunning Hermès rose-gold and steel watches that match the one on Jin’s wrist twinkle under the yellow light from the scattered lampposts.

“I’ll keep mine set to your time, so no matter where I am, I’ll know when to call.”

You gawk at it as tears cloud your vision, so much so that you can’t blink or move lest the dam breaks. Jin’s feet step into view and you don’t look up as he takes out the watch, gently lifts your arm, and clasps it comfortably on your wrist.

“There,” he murmurs. “Pretty.”

He moves on to do the same with Jeongguk, and you can only watch the second hand tick around the expensive silver face and white-gold numbers.

Jin grasps your arm again, holding it next to Jeongguk’s, simply staring down at all of your matching watches. The bands are not too big for your wrist, but not too small for your brothers’. Just right. And it doesn’t hide the tattoo of Jeongguk’s initials sitting next to yours on the inside of Jin’s forearm.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t do better, that I couldn’t prevent this,” Jin whispers, broken crack in his voice. He squeezes your wrist and your heart crumples. “You know that if it was up to me, both of you would be out there doing whatever you want, without worrying about anything. I promise that when all of this blows over, I’ll come back so that you can go out and live your best lives.”

“It’s not your fault,” you croak. “I don’t blame you, I’m sorry if I made you think I do. The only person I’ve ever blamed for any of this is him. He’s a bitch for forcing this onto us.”

You pray Jeongguk knows you’re not talking about him.

As you gaze up at Jin, you see the features he shares with the man partially responsible for your existence. The similar face shape, nose, strong chin, height and broad shoulders.

But his eyes are what set him apart. Jin has so much warmth and kindness and love in his beautiful brown eyes, things he holds for you and Jeongguk, things you’ve never seen from your father.

The dam breaks and you cry for Jin. For the burdens he carries, not just for your father’s syndicate but for you and Jeongguk. For the responsibility he assumed to be your protector, your caretaker, when he should’ve just been your big brother, your best friend.

You’re soon engulfed by his tender hugs so you can bury puddles of tears into his sweater.

“Birdie, don’t cry. You’re gonna make it harder to leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave. I just got back.”

“I know,” he whispers, rubbing between your shoulders. “But it’s not forever. We’ll be a family again someday.”

“We didn’t even get to have a girls’ night,” you pout sadly.

When Jeongguk entered his teen years and suddenly became “too cool” to hang out with his little sister all the time, Jin started setting aside days on the weekend for just you, sending cool guy off with his friends.

He took you shopping, treated you to boba and takeout, and then back home, brought out his own expensive face masks and did your hair while you watched your favorite movies. As you got a little older, he sometimes let you have a sip of his whiskey sour, and coached you on different poker strategies after you told him it was your goal to win against Jeongguk. And thanks to Jin, you did.

“Maybe you two can start having girls’ nights.”

“Ew,” you and Jeongguk say at the same time, in the same inflection. Jin just rolls his eyes.

“C’mon, you can’t just pretend you like each other in front of me?”

“Why would we do that?” Jeongguk quips, earning him a death glare from you.

“Yah, you little-” Jin scolds and lunges to give him a harmless swat but Jeongguk just jumps out of reach, already expecting it.

“Come here!” Tears drying, you laugh as Jin breaks away to chase him around, and it becomes their turn to wrestle, much to your delight seeing Jeongguk get put in a headlock for a change.

Eventually, Jeongguk taps Jin’s elbow, calling for a truce, and they’re both slightly out of breath. You stare as they straighten and face each other, and something gentle floats down on them that has Jeongguk hugging him tightly. Jin starts rubbing his back and you duck your head when you hear him warble,

“I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you, hyung.”

“Hey, look at me,” Jin demands, pulling back to dip fingers under Jeongguk’s chin and lift his head up.

“The only way you could disappoint me is if you run away or don’t let yourself get better. You’re here now, three months sober, and that’s all that matters.”

“But I-” Jin waves his free hand frantically in the air.

“I don’t want to hear it! You just need to focus on tomorrow and every day ahead of that. The past is the past and you’ll learn to let it go.”

Jeongguk hangs his head again but Jin brings it right back up.

“I have the utmost confidence in you,” your oldest brother declares, setting firm yet comforting hands on Jeongguk’s cheeks. “I know it’s been hard, but you’ve come so far. You are nothing like him, okay? Just stay off the stuff and everything will be fine.”

Jeongguk nods solemnly and Jin engulfs him, whispering more affirmations that he needs to hear as he holds him.

“I believe in you, bun. Don’t forget that.”

After a few minutes of watching your brothers’ moment in the dark freezing cold, Jin pulls back again, smoothing down Jeongguk’s mussed bangs.

“Look out for her, will you?” Jin asks him, nodding back to you.

“Do I have to?” he jokingly complains, finally accepting the noogie to the top of his head. Jin laughs when Jeongguk pushes him away to fix his mussed hair and then looks past him at you.

“And you,” he calls. As you step forward, Jeongguk steps back, giving you and your oldest, dearest brother space.

“My beautiful little sister,” Jin coos, brushing your cheek. “I am so incredibly proud of the woman you’ve become. I’ve always admired how you stuck it out all these years, and even though you were building a life for yourself, you came back for us.” He smiles through a shaky breath.

“You don’t know how much that means to me. This business won’t be easy, but I know how strong and capable and resilient you are that you’ll be able to handle it.”

“I got it from you.” A diamond drop plummets down his cheek.

“Oh, birdie,” he murmurs, wrapping you up in the warmest bear hug. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“No one could’ve raised us better than you, Jinnie,” you whisper into his neck, and he hugs you tighter.

“But I’m sorry I snapped at you the other night.”

“It’s okay,” he says, smiling down at you softly as he adjusts your scarf to fit more snugly around the collar of your coat. “It just showed me you’re not gonna take anyone’s shit without a fight.”

“Duh, I grew up with Megatron over there.”

He chuckles, shoots a brief glance over your head and then pulls you a little closer, speaking a lot quieter.

“He won’t be able to help you at the casino, so no one will be nice,” he reminds you seriously. “But don’t let any of them scare you. Give them hell, you hear me?”

You nod your promise which eases his tense expression.

“Like I did with Dongwook? I heard you’ve been bragging about me.” His frown flips into a grin, and he reaches up to adjust your beanie further down your forehead.

“Of course! I’ve always bragged about you. Not just when you stand up for yourself and your brother by stabbing a crazy drunk dude with a lit cigar. Cute little badass,” he coos, pinching your cheek and you scowl, whacking him away.

“No, but really,” he continues, raising his voice a bit. “You’ve always been a tough cookie, and not just because of that domesticated T-rex I raised.”

“I’m standing right here, y’know!” Jeongguk hollers and you giggle when Jin acts like he didn’t hear.

“And I know the situation with D isn’t practical, little miss independent.” He boops your nose. Smile faltering, you do your best to keep disdain off of your face.

“But I don’t want anything to happen to you and I trust him the most to keep you safe. So if you have a problem with anyone, go to him and he’ll deal with it, okay?”

You can’t doubt or question your brother. And that means you have to trust D.

(But the last time you did that, you woke up alone with some of your money gone. You remind yourself that this is D. Not Yoongi.

Min Yoongi is dead to you.)

“I shouldn’t have dropped that on you like I did, though, and I’m sorry.”

You hum. “We’re all throwing a lot of apologies around tonight. I think that’s a record.”

“That won’t be beaten again.” Your laughs harmonize in the frigid breeze.

“What are you guys laughing about?” Jeongguk asks as he walks up to join you.

“How funny your face looks,” you crack, causing Jeongguk to plop his hand on the center of your face, tipping your head back in a muffled cackle.

Before you can start another squabble, Jin tugs you both into him in a family hug, one that you and Jeongguk have always pretended to complain about but give up your childish tendencies for the sake of the moment. Who knows when you’ll get to hug Jin like this again.

“You two are my entire world. Take care of each other for me, okay? I love you so much.”

A horn blows loudly over the water - a signal that time is up.

“Fuck,” he whispers. Jin isn’t one to curse. “I have to go.” Many tears slip between the three of you and he squeezes you before letting go.

“Help me with my bags?”

You and Jeongguk each pick up two and carry them to the dock where a man wordlessly takes them on deck of the large, old fishing boat.

Jin turns to you once again, lingers kisses on your foreheads, envelopes you in one last firm hug, and you cling onto each other like that’ll keep Jin rooted in place so he can never leave.

“If either of you get hurt, I’ll burn this entire fucking city down.”

And then he lets go.

Jeongguk throws an arm around your neck as you watch your brother board the boat that will take him too far away, both of you laughing when he turns around once he reaches the deck and dramatically blows a kiss in your direction.

Head plopped on Jeongguk’s shoulder, you stare and stare as Jin bustles around, helping the crew launch off the dock. Once the boat starts drifting away, Jin rushes to the stern, standing there with his arm held up in an endless wave that you and Jeongguk return with a variation of hearts.

Neither of you moves from the edge until the boat becomes nothing but a dot of light on the dark sea.

The ride home is quiet, except for sniffles and swiping of tears from cheeks. When the SUV pulls back up to your house and D gets out to open your door, Jeongguk hugs you, holding on for longer than you expect.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” he whispers with an undertone of sincerity. But you catch fear in there too.

“I know,” you whisper back, smiling at his small huff as he pulls back. “But you got this, bro. Like Jin said.”

A smile lifts the corner of his lips when you hold out your fist and you do the brief version of your handshake. Just a gentler tap on the side of the neck and finger guns.

“Night.”

“Night,” he murmurs as you grab the handle but the door opens for you.

You don’t give D the same farewell as you get out of the car. Neither does he as he shuts the door behind you.

The sky is grey with heavy flakes of snow as you step out onto the porch. D is standing by the car like he did the first night he picked you up. Hands clasped, glasses and long coat on. Except this time, he’s waiting by the back door.

“Good afternoon, Miss Jeon,” he greets as he opens the door before tipping forward in a subtle bow. Your only reply is a cursory glance his way.

D drives you into the city, and you’re relieved when Jeongguk texts you because it distills some of the anxiety unfurling in your pores.

megatron🤖: Kick ass today you: Gotta practice so i can kick yours on friday! megatron🤖:🙄 yeah good luck with that

You grin at your brother’s sarcasm and find a gif of Rocky boxing, pleased with the fact that the theme song will be stuck in his head all day because of it. The middle finger emoji he shoots back confirms your theory.

Stay Gold casino isn’t massive like your brother said. It’s colossal. Foreboding. As you stare up at it in all its glory and lights and noise and glamorous patrons, you feel as if at any moment it could collapse and crush you to pieces.

“Ah, my future daughter-in-law, welcome!” A booming voice startles you out of your slow descent into unmanageable stress, belonging to Jay's father as he stands at the top of the stairs, Namjoon beside him wearing a comforting smile. “I was expecting you a bit sooner.”

You pause in the midst of taking a step into his handshake.

“Am I not on time?”

“You are, but since it’s your first day, I thought you might show some initiative and arrive earlier. You know, make a good impression.” He says this in a sincere tone, but his smile is anything but.

Fuck, you haven’t even set one foot inside the building, but already you’ve messed up? You just fucking got here, why is being so hard on you? You glance over at Namjoon who’s staring at Jay’s father with a small frown and slightly quirked brow.

“She had another appointment prior to this, so she wouldn’t have been able to come any earlier,” Namjoon announces evenly. You say nothing as he lies since you’d only been at home staring at the wall for a few hours.

The older man turns to Namjoon. “Oh, have you been brought on as the assistant?”

“No, sir,” your savior politely shakes his head. “I’m here to help until she finds one, so you can come to me about any issues with her schedule.”

“Ah,” is all Namjoon gets in response before you’re gestured to enter the place that will one day be under your name. Well, the name you’ll be claimed by.

Jay’s father takes you to your office first, all of you squeezing into the employee elevator with D situated himself in the corner behind you. The doors rumble open on the fourth floor, and it’s only one turn around a short corner before a large oak door comes into view with a small desk sitting to the right of it.

“The main office is up a few floors, but that’s mine. You’ll use this one for now.”

It’s small, to say the least. And the wood panelling looks as if you time traveled back into the ‘80s. The entire room even smells as if the carpet hasn’t been cleaned since then, embedded with the stench of stale cigars.

The one redeeming quality is that behind the desk is a glass opening in the floor that allows you to peer over the blackjack and roulette tables, all the money that passes from the hands of tourists and locals with nothing to lose, that will end up in the casino’s safes and your brother’s pockets.

The tour continues all around the casino, Jay’s father showing you every room on every floor like this is your one and only chance to get familiar with the environment.

From here on out, you’ll be here pretty much every day of the week, so you don’t know why he’s rushing through this tour on your first night. It’s almost hard to keep up. And you feel bad for Namjoon who’s matching the pace alongside you, diligently taking notes as your FFIL rattles off all of your potential duties. All of which Namjoon has briefed you on already.

It’s a lot to absorb.

Monitoring games and slots and the revenue that follows. Overseeing the floor at the beginning of the night. Engaging with important guests and board members.

You’re introduced to managers, dealers, and various members of the staff, and despite the polite greetings you give them, followed by promises that you’ll work hard alongside them, they eye you with uncertainty.

Doubt creeps in.

As he guides you through more slot games on the other side of the casino, a presence suddenly steps up between you and Namjoon, forcing the latter to move aside, and your heart sinks when you turn to Jay beaming at you, his hand lightly brushing the small of your back.

“Oh, what are you doing here?” you ask, recovering a stutter. He leans in to kiss you on the cheek, and tamping down nausea, you feign a smile and remind yourself that this is just for show.

“Came to support you on your first day. How’s it going so far?”

“She still has a lot to learn,” his father answers for you. Jay just nods and smiles at you, clearly not detecting the condescension.

“She’ll get the hang of it.”

Jay never leaves your side as his father goes on with the tour, fingers lightly but noticeably touching over the small of your back, the center of your shoulders, your elbow, and it’s the most he’s touched you thus far. It’s just like the kiss. He’s showing people (and you) that he’s the reason for the heavy rock on your ring finger. He’s claiming you. And it makes your nerves bristle.

His father goes on to tell you about the private gambling rooms, but doesn't take you in.

“I’m not expecting you to know how to gamble or play poker, but it might be a good idea to at least get familiar with the games.”

Namjoon leans forward, opening his mouth to no doubt inform him of your acute abilities, but you shake your head, quietly stopping him.

“That’s a good idea, I’ll get right on that.” It’s hard to keep the sarcasm out of your voice, but Jay’s father doesn’t seem to notice as he’s too busy smugly leering at you.

“I can teach you,” Jay says close to your ear. Next to him, Namjoon is side-eyeing the interaction like he just ate something sour and it helps to put a smile on your face as you give your fiancé a confirming nod.

“Okay.”

As you continue on, you glance back to Namjoon cracking his neck and subtly shaking his head, and you have to press your lips together to contain a laugh.

“Ask about the counters,” Namjoon then reminds you in a whisper.

Crossing your arms, you face your patronizing supervisor. “I want to meet the counters.”

“Ah, that’s not something you have to worry about.”

“That’s exactly what I have to worry about,” you state firmly. “I want to know who’s counting my money.”

“Your money?” He scoffs. “I know my son put that pretty ring on your finger, but I’m afraid that until you tie the knot, nothing in here is yours.”

“I think my brothers would disagree.”

“The alliance isn’t secure yet, young lady. This is a trial run, remember?”

You take a deep breath, calming your building rage, and speak as evenly as you can.

“I’m here to take care of my brother’s side of the business, and the counters are part of that. Take me to them now.”

He shares a silent exchange with his son but you sense that they will have some words about you later and they won’t be upholding. In a reluctant spin, he takes you back the way you came and you ask Namjoon a random question about his notes so Jay can’t comment on how you just spoke to his father.

He leads you to a stairwell on the west side and you skid to a stop, stomach dropping.

The stairwell. You don’t know if it was this one, so you want to avoid any of them at all cost.

You jut a thumb over your shoulder. “I’m gonna take the elevator.”

Jay and his father look at you questioningly. Namjoon bows his head, hiding his minute frown.

“But it’s just one flight down.”

You shake your head, wearing a discomfited smile. “I’ll meet you there.”

Not giving either of them a chance to argue further, you turn for the elevator. And for one brief second, you’re relieved that the only person following you is D. Because he won’t say a word or ask a question, which is the last thing you need in this moment.

The three men are waiting in the hall once you exit the elevator, Jay and his father whipping themselves out of a whispered conversation once your heels click on the floor.

The room they bring you to is small and brightly lit, with 5 or so men in white button-downs sorting through lockboxes of money, counting it, exchanging it with bills from silver briefcases, and placing them in drawers that slide into a large safe on wheels for transport.

This is where the cash from the businesses protected by your brother will be laundered, that you’re in charge of collecting. The cash that will make you complicit in the Crow family crime syndicate.

Nausea lays down with the doubt.

Still, you press forward.

On your way to where the vaults are that Jay’s father seems reluctant to show you, you pass by a room where staff donning red blazer, black ties, and wires behind their ears are filtering in and out. Your fiance’s father doesn’t apologize to a staff member he bumps into as he pauses and turns around, looking past you, Jay, and Namjoon.

“D, is it?” Stilling, you glance back to D who’s focused on Jay’s father through those dark glasses as he nods. “You’ll be in charge of the security team?”

“I already am, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“They all know that they will report to me.”

The older man looks appalled and, frankly, so are you. D’s apparently twelve steps ahead of you, having already established himself and his role here as the chief of security.

“Alright,” Jay says, sitting his hand on your waist and you force your muscles not to tense too much. “I’m gonna get going, so I’ll see you at home.” He places another kiss on your cheek and Namjoon looks away, but behind you, there’s a pair of hidden eyes on your back that won’t leave.

After Jay’s father gives you room to breathe by escorting his son to the garage, Namjoon joins you and D in returning to your office, phone out texting who you assume to be his girlfriend as he walks.

“Did they talk shit about me?” you disrupt the somewhat comfortable silence.

“No,” he shakes his head without breaking attention from his phone. Man can multitask. “I’m sure they would’ve if I wasn’t there. The silence was loud.”

You hum, a bitter taste in your mouth, and Namjoon shuts his phone off and pockets it.

“But don’t pay him any mind, you’re doing fine. I would call him a name, but he’s about to be your father-in-law.”

“I want to call him a few names,” you mumble, and Namjoon lets out a comforting laugh. This is a reason why you think you could get through everything with Namjoon by your side. He’s so easygoing and real with the ability to make you feel better through his playful nature. But this is only temporary because his actual role is to take care of your brother’s affairs. You’ll just be stuck with D and whatever assistant he finds.

“Why didn’t you tell them you can play poker?” he asks after you step into the elevator and D presses the button for the 3rd floor.

You shrug. “They want to keep underestimating me, who am I to stop them?”

“So you’re gonna act like you don’t know how to play and then completely wipe the floor with their asses?”

Grinning, you flicker an impulsive glance at your bodyguard, who’s standing so still he could be a wax figurine.

“I’ve done it before, it’s really fun.”

“Can I please be there? I’d love to see that.”

“Yeah, I’ll pencil it in on your schedule.”

“Sweet!”

Back in your office, Namjoon follows you inside while D stays in the hall, next to the door as you shut it. His phone is back out as you sit down at the desk, inspecting the worn corners and stained surface with repulsion.

“So, Meg’s on her way to pick me up, are you good?”

“Yeah, I think so,” you nod, lugging your bag onto the desk so you can start organizing your books and papers. “Hot date tonight?”

“Always.” He winks, and you laugh at his cheesy grin.

“Alright, well, seriously, you’re doing great so far and I think you’re going to continue to do great.”

“Moon, all I’ve done is walk around and shake hands.”

“And put up with his condescending attitude!” Namjoon exclaims, dramatically throwing up an arm. “You showed him you’re not here to play games and that you’re capable of everything he’s going to expect out of you. That’s a damn good start.”

“Thank you, Moon.”

“You’re welcome,” he says in a huff, like he thinks you should’ve already known that. You chuckle at his expression as you get out your laptop.

“And just by the way, D was watching that dude Jay like a hawk because he kept touching up on you.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard, and Namjoon misses the way you thickly swallow as he checks a message on his phone.

“So if he ever tries anything fresh, D will, y’know, deal with him.”

You clasp your cold hands. “I know. That’s his job.”

“Yeah, no one will get in your way with him around. Your brothers made a good choice in him.”

So you’ve gathered.

If only they knew.

“You know what, speaking of D, I was looking through the files again and I didn’t see one for him.”

Namjoon glances up to the ceiling in thought.

“I don’t think there is one since he was vetted by your brothers.”

“Well, I’m his boss now and I’d like to see his background.”

He nods. “I think I can come up with something.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“No problem, I’ll have it ready later this week. By the way, any word on your assistant?”

“Not yet,” you sigh. “I guess D’s having a little trouble finding one who’s not a guy.”

Namjoon nods. “Well, in the meantime, I’m happy to help out.”

“I appreciate it. Actually, there was something else…”

You dig through the mess in your bag until you find your black journal that has names of businesses and their owners within the city, monetary numbers and dates lined next to them. You flip to the page you marked because some of the information is unclear.

“I noticed this clinic up north is on the books, but there’s no payment expected?”

Namjoon looks it over and nods. “I think your family owes them a favor, so they don’t have to pay for protection.”

Huh. Interesting.

He pulls out his phone as you search through the rest of the book for any other notes you made to mention to Namjoon. But he announces that his girlfriend just pulled up.

“Thanks for your help tonight. Tell Meg I said hi!” He beams at you and waves as he heads for the door.

“Will do, boss. See you tomorrow!”

The rest of the week consists of your future father-in-law micromanaging you, hotly breathing down your neck as you get yourself familiar with the inner-workings of the casino.

When you finally get some of your own furniture moved into your “office” (you couldn’t stand that tired ass couch and scratched up, cigarette burned desk!) Jay's father laughed off your request to get a drawing desk in there so you can work on some renovation ideas.

“I think you should hold off on doing your little designs until I feel that you’re ready to oversee things without my supervision.”

Despite that, you make tons of mental notes of all the places you find need improvement.

The casino carpets will be the first to go. They’re purposely designed to be ugly - a psychological trick to keep eyes on the tables - but the one you’re walking over now is far too outdated and gaudy for your tastes.

The tacky red uniforms that staff and security wear will be next, and because the majority of clientele that the casino attracts are men, you think you’ll make the outfits the waitresses and female bartenders wear a little less revealing.

You’re not looking forward to finding out how much of a fight Jay’s father will put up against that. You have a feeling that he’s going to be very resistant to your ideas, stubborn brute that he is. Oh well. You can be just as stubborn, if not more, and you promised Jin you would give them hell.

You will make your mark around here, whether they like it or not.

Starting with those ugly ass carpets.

Towards the final stretch of your hours on Thursday night, Namjoon meets you in your office where you’re on your laptop reviewing the company’s budget and making calculations for the upcoming monthly report (per the request of Jay’s father), he places a manila folder on the edge of your desk.

“D’s record,” he tells you quietly, even though the man in question is on the other side of the door. You flip open the folder, bracing yourself.

There’s no picture, just one sheet of paper outlining his skills and qualifications for the job, and at the very bottom is a line that reads:

Spent 3 years in Seoul Detention Center. Crime: Miscellaneous charges

“‘Miscellaneous’ is kind of vague.”

“I know. He’s pretty secretive-“ Namjoon continues. Yeah, no shit. “And Atlas is the one in charge of background checks, so that’s all there is. If you want more details, I think you’d have to ask D.”

Like hell.

All you know is his full name, birthday, and blood type. And that was only because you had the fleeting chance to look at his dog tags. Are your brothers privy to that? Namjoon clearly isn’t, and he knows Jin and Jeongguk almost better than they know themselves.

“Thanks for putting this together,” you say, hiding the folder in a drawer.

“No problem. If you want, I can talk to D for you.”

You wave at him dismissively. If anyone’s going to have that conversation, it’s going to be you.

Friday is when you wake up to a text from Namjoon saying Hope wants to meet up for a quick chat and it’s honestly a breath of relief, but you’re not really sure why. You’re not too hyped in meeting with another one of your brother’s men so he can check up on you, making you feel like he believes you can’t handle yourself. But maybe Hope will be like Namjoon. You could use more of that.

You relay the information to D, and he drives you to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant uptown. Since you’re working out with your brother, Namjoon scheduled you for a later shift, so you meet Hope just after lunch, the customers scarce and scattered. He's already there sitting in a booth, a half-eaten plate in front of him, and as you pass D holding open the door, the bell ringing overhead, he says lowly,

“Sit in the booth next to him so you’re back-to-back.”

“And you’ll be at the counter?” Because he’d better not sit across from you.

Hope lifts his phone to his ear once you casually slip into the booth, and as you pretend to look over the menu while D sits on a barstool across from you at the counter, he begins talking to you as if answering a call.

“How’s your first week been?”

Kind. His voice is kind and it eases you. You sit back against your chair, exhaling a bit of stress.

“It went as well as it could’ve, I guess,” you reply neutrally. You’re not about to turn this into a therapy session.

“But I don’t have anything to report. This feels like a waste of your time.”

“Not at all, Miss Jeon. I’m happy to hear any updates; good or bad. Well, hopefully less of the bad.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

A lapse in conversation occurs as the server comes over to take your order of a drip coffee to go, giving you time to mull over how you want to word the question you’ve been debating these past few days.

“I know you work for my brothers, but I was wondering-”

He gently interrupts you. “I work for you too, Miss Jeon.”

You need to get used to that.

“This might be a long shot but…” you nervously pick at your cuticles. “I wanted to look for my mother. Do you think you can help me?”

“I’ll do what I can.”

His soft tone indicates that he means it. He really lives up to his name.

“I appreciate it.”

As the server sets down your coffee and you exchange it for cash from your clutch, you spare a glance over your shoulder to see Hope dig out a notepad and pen from his briefcase.

“Is there anything you can tell me about her?”

“Um, all I know is her name and that she used to own a coffee shop downtown. I don’t know which one though.”

He nods as he scribbles some notes.

“And she left when I was two,” you say quietly. Pained. “That’s it.”

“I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll do my best.”

“Okay. I really appreciate that but, um, could you please not tell my brother about this?”

“Of course, Miss Jeon.”

You smile. “Angel is fine.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No, but I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done to help us. Especially my brother, I know he cares a lot for you. I hope you two got to say goodbye.”

He stays silent as you slip out of the booth, grabbing your coffee along the way. But when you pass him, the tips of his ears are extremely red, and you have to suppress a smile as you exit, D not too far behind.

you: Omw to beat your ass!! megatron🤖: Don't bet on it! you're toast

By the time you stride into the gym, D in tow, your brother is already there, warming up with a trainer in the ring. You call his name and he takes a few seconds to pull himself out of the zone, doe eyes lighting up upon seeing you.

He dismisses the trainer and walks over to the side where you’re standing, leaning on the ropes with a smile, panting heavily, bangs stringy with sweat.

“Bout time you showed up,” he says, catching the water bottle a gym attendant throws from below. “Why aren’t you changed?”

Rolling your eyes, you lift up your small duffle that carries your workout clothes.

“I just came from a meeting. Y’know, work?”

He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgment, taking a long swig of water before dropping the bottle with a satisfied gasp, and turns his attention to the man you wish wasn’t standing behind you.

“Sup, D. You gonna box me in your suit?”

“I could, and look cool as fuck knocking your ass out.” Jeongguk laughs and your eyes twitch as you try not to join him.

“Alright, I’m gonna hit the treadmill. Am I allowed to work out by myself? Or does D have to supervise that too?” you ask your brother in a slightly sarcastic tone, ignoring D’s side eye.

“You’re fine. Just stay in the room next door.” It takes a lot not to childishly mock him as you hoist your bag on your shoulder.

You turn around to where D’s removing his coat, revealing a glimpse of his holster. Something puts an uneasy whirlpool in your gut, forcing you to look away. You know it’s a necessity for the guards to have guns on their person at all times, yet you can’t help feeling uncomfortable.

“Oh, it needs to be cleared before you go in there,” Jeongguk says before you can start to walk away.

You lock eyes with D for a second as you realize that D is, yet again, going to follow you.

The workout equipment room is occupied by 7 or so men who immediately drop what they’re doing and scurry to exit into another part of the building when D bellows in that dark, gruff voice, “Everyone out!”

The AC is what sends a shiver down your spine.

Once they’re all out and D locks the door behind them, he turns to tell you in a much quieter tone, “I’ll be right here.”

“Don’t care,” you mutter, promptly turning away to head for the empty women’s shower room, positive that you’re the first one to use it.

His eyes stay on your back until you disappear.

Every movement of yours echoes in the empty bathroom, including the plunk of your bag on a wooden bench that stands in front of a wall of lockers.

The tote with his sweater and chain sits stuffed in the bottom of your duffle. Staring at it for a moment, pensively, you consider how you should return it to him. You refuse to hand it over directly because you can’t predict what his reaction will be and that scares you.

You have to be sneaky. But how can you do that with a man who can show up and disappear and not make a sound?

When you come back to the ring, you falter in your tracks upon catching the sight of your brother sparring with D who’s dressed down to a white tee, black joggers, and a grey baseball cap on backwards.

But the casual outfit isn’t what makes you stiffen.

It’s the light dancing over his face. The light that comes from a hint of a smile as he throws punches with Jeongguk, ducking and dodging and returning every one of his swings.

They haven’t stopped moving since you re-entered, so you take the opportunity to set your duffle next to D’s, and as long as Jeongguk’s back is to you, coolly transfer the tote from your bag into his, zipping it up as if nothing happened. You perch on the end of the bench and check your phone. Other than an email from Namjoon about tonight’s itinerary, your messages are dry as hell. You scroll on social media to distract you from the fact that you miss your friends but you can’t do anything about it.

“Hey, you want a turn?” Jeongguk pants after 10 minutes or so. You smile, leaving your phone on top of your bag, and stand.

“Yeah, I’ve been looking forward to beating you up all week.”

“Well, then you should’ve come earlier. I’m past my limit.”

He does look exhausted; meanwhile, D looks as if he’s barely broken a sweat.

“You just don’t want your boys to see you take hits from your little sister.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it.

“Just work with D, I need to sit down for a sec.”

A heavy feeling in your stomach sinks all the way down to your feet, rooting you to the floor as you fight not to show how very much not okay you are with that.

The universe must really be out to get you.

You glance involuntarily over to D standing in the middle of the ring, staring down at the floor with gloved hands on his hips.

“Go on,” Jeongguk goads, holding up the ropes for you to step under and into the ring.

“Sounds like you’re getting old, bro,” you casually comment as you pass him. He lands a punch on your shoulder and you grin devilishly.

“Don’t go easy on her just ‘cuz she’s a girl, D,” Jeongguk calls over his shoulder as he steps down on the floor, cackling when you flinch at him with your glove.

Your heart is running a damn marathon as you turn and face the man whose eyes are now locked on you, all that light he had in them with your brother completely fizzled out. Just blank. Soulless.

What will it take to bring anything palpable in his eyes when he looks at you? You’ll be damned if you don’t try and find out.

“Yeah, don’t go easy on me, D,” you say mockingly as you turn back to him, gloves held up shielding your mouth from everyone but the sinister man in front of you.

“I can take it.” Tilting your head, you bat your eyelashes, hoping to incite something out of his blank expression. “You should know that.”

But there’s nothing. Not even darkness appears. It doesn’t phase him.

So you lunge forward with a retaliating, vengeful punch but his gloves raise in a split second to block.

Every strike, every punch translates into the anger, betrayal, fucking heartbreak this man left you with 3 years ago. And now he’s doing it all over again by acting like he has goddamn amnesia. You hope he can tell you want to do so much more than throw hits at him with some boxing gloves. But he doesn’t let you back him into a corner. He moves like he did with your brother, just without the smile. Without the light. And it makes your hatred for him fester and spread like a poison.

The poison pricks tears to the corners of your eyes. You drop your gloves and pull yourself out of your self-inflicted torment, twisting around with a raise of your arm to feign dabbing sweat from your forehead so they can’t see the tears clouding your vision.

Fuck, you have to stop!

Tears are weakness. You can’t be weak.

Don’t let him make you weak.

“Damn, sis,” your brother exclaims as he stands to approach the ring, grabbing your bottle of water from the bench. “Tough week, huh?”

Your labored breathing prevents you from answering, so you opt to lift your eyebrows and nod as you catch the bottle he tosses you. Tilting your head up to drink and will the tears away, Jeongguk leans against the ropes and starts rattling out pointers, mainly focusing on your footwork.

But you’re not in the mood to refine your technique. You just shake your head and move to climb out of the ring.

“Wait, didn’t you wanna-“

“Nah, I’m done,” you say as you grab your phone and bag again. “I should probably get going anyway.”

You can feel Jeongguk’s confused gaze follow as you head back out towards the bathroom. The shower camouflages the tears you can’t fight off, and if your brother asks, the steam is what made your eyes red.

The heat on your skin and under it turn your anguish into anger.

Your throat is tight as you pass by D in the doorway to return to the ring, now dressed for work, and you try to relax because your brother is watching and you don’t want him to be concerned about your abrupt departure.

When you glance back, D is nowhere in sight.

“I thought you wanted to beat my ass,” Jeongguk says in a playful tone as he walks up to you.

“I do, but I didn’t realize how old you’re getting and it wouldn’t be fair to beat up on the elderly- Jeongguk, stop! I just showered!” You shriek and hold up your hands as he lunges for you with sweaty biceps and a soaked tee.

Instead of ignoring your plea and head-locking you anyway, he angles you with narrowed eyes and you realize your mistake.

“I mean Sol. Sorry.”

He waves you off just like Jin did the other night and sits down on the bench, elbows on his knees as he unwraps the white protective fabric around his knuckles.

“Before you go, I want to tell you about this diamond trader you’re gonna have to meet with in the next couple of weeks.”

“Why me?”

“Because he’s in your vicinity, and he and I don’t exactly get along.”

“You don’t get along with anybody.”

“Shut up.” You shrug because did you lie?

“Anyway, he’s at that club ‘Halazia’ downtown and he goes by Captain. D will set everything up.”

You cross your arms as the prospect of this new responsibility puts another weight on your shoulders. Jeongguk seems to notice this because his manner towards you softens.

“Hey, this’ll be a good way to assert yourself, y’know? Show him who’s boss.”

“Isn’t that you?” Your eyebrow raises as he shakes his head.

“You’re in charge in this case, sis. And if he has trouble accepting it, D’s there to back you up.”

As if on cue, D strides back in wearing the suit he had on before, glasses shielding his eyes.

“You think I need him to be taken seriously?” D slows to a stop but you don’t look his way.

“You need him to make sure people respect you because they won’t at first. You know that.”

Then why hasn’t he said a damn thing to Jay’s father this entire week? Will he only act if you prompt him to? How far will he let things go before stepping in? A bull-headed part of you wants to put that to the test.

You sigh. “Fine. Can I go now?”

“It was nice seeing you, sis,” he says sarcastically since you’re annoyed.

“Whatever,” you wave at him, swinging on your coat. “Bye. You stink by the way.”

Jeongguk’s laugh rings in the gym as you make a beeline for the exit.

“See ya, D,” is the last thing you hear from your brother before you hastily open the door, not bothering to hold it for your guard.

Snow is falling again when you make it outside. D handed the car off to a valet earlier and now you have to wait on the curb with him standing next to you.

“Still smoke?” you blurt because you could really use some fucking nicotine.

He nods shortly and, without facing him, you hold out your hand.

“I know I owe you a cigarette, but I think my 500,000 won you took should’ve covered that, right?”

He briefly side-eyes you and hesitates before reaching into the inside of his breast pocket, pulling out a lighter and a carton. He flicks open the top, revealing only one cigarette.

“Last one again, huh?” You observe, pulling out the final stick. "Oh, but you owe me for some plan b, so maybe that cancels it all out.”

Staring out at the white dusting the sidewalk across the street, you prop your elbow on your wrist and let your fingers holding the cigarette tip in his direction. You’ve counted a total of 17 steadily falling snowflakes when the lighter clicks and a flame pricks your periphery to emblaze the end of your cigarette.

He drops the lighter and you take a drag, blowing smoke up into the darkening, snowy sky.

“What were you in prison for?” you finally ponder aloud the question that’s been buzzing in your mind since Namjoon handed you that folder.

“I looked at your file, and it said you were there for 3 years.” He doesn’t reply. You huff out air that mimics the white wisps of smoke.

“I mean, since you’re working for me, I deserve to know. And don’t lie to me, I’ve had enough of that.”

Still not a word. You turn to him again, tilting your head because you really want a fucking answer.

“Was it for stealing?”

Several beats pass before he finally, darkly, mutters, “Murder.”

Your breath freezes in your lungs. So. You didn’t just fuck a convicted felon. You fucked a murderer.

That doesn’t scare you like it should.

“How’d you do it?” you find yourself asking out of morbid curiosity.

If you thought there was a wall around him before…

“How, D?”

“I stabbed him.”

“What, with chopsticks? Is that your go-to method? Kinda sloppy, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer your questions as if they’re rhetorical. The Elantra approaches, and with a final drag, you drop the cigarette and dig it into the snowy curb with your heel. The valet steps out and passes D the keys, and you don’t wait for him to open the door but his hand on the side and the entrenchment of his cologne suspends you from getting in.

“Have you killed before, Miss Jeon?”

Your heart stops, completely flatlining when that question forces you to look at him. He’s looking right back from behind those glasses.

“No,” you say shortly, taken aback. Who does he think you are? “But if you didn’t mean something to my brother, you would’ve been my first.”

You keep your eyes locked on him for a beat so your words sink into his bones. And then you get in the car, slamming the door shut and pulling out your phone as if you didn’t just threaten his life.

For the entire night, you act as if he is nothing but a shadow.

You don’t get home until 2 in the morning, and as you unpack your gym duffle to do laundry (because if you don’t do it now, it won’t get done), you find a finely rolled wad of new, crisp bills tucked under your gym clothes.

500,000 won.

Bastard. It’s too late for that.

it's finally heeeeeere thank you for waiting!!! shoutout to the kdrama "bloodhounds" (on netflix starring my man woo dohwan) bc without it i would've never known that in korea, locals aren't allowed in any casinos except for one. so in this story we're going to pretend that Stay Gold casino is the exception lol. to get inspo, i've been watching a lot of movies about casinos and casino with robert de niro is where i got the idea for the scene with the counters. i just wanted to make the disclaimer that i did not come up with that on my own lol. there are other movies that i've pulled scene ideas from so i will make sure to point those out in the future.

thanks for being here!! please let me know what you think now that things are really getting started!!

chapter 3 is already in the works

xxx - claret

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