honeyblackberries

[honeyblackberries]

is anyone going to write a materialists au with caleb as john (chris evans) or do i have to everything myself

[honeyblackberries]

The Four Seasons as Boyfriends

♡ TW: nsfw and fluff, really soft yandere, if yandere at all

♡ GN reader

Autumn is always half awake but never fully asleep. 

In the morning, he likes pairing coffee with a smoke out on the balcony—standing shirtless, black tattoos on his pale skin, despite the cold wind, watching the sun rise, sporting tousled hair and dark sunken eyes. 

He spends his days more or less the same way. There’s a briskness in the breeze and rain every other day, and all the leaves have turned shades of brown and orange, matting the ground in wet heaps, leaving the trees to look like skeletons. He likes going for short walks just before the sun goes down, when the sky is a warm pink and there ain’t a soul to be seen, and it feels like the two of you are the only people who’ve stayed behind before the apocalypse came.

At night, he’ll stay up late, watching Halloween movies with you in his arms, drinking something stronger than coffee, and smoking something different than cigarettes. He’ll never flinch when the gory scenes play. He’ll just run his thumb up and down your arm and hold you close with a low chuckle.

He’s a quiet guy who spends his time observing more than talking, a real philosopher, writing down things on this old typewriter he has, anything from crime novels to other horrific things. He’s somewhat grim that way—you think he might have been a mob boss in his previous life. 

But he’s got this dry-humored side as well, and a romantic one too—one that whispers awfully heart-gripping things to you in bed, gives you small gifts on all your anniversaries. Half-mast dark eyes without a smile on his lips, bringing your palm up for a kiss. 

Maybe it wasn’t a past life, you think, maybe he’s a vampire who’s been plenty of things. Come to think of it, you’ve only ever seen him outside when the sun has been safely hidden behind a veil of grey clouds. You don’t know, he just seems like he’s come from another age in the way he’ll treat every day like something to be enjoyed slowly, every moment together to be savored, and every detail of your face something to be not just remembered but cherished.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Shigaraki, Dabi, Aizawa, Shinso, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Megumi, Toji, Yuuta, Choso, Higuruma ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Kuro, Iwaizumi, Sakusa, Suna ♡ CSM – Aki, Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Akaza, Tomioka, Genya ♡ HxH – Chrollo, Illumi, Feitan

Winter wants to spend all his days inside, wrapped up with you in bed like a bear in hibernation. You have to all but fight your way out of his hold in order to get up. 

He groans when you leave, whimpering at the cold, but eventually, he musters up enough willpower to follow you. He’ll have the duvet wrapped around him still, slippers padding towards the smell of breakfast. He’s still sleepy until he gets a good, warm cup of chocolate coffee. 

Clad in a warm blue sweater, pilled from wear, but cozy still, and a pair of baggy corduroys and fuzzy socks in all sorts of colors. 

He’s super reluctant about leaving the house—will literally find any excuse not to and do anything to avoid having to. He’ll stand in the mudroom with you like an obstinate brat as you dress him, putting on his scarf, hat, and gloves for him before pulling him into his jacket. 

He’s pouty at first, whining about his nose freezing, but after a while, he gets more than happy-go-lucky in the snow. Acting just like a dog, bounding about, tackling you down, and rolling around with you so that you’re both sure to catch a cold. 

You build a snowman together, make angels, and a little igloo where he’s deadset on the two of you sleeping tonight. Yeah, not likely, is all you think, knowing him and how the minute the two of you get home, he’s going to hunker down with all the duvets and blankets he can find and cry about how he’s never going outside again. 

And sure enough, the two of you trudged home, freezing cold and exhausted from all the frivolity, he in a whiny mood. You enter the shower together, and he just stands there, arms around you, draping you with his entire body under the water, defrosting. 

Like before, you end up doing things for him. Shampooing the sweat out of his hat-hair and soaping the rest of him up, then doing yourself the same way.

He’s just as clingy when you’re done. Dressed in fluffy robes, he’ll hold you close on his lap and put on a Christmas movie, something funny, something for children, The Grinch or Home Alone, or a romcom you’ve watched a thousand times before.

He’ll eat gingerbread men instead of dinner, drink one too many cups of eggnog, and tell you how he wants to curl up inside your heart where it's nice and toasty and stay there forever��meanwhile, his hand explores your naked body under your robe.

♡ BNHA – Denki, Kirishima, Shigaraki, Toaya, Hawks, Natsuo ♡ JJK – Mahito, Gojo ♡ HQ – Hinata, Tanaka, Kuro, Lev, Bokuto, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ CSM – Denji ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira ♡ DS – Doma, Zenitsu ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

Spring is an early bird. Big breakfast spreads every day, wild flowers on the table in a hand-painted coffee mug, toasted bread with a dozen types of spreads, sliced meat, cheese, scrambled eggs, different jams, strawberry, peach, blueberry, apricot, raspberry, and all the currants.

He’s always got a big goofy smile on his face, wearing baggy dongeries and bright pastel-colored T-shirts—green, pink, yellow, and blue. His hair is fluffy, his eyes are round, and he’s always got a new pair of suede sneakers on.

He’d make a great dad, having the personality of a guy who’s a kindergarten teacher, the way he’s all about DIY easter decorations. He has his own craft cart, fully equipped with different colored paper, patterned tape, and glitter in all pretty colors.

He’s never been a very traditional guy, always raving about new ideas, dreams he’s had, things he’s seen when scrolling through Pinterest—you can't hope to keep up...

Your walls have all been painted—not like other walls—but as if the wallpaper were canvas. All your chairs have been bought at yard sales and other second-hand stores, refurbished by him, and hand-painted in different colors with cushions in different fabrics. Your coffee table is an old wine crate he found at a junkyard. All your blankets are knitted with spare yarn from all his other projects.

He also scrapbooks like no other, filling the pages with receipts and tickets he’s saved from your outings and vacations, and Polaroid pictures he’s taken of you, with dates and locations written along the white bottom.

Not to mention, how in the kitchen window, he’s hung the empty egg husks from breakfast, decorated with swirls and dots, with letters spelling Happy Easter!

He also makes you love letters—indulgent paragraphs with an overwhelming amount of love-bombing and hopes and dreams about your future together, always with the wording of a five-year-old child talking about their favorite type of food. 

Yeah, he’s no poet, but it’s the thought that counts, and so A for effort!

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Kirishima, Shigaraki, Hawks, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo, Yuji ♡ HQ – Hinata, Sugawara, Bokuto, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ CSM – Denji ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Nirei, Umemiya

Summer is tan with tan lines from his swimming trunks. He’s all smiles and loud laughter, too careless for shades and sunscreen, and so you’re the one who’s left running after him when he sprints towards the water, like a parent, shouting at him to put on some protection.

He filled the cooler up with sodas and beers before you left home, and has brought along firelighters, making a bonfire on the sand for grilled fruits, vegetables, and meats, so that the two of you can spend the day.

His hair is sun-damaged and bleached with saltwater, but he makes it look good with his freckled face, looking as though he lives on the beach. He’ll go in the water several times, never tiring.

He likes to promenade in flip-flops like he’s on constant vacation,  always shirtless, letting his swim-trunks dry while the two of you walk along the shore as the sun gets low, giving you his sweater once the air gets a little chilly. Making plans for how you can fill the rest of the summer. 

He’s got never-ending ideas, you don’t think you’ll have time for it all—hiking, biking, camping, festivals, outdoor movies, picnics, farmers markets, berry picking, kite flying, ice cream, gardening, going diving, sailing, fishing, hot air balloons, parachuting, bungee jumping, skydiving—yeah, his ideas get progressively more extreme as he goes.

But at home, when he’s all drained out from the sun, he’s a quiet presence. Warm still, but calm, lining up pretty seashells and dried-up corals along all the windowsills, before the two of you hit the shower. Washing off salt and sweat, and about a bucket's worth of sand that remains between the cracks in the tiles.

He’ll leave kisses against your neck and shoulder, murmur things in a voice you don’t recognize from the day, but a grainier one belonging to the night, telling you all the dirty things he’s going to do to you now that the sun’s fully down.

♡ BNHA – Denki, Kirishima, Touya, Hawks, Natsuo ♡ JJK – Gojo, Yuji ♡ HQ – Hinata, Sugawara, Tanaka, Kuro, Lev, Bokuto, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ CSM – Denji ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira, Shido ♡ WB – Umemiya

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[honeyblackberries]

whenever new sylus content comes out in game it all just further solidifies the fact that he's so much more than the typical 'morally grey villain’ love interest people could easily write him off as. i always find myself reminded of the fact that he’s not only such a well written character but a really good lover. 

he makes sure mc/the player is well fed before he starts to eat, he makes it a point to get her favorite drink for her when they meet up. when she challenges him he matches her energy, when she wants to do something he always indulges her and goes along with her plans. 

alternatively, when she doesn’t want to do something—even if he thinks it’s good for her or he would prefer for it to happen—if she says no then the answer is no. like while his first instinct was to kill the old lady who stabbed her during the zoion hunt he backed off when she told him to. he bandaged her up with care and didn’t simmer in his own anger or try to contradict her wishes like other depictions of that genre of man might have.

they play video games together. he fist bumps her when she does a cool move to shoot down their enemies. he’s trying to become a better singer so she’ll like it when he sings for her. he says the soul is one of the most precious gifts given to humanity and implies that she makes up half of his. he wants to help her become strong enough to protect herself. he says their connection transcends current circumstance and repeats constantly that their lives are bound together.

everything sylus has done previously was in preparation to meet her. everything he does currently is working towards having a future with her. when instinct and base desire tell him to devour her, take her strength and be rid of the power she has over him, he doesn’t give in. and with the hints to more of their past lore it seems like in each lifetime he’s stuck in a never ending cycle of having to kill her or be killed by her again and again, yet he persists.

he's the type of man i personally want to work towards deserving and i'm coming to understand how i've accidentally mischaracterised him in the past. i think i could write as many fics about him as i liked, but i would never do him justice.

[honeyblackberries]

⟣ 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

⟣ 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓

Camping with Toji <3

Showering with Toji <3

How Toji handles your nagging

Grimy old man Toji

Grimy step-dad Toji

Older bf Toji never lets you leave the house without filling you up :3

How Toji deals with other men liking you

Toji feeling guilty about the age-gap

Toji fucking you with his gun

Milkman Toji

Toji touching and teasing his shy gf

Toji with his talkative gf

Being needy and waking Toji at night

Toji lovesss short girls

Sitting on step-dad Toji’s lap

Toji lovesss your cunt even more after you gave birth

Accidentally calling Toji “dad” during sex

Rubbing your face on Toji’s bulge

“One’s in my mouth, One’s in my soul” w kento

Watching Toji take a piss + blow job

⟣ 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅

“Get used to seeing a man in love”

Mornings with Toji

Toji’s snores turn you on

Putting stickers on Toji

⟣ 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓

Washing machine heart

⟣ 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

And…they were roommates

[honeyblackberries]

would let him use me till i sound like a squeaky toy

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ GRIMY OLD MAN TOJI<3

Tw- honestly don’t read this unless you’re weird af. Toji’s a PERV. Somno, daddy kink, light anal play, squirting, not proofread one bit.

Grimy old man Toji! who’s cock immediately starts twitching in his pants with sheer excitement when you disclosed to him that you’re still a virgin and wasn't very experienced in the sex department on your first date.

As the words left your mouth, Toji's weathered face lit up with a lecherous grin. His jaded eyes narrowed, revealing hunger as it slowly roamed over the smooth valley of your exposed tits. he already knows he’s going to have so much fun with you. "Well, ain't that a treat" he rasped, his voice gravelly and filled with intent. "Don't worry doll, I'll take good care of ya, I can even teach you a thing or two".

Grimy old man Toji! who’s sickly infatuated with the relatively noticeable size difference between the two of you. The way your big, beautiful eyes peer up at him while his massive frame is towering over your smaller figure— a lustful glint floating in your eyes as you stared up at the older man, fully paying attention to the words coming out his mouth like a good girl while he spoke to you.

You look so cute and innocent, he’d be lying if he says he can’t make out the dark red hearts gleaming in your eyes. it makes him want to slap his leaky cock across your face and watch as his pearlescent pre-cum drips and moistens your soft skin.

Grimy old man Toji! who loves rubbing your sticky pussy while you’re peacefully sleeping next to him at night— he lowly chuckles to himself when he hears the adorable, involuntary whimpers that escape your rosy lips as your face scrunches into unbidden pleasure from his touch. He fucking loves how sensitive and delicate you are. His gnarled fingers, rough from years of labor, glided smoothly over your soft thighs to softly pinch your messy folds.

Your pink, dainty panties are slightly pulled down to your upper thigh, allowing him to gain more access to your sex as his lengthy fingers trace teasing circles on your sensitive clit— being so careful he doesn’t wake you up or he’d just might have to fuck you back to sleep and he wouldn’t want to ruin his poor girl’s sleeping schedule. His breath heavy with anticipation fogged the air as he leaned closer, his piercing eyes fixated on the moistening bud between your legs. So pretty.

Grimy old man Toji! who shamelessly stares at your round ass any graceful chance he gets— As soon as you get up to go somewhere or grab anything, his eyes quickly leaves the television and zero in on the subtle sway of your ass like a damn vulture. watching how the chubby flesh bounces as you walk away. His wet tongue immediately dragging over his lips and licking his faded scar, hungrily.

His perverted cock instantly stifled at the alluring sight as he imagines his rough hands forcefully gripping your hips still and rubbing his aching dick between your supple cheeks and watches as it disappears between them.

Grimy old man Toji! who has a interesting habit of stuffing his face into your sloppy pussy while you’re lying on your stomach, engrossed in a book. His face is buried between your butt, his nose digging between your creamy folds as he desperately stiffs your drooling cunt like some gross pervert. Both of his hands are caressing the curves of your ass— spreading it apart even more so he can smell better.

When he’s done with your pussy, he quickly shifts his focus to your small puckering hole. Toji’s a fair man so it would be both disrespectful and unfortunate to leave any of his girl’s pretty holes neglected. Especially with how preciously the little hole was winking up at him while he was teasing your pussy— clearly longing for some attention as well.

When his grizzled fingers found their way to your tight, untouched entrance, he couldn't help but cooed at the way the hole clenched at his touch. With taunting slowness, he circled the rim, teasing it with the pad of his thumb, making it flutter and yearn for more. A loud husky laugh escapes his lips when he spots how much your cunt is gushing out more juices from his lewd action. "You're a dirty slut baby, did me playing with your little ass get you this wet?" he chuckles, licking his lips. “Yer so filthy for enjoying this”.

Grimy old man Toji! with his strong, sturdied hands and teasing smirk has a “peculiar” way of showing affection— he loves lifting you onto his lap, making sure to place you down directly on his hard, veiny erection so your warm pussy is nestled right on top of the clothed bulge. His angry tip nudges between your slicked folds, parting them and making you feel as if you were sitting on a hard bump.

His calloused hands are firmly gripping your waist, holding you down so you don’t try to get off of him. Soon enough it'll get way too hard to ignore it when he starts grinding your clothed core on the huge, tented bulge for friction.

Grimy old man Toji! who convinces you to wear a jeweled plug while the two of you were invited to his clan’s meeting. He’s sitting in the chair next to you with a sprawling manspread to cover up the traces of his aroused cock, his hand shamelessly buried under your kimono. Long, skilled fingers swiftly toyed with the pink-heart indent of the plug that’s warmly nestled in your asshole. He loves tugging on it harshly when you're least expecting, your soft, adorable mewls only fueling him and sending more blood rushing to his length.

He wiggles the plug inside of you, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips as he watches your feeble attempts to hide your sinful expressions. The coolness of the metal grazes against the tight walls of your core with each deliberate motion he makes. Who knows maybe he’ll make some fuck ass excuse to go to the bathroom and replace the plug with his fat cock, filling up the cute little gape.

Grimy old man Toji! who's soo obsessed with making your frothy cunny squirt all over his cock while he’s mindlessly drilling your stupid brains out in full Nelson — yes, of course he knew he always does an amazing job at pounding you into a mindless little slut everytime he dicks you down but having you make a filthy mess with your pussy straying out liquid like a water fountain all over his balls and thighs— soaking his whole mattress was the sweet cherry on top.

He lets out a deep, sultry snicker when he hears how disgustingly sopping your little pussy is for him as he’s cramming his entire length into the tight space— his sharp mushroom tip repeatedly bopping against your musty g-spot with every fast thrust of his hips into of you. Every prominent vein on his rigid length glides along your inner walls, eliciting a sensation so intense that your entire body quivers and your toes curl inside of your patterned socks.

His fingers are deeply ensnared in the soft flesh of your thighs, his grip possessive as he restrained them against the rhythmic movements of your bouncing breasts while he thrust into you with the unrelenting force of a madman from underneath. His larger frame effortlessly carried your weight, making your mind hazy from Toji‘s unbelievably powerful strength. The furrow of your brow and the tears welling in your eyes were like a literal testament to the overwhelming sensation of how hard and mercilessly he was invading your tender pussy. He truly has no pity.

But no matter what, your pussy couldn’t stop leaking all over the poor man’s cock. A rich, creamy mess coated every inch of his pulsating shaft as his muscular thighs trembled. The loud, nasty squelching echoed loudly, making your face red— knowing exactly what was to come.

“Come on girl, squirt on my fucking cock. I know you can do it” he urged with a loud groan at the tight squeeze of your compressed walls around him from his orders. He knows exactly how much you enjoy it when he tells you what to do and luckily for you, he sooo happens to be bossy as well. “Make a mess for Daddy, come onn you can do it baby”.

He plants a gentle kiss on your shoulder blade before anchoring his heels stiffly against the mattress. With a precise movement, he lifted you slightly, adjusting the angle to hit your sweet spot even better. Your back arches against his abs instinctively, pressing your chest forward. “S’close daddy, m’so close!” You cried out, your pulsating hole fluttering around his shaft uncontrollably, desperate to drain his heavy-filled balls.

"That’s it, you’re so fucking wet f’me. Leaking like a nasty fucking slut” he growled in a tone filled with desire, causing his voice to sound hoarse. “Let it go, need ya to squirt like a fucking fountain all over me, ya hear me?”

His cock was throbbing like crazy, veins bulging, the head swollen with blood. Your moans turn into desperate pleas as you clawed at his beefy forearm.

His thrusts are so deep and unforgiving. You can feel the tip pounding against your cervix as he ravages your poor little cunt like a feral beast. Toji never holds back when he fucks you— the thing is he fucking can’t. Not when your pussy is this warm and heavenly, it makes him lose his mind and control the literal second his swollen tip breaches into your slicked entrance.

Your breathing quickly turns into puffs of air, tongue lolling out from your gaping mouth. “Oh fuckkk—“.

You were seeing white at this point. The pressure quickly tightened in your stomach, feeling a million more times intense than it normally felt. Your body jolts on top of his from the foreign sensation, so overwhelmed that you didn’t notice the muscular hand that snaked its way to your clit, frantically rubbing the pulsating bud as your whole body tenses, and your vision blurs white. You cry into the late night as the wash of pleasure crashes throughout your being; it has a rush you’ve never felt before but it leaves you utterly gratified. 

“D-daddy m’gonna– Ohh!” you whine and babble, your clouded mind makes it so hard to form any complete and coherent sentences anymore from the intense pleasure.

“Fuckfuckfuck that’s it, thatsss it”. He grunted, biting his bottom lip enough to make it bleed as his cock twitches at the sight of you squirting in front of him, the translucent liquid spurting all over the place and coating his thick shaft and body as your pussy fluttered around him over and over.

“Atta girl, Atttaa girl. God, this pussy is so fucking slutty, was made just f'me, wasn't she baby?" he purrs into your ear, praising you and attempting to calm you down while he helps you ride out your high. His relentless hips never stop rutting inside of you, trying to savor the mess as much as possible. It was so overstimulating, your whole head goes blurry from everything. His long fingers still abusing your clit, making your whole body shake on top of his.

“Toji— fuck! s’much stopstop fuck!” You cried out, your sharp nails violently sinking into his beefy forearm of the fingers that are assaulting your sensitive clit— definitely leaving more nasty scars.

“Shh shh baby, don’t be a greedy girl. Daddy has to cum too”.

[honeyblackberries]

hot take: if you were being bullied by another woman, sylus would be the type of guy to confront her in a way that is still reasonably respectful and civil. caleb however would be the type to "cut that stupid fucking bitch down" — his own words.

[honeyblackberries]

Simon Riley is a loverboy warnings: established relationship, mentions of pornography, very fluffy Simon Riley blurb

He loved you, that much was obvious. Your initials were carved onto the handles of his guns— messy handwriting, all passion and longing— and a wrinkled polaroid of you accompanied him everywhere he went. He'd stick it to the wall beside wherever he slept, stick it to the ceiling if he got to sleep in a bunk bed (one of those with the loose springs that shriek at every movement, that poked into his back and made him miss your touch more than ever).

Johnny had asked him about it one day, half mocking Simon, he was just in disbelief that their closed off lieutenant had found someone, and reasonably so. It was late at night, they'd been sitting still for hours, the target had yet to exit the building they were watching— Price had told them to wait.

So, he tried to make small talk, gossip a little. He said he'd seen that old polaroid in his quarters, seen it get tucked away in his pocket, tacked to walls and ceilings. He'd seen Simon hold it in his hands when he sat in bed— his breathing leveled, face hidden by his mask, mumbling something under his breath before he laid down to sleep. He'd made some stupid comment like what porno she sneak out of?, a comment that would usually earn him a chuckle and a tap on the arm, but that this time earned him a slap to the back of his head and a grumble.

"Respect my bird, Soap." He'd said, deep voice coated in annoyance, almost venomous.

It was obvious he loved you when, you came to pick him up after he got back from being deployed. Obvious in the way his gloved hands immediately found yours, in the way a weight seemed to lift off your shoulders; in the way his gaze, concealed with a balaclava, was so soft, so loving.

They all heard it in his voice, sweet, almost saccharine; saw it in the way you'd touch him, and he'd let you. You could poke his side after making a joke, and he wouldn't flinch, wouldn't bend your arm back or slap it away; he'd laugh, he'd hold your wrist in his big, calloused hand and laugh lightheartedly.

Soap and Gaz watched, enthralled, as you completely took over Simon's personal space, your hands moving up and under his t-shirt, your face settling in the crook of his neck as you held him close, squeezing him tight "to make up for lost time". They watched as Simon grunted out complaining, but lifted up the lower section of his balaclava and kissed your forehead, then your lips.

Ghost was their closed off lieutenant, but Simon Riley was completely wrapped around your little finger, and he loved every second of it.

────୨ৎ────

tags:@laceyfaeryy @cherrycolaheartss

[honeyblackberries]

The world you left behind

Sylus died but what about the people left to miss him? What of the boy who’ll never know what lies beyond the shadow of his father’s wings?

sylus x reader (reader referred to as mother but no pronouns) 1.8k

cw: angst with a (maybe) happy ending, hurt with (maybe) comfort, mentions of blood and physical injuries, lore inaccurate, unnamed son pov.

basically a 'what if' au where mc/reader has sylus's kid after he dies in their dragon myth times. *sylus's son and the transformation scene was inspired by this art by @/napanewt (whole thread makes me sob) | also on ao3

The first time your son wished for his father happened when he was just a child.

He was born hearing tales of great dragons, of love in bloodshed, of kindred spirits and souls bound together for all eternity. Legends whispered throughout the cities were his bedtime stories, a requiem for the deceased was his lullaby.

Oh how exciting it all was to a young boy. What incredible adventures you’ve had! He wished to know more, desired to always hear of the man who's name stoked the flames of Tarus city.

“When can I meet him?” He’d asked you one night as you lay beside him in bed.

He was seven summers old, practically grown up. He would like to meet his father soon. Sylus was familiar yet completely unknown to him. A fiend that strikes fear into the hearts of the strongest warriors. Yet someone his mother speaks of so fondly, with a voice always gentle.

“I’m sorry love, your father has gone far away,” the words were ones he’d grow used to hearing. Ones he would come to resent.

But not yet.

Your son wondered if he looked the same as Sylus, as he stared at his own reflection in a chalice atop one of the many piles of treasure in your cave. You’d told him that regardless of how much he might look like you now, his silver hair and ruby red eyes come from his father.

“What about the horns?” he asked while pointing to his head. Where yours are and where his own should be. “And the tail, and… wings?”

“I hope you never grow them.” Those words confused him.

“Why?”

“Because they are a curse.”

Back then he didn’t understand what you meant. They would make him stronger, fiercer, more dragon-like. They would make him the same as the man he caught glimpses of in the shadows on the wall. The same as the man he saw in the twinkle of your eyes..

“Well, I hope I do.”

And hope he did, wished and prayed to every shining star. Desperate to be even half the man his father is. He had to be since Sylus was gone.

How else could he protect you from those who wanted to do you harm; fight off all the monsters that curse your existence and hunt you down. Men with wicked intentions and venom on their tongues. How else could he get rid of the sadness that would creep into your gaze when you think he isn’t looking. Stop the heartache that would overcome you sometimes, when you reminisce on the dragon who left you behind.

Your son was stuck with Sylus’s stories and nothing more.

The second time your son wished for his father was when the transformation started. It came suddenly and it tore him apart all at once.

The scream of pain he let out as something began to grow through the bone of his skull, tearing delicate skin. The way his own blood thickly trickled into his eyes from the open wounds. The sickening wet sounds of his body unwillingly shifting in ways it wasn't used to.

That’s how you found him. Curled up in a heap on the floor, body convulsing as if it didn’t know what to do with itself. Crimson staining everything around him.

“Mama—” he sobbed, something he hadn’t called you in years.

His voice sounded broken to his own ears, but he no longer cared about being weak. Not when it hurt so much that he wished death would save him. What a foolish child he had been to dream of this. And what a cruel father Sylus must be to let it happen. How could a father who didn’t even know him curse him so—give him what he so desperately wanted but at such a horrible cost.

He blacked out not long after, cradled in your shaking arms.

You told him later on that the same thing had happened to Sylus when he was still a young dragon and your son wondered if it would have been less scary with him around. If his father would have held him through it like you did, if he would have known what to say to make it hurt less.

He can almost imagine it.

‘Bite down on a cloth so you don’t bite your tongue.’

‘Slow your breathing, don’t panic. The adrenaline will only make it happen faster.’

‘It'll be over soon.’

‘I’m here for you.’

The next few years were hard on your son. Having to learn how to exist within his new body. He always moved wrong. Would trip over his own tail as he walked, cut his mouth with his fangs, tear flesh with his talons.

But all of that paled in comparison to the challenge that was his wings. To the humbling experience of learning to fly.

A part of him yearned for the skies yet he was wet behind the ears with the way his wings would allow him to rise for only a moment, before plummeting to the ground. Always two steps behind spring’s baby birds who could soar past him.

He learned a lot about himself during this time. That he was impatient, easy to anger, easier to lose common sense. It’s good he supposes, looking back on it. The way he was forced to prematurely clip the hubris that was growing within him. Lest he fall just as bad as Icarus.

It was during each failure—in the moment just before the crash—where he would find himself wondering if his father would hold his hands as he taught him how to take flight. Show him how to follow the wind above mountain peaks and along the edge of the horizon. Go with him to the edge of the sea beyond where the datura flowers bloom.

He remembers you asking him once, years later, if he regretted wishing to be like Sylus. If after what had to be done for it to happen, he could still want to be like him.

His answer then is the same as it would be today.

Even if the pain was once unbearable and the struggle seemingly never-ending, it chipped away at his rough edges. Honed him like a blade. He could now fight his own battles; win against those who started ones against you. He could hear the joy in your laugh as he picked you up and flew off towards the dawn. Could see the look of pride on your face.

You were proud of the man he grew to be.

It was worth it to get a step closer to his father.

The last time your son wished for his father was on the day you left him. Dragons live long but not forever and you only had half the soul of one.

It had been lifetimes since he was a boy but he felt more helpless than ever before. He could do nothing for the mother who kissed his bruises and loved him twice as much to make up for the absence of his father.

He could only lay you to rest in the field of flowers you cherished. Could only fix your hair and cover you in the softest fabric as he buried you. Lay by your grave as long as his body would let him. Through tears he cursed the heavens, cursed whatever deemed it fit to take you away. Cursed the father who was never there.

Where was he when you needed him?

…

He wondered for the last time what Sylus was like. Not as a myth or a father, but as a man.

A man beloved enough to have a son with. A man you hoped to see again in the next life.

A man you'd to turn yourself into a monster for.

Your son never came back to visit you. Never came back to the home that held nothing except bittersweet memories. He left for the farthest corners of the world and still sought to go further.

Without the father he never knew and the mother who was his everything, he was truly alone.

Centuries passed but your son never forgot you. Everywhere he went the wind and the wings of birds carried your presence. In the people he met he saw your kindness. But time was a gentle mistress to him. It healed wounds, altered him in ways never expected.

He was different. Changed to fit the new life he was living—one with towers that reached beyond the clouds, new monsters, and so many people. There was a maturity to him now. A quiet patience. Gone was the boy who would dream of dragons.

Actually, he hadn't been him for a long time.

Then it happened one day.

He was out in the city centre—waiting in line for a new cafe—when he saw you. It was only in passing but he knew it was really you. Knew it in that innate way one can recognise their mother.

Feet moved on their own and he was following behind you before he even realised. You were younger, closer to how he remembered you looking when he was a child. And where were you going? Home? Or to meet up with friends, maybe even a lover?

He just wants to watch you for a bit; won't approach you. You were different, you wouldn’t remember him and that’s okay.

You cross the street and stop, seeming to reach your destination.

He watches curiously as you sneak up behind a man with his back facing the two of you. Sees you throw yourself onto him, hugging his neck. The man turns suddenly and lets out a deep laugh, arms wrap around your waist and he leans down to smile at you.

His breath catches when he sees the stranger's face.

This man is someone he'd recognise from the very marrow of his bones. Hair silvery white like the flash of light that would hit his eyes when he used to fly too close to the sun. Eyes like the rubies that littered the floor of the cave he once called home, a perfect twin to his. And his gaze is fixed on you, much like his own. But there’s something there, a depth of love and longing he’s never seen.

“Hey!” a voice calls out to your son.

“Where are you running off too?” his lover chides out of breath, as they run up to him.  “You just suddenly disappeared, I thought you were waiting for me.”

“Sorry,” he smiles apologetically. “It’s nothing. I just… I thought I saw someone familiar.”

They talk his ear off and drag him back to the main street, but the warm feeling bubbling in his chest stops him from hearing any of it. What are the chances that his wish would finally come true. He got to see his father. On top of that, he can tell from the way he holds you that the man loves you with depths beyond time.

Across the street Sylus watches the retreating figure of a man. His gaze drawn to him with a pull he can’t quite explain.

“Sy, you know him?” you ask as you tilt your head to see who he’s looking at.

“No,” it’s true, and yet—

“He just seems familiar.”

a/n: this only exists because i was listening to epic and had sons never knowing their fathers on the brain. also tysm for 200 followers! kissing each of you on the forehead *muah*

[honeyblackberries]

Simon realising he has a problem pulling out.

We know he’d struggle at first with the intimacy of a long term relationship.

But when you both find yourselves in a more stable part of your relationship, the topic would come back up. In which his answer is to quite literally grab and kiss you, finally letting everything out that he’d been holding back on.

First, he’d have you in the bed, he’d take it slow…surprisingly gentle for a man with his rep. But you’re his woman, he would never cause deliberate harm to the one he loves.

The first time he sunk in so deep, he knew then and there he was both metaphorically and physically fucked. The way you clench around him would have him sinking his fingers into the sheets so hard he almost ripped into them.

“Fuckin’ hell, Love.”

“Tryna fuckin’ snap my cock?”

Every thrust would be slow, deliberate. Learning where and what makes you tremble and arch beneath him so beautifully. He’d take so much time in focusing on you that he’d almost forget how good it feels to be deep in your cunt.

Until you clench again, as if forcefully reminding him.

Simon has never considered himself a desperate man. he’s cocky, he can be arrogant. But desperate? That’s reserved for when you’re arching under him and sporadically fluttering around his cock like you’re trying to milk everything you can get out of him the moment you came.

In that moment, he can’t pull out. He knows he should, the risk is there…but you look so good and you feel even better…to the point he doesn’t know what to do with himself other than pump you utterly full of his cum.

“Please…god please take it…shit.”

Even when he can feel the overstimulation tugging at his nerves, he can’t get himself to pull out of your overwhelming heat. He’d stare down at where you join, watching the way his cock slowly fucks his cum back into you. His gaze holding an almost feral aspect to it.

“So fuckin’ pretty, Love.”

In a way it doesn’t feel like he’s talking to you, but more-so your flooded cunt.

He’ll keep moving, slower and more focused, even when his cock starts to soften. He doesn’t pull out, instead he’ll drop down onto you. His weight crushing you to the sheets as his hand slips under your lower back just to keep you completely connected to him.

“M’gonna stay right here, keep y’full.”

The words would escape with such finality there wasn’t much point arguing the fact, not when he was keeping you so desperately close to him. His hips giving small little rolls just to feel the way you flutter around him.

[honeyblackberries]

more! | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Just thinking about Ghost having a shy, quiet wife. The glaring opposite of Ghost, painted in black and blood while you’re adorned in lace and frills. Smooth skin and delicate flesh, warm eyes and a bashful smile. Soft-spoken and so fucking sweet.

No one else knows about you, or that he’s married, not from lack of wanting people to know he has such a pretty dove waiting for him at home, but because he knows all the men on base would eat you alive.

But one day, he forgets the lunch you made him. It takes everything in you to refrain yourself from driving to base to make sure he has something to eat— you know he doesn’t have the healthiest eating habits.

You choose to message him, something he usually responds fairly quickly to. Always at your beck and call just in case his sweet girl needs him, but he doesn’t answer. Your lips are pinched raw with worry by the time you decide to get in your car.

So, imagine everyone’s surprise when a sergeant interrupts the meeting Ghost’s in— ‘Lieutenant, um, Mrs. Riley is waiting outside for you.’

Ghost is on his feet in an instant, it must be some emergency if you’re there. He rushes to the hallway, everyone else in the room stumbling behind to snoop through the thin crack of the door, see who their big bad Lieutenant is married to.

And there you are, Tupperware container in your manicured hands, white dress covering your frame with matching ribbons and bows in your hair. The look on your face is anxious, right up until you see Ghost, your eyes softening as he approaches you with wide strides despite the fact that he’s twice your size, hulking and threatening.

“Sweet’art, everything okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” He asks, brows furrowing as he does a once over your figure, checking for injury.

You exhale a quiet laugh, “No, baby. You just forgot your lunch, and you didn’t answer your phone so I got worried you would go the whole day without eating.”

He cups your jaw, a smile breaking out on his face. His sergeants are baffled for several reasons— they did not expect their Lieutenant to be married to such a sweet thing, nor had they ever heard their Lieutenant speak in such a soft, hushed tone, never seen him touch something with such care, like you were so fragile in the palms of his hands.

They would’ve thought it was all a joke if it wasn’t for the massive diamond ring on your finger, or the way you pushed deeper into his touch.

“Sorry, dove, just been in a meetin’ all day.”

He stamps a kiss against your lips, lets himself linger just a little longer than he should because he knows the whole room is watching from behind the door.

“Sweetest little wife, aren’t you?”

[honeyblackberries]

kerosene

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You refused, in the end. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today was no different. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, it was you. 

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

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

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

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

Pretty wee thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty much empty. 

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking joke. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little red wallet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A fucking panic button. 

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

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

“I — I’m — I didn’t—”

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

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

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

He huffed, jaw rigid. 

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

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

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

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

“What are you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had no issue frightening you. Served you right. 

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

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

Truth was, he hadn’t decided yet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eh?” He huffed dryly. 

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

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

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

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

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

“S’what I said.” 

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

“That’s a shame,” he said. 

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

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

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

“Dunno yet,” he said. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Hopefully not.” 

“Then — then why did you take me?”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t want to,” he bluntly replied. 

“Why not?” 

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

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

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

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

“Goin’ to what.” 

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

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

“Thought about it,” he said. 

Ribs closed like dog jaws around your lungs. 

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

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

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

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

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

“To fuck?”

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

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Fucking weird girl. 

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

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

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

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

Perhaps you’d be a hisser. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t play dumb,” he gritted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He quirked a brow at that. “To who?” 

“Why do you care.” 

He shrugged. “Boring drive.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tapped the steering wheel. “Long story.” 

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

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

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

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

“Worse than that,” he said frankly. 

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

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

“Then what?” 

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

“A gang?” 

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

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

“Special — wait, you’re in the army?” 

“Not anymore,” he said. 

You frowned uneasily. “What happened?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll be fine,” he said. 

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

He got cocky, he supposed. 

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

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

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

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

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

He hoped you weren’t that stupid. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Evenin’,” Simon said simply. 

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

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

“You bet,” was all he said. 

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

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

“We are in a bit of a hurry.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Need to rein your fella in, love.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Understood.” 

“Don’t let me catch you again, eh?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Think of that on the spot, did ya?” 

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

“You should be grateful,” you grumbled. 

“Should I?” 

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

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

“In that case, ‘course I’m grateful.”

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

“Thank you,” he crooned, grin sharp. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Uh-huh,” he laughed. 

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

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

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

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

“Not gonna happen,” he said.

“You’re a pervert,” you growled.  

“So?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He snorted. “Think I’m thick?” 

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

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

“I can’t,” you grouched. 

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

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

He smiled. Something cute about you. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Taking the long way,” he answered. 

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

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

You didn’t need to pee at all. 

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

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

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

There was shame brewing within you, now. 

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

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

Reality stung. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking mortifying that he was good-looking. 

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

So you didn’t. 

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

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

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

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

“Are you going to sleep in the car?” 

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

Us. You shivered when he said it. 

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

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

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

“Do me a favour,” He suddenly demanded.

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

“Grab me a fag, will ya?” 

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

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

“Fine.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want a puff?” He asked indifferently. 

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

He snorted. “Goodie girl, are ya?” 

“No,” you said curtly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed. “You’ll shoot me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweat pricked along your hairline. “Then what.”

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

“No,” you chirped. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Get out,” he said.  

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

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

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

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

“No?” He snorted. 

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

“Obviously.”

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

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

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

“Standard double.”

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

“Just the one.” 

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

“Y’take cash?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Cheers.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He snickered. “Seemed pretty desperate before.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” 

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

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

He snorted. “Why would I do that?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood went runny. “Stop it.” 

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

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

You went cold. “Why?” 

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

“I don’t want to,” you squeaked. 

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

“I’m — I’m not worked up, you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The answer eluded you, in concrete terms anyway. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too hot, eh?” 

You exhaled shakily. “Yeah.” 

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

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

“Bit restless, are ya?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“N-no, I—”

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

He only scoffed in awe. “Sensitive thing.” 

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

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

“Not so bad, is it,” he sneered. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t, p-please, you’re—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It took you less than a minute to fall asleep. 

Morning came with rain. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t—”

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

“Get off—”

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

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

“Lovely little cunt.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” 

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

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

“Sweetest thing I ever stole.” 

“Who needs fuckin’ money, eh?” 

“Hit the jackpot with you, din’t I?” 

“Might just keep you forever.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You caught his eye, a pout in your lips; 

“Can we get breakfast first?” 

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

[honeyblackberries]

[collapses to the floor] i can’t stop thinking about werewolf!Toji

(18+) minors dni | x gn reader, non gendered language | cw: filthy smut, porn no plot, mean dom toji, low-key monster fucking only; to keep things casual

werewolf!Toji who loves in a way more animal than man. whose affection is tainted with a self-serving desire that is truly—for lack of a better term—wolfish.

don’t be mistaken, he would do anything for you. be good to you in the way a guard dog would, as he bares his teeth at anything that comes near what’s his. in the way a hunting dog snaps the neck of a rabbit before he brings it to his master, maw covered in blood and tail wagging.

but animals you see—wolf, dog, man—are all slaves to their appetite. a ‘good boy’ to the hand that feeds them only because it satiates their hunger. toji is no different. you quench his desires and he needs to be fed with every inch of you.

werewolf!Toji as a result, is always so adamant to be full of you. full of your love, your kisses, your sounds, your orgasams. he has no qualms about using you until he’s satisfied. in his bed, on the couch, bent over the kitchen island, in the shower, on the hardwood floor—and he can’t stop. doesn't want to.

you could whine and sob into his chest, feeling far too overstimulated. asking for a break, begging him to slow down for a moment. but it would fall on deaf ears.

“to-ji-” your voice stutters.

"huh, do you think my name is a safe word?” he angles his hips so his pelvis presses right against you. the patch of hair below his navel grazing your skin.

"you should realise that saying it like that only makes me want to fuck you deeper."

werewolf!Toji with a filthy mouth, depraved and sometimes condescending. he doesn’t mean to come off that way but that type of language just comes so naturally to him.

“got stupid from the feel of your man's cock?” he tsks, like he’s disappointed but not surprised. “of course you did, cock hungry slut.”

“look at the way you move your hips,” his laugh is almost cruel. “you're only good for being a wolf’s bed warmer.”

werewolf!Toji who has this fantasy. one that he constantly loves to play out with you. doggy style, rough, fast, crushing. but he doesn’t only hit it from behind. he bites too, hard. mouth finding home right at the back of your nape where neck meets shoulder and back. 

whenever he does this you get the feeling that it’s what prey must experience when a predator sinks their teeth into them, the sting of sharp fangs then tingling pain. but toji doesn’t bite to kill. 

this isn’t sex, it’s mating. that mark is sure to show it. he’s a wolf so everyone has to know that he fucks you like one.

oh and if you try to fight back—be a little less submissive than he’d like, he gets worse.

werewolf!Toji who finds that even the smallest resistance from you is enough to make him want to put you in your place. so good luck if you try to mouth off or bite back. he's a hard-ass, if anything he likes the challenge of being provoked.

you actually tried it once. sunk your own teeth into the crook of his neck to give him a taste of what it feels like. but blunt canines are unable to dent flesh the way his does.

“oh so you think you're the wolf now,” his tone makes you shudder.

his hips slam into you as his hand grabs your throat, squeezing just enough to make the corners of your vision go blurry. 

“aw did you bite off more than you can chew?” 

you try to shake your head.

“then prove it.”

werewolf!Toji who is nasty, borderline disgustingly so. he wants the smell of his cum to seep into your skin. to cling to you in a way that makes your smell inseparable from his. this is the point when he truly loses his mind, what little inhibitions he may have had dissolving as he cums all over you. 

he’d pin his leaking cock to your body—the tip reaching below your ribs—and take a moment to look at his work. pleased.

but it’s when your muscles start to relax and your breathing begins to steady, that toji really gets going.

“hey we’re not done,” his smile is too wide.

“you haven’t even taken my knot yet.”

a/n: there are two wolves inside me. one that needs to chill out, the other… also needs to chill out.

[honeyblackberries]

sylus' birthday is an opportunity for his girlies (me) to break up with the other woman (caleb) and return back to the arms of our beautiful wife

[honeyblackberries]

obsessed with the yandere outlaws!! May I ask what sort of gifts the cowboys would give the reader?

Yandere Outlaws - Gifts

The boss brings you jewellery. He's old fashioned like that. To him, his girl deserves nothing less diamonds and gold. If the gang pulls off a train job then he's going to rip the necklace off some rich old lady's neck, just to bring it home to you.

He doesn't make a big deal out of the fortune he's giving you. Just takes your hand and slips a new ring on your finger, or comes up behind you and fastens a locket around your throat. And well, it's not like you'll ever have the chance to run off with his gifts, so you aren't exactly a risky investment.

He likes seeing you in your jewellery and nothing else. Gas light catching on the emeralds around your throat as he holds your waist and forces you to ride him. You're his stolen treasure - it's only appropriate that you have the accessories to match.

The gunslingers bring you things that look good on you when you're naked. Ribbons for your hair (even though by the time they're done with you, that pretty velvet is crushed and sticky), cameo chokers, garters.

There's something about a girl wearing nothing but her stockings that just drives them wild. Rarely, they might bring you back a silk slip or nightdress. Something that shows the outline of your body, something that feels so awful soft against your skin. They'll fuck you while you're still wearing it, the material bunched up in their fists as they manhandle you. When they inevitably ruin it, chances are it's going in their pockets or around their necks. So they can carry the smell of your cunt with them when they're away from home.

The wrangler brings you sweets whenever he can. Sometimes they're small treats - a bag of peppermint sticks from the general store, some taffy sold by a housewife on a far-flung ranch.

Other times, he gets his hands on the more expensive stuff. Some of it totally unfamiliar to you. Chocolates filled with caramel and peppermint liqueur. Hard toffee that gets stuck in your teeth. Sugar plums.

You can't help but get a little excited whenever he comes back from a job. You know you shouldn't, but whenever he leans down to kiss you some part of you thinks about sugar melting on your tongue.

There's only one condition attached to his gifts. You have to sit on his lap and let him feed you. Most days you don't mind it - his hands don't usually wander below your waist. But when he comes back from a particularly nasty job? If he's been gone a long time? That's when he makes you suck the candy straight out of his mouth.

The boy brings you flowers. Silly and sappy and a little bit romantic. The sort of thing a boy does when he's in love for the first time.

He gives them to you the way a boy in love does, too. Blushing and looking at his shoes and muttering out a quick "For you," before he hurries away.

You aren't sure when he has the time to go about picking flowers. Between chores and wrangling, he scarcely has enough time to eat. But somehow he manages it. Wildflowers fill your room. Almost enough to cover the smell of blood and cum, but not quite.

The second in command brings you books. Hard to come by out in the west, even harder when you're a man on the run. But for you, he manages it.

There's no telling what he'll bring. Penny dreadfuls. Gothic romances. Books on language and history.

He likes to read with you. He doesn't have much free time, but in the late afternoons he'll usually track you down and take you out into the yard to sit with him. There's a huge oak that he likes to sit under, the sunlight turning soft and golden as he rests his chin on your shoulder. He's a fast reader, but it doesn't take long for you to start matching his speed. He likes to ask you questions, a mix of stern schoolmaster and curious lover.

He has a habit of running a hand up your thigh while you answer, humming softly whenever you stutter.

"Hmm, that's not quite right, little dove. Try again."

And if you still struggle to answer him? He'll just have write the answers against your clit with his tongue.

[honeyblackberries]

feeling so #blessed and #seen by ur diet pepsi fic because i also thought of caleb AND sylus when i listened to that song💗💗💗💗💗💗💗

you get it anon! lowkey put off writing it for months just because i couldn't decide who it should be about 💔 caleb only won because "my lips reflect off his cross gold chain" is so him coded like come on

[honeyblackberries]

In the back seat (18+)

caleb x fem reader/mc smut

minors dni | inspired by diet pepsi by addison rae | cross-posted to ao3

word count: 1466

cw: simp caleb, soft dom caleb, he also likes to bite, pantie freak caleb, reader enables him, praise, oral (fem receiving), p in v, responsible car sex <333 (don't get freaky in a rental car irl), irresponsible intercourse (caleb doesn’t wrap it before he taps it), porn with feelings, porn no plot because idk how to write plot but i also can’t really write porn so maybe this is a secret third thing, no set pov.

names used: pips (pipsqueak but cuter), good girl, pretty girl, my girl

If Caleb is being honest with himself this moment is something straight out of his teenage fantasies. Driving along the coast with you in the passenger's seat, listening as you sing along to a song that’s been on repeat for the past half hour. Hair softly blowing in the wind as the late afternoon sun glows behind you like a halo.

You’re an angel he thinks, how else could you bless him with such a gift on one of his rare days off. The keys to his dream car—with the disclaimer that it was only a rental during his visit to Linkon—and that short sundress… His gaze unconsciously drifts from the road and onto you.

Maybe wet dreams are a better description for this. The way the hem of your dress rides up your thighs while you shift to find a more comfortable position, cotton panties peeking out underneath it.

Your eyes meet his and Caleb feels his pants tighten.

Today was supposed to be a well deserved break from all the demands that come with being the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel. Something relaxing. Yet he can’t help but feel inclined to the complete opposite. Back ramrod straight and hand, previously loose and confident on the wheel, now gripping it so tight that his knuckles strain.

“I'm happy you’re here,” you say sweetly and he has to stop himself from acting like a horny dog. “Is there anything you wanna do before we head home?”

“Eat you out,” he thinks dreamily.

“..What?”

Shit. Shit. How could he say that out loud!? He’s an idiot, a depraved fool—

“Well, okay.”

He almost crashes the car.

“Are you sure? We don’t have to—I mean—I didn’t mean to say it out loud,” you laugh at him and he isn’t sure whether to be mortified or turned on.

“Pull over.” He does.

Caleb doesn’t realise it but despite the less than innocent circumstances his silly reaction makes you smile. Happy at the expression that settles on his handsome face. How his eyes light up in a way you never really see anymore, giddy and unrestrained.

‘Cute,’ you want to tease, but he’s already rolling the tinted windows up. Undoing his seatbelt and moving into the back seat. Oh how could you keep him waiting when he’s just so eager? You undo your own seatbelt and amusedly follow along. Moving to get on top of him.

“Don’t hover pips,” he instructs—in that know-it-all voice he’s used since you were kids—and you don’t get the chance to consider it. Not when his hands trail under your skirt to grab your thighs and impatiently bring you down onto his face.

“Fuck you smell so good,” his nose presses right against your clothed heat. He inhales deeply. “I could get off just from smelling you, just from smelling these,” his lips part to let teeth graze the thin fabric of your panties.

“I can keep 'em when we're done, yeah?” His hot breath makes a shiver run through you in anticipation. His tongue licks down the centre where a wet patch starts to form. “I’ll cook dinner in return.”

You want to argue that he always cooks dinner. But you want what he’s currently offering more.

Your small hum of agreement is all he needs.

Safe to say, Caleb does mouth at you like a dog. Desperate, hungry, tongue heavy and slobbering. You have to push yourself against his chest to keep steady. The toned muscles there flexing as he eats like he’s been starved.

“Good girl, sittin’ so pretty for me,” his praise is barely understandable. Voice muffled and lower than a moment ago.

One of his hands leaves your thighs, his fingers moving to the fabric separating you. He teasingly pulls it back and lets go, a light snap against your skin. You flinch and he chuckles in response. He then pushes it to the side to expose you bare to him. Continuing to lick, this time with the addition of his thumb rubbing directly against your sensitive bud.

“Delicious,” he moans at the taste and sucks at your clit for more.

You’re not sure how long you last before everything crashes down all at once. Your orgasm racking your body and leaving you trembling. Dripping right into his open mouth.

The way your breath hitches and small whines you make when you cum always remind him how he could spend the rest of his life between your thighs. Forever wanting you pliant in his hold like this.

As you start to feel yourself coming down from the high, Caleb lightly bites at your tender flesh, making you yelp. He places a soft kiss in apology, even though you both know he isn’t sorry in the slightest.

In an act of revenge you start to reach for where he needs it. Fingertips barely brushing the large tent in his pants before he grabs your wrist to stop you.

“Next time pips, I’ll go crazy if I’m not inside you soon.” At that you’re suddenly flipped around, back pressed against the leather seat. Wedged in the cramped space afforded to you between the car and his large body.

Caleb looks down at you with a wide grin. The lower half of his face damp with your arousal and his own saliva.

“Let me put it in?”

Even when he’s like this the words come out as a question. He’ll only do it if you let him, only if you want it half as much as he does. His silver necklace dangles in front of you and reflected in it is your lips, curled up into an affirmative.

Caleb wastes no time. Hurriedly undoing his pants and freeing his hard leaking cock. Leaning over you with one hand beside your head as the other grasps his reddened tip and nudges you panties to the side with it. Lining himself up he sinks into you slowly.

“You’re heaven,” he yaps, already pussy drunk. "You feel like heaven, ugh—like you were made for me. Weren’t you?”

He shakes his head at his own words, as if a better explanation came to him. Then he resolutely bottoms out inside you.

“No, I was the one made for you.”

“Caleb—” you whine at the feeling of being so full. Arms moving to wrap around his torso, not sure if to hold him closer or push him away.

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to fight off the orgasm that would have had him cumming from the way you say his name. Testingly, he pulls out slightly just to push back in. Repeating shallow thrusts to get you comfortable.

“More,” you beg.

“Of course,” he kisses you and you can taste yourself on him. “I aim to please.” His pace quickens, becoming rough. You can’t help but clench at the immediate change.

“Oh shit—loosen up pretty girl.” You try to.

Over and over you feel his cock try to make your cunt give in to him, and when he feels the grip of your walls ease up slightly he angles his hips to hit deeper.

You claw at his back, the fabric of his shirt catching under your fingers. The feeling of him too much.

“You like that huh?”

The car windows are fogging at the spike in body heat, neither of you letting up until you both get your fill. The sounds of shallow breathing and skin against skin the only thing that can be heard.

Caleb bites your lip when he kisses you in between thrusts. Like he wants to devour you in every way possible.

“I’m—close,” you bury your face into his neck, trying to ground yourself.

He nearly slips entirely out of you. Hips starting to lose their rhythm, a sign that he is too.

“I know—fuck—cum with me.”

Your release comes first, and he doesn’t last long after.

“That's my girl.”

His movements slow as he spills into you. A white ring forming around the base of him as a mix of both your cum tries to leak out. He grinds a few times to make sure it stays then collapses on top of you.

The two of you remain like that for a few minutes, relishing in the feeling of your chests pressed together as you cool down. Caleb’s cock slowly going limp inside you.

His hands move to cradle your face, gently stroking your cheeks as he kisses all over with cherishing lightness.

“I love you.”

“Love you too Caleb.”

Then he has to go and ruin the moment.

“Panties please,” he holds out his hand. Asking for a treat.

You sigh, the post-nut clarity kicking in. “I’ll give it to you after I wash it.”

“Don’t wash it.”

“...”

a/n: rip need everyone to know this was initially supposed to be a sylus fic. also what do we think do we like me actually trying to make the layout nice/not write in all lowercase??

[honeyblackberries]

Strip Poker with a Yandere Cowboy

Sometimes, a debt is best paid off on your knees. Tags: Male Yandere x Fem Reader, dubcon to noncon, thigh riding, older man, daddy kink goes brrr, 6.9k words

Thinking about losing a bet and losing it bad. One of those casinos where you can almost feel the grime in the air, shady looking dealers cutting cards right in front of you, but you're just too slow to realise it.

You're too drunk to be playing, and too pretty to be losing so bad.

When you're all out of chips, you should know better than to take house credit. But you're already in the hole - you've spent all your savings on poker and you need one big win to even it all out.

It's late when the game ends. Just you and two others left at the table, whiskey turning sour on your teeth when you realise just how bad you've screwed yourself over.

You're not surprised when two hulking enforcers come to get you. Suits all black and neatly pressed, but it's still not enough to hide their tattoos or scars. Not enough to soften their rough edges.

"Boss wants to talk to you, miss. If you would."

Nice of them to offer, but everyone at your table knows it's a farce. A little game of pretend so it doesn't hit quite so hard when they drag you off.

You stand, silently cursing yourself for being so stupid, for wearing such painful heels, for wearing such a short dress. They lead you towards the back of the casino, and every step feels like another nail in your coffin. You're not just deep in the hole anymore. You've somehow shoveled all the way past the goddamn mantle.

They take you to an office high above the casino. Floor to ceiling windows giving the boss a way to look out on his domain.

The first thing you notice about the room is the smell of leather and whiskey. Not unpleasant, especially not after being down there with the peasants.

The boss is standing at the window when you come in, holding a glass of whiskey. All you can see of him is his back - broad, the outline of his muscles showing through the cotton of his button up. His hair long enough to brush his collar, and thick.

The bouncers (thugs? enforcers?) leave you alone with him. Door whispering shut and locking you alone with your debt.

"You ain't a bad player, girl."

You try to smile. Fail.

"Not that good, or else we wouldn't be here."

He chuckles, rich and deep as brandy.

"C'mere. I wanna show you something."

You're halfway across the room before you even realise you've moved. Something in you jumps at his orders, and the rest of you struggles to catch up.

When you reach the window, the first thing you notice is the table you played at. The high rollers poker set up, smack dab in the middle of his view.

"I've been watching you all night, girl. You've got a good poker face, and a mighty interesting way of distracting your competition."

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly self conscious. You aren't the first girl to wear a low cut dress to a card game, and you won't be the last. But hearing him point it out still makes you feel a little ashamed. No trick too low for a winner and all that, but still...

You change the topic.

"I know it's bad, but listen, I can give you my address, my ID, my banking details. Maybe I can pay the casino off in installments. I'm sure you've got some sort of loan agreement on standby for situations like these."

The man hums, and you turn to finally look at him.

He's older than you, his hair bordering on black and shot through with grey. Strong jaw, light stubble, nice lips. Hazel eyes, with fine lines at the corners.

If you had to picture a casino mogul with shady connections, he isn't what you'd come up with.

"That's true, but I reckon you don't exactly qualify."

His drawl is all Texan, deep and slow. It makes something inside you flutter.

"I've got a job. I know I'm a student, but I can pay."

He doesn't answer. Instead, he offers you his glass of whiskey.

You take it, more nervous than anything else. You're used to cheap tequila and even cheaper beer, but even you can tell that he drinks some high quality stuff. When you take a sip, the flavour sits on your tongue like a kiss.

"No sweetheart, I reckon you and I will have to work something else out. The kind of deal I only offer to... special customers."

You meet his eyes and you realise exactly what sort of customers he means. The pretty kind. The drunk kind. The too-short-skirt and too-high-stilettos kind.

Your throat goes dry and you toss back another gulp of whiskey to try and cover it up.

Your ma used to say that getting yourself into trouble meant no one else but you was responsible for getting out of it. But did that really mean dropping to your knees and paying off a debt with your tongue?

You look around his office, hoping to buy yourself some time. The floors are genuine hard wood, and there are stag heads mounted on the walls. There's a hunting rifle half assembled on his coffee table, in the middle of being cleaned.

"What..." You swallow, try again. "What do you want me to do?"

"Play a few rounds of poker with me."

That surprises you enough that you turn back to face him. There's a slight smile on his face, a kind of wry, secretive amusement.

"I think I'm all out of credit mister."

He grins full on, the tips of his fangs just barely visible behind his lips.

"We ain't playing for cash this time."

He looks you over, eyes roaming and then lingering. Your skin prickles over in goosebumps. You're used to men looking at you, but never so openly. Never so proprietary.

Like you're bought and paid for already.

"No darlin'. I reckon we play for the last thing you've got to your name."

He smiles again, wolf fangs showing. "I reckon we play for the clothes off your back."

Your breath hitches, eyes going wide. You don't know it, but you look just like a doe on the first day of spring. Looking right down the rifle but too stuck to run.

He sucks his teeth, still smiling. "Best out of ten. If I can get you out of your clothes by the end, you pay your debt off with.... well, I ain't gonna spell it out for you."

"And if you don't?"

"You walk out of here a free woman. Not owing us a cent and still in your pretty little dress."

The devil would have offered a better deal. But what else can you do? Sue him? Yeah, that'd go well. Broke college kid with a bad poker run against a man you're pretty sure works for the mafia. You won't even make it to court in one piece.

You pull in a slow breath, trying to still your heart.

You meet his eyes, even though it takes everything in you to hold them.

"Deal."

He offers you his hand just like the devil would, if Old Scratch decided to wear cowboy boots and Levi's. You take it, palm dwarfed by his.

He leads you to his desk and pulls a chair out for you, every inch the southern gentleman. His fingers brush the nape of your neck when he pulls away.

He sits down across from you and you can't help feeling small. It's like being in front of the principal all over again, huge mahogany desk and all.

He digs through a side drawer and pulls out a pack of playing cards, the box still wrapped in plastic. The sound of it tearing makes your ears tingle.

"Fresh deck. So we both know it's a fair game."

He shuffles just as fancy as you'd expect, cutting and then cutting again until the cards blur in his hands. You watch his hands, trying to spot tricks you know you can't hope to understand.

He's got nice hands, you notice in-between card spreads. Long fingers, clean nails, veins that stand out against his skin. A fancy watch on his wrist but no sign of a wedding ring, not even a tan line.

Well, maybe it ain't surprising. You wouldn't want to marry him either, if he regularly plays strip poker with his clients.

"You wanna deal first, darlin'?"

"Sure."

He offers you the deck but doesn't let go.

"You gotta kiss it for good luck. Don't ya know that?"

He's smiling at you again, that half twist to his lips that feels less welcoming than stepping straight into hell.

You lean forward and kiss the cards, your lipstick stain bright against the white.

"Is it my luck or yours?" you ask.

He lets go of the cards and watches as you deal.

"I guess we'll just have to see, won't we?"

Two man poker is a whole different game to the regular hold 'em. More aggressive. There aren't other hands to lessen the blow, so a draw is damn near impossible. No folding either, at least not against him. It's win or lose, no inbetween.

You win the first round, but just barely. Your palms slick and softening the edges of the new cards.

He doesn't react to losing. Not a smile or a frown or even a twitch in his fingers. He just takes the deck and deals again.

An ace, a jack and a king on the table. A ten and an eight in your hand. Not the worst, you can make it work.

He flips another card on the table. A nine. That gives you one more card for a straight.

You glance across at him and freeze. He hasn't even touched his cards. He's just looking at you, reclined all easy in his chair with the shadows falling across his face in stripes of dark.

"You've got a tell, girl. Do you know what it is?"

"No. But I get the sense you aren't going to tell me."

He picks up his whiskey and takes a sip, his lips brushing the lipstick stain you left behind.

"Nah. That wouldn't be any fun, would it?"

You look back at your cards. You can win this round with a little luck. Neither of you are betting with chips, so at least you don't have to worry about bluffing your way out. It's all luck this time. Luck and maybe just a bit of skill.

He draws the last card. Another king.

Not what you were hoping for. It leaves you with a four card straight.

He takes his time flipping his own cards over, watching you the entire time.

Your eyes flick down. Two kings. That means he has four of a kind. An easy win.

He doesn't even bother to look down. Just smiles as he reads the defeat in your face.

"Heels off, pretty girl."

You do it as slowly as you can, but you can't delay the inevitable. Your heels land on the wood floor with a thud. That leaves you in your stockings, your dress, your bra and your barely there thong. Four more pieces. Four more wins and you'll be his to claim.

He watches you without moving, still smiling. You can imagine this same scene playing out a hundred years ago. The gunslinger and the bar girl who landed too deep.

You reckon it would end the same too.

You shuffle the cards harder then you should, cardboard slapping in the silence. You deal fast, barely bothering to look at the three table cards.

Your own hand is a king and a three. Random.

He thumbs up the corner of his cards and you struggle to read anything in his face. Was that a slight twitch in his ring finger? A tightening around the eyes?

You flip the fourth and fifth cards in quick succession. Nothing at all to work with. Your hand is a total bust. You don't even bother trying to keep a poker face. You flip your cards over and start reaching for your stockings.

"High card," he says quietly.

You freeze and look at his cards. It's true. His hand is even worse than yours. You win because of your king.

You exhale sharply, feeling light as air. Three rounds down, still safe. Seven to go.

You win the fourth round with a damn lucky full house.

The fifth is cutting it close. You both end up with flushes, but he wins by having two more royals than you.

You try not to show too much skin as you slip out of your stockings. Thin material like this shouldn't make any difference, but you feel a little colder after losing them.

You don't feel very lucky. And maybe he can tell, because his smile gets just a bit wider.

You can still taste his whiskey when he deals the next round. Almost sweet. Almost mocking.

Your ears are buzzing with blood. Your heart rocketing against your chest. Three pieces of clothing left. Five rounds of poker. Are those good odds? You can't tell anymore.

You lose. Catastrophically.

He tries not to be smug, but not even his stone cold poker face can fully hide it.

"Need me to unzip you?"

"No."

You don't want him touching you. Not until the very end.

You reach back and unzip your dress with a little bit of tugging.

Better to just get it over with, right? You let the dress fall to the floor in a glittery heap and cross your arms across your chest. The cold sends goosebumps crawling across your thighs.

You're wearing a matching lace set. Bra and panty both a dark green. Your lucky colour, though you sure as hell don't feel lucky now.

He whistles.

"Didn't know you dressed up so nice 'fer me."

You sit back down and scoot your chair in, so the desk hides a bit more of your skin. You don't reply.

You win the seventh round, but any feeling of victory is crushed with the eighth. He wins it almost too easy.

You don't look at him as you undo your bra. You keep one arm pressed against your tits, but he clicks his teeth and you slowly lower it.

He doesn't whistle this time. But you can hear him shift forward in his chair, can hear the slight intake of breath.

You're sitting at his poker table in nothing but your panty with two rounds to go. You thought you begged lady luck plenty, but up until now you didn't know what true desperation felt like.

You shuffle as softly as you can, aware that every movement just brings attention straight to your chest.

You still try to avoid looking at him, even when you deal his cards.

He catches your wrist before you can pull away, his thumb bruising your pulse.

"Not so quick. Can't a man enjoy the view he's won?"

You finally meet his eyes. Darker now, much darker. Hazel bleeding into the golden brown of oak wood.

"You haven't won yet."

He let's you go, his smile fading.

The first three cards are a three, a seven and a nine.

Your hand is a three and a seven. A two pair right out of the gate. Still, you try not to be too hopeful.

The fourth table card is an eight.

But the fifth card? Your fingers are shaking when you flip it over.

He growls. The first real break in his carefully maintained poker facade.

A seven.

That leaves you with a full house, the fourth best hand. You win.

One more round to go.

He grabs the cards with more force than needed, bending the whole deck almost in half.

He shuffles fast. A lot faster than before, fingers moving differently somehow. It makes your spine tingle. He couldn't possibly be cheating while you're looking straight at him, right?

He tosses your cards at you like a proper dealer would, and then flips three onto the table faster than you can follow.

All hearts. An ace, a jack and a ten. Three parts of a royal flush.

You know without even looking at your cards that they're junk. And when you do finally pick them up, you realise its even worse than you thought. They're random number cards, no relation to the table cards at all.

The fourth and fifth table cards aren't much better. Your last hand is a total bust. You let them fall onto the table without bothering to wait for the call.

Stupidly, you want to cry. You can feel that lump in your throat, can feel that pricking behind your eyes. You sniffle without meaning to.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, doll," he says kindly, "You were never going to win."

He flips his cards over. They stare back at you like an accusation.

The king and queen of hearts.

That gives him a royal flush. He wins, with a hand few people ever have the luck to draw.

He stands and slowly comes around the desk. Your eyes are glued to the floor and all you can see of him are the tips of his boots. A soft, brown leather. Worn in, but clean.

No fake vaquero then. He's cowboy all the way through.

He rests a hand on your hair.

"Stand up, sweetheart." He isn't unkind about it.

You swallow and push yourself to your feet. You've been naked in front of men plenty of times before. But never like this. Somehow, you feel exposed. Like he's peeled away more than just your clothes. Like you're standing with both your tits and your soul bare.

He touches your hips and you flinch, still looking down at the floor. His thumbs run over the lace of your panties. He flicks the elastic and it thrums against your skin with a small snap.

"These are mine now, ain't they?"

You nod.

He hooks his fingers under the lace and tugs them down. Your underwear drops to the floor without even a whisper.

He takes a slow, deep breath. Then drags his palms up your sides, stopping at your rib cage - right under your tits.

"I'm gonna be good to you, girl. I promise."

You steel yourself and slowly drag your eyes up to meet his. You try to keep them back, but you can feel tears collecting at your waterline. You blink and they splash down onto your cheeks, warm as blood.

He doesn't wipe them away.

He leans forward and presses his lips against your forehead. As sweetly as a father would.

"I've got you, sweetheart. I've got you."

That only makes the tears come faster. Because he does have you - every inch of you, bought and paid for.

He leads you back to his side of the desk, your legs as unsteady as spring willow.

He sits down in his chair and looks up at you, palms cradling your hips. He traces his thumb across your skin, admiring.

"Come sit on my lap, girl."

You don't want to. You desperately don't want to.

But you do anyway, humiliation scorching your cheeks.

He clicks his tongue and grabs your legs, forces them apart so you're straddling his thigh, your back against his chest. He bounces his leg and the denim grinds against your clit.

Your gasp and make the mistake of looking back at him.

He's reclined in his chair like Lucifer at lunch, at ease and smug all at once.

"Didn't your daddy ever bounce you on his knee, girl?"

"No."

He lays a hand on the curve of your waist, his thumb stroking electric tingles down your spine.

"Guess I'll have to do what your daddy never could then, huh?"

He bounces his leg again, his jeans rubbing past your folds and scraping against your clit. You hiss, closing your legs like that can make any difference. How does he keep doing that? Aren't you heavy?

His other hand comes to your waist, and without any warning, he drags you backwards a few inches. Your clit rubs on his jeans fast enough to almost burn.

"C'mon girl, don't tell me you're so sensitive already?"

He rocks your hips forward and you shudder.

"Of course I am! It's fucking rough."

He clicks his tongue again, like he would at a horse.

"Watch your tongue. I don't like it when my girl swears."

His thumbs press indents into your skin, pushing your hips forward so you end up right back where you started, your clit ten times more sensitive.

He reaches forward and tilts your chin towards him, so you're looking at him over your shoulder.

"You gonna make me wash your mouth out, girl?"

You have a pretty clear idea of what he wants to use and it sure as hell ain't soap.

"No."

"No, what?"

He can't be serious. Isn't this embarrassing enough? Still, you have no power here. None to deny him, none to turn him away.

"No, sir."

It burns your tongue to say it.

He hums quietly, happy as a cat with stolen cream.

He leans up and nips your ear.

"Show me what you got, kid. Ride me and maybe I'll let you go."

He drags his lips down your neck before he pulls away.

You bite your lip, feeling like you've just been tossed on stage with a microphone and nothing else. You feel like you need to perform for him, and it's humiliating.

You rock your hips forward a little. It doesn't feel so bad, when you're the one in control. His jeans are rough on your clit, but... electrifying too.

You do it again, a little further, his leg solid and thick between your thighs. His hands slip from your waist to your ass, grabbing and kneading.

"Thaaat's it. Don't it feel real good?"

Your pussy is getting wetter and you can feel it soaking through his jeans. You feel just a little bolder. Give him a good show and maybe things won't have to go quite so far as you fear.

And hey, you ain't exactly a virgin. You know how to ride a man.

You stretch your arms up and cross them behind your head, all the better for him to admire your body. You grind forward on his thigh, clit rubbing against the traces of slick that soaked into the fabric.

You gasp again, not so shy about being quiet.

You hear him hiss softly, but he doesn't stop you.

You pick up your pace, sliding on him like a bull rider would. You didn't think it possible, but you feel your cunt pulsing. Feel it aching for something to fill it.

Riding on an older man's knee, with your back arched like a cat in heat. Debt hanging like a sword over your neck. And still, your body wants to be fucked. Demands to be fucked.

You don't realise his hands have moved until you feel his fingers brush your clit. His fingers are hot and slick with spit, and he forces them between your pussy lips.

You freeze, his spit smeared all over your cunt.

"What -"

He doesn't let you finish. One arm curls around your waist and her drags you back against his chest, your ass pressing against the icy cold of his belt buckle.

The new position leaves your cunt wide open to his touch, and his thumb presses hard against your clit.

"Fucking tease," he mutters, thumb tracing lower and probing at your entrance. "Had to watch you all night, my cock fucking aching."

"Wait, slow down. I -"

He slips his thumb into your cunt. Not deep, but rough.

You gasp. Try and squirm away, but all it gets you is another hiss in your ear and his belt grinding against your bare ass.

"Told myself I was gonna go all slow with you. Fucking impossible."

He takes his hand away from your cunt and sucks his fingers. When he touches your clit again, hot spit drools down your folds.

So icky.

He doesn't care if you don't like it. He rubs it like lube all over your cunt, two fingers probing at your entrance.

Gross. You don't want his spit inside you.

But there's no real way to tell him that, is there? Not when he owns you for the rest of the night. Not when you agreed to it.

His fingers push inside you, stretching you out with a dull ache. So much thicker than when you touch yourself, his fingertips reaching so much deeper. His skin isn't soft like yours is - you can tell he's worked with his hands because you can feel it. Lord help you, you can feel every inch.

"Hot and wet," he murmurs against your hair. "Just how I like it."

He pumps them in and out of you a few times, before pulling out with a twist that makes you shudder.

"Needed to check. Make sure you can handle my cock."

He holds his fingers up and slowly separates them. Slick and spit stretch in thin strings. Are you really that wet already? How? You didn't think you were the type to even get wet. All the men before him would have to dig your bottle of lube out of the nightstand before you even let them near you.

He brings his fingers up to your lips, smears the slick across them.

"Open up."

It's his spit.

You don't want to taste it. Don't want it in your mouth. He's not your boyfriend, he's not your lover. He's just a thug with a thing for girls two decades younger than him.

He presses harder against your lips.

"Open. Up."

You do. His fingers make your tongue tingle, long enough to brush the back of your throat and almost make you gag. The taste isn't the worst. You can mostly taste yourself - salty as seawater - and a little bit of whiskey.

"Suck."

You try not to think about it. Just suck him off and pretend it's your own fingers.

"Good girl."

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth and grabs your jaw.

"You ain't gonna give me any trouble about what comes next, are you?"

Your answer is muffled by the way he's holding you, but it's still clear enough to understand.

"No, sir."

"Good. Don't wanna have to wrestle you into place."

It makes you shiver. The implication that he can. That he would. If you decide to put up a fight, it's not going to stop him. Not going to make him back away and question the boundaries of consent. He's going to fuck you, whether you want it or not.

He relaxes his hold on your jaw, his palm skimming down your throat. A reminder, whether he means it to be or not.

He squeezes your tit. Not too hard, skin warm against yours.

"Stand up," he orders, his voice tight.

You're barely on your feet before he's pushing you forward, one hand on the nape of your neck.

He bends you over his desk.

The wood is cool and smooth against your skin. Almost comforting. Almost.

The sound of his belt coming undone is loud in the silence. You've heard that sound so many times before - that little clink of metal - but not once has it sounded quite so awful.

You want to stand up, want to at least have some say in what's about to happen.

No chance. His hand on your neck is tight, like he's holding down a calf for slaughter.

"Been wanting this since the moment I saw you."

He kisses your temple, and then your cheek. He ignores the tears pooling on the sleek mahogany.

He catches your wrists and pins them against your lower back. Not twisting enough to hurt, but tight enough that he has you caught all the same.

Your arms pinned and one hand holding you down by the nape. That's how he takes you.

He doesn't even bother trying to be nice. The head of his cock catches on your entrance and then he's pushing all the way in.

He bottoms out with a snarl, his grip tightening on your neck.

He pulls out almost all the way, and then slams right back in. You bite back a scream, your whole body tensing up.

Didn't he say he was going to be good to you? What kind of goodness is this?

"Too much to handle, girl?" he mocks, all his southern charm withered and gone.

"That's okay." He drags you up by your neck, your back arching painfully. "By the time I'm done, you'll know what it's like to get ridden by a real cowboy."

He drops you, you chin slamming hard against the wood. You taste blood, though you aren't sure from where.

He grabs your wrist and crosses your arm behind your back, so that your right wrist ends up next to your left hip and vice versa. It's uncomfortable. Almost painfully so.

And worst of all, it gives him all the leverage he needs to start pounding into you. Mean. Rough. Hard enough that every thrust has the huge desk rocking forward.

"Slow down! It hurts!"

He laughs.

"Too big 'fer you? Huh, little girl?"

"Yes! Ju-just go easy. Please."

He snarls as he bottoms out again, his throbbing tip scraping the deepest parts of your cunt. Spreading pre cum all across your cervix.

"Say you love me."

"What?"

He pulls all the way out, panting. His tip rubs against your clit, hot and wet and sticky.

"Say you love me and I'll slow down."

Is he insane? You don't even know his name. You can't love him, not with the way he's touched you. It's cruel to make you say it - haven't you entertained enough of his perversion?

You take too long to answer him.

His grip tightens on your wrists. Harder than anyone has ever held you.

"Fine," he growls, "The hard way it is."

You don't last long. Every lover you've ever had would stop if you even flinched. Until tonight, you didn't think sex could hurt so bad. You didn't think being fucked could leave you sobbing, praying for it to end.

You didn't realise that some men get off on seeing your tears.

By the time you manage to say it, your cunt is a sobbing, aching mess. Your nipples are rubbed raw from the friction, your wrists not much better.

"I love you."

He doesn't even break pace. Cock spearing inside you with less mercy than the Devil.

"Again."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you! I've always loved you! You're the man I've waited for all my life. I love you. Please stop hurting me."

He does.

He loosens his grip on your wrists and hooks one massive arm around your waist. He flips you over so you're on your back.

And oh, what a sight you make. Mascara running. Lips swollen. Tears caught in your lashes. Ruined.

He forces his way between your thighs and leans down, palms on either side of your face.

His hair is messy, his shirt half undone. But it's his eyes that catch you.

There's hellfire in the way he looks at you.

"Again," he says quietly.

You swallow, your words and your courage abandoned on the floor with your dress and stockings.

"I..."

He waits, never looking away from you.

"I love you."

He smiles. It doesn't comfort you at all.

"Liar."

He touches your cheek, surprisingly gentle.

"You have a tell, remember? I'll always know when you're lying."

He leans down and kisses you. His tongue presses against your teeth, and then swipes deeper into your mouth.

Old enough to be your father and he's got you naked on his desk, cunt drooling around his cock and his tongue down your throat. It's blasphemy. It's monstrous.

It's the best damn fuck he's ever had.

He doesn't break off the kiss when he starts thrusting. Slower this time, savouring the way your cunt throbs around him.

You whine against his lips, your cunt still burning.

"Quit 'yer complainin'," he murmurs, "Goin' slow, ain't I?"

His Texan drawl getting thicker the longer he's between your legs.

"Hurts..."

"You want me to come in your mouth instead?"

You shiver, not sure which is worse.

"Fine. You wanna choke on it? I ain't gonna stop ya."

He pulls you up and gathers your hair in his fist. An awkward position, but with you sitting on the edge of the desk, all you have to do is lean down to take his cock in your mouth.

He's surprisingly patient with you. Or maybe he just likes seeing you naked and crying on his desk.

It's almost over, you tell yourself. Just suck him off and you can leave. Put it all behind you and never touch a deck of cards again.

His cock is creamy with your juices. Most of it in a ring around the base.

You lick the tip and shiver. It's bitter. The way pomegranates sometimes are.

His hand on your head is heavy, demanding. You don't want him on your tongue, but he's already taken so much. What difference does this last bit make?

You try and relax, try and take all of him. It doesn't work. You gag, tears brimming on your eyes.

He huffs, amused almost. Or mocking. You can't tell.

"I can always finish in your cunt, if you can't handle it."

No. You most definitely can't handle that.

You take a deep breath through your nose. You can handle it. You will handle it. 

You grab his belt and pull him a little closer, nails digging divots in the leather.

He makes a pleased sort of noise and pushes your head down, all the way to the base. It's awful. You're overwhelmed by the taste, the smell, the feel of him.

He groans.

"Takin' it so fucking good, ain'tcha?"

He keeps you in place by your hair, and slowly pulls out. He let's you catch a hasty breath before he's right back in, a growl rumbling through him.

"Yeah, I reckon you needed this too. Needed your daddy to teach you a lesson on taking dick."

He chuckles, still fucking your throat with slow, deep thrusts.

"Needed to be reminded of your place in the world. Right here on my cock."

He has ridiculous stamina. None of your boyfriends have lasted half as long.

You moan around his cock and he shudders, grip tightening on your hair.

"You want to end this? Want me to let you go?"

You nod, looking up at him through your lashes with your mouth stuffed full of cock. Poor thing. Got more than you bargained for, didn't you?

He smirks, teeth ready to tear you apart.

"Then just hold still, alright? Gonna fuck your throat good and proper."

He bucks his hips and you choke. Whole body tensing as you gag and fight to hold still. He doesn't go so fast that you can't handle it, but you're right on the brink. Tears coming fast, lips feeling raw and bruised.

The sound of it is obscene. The slick sliding of his cock, the small coughs and gags. All of it the epitome of filthy sex.

Your hands move from his belt to his thighs, half to steady yourself, half to slow him down.

He's thrusting deep, his breathing getting faster. Each exhale almost a snarl.

He grabs your jaw and holds your mouth open right before he comes, his tip resting on the edge of your tongue.

His spunk shoots across your tongue and palette - flooding your senses with the the taste of him. And for a second or two, you think you'll never be able to rinse it away.

He groans, shamelessly loud.

"There," he pants, "Just how it's 'sposed to be."

He pulls out and tilts your chin up until you meet his eyes.

"Swallow."

You do. It's goes down thick - clinging to your teeth. Your stomach clenches, like your body knows exactly what you've consumed.

"Good."

He takes a deep breath, and then let's you go.

Well, for a second or two. Long enough to tuck his cock back in his jeans and redo his belt. And then he's grabbing you around the waist and pulling you against his chest.

He sits back down and drags you with him. Back on his lap, just like you started. Only difference is, this time your head is tucked under his chin and he's got one arm loosely draped over your thighs.

For a minute or two, there's only the sound of you both catching your breath

You don't want to keep thinking. You wish your brain would just shut up and let you get through this without pointing out all the ways you're hurting.

You try and sit up, maybe grab your clothes, but he doesn't let you. Hand coming up to press your head back against his chest.

You sag against him, defeated. Still not done then.

He's the one who finally breaks the silence.

"I know you, girl," he murmurs against your hair. "Better than you think. Tonight ain't the first I've noticed you."

You hum quietly, not sure what he wants you to say.

"You wanna know something funny? I've got a whole lot of dealers in this place. And almost all of them are honest men."

You lift your head a little.

"Almost all?"

"Just about every single one them. Except for the one you had tonight."

You go cold.

"You rigged my game." Your voice is hoarse - from tears, from his cock, from fear.

He laughs. " 'Course I did. House always wins, doll. But sometimes I just nudge things along."

He strokes a hand up your thigh, lazy and possessive.

"Like tonight. When I had a pretty girl on the line and an empty bed to fill."

You try and pull away, but his arm is still tight around your waist. Keeping you pressed up against him.

"How many? How many girls have you done this to?"

"A handful. Can't really remember all their faces, after all these years. But doll, none of them were you."

"What difference does it make? You're... you're a monster. A predator."

He laughs, indulgent.

"That what you wanna call it? I just call it 'risk management.' Folk know exactly what they're signing up for when they walk through those doors. Ain't my fault some of 'em don't know when to stop."

You push against his chest, trying to force your way off his lap. He's too hot, too close, too terrible. This man was inside you and it turns your stomach. You feel dirty from the inside out.

He clicks his teeth and squeezes your thigh.

"Quit squirmin'. You ain't goin' nowhere."

"Let me up. You got what you wanted, right? Our deal is done."

You slap his chest, hard.

"Let me go."

He doesn't.

"You really wanna be difficult with me, hmm?"

He smacks your ass, full strength. You yelp and jerk away. But there isn't anywhere to go except closer against him.

"You ain't going nowhere. So just sit pretty and let your daddy tell you a story."

"I don't want -"

He rubs his palm over your ass, over the same spot he hit you. You shiver and shut your mouth.

"Like I was sayin', all of those girls were just flings. I let 'em go if they don't want it. If they prefer the interest, so be it."

He's smiling. You can hear it in his voice.

"They never do though. Not when the choice is between fifteen minutes sucking my cock or fifteen years at prime lending rate."

He runs his palm over your ass again, squeezing.

"But you're special, ain'tcha? You're my girl. No more flings after you."

He presses a kiss against the crown of your head.

"You're the one I've been waiting for."

"You can't," you manage. "You can't keep me here. We had a deal. My debt is settled."

"You think I can't pull a few strings?" He sounds more amused than insulted. Like a father when his daughter says he can't pick her up like Superman. "It ain't hard, doll. A car left abandoned out in the desert. Your phone and ID all neat in the glove box. Couple grand to a captain on the force to have your case packed away as cold. Easy as apple pie."

You're icy from the tips of your fingers to your toes. He runs a hand through your hair, soothing.

"But I don't gotta do that, do I?"

Your lips are numb. No, no, no - this isn't how it's supposed to go. You know he's a thug, you know he has connections beyond what a legal man ought to have. Can't be a casino boss otherwise. But none of that was ever supposed to apply to you. You're just a dumb student who spent a few too many weekends at the tables. That doesn't deserve a punishment like this.

"Do I?"

"No, sir."

"Right. Because you're going to stay with me without putting up a fuss. Gonna be my girl."

"Yes, sir."

He hums, pleased.

"You'll love it here, doll. You can play as much poker as you want. All on the house."