mojavebluez

[mojavebluez]

PEDRO PASCAL as REED RICHARDS/MISTER FANTASTIC

The Fantastic Four : First Steps (2025) dir. Matt Shakman

[mojavebluez]

Какие то председатели

Оба похожи на рыб😭😭😭

[mojavebluez]

sorry i said gay when you and your buddy had a massive falling out and tried to kill each other. it just kinda looked like that.

[mojavebluez]

sure whatever man

[mojavebluez]

Devour - the salesman x fem!reader (18)

Chapter 5

“…the realisation is a sharp slap across your face: he is going to devour you.”

summary - you wake up one night after an embarrassing dream, and decide to give him a call. He rewards your good behaviour.

tags - oral, fem!receiving, non-con elements, sadomasochism, unprotected sex, no lube, spanking, light choking, dom!salesman, sub!reader, praise kink, degradation kink, age gap

a/n - I’m sorry it’s been so long but here’s another chapter!! Keep the requests coming, I try to use all your ideas :) ps if you guys want to be tagged then please comment!

series masterlist

4.5k words

His eyes are dark and hungry. You arch against him, gasping little helpless moans as he eases himself inside you. You feel his cock stretch your insides, though you try your hardest to take as much of him as you can. He responds to your pleading, pulling out and then thrusting back in with unbearable force. It's almost too much for you - pleasure builds in your gut, and you dig your fingers into his broad shoulders, begging for him to let you cum. Finally, you cry out, and-

Your eyes fly open. You shoot up, peeling off your bedsheets that cling to your skin with sweat. You're in your room. Alone. It's dark and silent aside from your panting breaths. Realisation sets in and you feel your cheeks glow with humiliation - there's no doubt about it. You just had a wet dream about him.

Him! The man who takes pleasure in your torture. The man who carved his own phone number into your skin just to hear you scream. Your head falls into your hands. The intensity of the dream is still fresh in your mind - his heavy breathing, so incredibly vivid you can swear you still hear it, the heat of his breath warming your neck. You peek between your fingers over at your bedside table. Your phone sits, face up, waiting.

No. You can't. You stare at it for what feels like an hour; every fibre of your being practically screams out in protest. You ignore your body. Instead, you reach out and grab it before you can reconsider. You hold out your forearm, letting your eyes adjust to the darkness. Once you can distinguish the jagged, raised scars, still fresh and pink, you type the number into your phone and listen to it ring out.

Once. Twice. He must be asleep, you think. Three times.

"Yes?" Not even a greeting. His voice is businesslike, and so familiar it makes your stomach squirm.

"Can I see you?" Your voice sounds distant. You feel for a moment as though you are outside of your body, watching from afar.

It's silent. He must have just woken up, but you struggle to imagine him sleeping at all. "It's 2AM."

You pause. It seems such an obvious thing for him to say. "Can I see you?" You repeat, voice more insistent this time.

You hear movement on the other end. Rustling, and then a door or maybe a drawer opening. A clatter, like a pen falling, and then he speaks again. His voice is fast but clear, and you listen closely. It's an address. He repeats it again and you open notes on your phone, typing it in with rapid fingers. You stare at the address, trying to make sense of it, and then he hangs up. The line goes dead.

Thirty minutes later you are exiting a cab, letting the door slam shut behind you. It speeds off, leaving you on the street, standing before a low-roofed building. A blinking sign indicates where he has lead you: a motel. You cautiously step forward, walking across the almost-vacant parking lot. You reach the entrance and push the door open, enjoying the rush of warm air that hits your face. It smells like damp and mottled carpet, but you barely register it, too intent on reaching your destination. Reaching him.

A young woman sits at the front desk, watching her phone with a flat expression. You clear your throat and she drags her gaze toward you, looking you up and down.

"Hi, um..." he hadn't given you a room number. You consider your words. "My, um, boyfriend is staying here."

The woman watches you stumble over your words, eyes blank. "He usually wears a suit, carries a case, very, uh-" you gesture at your face, indicating his good looks that the woman would have surely noticed.

She sniffs. "Room 11."

You nod and contort your mouth into a grateful smile. As you head in the direction of the room, your blood hammers in your ears, the adrenaline starting to flow. You barely feel your feet carrying you across the lot to room 11 - when you finally do reach his room, you knock on the door once. It opens, seemingly by itself, and you step into darkness. You are swallowed by the shadows, calling out for him but hearing no response. You squint your eyes, before a lamp clicks on in the corner. The room floods with a dim amber glow, and it takes you a moment to realise what is happening.

It's him. He is sat on a chair in the far corner, watching you with a level gaze. He wears a dark grey suit, perfectly pressed; despite the hour, he still manages to dress as though he is heading for the office.

"You called?" He says, voice breaking through the silence. You can't help but smile when you look at him - it's strange, everything about him does you more harm than good. Maybe that dream has distorted your view of him completely.

"I did," is all you can say. You pull your jacket off and lay it over a table. Might as well make yourself comfortable.

"Well? I assume you had a reason," he raises an eyebrow.

"I needed to see you," you step closer to him, bridging the gap between your bodies. Your steps feel planned, pre-calculated.

His eyes follow your movement. "I see."

You reach the chair. You are taller than him now, though not by much, but still taller. A surge of power rushes through you. You organised this. He has bent to your will to allow this meeting, something you never previously thought possible. You see his expression falter for a moment as you stand over him. He observes you, dragging his gaze over your body. You had purposely dressed the way you knew he would like: a little skirt and frilly shirt that the straps of your bra were clearly visible under. You have no idea why you want to please him so badly. The urge seems subconscious to you.

His hand clenches on the arm of the chair. It's a small action, but you notice it. "I'm not sure what you think you're doing."

"I know what I'm doing," you smile. There is a familiar tingle in your cunt - you want him so badly, now, in this moment. And he is right here in front of you. You recall your dream - the way he shuddered into you as he came - it ended far too abruptly for your liking.

His face is amused. "You're forgetting yourself."

You shake your head.

"Have you forgotten how this works?" he continues, straightening in his seat. His eyes flash to your arm, glancing at the carving he left on your skin. "I see it healed well."

You almost laugh at his attempt to change the subject. "Very well. And I used it how you wanted."

You are closer than ever to him now. His face hardens over, and his eyes seem to turn flat, like two black coins. You watch his expression, curious, skin tingling with anticipation. His voice is dark as he speaks. "You fucking whore."

You freeze, stunned at his harsh words. Without warning, he grabs your outstretched wrist - the one with the scars. His fingers press down with so much pressure that purple bruises erupt instantly over your skin. You yelp, suddenly snapping out of your daze. Your vision seems to clear, and you can see him for what he really is: eyes animalistic and bleeding with desire, teeth gritted and incisors flashing.

He tugs you forward, making you stumble over him. You clamp a hand onto his shoulder to steady yourself, feeling his muscles tense. He thrusts a hand under the fabric of your skirt, forcing it between your legs and over the fabric of your panties. Your face flushes as he chuckles, mumbling into your ear, "already wet for me. And I haven't even touched you."

He doesn't move his hand away. The pressure of his fingers over your swollen clit is a welcome feeling. You instinctively grind your hips against his hand. The position he has you in is uncomfortable, but you don't care, desperation creeping into your bones again. He makes a disappointed tutting noise, and you whimper as he pulls his hand away sharply, leaving you with emptiness and a painful lack of friction. He stands up abruptly, then moves forward, forcing you to the center of the room. He watches you with a look you can only describe as hunger. The realisation is a sharp slap across your face: he is going to devour you.

"Tell me why you called me," he says firmly.

The words stumble out before you can stop them. "I had a dream about you."

He stops, a smirk curling over his lips. Then, before you can register the movement, he juts an arm out and grabs you by the throat, forcing you backward. Your legs hit the edge of a bed, and you fall, collapsing onto the mattress. You're instantly winded by the firm, cheap motel foam and gasp for breath as he leans over you, never releasing his grip on your neck. You claw at his hand, desperate for oxygen.

His face is half shadowed by the light, but the half you can see is a mask of utter serenity. He watches you squirm for a moment before finally letting go. You shoot upward, crawling backwards until your back hits the headboard. The bed frame is rickety, hitting the wall behind with a thud. You watch, eyes wide, as he places one knee on the bed, moving towards you with an intense darkness in his eyes. He clamps a hand over your ankle, forcing a strangled scream to escape from your throat, and tugs you back to the middle of the bed.

You sprawl into a starfish position, helpless, and he plants a knee either side of your legs. He bends himself over you, running the curve of his nose down the side of your neck - his light breaths send chills from the base of your neck to the tip of your spine, and you make a small, pleased noise. He moves over your collarbones, like he is drinking in every inch of you, his eyes closed and lips slightly parted. His unexpected gentleness fills you with dread rather than pleasure.

Teasingly, he works his way down your core, stopping at the centre of your stomach. He diligently undoes the buttons of your shirt, opening up your bare skin to him, making you feel oddly exposed under his cool gaze. His wide hands cup the curve of your breast, slipping a frilled strap off to reveal the smooth skin of your shoulder. You lie there, letting his hands work over you, too afraid to move or speak. He undoes your bra with ease, slipping his arms under your back to unclasp it. He pulls it off, brushing a thumb over the bump of your nipple, and you hiss at the tender feeling.

He seems satisfied with you thoroughly exposed. Continuing downward, he moves to your naval, peppering kisses on the flat of your stomach. Warmth blooms in the places where the softness of his lips meets your skin, and you hum satisfied noises with each pressing kiss. He reaches the waistband of your skirt, though, agonisingly, he moves past it, instead pushing the fabric upward, exposing your soaked panties. You feel your face glow as he laughs breathily to himself, pressing firm kisses on your inner thighs. He reaches the five raised scars he left following your first meeting, and pauses.

"I almost forgot about these," he traces a finger over the lines, making you shiver. "Such a shame. Ruins your pretty skin."

You nearly laugh out loud, but stop yourself. He was the one that put the marks there - how can he call it a shame? His audacity shocks you more and more every time. After all, you are the one that has to live with the memories, forever carved into your body.

You're distracted from your frustrations when he hooks a finger over the waistband of your panties. You suck your breath in as he pulls them to your ankles, the cool air hitting your bare pussy. He makes a soft noise as he takes in the sight of you, already dripping with arousal at the thought of what he is going to do to you. You can't see what he's doing - your eyes on the ceiling - but you hear a rustle of bedsheets as he moves himself down the bed.

The sensation is like nothing you have ever felt before. A sharp squeak escapes your throat, and you twitch your hips; he licks a long, slick line from your clit to entrance, tasting you for the first time. He pauses, enjoying the expectant whimper he earns, then swirls his tongue around your swollen clit. You gasp, gripping fistfuls of the cheap bedsheets.

"You taste so fucking good," he mutters between licks, voice breathy. You hold your head back to stop yourself from responding.

He keeps going, licking wet lines and curved shapes over your pussy, holding your hips when you shift around too much. His fingers dig deep into your skin, but you don't care, your entire being utterly consumed by his hypnotic tongue movements. Just when you think that's all he has to offer, he dips the tip of his tongue into your entrance, forcing out a weak whimper from you.

After a minute, it's just not enough, and you grind yourself against his mouth. He makes a low noise, almost a growl, the deep vibration just motivating you further. He pushes your hips down harshly, moving backwards to come up for air.

"Someone's getting a little impatient," he meets your eyes from the end of the bed, his gaze heavy-lidded and lusting. "Keep squirming and I'll have to tie you down."

The idea doesn't sound so bad to you, but you listen to his words nonetheless. He dips his tongue inside you again, almost experimentally, and you bite down on your knuckle to stop yourself from responding. He seems satisfied, resuming with his work, this time with more intensity. He builds up pace, sucking at your clit before fucking you with his tongue - slick noises fill the room, and your eyes roll back into your skull. You're sure you're going to cum, but it's too soon for him, you know it. He pulls back, lips glistening with your wetness.

"Such a good fucking girl," he mutters between kisses against your clit, "calling me just like I told you to."

You hold your head back against the mattress, too afraid that if you meet his eyes you'll come undone completely. He bobs his head, finding rhythm, and brings a hand up to cup your breast, squeezing with almost painful pressure. He makes a pleased noise against you, flicking his tongue over your clit and then swiping it down again; you moan breathily, unable to keep it in. It's torture, and he can sense your build-up, pulling away for a moment just to praise you for listening to him, for following his rules - as though you had any choice in the matter.

"You gonna cum for me?" He mumbles, voice muffled as he pulls back and replaces his tongue with a curled finger.

He flutters his tongue over your clit, whilst slowly pumping his finger inside you, curling and uncurling. The ceiling seems to spin, and you grip the bedsheets just to steady yourself. He keeps fucking you with his fingers, forcing two inside just to stretch you further. Euphoria melts over you, and he finally lets your orgasm arrive, fingering you through it until you're a sweating, twitching mess under his mouth.

You throw your head back, coming down from your high. Once you feel him pull back, you rest on your elbows to look at him. The image is dizzying: his hair, damp and hanging over his forehead, lips full and wet, pupils completely dilated. He pops a finger into his mouth, sucking off your arousal as he meets your eyes. You feel the air hum between the two of you. You can sense his composure slipping, and you steel yourself for anything he might be planning to do.

You shift back, letting your skirt fall back to cover you as he stands to his full height. A clear boner strains against his trousers and you suddenly realise his intentions - there is no way he would have done that for you without expecting anything in return. A sickening smile contorts his mouth, half his face darkened by the shadows. You shrink away from him, but he leans down to grab your waist, his hands easily wrapping around you. You cry out as he flips you over onto your knees, ass up.

"Please, no! I'm tired-"

"Be a good girl and take it," he growls. You whimper at the sound of his belt clattering to the floor. His fingers press into your hips with frightening pressure. "This is a mutual- fuck," he grunts, distracted by the sight of your pussy, upturned and leaking with your last orgasm. He pulls his cock from his trousers, the tip already beaded with precum, and lines it up with your entrance.

"I can't-" you wince at the memory of him inside you, so big that he could fill you entirely, and then some.

"You gonna scream? Or keep quiet?" He doesn't let you respond, thrusting into you with so much force that the bed frame thumps against the wall. You nearly scream, but the vigour of his thrust only lets a strangled noise escape.

His hips stutter against you, and you hear him sigh breathily. Your walls stretch around him - it's slightly easier this time, though your body still isn't used to the sheer size of him. He pulls out, cock glistening with your wetness, then ploughs back inside with a deep grunt. You clamp a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from screaming, knowing that would just make him fuck you harder. He builds up pace, manipulating your hips with his wide hands, forcing your body back and forth with every thrust. You feel your muscles go limp, your body finally flagging - you just let him use you as he pleases.

"So fucking tight," he groans, pulling out. He seems to sense you losing strength; he slaps a hand against the soft skin of your ass, making you scream for real this time. The slap leaves a large, pink handprint on your skin, and you can feel his euphoria at the sight of you. Ass up, skin damp with sweat, hair rumpled and makeup smudged. What a pretty mess he has made of you.

He grips your hair, wrenching your head back. Unbroken tears cloud your vision. Your neck cranes as he leans over you, bringing his lips to your jaw. He keeps his hold on your head as he drives back into you, contorting your body into an uncomfortable position - it forces you to stay tense and arched and painfully aware of his cock pulsing inside you. The tears flow when he claps another sharp slap over your ass, your skin tingling with fiery agony. He laughs breathily, swiping off a tear with his free hand. You wince at his fingers brushing your cheek.

The pain is distracting, but you still feel everything he is doing to you. His cock strikes that unreachable nerve inside you, and, despite yourself, your eyes roll back, a moan passing your lips. He makes a low, pleased noise, and rips your head back so he can see your pleasure. Your view of him is distorted, but you can make out his eyes, black with his dilated pupils. Sweat beads on is forehead, dripping down his neck to skin the collar of his, now creased, shirt. His tie is off-kilter and falling over his shoulder, though he doesn't seem to notice, face practically morphed into a mask of ecstasy.

He curses as your walls tighten around his thick girth. The exhaustion has passed, and now comes the pleasure, melting over your skin like hot butter. You curl your fingers through the bedsheets, not even caring about the almost-deafening noise of the shitty bed frame hitting the wall. You just pray that you don't have any neighbours, though you suspect that he wouldn't overlook that detail.

He crashes back into you, fucking your insides until your legs tremble. When he pulls out, a string of precum connecting your bodies, as well as his hand clamped firmly on your ass. The sound of his skin slapping against yours, your heavy breathing, and the clattering of the bed frame echoes around the room. The need to cum for the second time in one night floods your brain and you reach back between your legs to stroke your clit. He sees the action, and pauses, gripping your upper arm so aggressively that you yelp.

"You stupid slut," he hissed, forcing your hand away, "trying to make yourself cum. That's- my- fucking- job." He grunts between heavy thrusts. You clench your jaw, the feeling of him filling you completely becoming too much to bear. You hang your head as he builds up speed, seemingly intent on punishing you now.

Your muscles spasm, and you can sense his orgasm building. A stream of curses always pass his lips when he's close, so different to his usual formal language. He reaches around to squeeze your breast, tweaking your nipple just to hear you whimper at the pain. You aren't sure if you can cum again, body still recovering after your last arrival, but he doesn't care, wrenching your head back again to meet your eyes. They're black and dead but still somehow dripping with desire - for you. You're the only person that has seen him this way. And he is the only person that can make you feel like this. The thought itself nearly makes you fall apart entirely.

"I'm gonna- fuck," he gasps into your ear.

His body shudders into you as his orgasm finally arrives, and he folds over you, releasing warm ropes of cum inside of you. You gasp, and he stutters his hips against you, riding you through his orgasm. On his final thrust, you cum with him, but this time it crashes through you with earth-shattering force. You fall onto your elbows with him still inside you, body completely weak. He claps a final slap on your ass on top of the crimson handprints already there, making you twitch and pulls out of you with a deep sigh.

Your chest heaves as you come down from your high, collapsing onto the bed and turning around to look at him. You watch with heavy lidded eyes as he zips up his trousers, clinically adjusting his tie and fixing his shirt. He looks down to meet your eyes, and something in his gaze makes your breath catch in your throat. The look he gives you is different to his usual cold apathy or primal lust. It's something softer. Warmer. And it terrifies you.

The two of you get dressed in silence, the air warm and heavy. You pull your panties back up, wincing when you feel the warmth of your skin where he slapped you. You sit on the edge of the bed, looking up at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes. A part of you aches at the realisation that the arrangement is already over - though, you feel satisfied knowing the reality was far better than your dream. He stands over you, moving up a hand to cup your chin and tilting his head.

You can feel the air buzzing between you, a tension you don't recall feeling with him before. Perhaps it's the fact that he came here just because you needed him, instead of the other way around. You can't be sure. All you know is that he leans down to press an empty kiss on your swollen lips, then turns to leave without saying a word, briefcase in hand. The door slams shut and for a moment you stare into the near-darkness, heart hammering in your ears. Finally you shoot up, starting for the door and grabbing your jacket on the way out.

The cold air hits the bare skin of your arms and legs, but you don't care, glancing around to find him and praying that he hasn't disappeared. You catch sight of him across the parking lot and break into a run. He stops, hearing your footsteps slapping the concrete, and turns around to face you. You come to a standstill before him. The wind whips your hair around your face.

"Are you just going to leave?" You gasp, looking into his eyes.

His expression is flat as he responds. "Do you need something?"

You search his eyes for any sign of the man you just fucked. There's nothing. The mask is back, turning him into his standard businessman persona. Your heart stings. "I- I thought-"

"What did you think?" He stares down at you with vacant eyes.

"Just now, we-"

"I think you're getting a bit confused," his voice is painfully condescending, "go home. It's late."

You can feel tears pricking in your eyes. You assure yourself it's just the cold, in case he notices. He doesn't. "I can't. I want to stay with you."

Your voice is adamant, but he doesn't respond with the same intensity. "I've arranged for a car to drop you off. You know how to contact me."

He turns to walk away and you grab the cuff of his blazer, making him stop in his tracks. He looks back at you, something close to anger spreading across his features. "Let go of me and go home." His tone is stern. Your skin chills, but you ignore it.

"I'll miss you," you sound meek and pathetic even to yourself. You hang your head to avoid his eyes, but also to prevent him from seeing the flush in your cheeks, embarrassed at your own actions.

He wrenches his hand away from you and then juts his lower lip out in a mock pout. He leans down to brush his lips against your cheek, and then turns and starts in the other direction, his stride long. By the time you look up he is already out of the parking lot, and a car pulls up outside the motel - just as he promised.

Oh god. Are you falling in love with him?

[mojavebluez]

My main takeaway from Fever Code is how much of Thomas' motivations revolve around Newt. Finding out that Newt isn't immune was a shock to his system, and despite his complaints about WICKED, Thomas agreed that they need to find a cure no matter the cost—because Newt needs the cure. He does a lot of stuff that makes him sick for it, including the Purge, etcetera.

But then when Newt throws himself off the Maze's wall, that's another shock. Now the goal is to escape, cure be damned, because Newt obviously needs out of there ASAP. Plus what Thomas sees of Phase Two, and the thought of his friends enduring that.

Bonus that in the movies, it's Newt's death that breaks Thomas. Only then does he give up and turn himself into WCKD, as opposed to before when he'd rather die than ever go back.

(I also love that in Fever Code, Thomas is like, "Newt and the others..." And in Crank Palace, Newt is like, "Tommy and the others...")

[mojavebluez]

Carve - the salesman x fem!reader

Chapter 4

summary - after your personal promise not to call him, a month passes with no sign of him. You really think that you might be free from his torture, until you wake up in his apartment all over again. He isn’t going to let your actions go unpunished - so he makes sure that to do something that you will never forget.

tags - knifeplay, degradation kink, praise kink, dryhumping, grinding, blood kink, sub!reader, dom!salesman, making out, sadomasochism, non-con, porn with plot

a/n - can you tell I was really feeling this one?? It might be a little while until I can continue due to general workload so I hope this keeps you guys satisfied :) dw though, more things to come!

Series masterlist

4.5k words

You had entered a new stage of your life. You had taken a conscious effort after your last meet-up to avoid him completely, and were feeling the effects every day. You felt lighter. Blissful. You smiled for no reason in particular - the knowledge that he could not touch you anymore no longer weighed on you. The memory of his face, smirking at the sound of your screams, used to hang over you like a raging storm cloud. Without him, the storm had cleared, and the days seemed brighter.

In fact, that night when you returned home from your meeting, you found his number and blocked it from your phone completely. The only reminder of him were the scars on your thigh and the marks on your neck, which soon faded. You chilled at the memory of his hand on your throat, pressing down until you saw stars. No more. He couldn't hurt you now.

Nearly a month had passed since you'd last seen his face. One afternoon on your walk home, you feel a strange compelling urge to keep aware of your surrounding. You glance around, shoving your hands into your pockets and lengthening your stride. After a minute of walking, you relax, telling yourself the feeling was just your imagination - probably some sort of trauma response after all you had been through.

You pass through a quiet part of town. Parked cars devoid of drivers sit on the curb, and you walk past empty shops with hatched windows. You pick up your pace when you see yourself approaching the entrance to an alleyway, suddenly very aware of yourself. You are contemplating crossing over the street, just to be safe, but it's too late. A hand darts out, grabbing you by your hood and pulling you into the alley. Immediately, you scream, kicking your feet and waving your arms. A hand claps over your mouth, muffling your voice, as well as an arm hooked around your body. The hold is unfamiliar. You almost laugh at the irony. Imagine you die now at the hands of a stranger, and not him. You can practically see him punching the air.

You thrash around in an attempt to escape the strangers hold. The person is tall, very strong, and much, much bigger than you. Still, you don't give up, not losing hope. You'd survived this long.

After a moment, you grow tired, and the person takes it as an opportunity to shift you. They tighten their grasp, holding you upward until your feet hover from the ground. You swing your legs, only moving yourself slightly, before they move forward and out of the alley. Your eyes widen when you see a car opposite, its door wide open.

You use one last burst of energy to throw yourself forward. You briefly escape, catching a glimpse of your attacker before being shoved through the door. All the air is knocked out of you and you collapse onto the back seat. The door slams behind you, plunging you into darkness. Your mind starts to race. You scramble over the seat to the front of the car, but you never see the face of the driver. Something hard strikes down on your head, and it all goes black.

You emerge from the darkness aching and with a splitting headache. Immediately, you shoot upwards and try to get a sense of your surroundings. It's not at all what you expect. There's something strangely familiar about the room that you find yourself in. The sleek, monotone colour scheme. The wide window spanning from floor to ceiling. The comfortable hardness of the mattress beneath you. There's no doubt about it: it's his apartment.

You press a hand to your forehead, bringing it away to see blood staining your fingers. You must have blacked out back there, but you caught a brief look at who attacked you. It certainly wasn't him - is he really getting other people to do his dirty work now? You underestimated the extent of his obsession. You almost feel flattered at his efforts.

The whole room is dark aside from long streaks of lights being cast across the floor. You recognise the coffee table and chairs from your first meeting. It feels like so long ago, when, in reality it has been barely two months. You feel your heart thud regularly in your chest, though louder than normal. You know something is wrong. You can't be safe here. You sit up in his bed, trying your best to ignore the pain at your bleeding forehead. Glancing around, you open your mouth to say something.

Before you can talk, he emerges from the shadows with his hands clasped before him. Your breath catches in your throat. You had almost forgotten what he looked like, partly because your mind had blocked the memory of him to keep you safe. He was just the same as usual: perfect, symmetrical, tall and imposing. His presence immediately darkens the room.

His suit is a deep red paired with a matching tie. The colour brings unwelcome thoughts, and you can't help but think it was a conscious choice on his part. His hair is gelled back impeccably, not a single strand escapes.

"Long time no see," you say, voice dry. You feel every muscle in your body tense involuntarily as he steps towards you.

Half his figure is bathed in a red glow coming from the window, the other half shadowed. You contemplate pinching yourself to see if you are dreaming. This whole situation seems like a twisted fantasy your mind has conjured up as some sort of personal torture. It isn't until he speaks that you know it's real.

"Indeed," is all he says. His voice is velvety, not at all indicative of his nature. You press your back against the headboard, preparing yourself for whatever he is planning to do to you.

"I'm sorry I haven't called, I just-"

"No apologies," he holds up a hand, stopping you, "you've been very busy, haven't you? It's exam season."

"How did you..." you trail off, registering his words. He must have been keeping an eye on you. You scoff. How naive of you to think you could have escaped him so easily.

"You really expected me just to let you go?" His mouth curves into an uneven smirk, lips peeling back over his pearly teeth. "Who do you take me for?"

"I don't know," you whisper, hanging your head. Humiliation twists your insides uncomfortably. This really is your life now.

He steps closer, standing beside the bed, his figure hovering over you. You feel insignificant before him and incredibly vulnerable. Here, in his own apartment, and on his own bed, you are utterly at his mercy. Any prospect of hope quickly drains out of you. You try your hardest to keep some sort of distance between the two of you. You press your torso flush again the headboard, holding your head back to keep him fully in view. You can't let him catch you off guard.

"I'll admit, I'm disappointed. After everything I've done for you?" His tone is horrifyingly parental. You feel like a scolded child. "Not even one call?"

"I haven't had time-"

"Oh, but you have," his eyes spark, "all those nights out. And all those dates. You've been enjoying yourself, haven't you?"

It couldn't be - is he actually jealous? You feel a sudden surge of power. It isn't just him pulling the strings anymore. "You've been watching me."

"I have," he smiles, placing his hands by his sides as though preparing himself, "and I will continue to until you learn your lesson."

"And what lesson is that?"

"This."

He lunges forwards, throwing his body over you. You gasp as he grabs both of your wrists and pins them over your head, keeping you stuck there. He lays his full weight over you, placing one knee either side of your legs until you are caged in by his body. You arch your back, trying to squirm out of his grasp. His face is barely centimetres from yours. You can feel the heat of his breath on your face, but you don't dare to meet his eyes. You already know how terrifying they are.

You throw your head back and forth against the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut. You twist your body away from him until you're practically writhing around. Still, he doesn't move. He watches you with an amused look, gelled strands of hair falling over his forehead and tickling your face. You feel repulsed by his touch.

"I really thought," he says between heavy breaths, "you would know better by now."

"Let go-!"

"And yet, you still tried to get away," he tuts, shaking his head at you. You thrust your head back, summoning a scream, but he just laughs blatantly at your efforts.

"You really never learn, do you?" He leans his head forwards, bringing his lips to your ears. You make a little noise at the dampness of his breath. "No one can hear you."

He moves back to watch your expression fall. He's right, of course. The last time you were here you screamed until you lost your voice, and yet help never came. He would never let you in his apartment if he had overlooked a detail like that.

"I meant to call, I really did!" You lie, voice a faint whimper. He pouts his lips at you in mock-sympathy.

"And yet, you didn't," his voice loses all amusement. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch darkness melt over his features. His eyes become two flat, inky disks, bearing into you until your blood runs cold.

"Did you lose the card?" He spits through gritted teeth. His lips curl, and he moves his face so close to yours that you flinch when he speaks. "Did you forget the fucking number?"

"Please-"

"How can I make sure you remember it forever, huh? What can I do?"

"Don't-"

"Just shut the fuck up!" He yells, making you recoil back into the pillow. He's never shouted at you before. You feel yourself begin to tremble under his hold. You press your lips firmly shut, not having any desire to see that side of him again.

Something sinister burns in his eyes. You watch it catch light and spark into a flickering, black flame. He releases one hand, keeping the other locked over your wrists, which stay above your head. He brings the other to the breast pocket of his blazer, dipping his hand inside and bringing it back out to reveal what is inside.

"NO!" You scream, kicking your legs out and thrashing around on the bed. He presses the weight of his body down onto you until you struggle to fill your lungs fully.

"I said be quiet," his voice is flat, monotone. It's a warning. He is much worse when his anger is under control.

He presents the blade to you. The sight of it is sickeningly familiar. Its smooth surface reflects your face, and agonising memories flash in front of you. The scars on your thigh serve as a reminder of that night - you certainly don't want any more of them. You close your eyes, trying to shut him out.

"You can't escape this," you can feel his lips brush the skin of your neck and you shiver. It's an unfamiliar action on his part.

"Don't hurt me," your voice is barely a breath. All hope has left you.

"Oh, but I have to," he says it like he is fulfilling a duty, "it's the only way that you'll learn."

He sighs heavily as he pushes himself upward. You feel great relief as the weight of him is lifted, but that is soon replaced by dread when he moves your wrists, extending your arms fully above your head. Your blood starts to hum in your ears as you watch him, knelt over you, bring the blade to the skin of your arm. You brace yourself for the agony. And it comes, even worse than you expected.

He plunges the blade into the smooth skin of your inner arm, carving a deep line into the flesh. You scream louder than you thought possible. You feel his breath start to pick up as he starts to carve the first digit into you. Blood pools at the site of the wound, before dripping down and staining his white sheet with speckles of an alarming red. The pain is overwhelming. Tears well up in your eyes, blurring the world around you into a blend of colour. His curved, suited figure swirls into a mix of crimson.

You continue to scream between sobs, the tears becoming unstoppable rivers now. Your back arches as he pulls the knife out to examine the first number. He makes a low, satisfied noise, swiping away the blood with the side of his hand. He bends down to press a kiss on the wound, and you shriek, the unexpected pressure agonising. His lips come away dark red, teeth flashing in an appalling grin.

"No more, please-"

"I've barely started," he coos, furrowing his brows in concentration. You watch him with a distant, pained expression, his body arched over yours and neck bent. Blood stains his fingers, dripping down to the cuffs of his shirt. He briefly leans back, his knees straddling your hips, to take off his blazer jacket. Your eyes are blurry, but you see the wide v shape of his torso towering over you. He is so handsome that it aches. He discards the jacket and leans back down over your arm to continue, ignoring your whimpers of protest.

You groan in pain and general bodily exhaustion as he plunges the knife back in. A strange tingling sensation has built in your arm, only slightly numbing the suffering you would have felt. You try to focus on other things. The softness of the bedsheets. The sound of his breath, ragged and heavy as though he were already fucking you. You take small pleasure in imaging that, in some distant universe, you were a normal couple who made love and slept and existed like anyone else. That was not this universe.

You snap back to reality when he pulls the knife back out after successfully carving the second part. A sheen of sweat has built on his forehead, and drops trickle down the side of his face. You sob. He was taking 'blood, sweat and tears' far too literally. You observe him examining the blade, titling it so the light catches on the steel surface. From this angle, you can see every detail of his face. One of his eyes is twitching involuntarily. The mask is slipping.

"You're doing so well," he mutters, bending back down to continue without even looking at you. Your whole body shudders. You silently pray that you might pass out so the whole thing can end. But no - every time he sees you slipping, he places a harsh kiss on your wound, jolting you awake.

Your screams fade to weak, shrill noises as he resumes with the fourth number. He adjusts his position, and you feel a distinct tent in his trousers brush against your leg. You take in a sharp breath. He said it himself: he likes to watch you bleed. You remember how he lost his composure last time he cut you like this. You catch his eyes and see that they're practically dripping with lust. His mouth hangs open as he draws blood from you, his breaths coming hot and heavy, stirring your hair that fans out on the pillow. He sees the lifeless look in your eyes and pauses, loosening his tie.

"You have to understand," he pants, "this is your punishment. You shouldn't have ignored me. None of this would have to happen."

You work your jaw, trying to console your anger. "Last time... you just left me there." You gasp as he digs the blade back in, resuming his work. You curve your body, raising yourself off the bed.

He seems to think about your words before responding. "Ah, yes... it was something very important. I don't expect you to understand." The words make you feel almost juvenile.

"I nearly fucking died," you hiss.

He hears your words and his eyes seem to glitter. Without warning, he goes faster, the cuts deep and jagged. He finishes the number without wiping away the blood and moves directly onto the next. You cry out, tears welling and falling in an endless cycle.

"Such a slut," he says through gritted teeth. He seems to lose all thought processes, the words falling from his tongue. "You nearly died with my cock in your mouth."

The words tumble out without him thinking. He's losing himself now, grasping at the final threads of his sanity. You whimper in fear, and he goes deeper, his hands shaking. Blood pours from your arm, the pillow beneath you almost entirely red. You choke with sobs, unable to sit up and control yourself.

It feels like an eternity before he finishes. By the final part, he is soaked in sweat and his pupils are so dilated that his eyes are darker than they've ever been. You can no longer feel the lower part of your arm, and your hand hangs limp above your head. His grip on you has loosened, but you are still stuck in a starfish position with his body over yours. Stars dance past your vision, and you feel your consciousness slipping.

"There," he leans back, using his tie to wipe away the blood. The first few numbers have congealed slightly, allowing him to see the desired product.

He lets go and you flex your fingers. Your arm aches and stings but you're used to the sensation. You move your arm and hold it above your face to see what he has done to you. When your vision comes into focus, your heart sinks. It's his phone number. Carved into your arm so deep that you are certain it will scar for life.

"Now you'll never forget," his voice is thick and dripping with arousal. You collapse back, letting your arm drop over your face, not caring about the pouring blood. He straddles your hips, then takes a hold of your waist, lifting you upward. You let it happen. His hands circle your torso, controlling you easily despite your body being deadweight.

He turns himself around, leaning his back against the headboard and extending his legs before him. He lifts you onto his lap, letting your head lie on his shoulder. Your breaths are shallow. You hook your injured arm around his neck, holding on to him despite yourself. Whatever, you think, nothing matters anymore.

He places fluttering kisses over your neck, creating a wet line down to your collarbone. You let him. The sensation is a welcome distraction from the pain. You lean into his lips, consoling the affliction and focusing your breath. Eventually, you pull back to meet his eyes. He stares back at you, two shining onyx stones set into his skull.

You watch him, thinking. Then all thoughts leave you, and something new and sinister compels you to crash your lips into his. You feel the world melt around you - the pain along with it. He kisses back, lips fighting against yours. You've never kissed him before. His mouth is hot and wet and tastes of your own blood. You don't come back up for air. Your bodies seem to bleed into one another; you share the same breaths, the same thoughts. Your hands move searchingly up his torso, and you fan your fingers over the wide plane of his chest. He winds his own fingers through your hair, pulling lightly at your head and making you whimper.

Your tongue explores his lips, tracing wet lines and dipping into his mouth. He makes deep, pleased noises in his throat as he tastes you. The passion of your kiss is unexpected. You can feel yourself unraveling; he is stripping you down to nothing but flesh and blood. He gasps for air between kisses, lips flushed and swollen, eyes fluttering open and closed to watch your face. You don’t open your eyes. You’re afraid that he might pull away, or tell you to stop. So you just keep kissing him.

“I need you,” you gasp, barely thinking, “I need you.” You repeat it between kisses, voice muffled by the force of his mouth on yours. The pressure of his lips begins to hurt. You straddle his leg, driving your hips into his thigh. The need for friction is sudden and intense. You can feel your body come alight with desperation.

“Show me how much you need me,” his voice is low, a deep vibration in his throat. You pull away from his lips and rest your forehead against his, grinding your cunt into his leg. His lips part, eyes glancing down to watch you move over him. You feel yourself getting wetter with every movement.

He listens to your little gasps and moans, leaning back to get a full view of you using him to fuck yourself. Your hand is pressed on the wall beside his head, and he takes it, raking his heavy eyes over the wounds on your arm. He runs his tongue over the jagged carvings, making you wince slightly in pain. The cuts are still tender and leaking a steady stream of blood. Once he’s done with you, the bed will look like a crime scene.

You go faster, trying to build up friction. The need for him to fill you comes on fast, and you grab his tie to steady yourself. “I need you to fuck me,” the words come out as a needy sob. He chuckles darkly.

Heat builds inside of you. You can sense yourself nearing your orgasm, and you throw your head back. Your arousal soaks the fabric of his trousers. He watches you, eyes heavy lidded, then grabs your arm with agonising force. You cry out, stopping the momentum of your movements, feeling your orgasm slip away from you. Tears prick your eyes at the pain he has caused you.

“Not yet,” he growls, slowly uncurling his fingers one by one. Agony thuds in your arm like a dying heartbeat.

You make a confused noise. He lets you go, moving his hands to your waist again. His hands are wide, and his fingertips almost touch around you. He shifts your position over his lap. You can feel the hard shape of his bulge agains you, fighting against the fabric of his trousers. You are strangely pleased with yourself that you have managed to get him this turned on.

“Say the words,” he slowly bucks his hips against you, and you moan softly. Eagerly, you grind against his bulge, your whole body quivering.

“I need you,” you say breathlessly, building momentum.

He brings his lips to your neck, sucking at the skin. The slight discomfort makes you grind harder. You can feel his erection growing stiffer as you do. You want to please him so desperately that it hurts.

You gasp little moans of yes, yes, nuzzling your face into the hollow of his neck. He barely moves, but every so often he shifts his hips slightly, breaths ragged. You need him inside you; you need to fill that deep desire. You remember how his cock felt, filling you up until you could barely stand it. He makes no move to fuck you, though, seeming content with you using him yourself.

“Please, please-“ you gasp. You aren’t sure what you’re begging for anymore. You can feel a patch of precum stain his trousers, and you remember how his cock tasted in your mouth. Salty and heady. You sob quietly.

Your arousal coats the crotch of his trousers, staining the dark red fabric even darker. You can sense his eyes on you, drinking you up. The build up is far slower than you would like, but you keep grinding yourself onto him, praying for release. Fire seems to build inside you, and your breath picks up as it does, until your sighing hot, shallow gasps into his ear. He chews his lip, fighting the urge to rip you apart himself.

Finally, he lets you cum. Your body shudders into him as you release. You feel yourself go limp, entirely loose, melting into him like wax. He draws slow, tortuous circles with his nails in your lower back, letting you collapse over him. Your head hangs over his shoulder, and you squeeze your eyes shut, denying yourself. This cannot be real, your mind says, this is all a dream.

He lets you breathe for a moment before swiping two fingers over your panties. They come away slick and gleaming in the low light. A breathy laugh escapes from him. You prepare yourself for the degradation, the scolding. But it never comes. He lets you lie over him, a blanket of empty flesh. The clarity is sickening.

You untangle yourself from him, limbs loose and useless, falling beside him onto the other side of the bed. His bed is huge, and you are immediately swallowed by the blood soaked pillows. Your eyelids feel heavy and useless, but you use your last moments of strength to look at him. His shirt is rumpled, some buttons undone, revealing the skin of his chest underneath. His tie hangs loosely, the silky fabric mottled with dark bloodstains. Finally, your eyes reach his face. Your heart shudders irregularly.

Your final waking memory is of him staring at you. The look in his eyes was inhuman. Dark. Animalistic. You don’t remember what he did to you after you passed out - all you know is that you woke up in your own bed hours later, every part of you aching.

You blink your eyes open and sit up, feeling discomfort flood your body. You are wearing the same outfit from that day, but this time a thick bandage is looped around your lower arm. You jolt upright, running into your bathroom and flicking on the light switch. The brightness burns your retinas, but you don’t care, gripping the sink with your bandaged arm and using the other to unfurl the bindings.

The exterior layer is clinically white, but the more you peel back, the deeper red the bandages become. By the final layer you feel as though you are pulling away your own skin. You nearly stagger backwards at the sight of what is underneath. In thick, pink, ragged cuts:

his phone number.

You sit on the edge of the bathtub and cry into your hands until the sun rises. You know something had changed that night. This isn’t just a game anymore - this is your life.

[mojavebluez]

delulu is at an all time high today

[mojavebluez]

I'm gonna sit on gong yoos face

Girl same (maybe I should do a part about that)

[mojavebluez]

MY SHAYLAAAAAAAAAAAA

guys he’s so cute when he’s eating he looks like a little sad hamster 😭😭 s1 gi-hun my husband come backkk the kids miss you 😭😭

[mojavebluez]

god i completely devoured the first chapter of your salesman series 😩 it's so good and i'm delighted that there's a lot more to read. just wanted to tell you i love it already ❤️

YAY thank you!! Im so glad!! Love u all

[mojavebluez]

please please please can I request an idea for your Bleed series with the Salesman🙏. Just imagine for whatever reason the reader is overwhelmingly horny and can't get off by herself (ovulating, someone tried to hook up with her but she just couldn't cum to them, wet dream of him, etc). Even though it's not time to meet up with him yet, she brings herself to call and ask him to come meet her early (she doesn't expect him to but he does), and when he gets there, girly is like a puppy having it's first heat. Girl is desperate and needs him so bad, even if it means bleeding for him. She's full on masochist mode AND a crybaby because of how desperate she is 💔. (if it's too out of character, can you make it as a short story based on the plot but not involved in it? Plz I need this so bad)

That’s a great idea!! Chapter 4 is already in the works but I’ll def work this idea into chapter 5… 😈 keep requesting guys I love these ideas!!

[mojavebluez]

respectfully, your recruiter fic is so hot

THANK YOU😈😈🖤🖤

[mojavebluez]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ welcome to my blog

✧.* multi blog

✧.* INTJ - Virgo

✧.* fanfics/fanart/reblogs

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ fandoms

squid game, fallout, the last of us, bbc sherlock, bioshock, red dead redemption, gta v, dilfism

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ current works

‘BLEED - the salesman x fem!reader’

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[mojavebluez]

BLEED - the salesman x fem!reader series masterlist

series summary - you don’t know his name. You don’t know what he wants. All you know is this: he does things to you no one else can do. But this relationship becomes dangerous, and every meeting quickly transforms from pleasure into a fight for your life.

tags - 18 mdni, sadomasochism, sub!reader, dom!salesman, non-con, age gap, praise kink, degradation kink, unprotected sex, blood as lube, knife play, gun play, blowjob, grinding, choking, crying kink

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CHAPTER 1 - ‘Russian roulette - the salesman x fem!reader’

He’d been following you for a while. When you finally find the courage to approach him, you wake up hours later in his apartment, tied up and completely at his mercy. He has one offer: a game of Russian roulette.

CHAPTER 2 - ‘Bleed - the salesman x fem!reader’

Days after your first encounter, the two of you meet again, exactly as promised. This time, he’s eager for you to get to know him better. You play a game of two truths and a life - with a twist: for every lie you miss, he gets to make you bleed.

CHAPTER 3 - ‘Choke - the salesman x fem!reader’

One week since your last arrangement, he finds you again. He offers you a game of ddakji that quickly turns into a fight for your life.

CHAPTER 4 - ‘Carve - the salesman x fem!reader’

After your personal promise not to call him, a month passes with no sign of him. You really think that you might be free from his torture, until you wake up in his apartment all over again. He isn’t going to let your actions go unpunished - so he makes sure that to do something that you will never forget.

CHAPTER 5 - ‘Devour - the salesman x fem!reader’

You wake up one night after an embarrassing dream, and decide to give him a call. He rewards your good behaviour.

AO3 VERSION

[mojavebluez]

Choke - the salesman x fem!reader

Chapter 3

“You can take it.”

summary - one week since your last arrangement, he finds you again. He offers you a game of ddakji that quickly turns into a fight for your life.

tags - choking, blowjob, non-con, age gap, 18 mdni, sadomasochism, crying kink, choking kink, sub!reader, dom!salesman, sadomasochism

a/n - guyssss thank u so much!! It’s been a little while but I’m back… and I’ve got some big plans for the rest of the series. I think you’re gonna LOVE the next part ;))

Series masterlist

4.6k words

———————————————————————

You hadn't heard from him since that night, when he called you and simply stated, "next week. Be ready." Then he hung up.

You were conflicted. On the one hand, now you had proof: you were practically coated with his DNA - inside and out. Going to the police was an easy solution to this whole ordeal. But it seemed too easy. He was far too thorough, far too careful not to have considered that possibility. Maybe it was simple. He knew you would never turn him in.

Aside from some aching in your limbs and a little mental scarring, you were relatively unscathed by what he did to you the last time you met. The clinical way in which he had cut you made it so they healed into clean lines within a week. You almost forgot they were there - though, when you caught a glimpse of your thigh in the mirror, your stomach still twisted. You just hoped that they wouldn't scar. You weren't sure that you'd like a permanent reminder of him on your body for the rest of your life. Perhaps that was his goal.

A week later, you are all-too aware of what is to come. You had spent the whole day with your eyes trained on the clock, counting down the minutes until the end of the day (partially out of anxiety, partially eagerness). He was just so unpredictable. You make a mental list of what he could possibly do to you this time. Every item on that list was a synonym of 'torture'.

Finally, it was time for you to leave. Class had ended for the day. You pack up your things and head outside, feeling yourself growing slightly faint. You almost fainted for certain when you step outside the building. Because there he is.

He stands, arms folded and legs crossed, leaning on the door of a car. He adorns his usual suit: jet black and paired with a dark red tie. The colour seems like a purposeful reminder of what he drew from your skin seven nights ago. His eyes don't exactly light up when he sees you, but his lips curl into his signature empty smile. You can barely distinguish his pupils from the black abyss that they swim in. They must be there, somewhere, though.

You contemplate avoiding him and walking in the opposite direction. Knowing that would just end in some sort of punishment, you steel yourself and walk towards him, barely feeling your feet hit the ground. You are painfully aware of the stares you're receiving. He doesn't seem to care though. His eyes are only trained on you, and the intensity of his gaze makes your skin crawl.

"Good afternoon," he says, straightening up to greet you, "how was your day?"

You don't reply. You stare ahead at his chest, fighting the urge to curse him out. The audacity of him to infiltrate your personal life like this. You were determined to keep him separate from all of this - yet he has wormed his way into the one place you thought you were safe from his influence.

He bends down slightly to catch your eyes. "Feeling a little non-verbal? That's alright. I'm sure I'll get you talking soon enough."

He waits for you to respond, then chuckles quietly when you don't. He turns to open the car door behind him, gesturing for you to enter. You pause for a brief moment. It would be so easy for you to turn on your heels and run. You don't. Instead, you slip inside and stare him down through the tinted window. He taps on the glass mockingly then moves around to the other side of the car, letting himself in.

You glance around the interior. It's sleek, entirely black and laden with real leather. The two back seats are separated from the front by a window, indicating to you that this is some sort of chauffeur car. It checks out. You can't picture him driving himself around - he's far too superior for that. He slides in beside you on the backseat, arranging his legs over his briefcase, which sits at his feet.

"Don't you have a job or something?" You say bitterly once he shuts the door, not meeting his eyes.

You can hear the smirk in his voice. "Yes, I do. My hours are... flexible, though."

"How fantastic for me," you reply, not able to keep the sarcasm from your voice.

"Indeed," you can feel his eyes on your profile.

It's silent for a moment before your gaze drifts to the briefcase at his feet. "What's in the case?"

Instead of responding, he bends down to lift it up and places it down in the space between you. You wince as he opens the latches, still remembering the last time you saw it. Instead of a gun, this time two squares of folded card sit inside. The shape is familiar to you.

"Ddakji?" You ask, tilting your head. Was this his plan for tonight? Another one of his games?

He nods once. "Left over from work today."

"You play ddakji for work? What, are you some kind of professional?"

He laughs dryly. "You could say that."

By day, a professional ddakji player. By night, a sadist. He just keeps surprising you. "But, last week you said..." you trail off, recalling your game last time the two of you met. You didn't manage to find the lie in his list of professions, but you knew he must work either in an office or as a recruiter. So which one is it?

He holds up a hand. "Something you'll learn in the future. Don't get ahead of yourself."

You sit back in your seat, slightly embarrassed. He was right, of course - you had misjudged your relationship with him. There was no way he would tell you something so incriminating as his profession. You couldn't help but laugh at the double standard; he is allowed to violate you in any way he pleases, but you can't even ask what his job is? You almost laugh, but decide against it. Instead, you stare out of the window to your right. The city flies past in a blend of grey hues. Normal people walk the streets, probably on their way home from work or school. You try to imagine yourself before all this, but struggle to, knowing that you can never have that life back now.

After several minutes of silence, the car slows to a halt. Stupidly, you hadn't concentrated on the journey. If something were to happen, you would have no idea how to get back home. This fear is further cemented when you look outside to see that the area is completely unfamiliar to you. It seems like an industrial neighbourhood. Huge building blocks, their windows either boarded or broken, close you in. The streets are empty as well as the roads - you seem to be the only people in a five mile radius. He's brought you to the middle of nowhere.

"Where are we?" You ask, concern evident in your voice.

He doesn't reply, just taps the window as if to thank the driver and picks up his briefcase. He opens the door to his left and steps outside. You stay sat in the car, utterly terrified. If he were to finally put an end to all this, this would be the perfect place to do it. He doesn't wait for you, instead opening your door and gesturing for you to exit the car.

"Out," he says, obstructing your view. As slowly as you can, you step out of the car and onto the street, barely having time to gather yourself before the car speeds away.

"Where did-"

"Too many questions," he interrupts, straightening his tie with one hand, "I thought you would trust me by now."

"How can I?" You raise your voice, the noise echoing through the empty street.

"Follow me," he walks away from you without checking to see if you'll follow. He seems to know every decision you make before you make them. You speed after him, jogging slightly to match his long stride.

You had never walked beside him like this. It seemed like an action too normal for your dynamic. He towers over you, his legs covering almost twice the distance you can with one step. His briefcase swings at his side. You feel a small reassurance knowing what sits inside.

Eventually, he stops in front of a door to one of the large redbrick buildings. It looks like a warehouse to you. He unlocks the door with a ring of keys, pushing it open and stepping aside to let you enter first. Always the gentleman.

You find yourself in a cavernous room. You crane your neck to look at the ceiling, but notice that it ascends several floors up into darkness. Every window is boarded, but natural light still seeps through the cracks in the wood. Your steps echo as you move further inside, shoes slapping against the concrete floor.

"What is this place?" You ask, but with anxiety instead of awe.

"I own the building," he replies, voice monotone. He overtakes you, walking past and deeper inside the building. It is practically devoid of furnishing aside from a few empty boxes or planks of wood here and there.

"Is this where you murder people then?" You say, remembering a sentence he spoke last time you saw each other. It was something along the lines of, 'I am a mass murderer'.

"No," he doesn't smile as he says it. You have the feeling that the time for jokes has passed. "I wouldn't kill you here anyway. You deserve something a bit more... dignified."

"Thanks, I guess?" The way he says the words must mean he's considered it before. You stand a few steps away from him, watching him cautiously.

You had many ideas about how this evening might play out. You certainly weren't expecting this. He lowers onto one knee, settling his briefcase on the floor and letting it open. Then, he lifts the two ddakji squares and holds them up with both hands, presenting them to you. A slow smile spreads over his features - though it never reaches his eyes. You have learned from experience he only smiles fully when he's about to make you either cum or cry.

"Red or blue?" He asks, still holding them in the air.

You'd had enough of the colour red for a while, and always felt a bit more partial to blue. "Blue, please."

"A good choice," he hands it to you, and you try your hardest to take it from him without making contact with his skin. "Do you know how to play?"

You knew the rules well enough. It was a common game played in school as the paper components were easy to make - you weren't exactly the greatest at it, though. "Yeah, I know the rules. I try to flip your tile. If I don't, it's your turn, but if you can flip mine then you win the point."

He nods, clearly pleased. "Clever girl."

You wait for him to initiate the game, flipping your tile in your hands anxiously. There has to be some sort of catch. It's completely out of his nature to suggest an innocent game like this with no consequences.

He sets his tile on the floor. The red square is the only colour amid the sea of grey stone beneath your feet. He looks up at you expectantly. "Ladies first."

You nod slowly, readying your tile in your hand. It's been years since you last played, but the general concept seems familiar to you. You're fairly assured with yourself. Gradually, you raise your arm and bring it down in the air, releasing the tile. Not enough power. It hits the edge of his red square, barely moving it an inch.

You slowly look up to meet his eyes. A shadow seems to have fallen over his features. You aren't sure if it's your imagination, but his expression alone makes your blood sing in your ears. There is something distinctly shark-like about him - black eyes, perfectly white teeth and his unending desire to make you bleed.

He picks up his tile and arranges himself to the correct stance. Something about his professionalism makes your gut twist with dread. You already know how this will turn out. Just as you guessed, he moves back his arm and slaps his tile against yours, perfectly in centre. Yours flips over to its flat face with ease. His lips curl into a small satisfied smirk, and he folds his arms before him, looking down at the tiles.

He makes no move to continue the next round, so you bend down to pick up his tile and hand it to him. Once you reach your full height, though, he catches your chin in his hand and holds you there with a vice grip. Ah. Here is the punishment for your loss.

Faster than you can register it, he brings his hand back, then strikes it across your face with terrifying force. The sound of his palm hitting your skin echoes throughout the building. Your breath catches in your throat and you recoil from the pain, bringing a hand to your face. The skin of your cheek already feels hot and angry, and you feel tears prick in the corners of your eyes. You can barely find the words to question him.

"What- why did you-"

"You lost," is all he says. His hands are clasped before him, weapons in their own right. In a way, his hands are far more terrifying than any knife or gun - he has complete control of them. And he uses them as he pleases.

"You didn't have to-!" You cut off, pressing your palm against your face to soothe the pain. There is no point in arguing the point with him. Now you have learned of the penalty for failure, and that is just how his games work. All you can do is hope that you won't lose again.

The next few games continue in silence, aside from the crack of his tile flipping yours and his palm against your face. Each time, you add a little more strength behind your throw, but each time you fail to flip his square completely. By the fourth round, tears flow in flick streams down your face, and your skin hums with the heat of his strikes. He remains stoic, a smirk on his lips the only sign of his enjoyment.

It's the fifth round and you can feel your hands twitch with frustration. This time, you go first, and throw your own tile down with enough force to make him flinch. His red square flips easily. You can't help but laugh at your triumph. As long as he fails his turn, you're free to slap him right back.

He picks up his red square and positions himself, then throws his ddakji. It strikes the ground nearly 5 inches from yours. You frown. He would never overlook or allow a loss like that - it must have been purposeful.

You meet his eyes and he smiles, clasping his hands before him. Something about his silence unnerves you. You step towards him, bridging the gap between you both, flexing your fingers. You'd been imagining the expression he might make. Gradually, you line up your palm with the side of his face and pull your arm back. Quicker than you can see, he grabs your wrist before it connects with his skin, digging in his fingers until you can barely move any further. You make a frustrated noise, trying to release yourself.

His eyes seem to twinkle as he watches you struggle. Then, with no warning, he crashes his lips against yours. You cry out, voice muffled by the force of his kiss. There is no affection, no softness in the way his mouth fights your own. You pull at your arm, but he keeps you there, not releasing until you both pull away to catch your breath.

"What the-" you start back, wrenching free from his grasp.

He swipes a thumb over his lips, examining the saliva you left on his mouth. "A reward for your win."

You stare at him, utterly baffled. The kiss felt more uncomfortable than loving. More of a punishment than an award. You search his eyes for an explanation - nothing. Two black abysses staring right into yours without a trace of humanity. Kissing him didn't even see like a possibility in your mind; it was far too affectionate.

You hold a hand to your mouth and stare down at your shoes, not ready to continue the game. The tiles sit, expectant, by your feet. After a moment of silence, you hear his voice. "Pick it up."

After a brief moment, you obey, lowering to one knee to pick up his red tile. On your way back onto your feet, though, you feel his hand press firmly on the crown of your head. You look up at him, eyes wide and questioning.

"Get on your knees," his voice is cool and commanding. It sends a strange dread through your bones that forces you to stay down. You bring your other knee to the floor, letting your skirt pool around you. You raise your chin to watch his expression. He seems completely passive; the situation has played out exactly as he desired.

"Let's get on with it, shall we?" You see his teeth flash white as he speaks.

You feel a small spark of defiance within you. You stare ahead at his knees, not daring to look up at him. He waits, silent, for you to respond, before he loses his patience and grabs a fistful of your hair. He yanks your head back, forcing you to look at him.

"Is this really how you want to do things?" He asks, condescending.

You don't speak. He slowly untangles his fingers from your hair, bringing them to the waist of his trousers. His hands diligently undo the button, then the zip, finally coming to rest on the waistband of his boxers.

"Open," his voice is dark. He reveals his cock to you, and you try not to gasp, despite knowing that you'd seen it before. You remember how it felt inside you. Impossibly big and impossibly perfect. You shiver.

You force your lips shut. He runs a veined hand from the tip to the base of his cock, tilting his head as he looks down at you. He slaps it against the skin of your cheek, which is still warm from your punishment. You can feel him get harder at the sight of you on his knees for him. Your face is still stained with tear-tracks, and your eyes are red-rimmed. All things he has done to you.

You part your lips in an attempt to catch your breath. He grabs your chin, forcing your mouth to open wider. You whimper in protest, pulling at his arm, but it’s no use. He forces his cock inside your mouth with no warning. You gasp around him, voice muffled by his girth. He makes a quiet noise at the damp heat of your mouth, forcing himself deeper.

You can’t control it. Your teeth graze his cock, harder than you mean to, and he makes a disgruntled noise in his throat. You nearly scream when he shoves his cock in even further until you feel it grazing the back of your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping his leg for support.

“You can take it,” he says, pressing a hand to the back of your head. His fingers twist into your hair and he controls your movements like a puppet. Your body goes limp, your throat relaxing just to save yourself from choking to death on his cock. It’s no use - he’s just too much. Even with your mouth full of him there’s still room at the base for you to run your hands across.

Your vision is blurry with tears, and he uses this as a sign to thrust harder. He guides your mouth over him with his hand, pulling your hair to move you back and forth over his length. With every thrust you feel him get harder, and he makes deep grunting noises when his tip touches your throat.

Eventually, it becomes too much. The room echoes with the sounds of your gagging and sobbing. Tears flow freely down your face, hot and thick, some landing on his cock. He sucks in his breath, head falling back, the curve of his neck illuminated by the faint light. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. You bristle slightly at the sight - you’re clearly pleasing him. It almost motivates you.

“Don’t- ah…” he trails off when you bring a hand to the base of his cock, curling your fingers around his thick girth. You bob your head, picking up momentum, trying to take his whole length. You twist your hand, moving it up when your head pulls backward. One hand still grips his leg for support, but you can feel him tense under your fingers when you pick up speed.

“S-such a whore,” he stutters, tilting his head to look down at you, “trying to make me cum, huh?” He takes in a shaky breath, pulling on your hair so hard that it makes you whimper with him still in your mouth. The vibration of your throat makes him shiver.

He doesn’t falter though, keeping himself buried in the heat of your mouth. You begin to tire, squeezing your eyes shut and dropping your hand to the ground. You pull backward, a string of salvia connecting your lips and his swollen tip. Your body wracks with your heaving breaths, hands trembling.

“Fuck-“ he starts, his eyes darting downward, “don’t you dare fucking stop.”

His voice is deep and commanding, and an incredible motivator. Your chest heaves with exhaustion as you bring up both hands this time, placing them side by side around his cock. He does the same, but to your head, taking fistfuls of your hair and holding you with extreme force. You cry out when he shoves his cock into you, harder than before, until you can basically feel it bruising your throat.

He grunts with the effort of forcing you over him, using his hold to face-fuck you until the tears flow hot and fast. The vibrations of your sobs don’t put him off, in fact, they make him thrust with more aggression. He sighs at the soft heat of your mouth against the stiffness of his erection. When he looks down at you, he nearly comes undone - the mark of where his fingers struck your cheek have settled into thick red lines. He is struck with the sudden overwhelming urge to hold your throat and press down until you choke on him. So he does.

You make a strangled noise as he releases one hand, curving his body so he can grip your neck. You look up to search his eyes. Utter terror chills you. A dark look has settled over his features, melting his face into a mask of serenity. His lips barely curl with the effort of holding you. He seems utterly at peace watching you choke, and his fingers press, one by one, around your neck with increasing pressure. His entire hand almost fits around your throat.

You try to pull away from his cock, but he doesn’t let you, using his neck to constrain you. You feel, quite suddenly, like you might die. Your vision swirls as you feel the lack of oxygen finally set in. He keeps thrusting, faster, faster, even when your body goes slack. His breath picks up, his cock twitching inside your mouth. You know he’s close. You fight for your breath, hoping that he will grace you with oxygen soon.

He curses as his orgasm finally arrives. He shoots warm, salty cum into your throat and you sob, nearly choking all over again. His body curls inward, his head hanging over you, and he finally releases his hand. He rests his core on the crown of your head, using you for support. You cry to yourself, taking in deep lungfuls of oxygen until your vision returns to normal. You feel his whole body tremble with the release.

After a moment, he moves back, standing to his full height. He swipes a thumb over the corner of your lip, flicking away a drop of his own cum that leaks out of your mouth. It is the extent of his affection. You hang your head, feeling exhaustion deep in your bones. He used you. Pushed you to your limits. And you almost died with his cock in your mouth.

You see him open his mouth to say something. Then, his back pocket vibrates. His eyes flicker with confusion. You watch expectantly, still on your knees and too tired to stand up.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, at the same time zipping his trousers up again. He looks just as he did before, though his hair flops messily over his forehead, slick with sweat.

His eyes scan the number on his phone. Then, to your complete astonishment, he answers. He turns away from you, mumbling a ‘hello’ into the phone. His voice is slightly broken, but still sickeningly professional.

Your mouth hangs open, hands limp in your lap. He has left you, tear-stained and on your knees, to answer the phone. He barely spoke a word of acknowledgment before walking away, speaking quickly into his phone.

Several feet away now, he turns back to you, holding a hand over the speaker. “There’s a car waiting outside,” he says, voice as regular as if he were talking to a work colleague. That’s it. He walks away, deeper into the building, until his voice becomes an incoherent mutter.

For a moment, you barely register what has just happened. Your entire body aches as the product of his aggression. He manipulated you to his will.

Gathering yourself, you wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, wincing at the soreness of your face. You can feel the heat of where he slapped you several times. How are you going to hide the marks?

You smooth your skirt and stand up, swaying on your feet slightly. Your throat feels sore and dry, breath raspy, and you press gently on your neck. It feels bruised. You’ll have to wear turtlenecks for a while, you think to yourself bitterly. You nearly marvel at the control he has over your life now, but decide not to. It will just make you hurt.

You cast one last downhearted glance at him. He is a distant figure across the floor of the warehouse. He stands, completely still, one hand holding his phone and the other in his pocket. You feel suddenly sick at the sight of him, and decide to leave.

True to his word, the same black car from earlier is parked on the street, waiting. You open the back door and slip inside, trying to make yourself as small as possible. You feel humiliated. The car speeds away and turns the corner, leaving the building, and him, behind.

On the drive home, the tears fall all over again, but this time you let them. You hold yourself as your body jerks with sobs. You keep holding yourself until fatigue sets in, and your eyes grow heavy.

You make a vow to yourself as the car slows to a halt outside your apartment: you are never, ever, going to see him again.

But, of course, you do.

[mojavebluez]

Hey everyone!! I’m absolutely staggered by the love on this fic - it’s one of my first times writing hardcore smut so I’m really happy you all like it :)))

I’m also on ao3 and upload my fics on there too so have a look if you like!

Chapter 3 is in the works…… stay tuned……….