#(never enough kerosene)

[frnkiebby]

BTW he did twink death dilf birth like no other, he nailed it, he did it and did it GOOD

oh he absolutely fucking did. sometimes it really throws me off bc like how the ever loving fuck are THESE two assholes the same fucking person???like???~🎃

[sinkuna]

୨୧ ― The flickering neon sign outside Toji's shitty little apartment paints his sweat-slicked back in a red glow as he slams into you, bare with no condom this time. His rough calloused hands bite into your hips hard enough to bruise, the smack of skin on skin drowning out the choked whimpers you can't stop.

"Look at you," he growls, voice gravel drenched and smug. A thick vein pulses along his cock as he drags it out slow -too slow- just to watch your pussy flutter, desperate and empty, "Clenchin’ like a fuckin’ virgin around me every goddamn time. Beggin’ me to stay." His thumb swipes through the mess dripping down your thigh, shoving two fingers past your parted lips without warning, "Taste that? All you. No rubber bullshit ruining the flavor... Or fun."

You gag around his digits, tears pricking your eyes as he rams back in with a squelch. The obscene wetness of him splitting you raw makes your toes curl. He’s right -fuck he’s right- every drag of his bare cock lights your nerves like kerosene.  

"Shoulda seen your face," he laughs, hips snapping forward to nail your cervix in a way that makes you see stars. The headboard cracks against the wall, your nails scratching red angry lines into his back. It's too good, so fucking good, but the thought of him filling you up like this- "Eyes wide, screamin’ ‘Toji, please, I’m not on the pill-!" His mimicry of your panic is vicious, mocking, "Too late now, princess, I'm gonna pump your womb full 'til it takes."

You feel him swell, thicker, hotter. Panic claws up your throat, "Wait-wait, I can’t-!" Despite your protests you can't help but pull him closer, thighs wrapped tight around his waist as he hammers home again and again, a broken mantra of, "Oh fuck oh fuck oh~-"

Toji cuts you off with a snarl, his hand wrapping around your throat and squeezing tight enough to make your pulse hammer under his palm, "You can."

It’s the way he says it -like a vow, like a curse- that unravels you. Your legs tremble around his waist, heels digging into the muscles rippling across his lower back, "S'too good- T-Toji~♡!!! Please don-don't stop!! D-Don't p-pull out~♡! Make me a mother~" 

He grins, all teeth, "There it is."  

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Toji Zenin hates condoms because he needs you to feel it- the primal, filthy truth of him branding your insides. The schlick of your juices mixing with his cum, the way your walls spasm when his tip kisses your cervix. He wants you dripping him for days, every step a reminder of how he utterly ruined you. No one could ever satisfy you the way he does.

But more than that?  

He hates them because latex can’t give you his kid.

His favorite girl, you- the woman he can picture with a tiny diamond on your ring, belly swollen and soft. The idea of you carrying his brat makes his cock ache and his teeth grind. He imagines you walking around, round and glowing. Your tits, heavy with milk, aching for his mouth.

"S’why you keep comin’ back, right?" he mutters later, holding your limp body close as he licks the sweat from your neck. He rubs your stomach, still flat, but not for long, "Deep down… you want me to put a baby in you."

Toji can see it now- a boy, with his jawline and his eyes. A girl, with your smile and his nose. A handful of tiny brats, all perfect.

He knows it would be a mistake. A kid deserves better than a monster, a man who can count his friends on one hand. Toji will never be anything more than a glorified hired body. But the thought is tempting.

"Imagine my brat, growin’ in that pretty belly. Havin' family dinners… Soccer games… Movie nights…"

He's not the kind of guy you can build a life with. Too rough, too wild, too dangerous. But Toji can't deny the way his heart clenches at the idea.

"Fuck, baby… That'd make me so fucking happy…"

Toji Zenin hates condoms because, maybe, just maybe… He'd like a family to actually call his own.

⋆｡˚꒰ঌ 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ໒꒱˚｡⋆

[bitterrfruit]

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, 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 pulled up. Could only see 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. 

Unluckily 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 brow as you all but tilted your head in nervous 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 well. “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 rheumy 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 ring 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 at 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. He 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 aware, 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 wife itching to castigate her reckless husband for getting in trouble. 

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

Simon snorted, electing 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 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 agape 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 hind 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

[kqutie]

“You know you didn’t have to kiss her to give her your blessing, right?”

—Athena to Hermes, probably

haha! here you go, my lovely (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

navi. | series m.list

← prev. | three. the new island

Hermes giggles to himself, trying to ignore the soft blush on his cheeks. He watches you fondly from high above, laying on his stomach in a bed of clouds with his feet in the air, kicking away as his hands hold up his chin. 

“You know you didn’t have to kiss her to give her your blessing, right?” Athena materialises beside him, standing in her tall, proud height. 

“I don’t know~” Hermes sing-songs, grinning widely at the narrowed look his half-sister gives him from beneath the shadow of her helmet.

“No, you didn’t,” Athena rolls her eyes and sighs, looking down as you silently talk with some strangely coloured animals that Hermes must have allowed onto the island with you. Hermes finally laughs aloud, finding her irritation amusing. 

“Maybe so, but what’s the fun in that?~” 

“This isn’t about fun, Hermes,” Athena sighs exasperatedly, rubbing at her temples through her helmet whilst avoiding the sight of the messenger God’s cheeky smile, “Your actions could very well have endangered Odysseus and her,” 

“But she is under my protection now,” Hermes’ grin doesn’t falter, confident in his ability to protect you by warding off any enemy, “ease up, darling~” Hermes coos, flying up in his front-laying position so that his head was level with Athena’s and he could look her in the eye with just a slight tilt of his head. “And there isn’t a chance I’ll let any danger come to her,” Hermes looks down at you fondly once again as Athena huffs. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve grown fond of her to this extent already,”

“There’s no question about it!” Hermes giggles and throws his arms up in a gleeful cheer, righting himself vertically, before turning his full attention onto Athena. The goddess of wisdom is, somewhat, taken aback by the sudden shift in his demeanour, there was almost a threat hidden in his glowing eyes, “I’ve already given her my blessing, after all. Whoever dares harm her from now on will be answering to me,” 

“But why?” Athena presses, always one to ask for an explanation; her mind simply can’t comprehend how capricious Hermes’ actions are, “Because she’s a great traveller from another world? Can it only be that?”

“Why can’t it ‘only’ be that?” Hermes tilts his head coyly, playing with her reasoning. 

“Because you kissed her—” 

Hermes laughs with his full body, clutching at his stomach as his knees tuck up and curl him into a compressed ball of laughter, “You’re always so serious~” Hermes whips the tears from his eyes. 

“Answer me!” 

“Alright alright! Don’t get your subligar in a twist~” Athena gives him an unamused look, growing all the more irritated when he has to suppress a giggle once more, “I admit, the fair maiden has very kissable-looking lips, I just couldn’t resist stealing a taste~”

Athena splutters, “Wha—?!”

“She’s also very cute and very delicious,” Hermes smirks to himself as he slowly traces his lips with his tongue. His eyes look distant as he remembers the softness and sweetness of you, “My~ I’ve never tasted something so sweet before. But shush!” Athena watches in shock as Hermes puts a finger to his lips in a hushing motion, “Don’t tell Dionysus! He might get jealous when he finds out I’ve found something tastier than his grapes and wine,” 

Hermes giggles as Athena rolls her eyes. 

“Just don’t harass the poor girl,” Athena looks at you with sympathy. 

“I’m afraid I can’t make such promises, darling~” Hermes smirks to himself, “now that I’ve had a taste, I simply can’t get enough!” 

navi. | series m.list

a/n : I'M JUST A HERMES SIMP, OKAY?! DON'T JUDGE ME! I DIDN'T MEAN TO WRITE 500 WORDS OF THIS!

taglist : @bluepanda08 @doodle-with-rhy @sunshinedaisy21 @jolixtreesunn @ellaprime7 @marcelemry @nishayuro @hijinkxy @kerosene-demon @windrosesrasta

[arimoonlight1]

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐄𝐦 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤~ 𝐁𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐰 ˣ 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐏𝐨𝐜!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐜:𝟏𝐤

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐨’𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟!, 𝐀 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐬, 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐑𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐦.

𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬!

The bell above the door let out a tired jingle when you stepped inside, the late-summer heat clingin’ to your dress like sweat-soaked cotton. The air was thick with the scent of flour, kerosene, and peaches just on the edge of turnin’. It was quiet in the store, ‘cept for the lazy buzz of a fan spinnin’ slow in the back.

Bo glanced up from the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sweat dark at his collar. When he saw you, that crooked smile of his bloomed—soft and familiar, the kind that still made your chest ache in a good way, even after all these years.

“Well now,” he said, voice smooth as creek water, “look what the sun dragged in.”

You held up the lunch pail. “You forgot your food. Again. Thought I’d bring it by before you shriveled up from pride.”

He came ‘round the counter and kissed your cheek, lingerin’ a breath longer than polite. “I’m a lucky man,” he said.

“You always say that when you forget somethin’.”

He popped the lid and peered inside. “Catfish and cornbread? You tryin’ to make me marry you twice?”

You smirked. “Ain’t nobody else would put up with you.”

The two of you laughed, like you always did. Like the world outside them yellow-painted walls couldn’t touch what y’all had built. And maybe it couldn’t—least not at first.

It had started ten years ago, when Bo Chow walked into your cousins’ juke joint with a stack of flyers for a little grocery he was settin’ up. You were on stage singin’ “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” and from the moment his eyes found yours, he never looked away. Came back three nights straight before he finally got the nerve to speak, offerin’ you lemon soda and red bean cake like it was a treasure.

Folks talked. Lord, did they. Some just whispered. Others spat their thoughts out loud. It wasn’t proper, not in 1932 Mississippi—a Chinese man and a Black woman buildin’ somethin’ sweet outta the cracked earth.

But Bo, he didn’t flinch. When he asked you to marry him, he did it loud, right there in front of the whole congregation after church one Sunday. Held your hand like it was his lifeline, dared anyone to tell him he was wrong.

He painted the shelves sunflower yellow for you. Let you spin Billie Holiday records while you stocked goods. Framed your picture behind the register, the one where you were smilin’ real big with lipstick the color of ripe cherries.

But time changes things.

First came the looks. The kind that stick to your back, crawl up your neck. When you and Bo walked through town hand-in-hand, or when folks spotted you behind the counter like you belonged there. Some white folks stopped comin’ in altogether. Others came more often, just to see, to whisper.

Then came the silences—sharper than any word. Bo’s family never said nothin’ unkind, but they didn’t say much at all. His mama served you dinner with eyes glued to her plate. And when conversation got serious, the room slipped into Cantonese like you was never meant to understand.

You never blamed Bo. Not once. But some nights, when the store was locked and the lights were low, a question would settle on your chest: Was love enough to hold up against a world built to break it down?

You started shrinkin’. Bit by bit. Skipped the town meetings. Wore plain browns instead of the reds he said lit up your skin. Kept your curls pinned back tight. Stopped singin’ when strangers were near.

Then one night, Bo found you sittin’ out back on the stoop, apron still tied at your waist, fingers twistin’ together like they were tryin’ to pray.

“Y/N,” he said, soft.

You didn’t turn. Just stared at the road, dusty and endless.

He sat beside you without a word, hands restin’ on his knees, the air thick with things unsaid.

“Ever wonder if life’d be simpler if you’d picked someone else?” you asked, barely louder than the wind.

Bo turned to you slow. “Where’s that comin’ from?”

You shrugged. “Somebody who don’t make folks stare. Someone your mama could talk to. Someone who don’t weigh on you every time you walk into a room.”

He didn’t say nothin’ at first. Let the silence sit a while.

“I know you love me,” you whispered. “But I been feelin’ like lovin’ me costs you too much.”

He reached for your hand, held it like glass. “You remember that night at the juke joint? You had a yellow scarf in your hair and a song that made the room hush. I ain’t never believed in fate till that moment.”

You let out a little laugh. “I was just tryna finish my set.”

“And you finished me,” he said, serious now. “Right then and there.”

He turned, took both your hands. “Y/N, I didn’t choose you for ease. I chose you ‘cause you made life real. You made it ours. You think I care what people say? Let ‘em talk. Let ‘em choke on it. I’d walk through this world a hundred times over, long as you walkin’ beside me.”

Your eyes stung. He saw it. Brushed your cheek with his thumb.

“I don’t want quiet. I don’t want small. I want you. Loud and wild and stubborn and singin’ like the trees are listenin’. You’re not a burden, baby. You’re the reason I breathe.”

You leaned into him, and he pulled you close like he meant to shield you from the whole world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Bo cleaned the store window and taped up a new photograph—one of the two of you on your last anniversary, arms wrapped around each other, grinnin’ like you had no idea what the world thought.

People stared, sure as sunrise. Some smiled. Some turned away.

Didn’t matter.

A white man came in later that week, looked at the photo, then at Bo. “That your wife?”

Bo didn’t even blink. “Damn right she is. Best part of my life.”

And behind the counter, where no one else could see, you touched your heart—steady, strong—holdin’ that truth close like it was a promise that couldn’t be broken.

[yallternitive]

Kerosene

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: physical, emotional abuse from a past relationship. If this triggers you, read at your own risk.

Summary: Your work for freshman congressman Bucky Barnes as his secretary. You’ve always kept to yourself, to the degree of making Mr. Barnes suspicious.

Work had started like any old day. Grabbed your coffee at the local coffee shop just down the street from your bosses office. While there, you picked up one for him too, though he never asked for one, he always appreciated it. Today they also had a new plum blueberry pastry they were trying out, so you bought two of those. One for you, one for your him.

It was a quiet morning, but that never stopped you from looking over your shoulder, you could never be too careful.

Making your way into your office, you were early. Lights still off and window blinds still drawn shut. You flicked on all the lights and opened the blinds, it was partly cloudy with a 50% chance of rain. You almost hoped it did.

“You’re early today, (Y/N).” You nearly jump out of your definitelytootall stilettos, turning to look at the one responsible for scaring the wits out of you. So much for always looking over your shoulder.

“Mr. Barnes! You nearly made me spill my coffee!” He just smiles softly, walking up to take both cups from you and placing them on the table.

“Good thing yours was cold then.” You just roll your eyes. “And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Bucky.” You hold your hands up in surrender.

“Sorry, Bucky. Never had a superior tell me to call them their government name let alone a nickname.” You smile softly while making eye contact.

“I understand, but don’t call me your superior. Makes me feel gross….and old.” He takes a seat at his desk and takes a sip of his coffee, noticing the pastry placed neatly on his desk, something you had managed to do before he scared the crap out of you. “What’s this?” He asks, looking at it like it might be poison. You chuckle and take a bite of yours.

“I got it for you today at the coffee shop. It was something new they were trying and I thought it both looked and smelled delicious. Plum and blueberry. I hope they add it to their permanent menu.” He raises an eyebrow and takes a decent bite out of it. His eyes nearly roll into the back of his head.

“I’m not usually one for sweets, but this is delicious.” He takes another bite before a sip of his coffee. “Thank you, (Y/N). You always know how to take care of me. Truly I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He smiles and you just laugh.

“Probably starve.” He shakes his head with a smirk.

“I know how to eat when I’m hungry.”

“Right, not like you haven’t been hungry for 8 hours at that point, cranky and blood sugar plummeting, old man.” The way he looks at you has you slightly concerned you’ve gone too far. You’ve worked with Bucky for a year now and have always had sweet playful banter back and forth. Every time you think you go too far he always makes you laugh.

“Damn, doll. Sounds like you didn’t just wake up on the wrong side of the bed you plum fell off of it.” You roll your eyes and just laugh.

“I’m kidding I’m kidding. We have a big day today, quite a few meetings and hearings happening in the next few days.” He sits at his desk and sighs, very much looking like he doesn’t even know where to begin. He usually didn’t, but that’s what he has a secretary for. You always kept him on track.

***

A few days had passed.

To say you were afraid to leave the house would be an understatement.

You’d left home in Louisiana about a year and a half ago, the only place that seemed safe enough to go at that moment was DC, you had family there but unfortunately you should have known that would have been the first place he would have looked. You started looking for a place to work, hoping for a place that would be able to help you should you ever need it. A “shoot first ask questions later” type of place. Police department, fire station, anything to make him question if you were even worth it anymore.

You settled for a government building, but you could have never had guess just how lucky you’d get. To work with the one and only Winter Soldier. An Avenger in his own right. You knew you’d have to tell him someday. You just hoped it would be because many years had passed and you didn’t fear for your safety anymore. You never wanted it to be because you were in danger.

“Doll?”

You nearly jump out of your skin, after having been frantically pressing the ‘up’ on the elevator button repeatedly. You knew immediately it was Bucky, no one ever called you ‘doll’ before, it was only ever him. And it seemed to be a nickname he reserved only for you.

You adjusted your sunglasses, pressing them tight against your nose.

“Oh-Bu-Bucky. You scared me.” You chuckled nervously, looking down.

That wasn’t you. No quick retort. No sly roll of the eye. Not that adorable side smirk he lived for, secretly of course.

Bucky’s face drops. His position becomes erect. His eyes sharpen, you swear he just grew about 2 inches in height.

“What’s wrong?” He asks intensely, staring down into your soul you know you couldn’t lie to him if you tried.

“I-I’m scared.” You whimper, just as the elevator door behind you dings. Bucky reaches out and gently places his hands on your shoulders, walking you backwards and stepping into the elevator himself. He pressed the button ‘5’ without even turning look at the wall, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Tell me what happened. Who did this to you.” His breath smells like mint and tobacco, it’s a comforting element.

“Bucky I…I ran away from home. My fiancé…he, he used to abuse me. I-I couldn’t take it anymore. He was gonna kill me. I-I left and came to the only place I could think of. My-my aunt and cousins live here and I-i didn’t even think that he’d look here first and I-I’m I’m so stupid I should have kno-“

“Shhh doll. Hey. Come on now. Don’t say that. You are not stupid. You are never stupid. You did it. You got out. You found me. I will never. NEVER let anyone lay their hand on you again. I swear to you. I will protect you.” He cups your face and lets you fall into him, sobbing uncontrollably.

“It’s alright Doll, hey sweetheart you’re alright. I’m here. We’ll get you sorted out. You can come live with me until you are safe. I promise.”

You have Bucky everything he’d need to find your ex, also named James.

“Of course he is.” He rolls his eyes.

“You’re Bucky. I’ve never looked at you and saw him. Your name doesn’t scare me.” He smiles and tucks your hair behind your ear.

“I will spend my life protecting you.”

You knew this was going to be an interesting period of time, from coworkers to roommates. You knew James only had to show himself, and it wouldn’t take him long to reappear.

***

This will be a multi part series!

[thebumblebeesworld]

SUN • DON’T • SHINE

pearline x fem vampire reader

summary: pearline has mesmerized you with her voice since the first night you saw her at club juke. since being turned, you’ve had to lurk in shadows just to get a glimpse of her. but you find that soon enough, you’ll get what you want.

cw: smut, vampirism, blood, vampire shit, mention of alcohol, stalking

a/n: in this version, the original vampire storyline is different.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a power in Pearline that you just needed to experience up close. Everything about her exuded a sense of urgency and desire and sensuality, and it made you want to make all of her dreams come true.

You saw her that first night at Club Juke. You observed the way she moved about the room as if she owned it. You watched her drink with friends and dance to Delta Slim’s smooth piano. And you noticed the way she played with Sammie.

Her gaze upon the boy was enough to knock the wind out of your own body and she wasn’t even paying you no attention.

You loved the way she spoke with her body, pointing her chest in the direction she wanted to go, swaying her hips deeply as if to tell him to take her for a ride.

It was captivating.

You remember how she and Sammie slipped off into a side room, and you could only imagine the sinful things he was doing to her body—praying that it could be you in his same position in the near future. You were so enamored by Pearline that you couldn’t even be made at Sammie for taking the woman you wanted. You couldn’t be mad at him when he had been given a chance to please Pearline when she didn’t even know your name.

You were a stranger—someone who spent more time lurking in the shadows than putting yourself right in front of her and commanding her attention.

When they strutted out of that room, Pearline’s hair had shrunk significantly due to the heat of their fucking. Her skin glistened in the warm kerosene lights of the juke. Her dress—once tidy and clean—hung unsecured from her pert shoulders. There was a newfound pep in her step that made your mouth water.

She was drunk off her encounter; The Italian wine she had been drinking couldn’t compete with Sammie’s tongue. Her husband was long gone from her mind, and all she could think about was her pleasure and how she craved more of it.

You sat at the bar, analyzing the way Pearline threw herself on the stage. She screamed like a bat out of hell, howled like she was on a mission to commune with the pale moon herself. As she began singing deep and reverent, voice hitting everyone’s body like a gutsy punch, she galvanized the crowd into joining her in a litany of chants, claps, and sturdy stomps on the wooden floor. The room was drowning in sounds, but all you could pay attention to was her.

The participants to her song fueled the somewhat spiritual experience she was having, and you just wanted to cross the room and reach out to touch her.

But you remained controlled.

It’s something you had always found as a fault within yourself. You hardly pushed the limits, and that caused you to lose opportunities that could have changed your life for better or worse—but you would never know, and that was the problem.

That night at Club Juke, you lost your chance. Pearline was in arms reach as you sat in that barstool, and when she got closer to you and your fingers began to twitch against your glass, you just let her pass by without even a word. You watched with solemn eyes as she walked right out the front door and into the dark Mississippi night.

You let the knowledge that Sammie had given her earth-shattering you-didn’t-even-know-what get in the way of what you wanted. What you could give her.

You thought that if he could make her howl the way she had, maybe she didn’t need you at all.

You ain’t have no vision.

You left the juke not too long after Pearline did, not seeing any point in staying now that she was long gone. She was your eye-candy for the night. None of the other women could hold your attention the way she could, not even when hanging on your arm or asking you frivolous questions like what was in your glass. The men didn’t do much for you either. Pearline was your only desire.

Stepping out into the night air, you enjoyed the slight breeze you felt. It was cooler outside than it was when you first arrived, but the air still hung heavily with uncertainty. Pearline never left your mind, and you were starting to feel foolish for letting her slip away. You kicked at the dirt and rocks, sulking at your lost chance and planning how you would approach her if you saw her again.

But as you neared your car, a sharp growl forced a shiver to crawl up your spine. It felt like your head was swimming with voices whispering your name. Voices shouting your dark secrets. Voices taunting you with all the things you hadn’t done under the guise of being in control.

You turned towards the tree line, hearing the rumble and shake of leaves and tree branches. You squinted hard, pulse going crazy in your body. Adrenaline coursed through you as you couldn’t figure out what to do. Sweat ran down your face in an unsuccessful attempt at cooling you down.

Your gaze sharpened as the voices got louder, and just at the edge of the trees, you could see dark figures with beady, glowing red and yellow eyes.

You grabbed your gun that sat tucked against your hipbone—an attempt to gain control—but it was futile.

It was almost like the sky opened up, and before you could even raise your gun, you felt a gut-wrenching sensation on the right side of your neck.

Beady eyes stared directly into yours, and visions of a life you hadn’t lived poured into you.

You felt like your body was no longer your own. You had no control.

~~~~~~~~~~

The one thing you didn’t realize about being turned is that all of your emotions would heighten. You felt uncertain at all times, and as someone who spent most of those personhood in control, it was jarring for you.

The last formative moment you remember was seeing Pearline up on Club Juke’s stage singing her heart out. Her satin dress reflecting the light. Her hands dancing in the air and moving about her hearty body. Her hands and knees crawling with a purpose across the stage.

Your vampire form clung to that image of her. It desired greedily to do the things you couldn’t do when you were human.

To touch her.

To taste her.

To make her yours.

But you tried to fight it as best you could: not touching, not tasting, but lurking in dark corners and outside her window at night, snarling when you saw her in bed with her husband, and rejoicing when she’d tiptoe out of their home after he’d fallen slept. You followed Pearline almost every weekend night from her home to Club Juke and then back.

It was a routine that gave your immortality a purpose. If you couldn’t do anything in the day time, then you could at least watch her at night.

You protected her on her walks. If anything happened to her or if another vampire got to her before you did, you’d probably become something far worse than you already were. You could sense your body tensing when men got close to her, and when other vampires watched in on her, you fought them off brutally.

You feared letting yourself just have it. Have her.

You thought your emotions would run wild and that you would end up ravishing Pearline without taking the proper care for her. That’s all you’ve even truly wanted—to give her what she needed.

So you suppressed yourself in an effort to keep her safe.

For months you followed the same routine: watching her pretend to sleep next to to bastard husband, mouth watering as you were entranced by the way she lotioned and perfumed her body to prepare for the night ahead, slipping into the trees as she walked out into the night air with slow strides, and following closely behind her until she made it outside of Club Juke’s heavy doors.

There weren’t many dangers anymore. Most of the other vampires—the ones that turned you—found other towns to torment and other people to feed on, but you were cautious always. Since becoming a vampire, you realized that there are a lot of scary things in this world: ghosts, goblins, demons, yourself.

The more you watched her, the more you wanted her. Your body was starting to fight itself. Your vampire form grew stronger the more you fed on other people, but it was never satisfied. And it wouldn’t be until you got what you wanted.

One night after months spent walking along the dirt road to get to the juke, Pearline did something unexpected. Instead of walking out the front door and towards the road, she circled around to the back of her home. The air was fresh and biting. With the shift from summer to early fall, the night weather became more bearable. It was the type of weather that made you want to cling on to someone, but since you turned, you lost everyone you had.

You kept up with Pearline in slow steps, keeping an eye out for sticks or heavy brush that would signal your presence. You laid low and out of sight. You felt like a predator to prey, following her every move, trying to anticipate what was next.

That night she wore a dress you had never seen before. It was a dark green silk dress with soft beading on it. It sat low on her chest and high on her thighs, only heightening your senses for her. She smelled divine. Like cocoa butter and magnolia petals—a refreshing combination.

As you followed Pearline through a thicket of trees and into a wide open field, she started humming softly—a tune you remembered dearly. There was a large magnolia that sat planted in the middle with nothing around it but space. As she walked towards it, the moon beamed down on her. Her soft skin glowed. Her body swayed with passion and desire.

The closer you got to her, the more your vampire side came out. Your eyes started to glow yellow. Your teeth protruded from your mouth. Your fingers twitched at your side—just like they had at Club Juke when you were so ready to reach out and touch her.

“Pale, pale moon rising…I don’t care if the sun don’t shine…”

You recognized the tune. It had been stuck in your head every night since you first heard it. The power and reverence in it is something that excited you, but here now, as Pearline sang it softly and quietly, you fell even more in love with it than you had before.

She waded through the tall grasses of the field, fingertips gliding across the seeding tops. She sang, and you knew that you wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer if she kept at it. It felt like your body would pounce at any moment, and there was nothing that you could do to stop it.

You walked out from behind a tree and into the field. Confidence ran high throughout your body. You were so, so close. So close to getting what you wanted.

Pearline stopped walking, stopped singing, stopped swaying. She had made it to her destination and stood underneath the gaping magnolia tree. She just faced forward and smoothed her dress down her backside. Your eyes couldn’t help but follow her hands along the top of her ass and down the back of her thighs.

“I know who you are, y/n,” she remedied, still not facing your direction. Her silk-like voice made your body run cold as you had no clue what to do. You stopped mid walk, wondering not only how she knew you were there but how she knew your name. Pearline turned to face you, eyes stoic and unmoving—even when taking in your vampire state. “I saw you at the juke that night, staring at me like yo’ eyes didn’t know where else to be. Yo’ mama ain’t never said it ain’t kind to stare?”

You didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know if you could, but your mouth salivated at the way she commanded you. She was damn near reading into your soul with her eyes alone. You stepped forward, confidence returning from your momentary reverie.

“She did,” you said smoothly, just a few feet away from her body. You felt like the blood of your latest victims was coursing through your veins.

You wanted her.

Needed her.

“And my daddy taught me how to find a fine woman, too,” you concurred, fangs gleaming in the moonlight. Her eyes fluttered, the only indication that she was being worn down. The rest of her body was straight, untainted. She stepped into your orbit. Her chest leaned against yours. She peered into your eyes with a squint.

“You been watchin’ me?”

You breathed her in, finally getting to smell her up close. It was dizzying.

“Every night,” you nodded. “I make sure you safe when you walkin’ to the juke. Make sure you safe when you at home with him.”

Pearline looked down, understanding what you meant and unsure how to show her gratitude. Things had been strange around town for a long while now. Folks had been going missing. Rumors had been passed around about haints and vampires and things of the sort. She could always feel you near, but it never worried her.

It excited her.

Her husband hadn’t been giving her what she needed—in the bedroom or otherwise. It’s why she sought out Sammie. It’s why she stayed gone most nights and found things to fill her days besides housewife duties.

And now she could finally see you. Up close and personal.

“I thank you for that,” she sighed, finally meeting your yellow eyes again. She swore they glowed brighter and spoke to her in a way. It was like speaking a language no one understood but you two.

“You welcome.” You felt her chest begin to rise and fall more heavily the longer you stared into her eyes. You never worked this hard for your prey. The chase had never been exciting, just the moment when you got to sink your teeth into plush flesh and t gallons of their sweetness.

Something told you Pearline would taste better than anyone you’d had before. Her skin carried sweet undertones that you could smell from a mile away, and even while standing under a magnolia tree, you could pick up on her unique scent easily.

You lowered your nose to the side of her neck, taking a deep breath in that had you both shivering in delight. Pearline gasped—damn near moaned—and wrapped a hand firmly in your clothes, pulling you impossibly into her.

“Ever since I saw the way you looked at me on that stage, I’ve wanted you,” she admitted, a whine evident in her voice. You grinned against her, resting your fangs against her pulse point. Her thighs clenched together, forcing you to chuckle darkly.

“I’ve wanted you since then too, suga’,” you revealed, pushing her body firmly against the trunk of the magnolia tree. A sharp gust of air left her lungs. “Now that I got you, I’m not gon’ let you go.”

You began kissing Pearline against her jawline and collarbone as she clawed at your body, telling you how much she needed you. Her whimpers mingled in the crisp fall air, and it felt like the world was swirling around you both.

You wanted to revel in this moment. You didn’t want to just ravish her. You wanted to give her what she needed. You had successfully controlled that vampire side of you, even for just a moment as your hands moved to the edges of her dark green dress.

You pushed it up her taut thighs and let your fingers trace along them.

“Please, y/n,” Pearline cried, attempting to get her way. Her hands landed on your back, holding you near. You cloud feel her firm nipples through the sheer fabric of her dress.

“I’ve got you, baby,” you whispered in her ear, letting her know that your only goal was to take care of her. Your fingertips found the edge of her panty line: lacy and slightly damp due to her arousal. Your senses immediately picked up on the scent that wafted off of her: strong, sweet, tangy.

You circled two fingers over her, not yet moving her underwear out of the way in an attempt to prolong her pleasure. She was in desperate need of relief, but you didn’t want it to happen too fast. You wanted both of you to savor its goodness.

She cried on your fingers, thrashing her hips to feel you closer, grabbing a hold of the tree that held her body up. But with your free hand, you stabilized her hips to keep them planted against the tree trunk.

“Fuck, please,” Pearline hummed as you pressed your fingers harder so that she could feel you better. You went back to kissing her neck and collarbone, nipping every now and then but not enough to draw blood. You wanted to save that for later.

Pearline’s hips began to stutter, even with your hand firmly placed on them. She shook against you as your fingers moved swiftly across her throbbing clit. She was so desperate for it, and it caused you to laugh humorously at her. She had tears running down her face, ready to cum after barely being touched. It was enamoring.

“Look at that pretty face,” you giggled, causing her eyes to open and stare directly into your gleaming ones. “You wanna cum, suga’?”

“Please, y/n. Please make me cum,” Pearline nodded profusely, hands tangling in your hair. “I’ll do anything. I promise.” You smiled a devilish smile, but she didn’t retract her statement. She just clung onto you harder.

“Anything,” you repeated in a questioning tone, but she quickly affirmed. It was like she could read your mind. Like y’all were already one even without the sharing of blood. Pearline leaned into your ear as your fingers kept their steady pace on her clit.

“Make me like you,” she cried—her voice certain and confident. “I need you so bad, y/n.” The tears never stopped, and as you were caught in shock, Pearline took matters into her own hands and pulled your head down to her waiting neck. “I said do it,” she screamed, pulling you back to reality.

You pushed her panties to the side, finally making direct contact with her aching pussy. Her body was hot even though the weather was fair. Her desire was dripping off of her and making everything she touched warm.

You licked the sweat that dripped down her neck, causing her to completely crumble. You loved the effect you had on her. You wanted to give her everything she needed for the rest of eternity, and you were going to make sure that started now.

“Oh, God,” she moaned through the tufty leaves of the magnolia, head pointed toward the sky as you inserted two fingers into her. You carefully circled her clit with your thumb in order to not overwhelm her too much.

Her body shook again. Her orgasm was quickly approaching, and her walls clenched tightly around her fingers. She just wouldn’t give in.

“Come on, baby,” you guided her, speaking softly into her ear. “I’ll give you what you want. Just go on and cum for me.” With that, Pearline let go, screaming your name into the night sky: unapologetic.

You smiled as the orgasm wrecked her body and tears streaked down her face.

Before she came down from her high, you extended it by fucking into her in long, deep strokes. As she whimpered loudly, you bowed your head to the soft spot between her neck and her shoulder. Taking a stabilizing breath, you sunk your teeth into her.

As expected, Pearline tasted like nothing you had ever had before. She was smooth like Italian wine, sweet like soft blues music played in a Mississippi juke joint, bright like the last day you remember seeing the sun.

She flooded your senses with so much goodness that everything in your world felt right again.

Before now, you didn’t know how to contend with being otherworldly—with being a vampire—but Pearline changed that for you.

Once you felt satisfied, you removed your fingers from between her legs and laid her body gingerly at the base of the tree. You propped her back against the trunk and almost immediately thrusted your fingers in your mouth to give her a taste.

You could have cried at how delicious she was. Her blood. Her pussy. Her lips. Pearline was a phenomenal woman, and now she was all yours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

taglist: comment HERE to be added!

@m0netm0netxo12 @bigjh @zer0productions @devonda81 @raysogroovy @terayne-4 @hdfen2474 @mbjswife @iiiheartfayee

[recareels]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ sunday + grinding on his fingers while he works!

character: sunday warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, extreme teasing, dom/sub power dynamics, pet names (darling, angel, sweetheart), tiny bit of degradation (needy slut), toxic relationship (sunday is a lil mean/controlling/overbearing), taps into sunday’s god complex  words: 1.4k

Thinking about Sunday’s fingers; long, slim, warmed by the gloves, his heat radiating off the thin material. Thinking about not even riding them, but humping them, using them while he deals with something far more important. He won’t put them inside of you, refuses to even take off his gloves as he wedges a hand between your thighs, claiming that this is more than enough to make you cum, sweetheart and he knows you can do it, he knows you can get off from just this. 

Because you’re such a needy little slut for him, aren’t you? Pathetic and acquiescent and willing to take whatever the fuck he’ll give you, even if it’s merely the very tips of his fingers, just scarcely brushing your throbbing clit. 

It’s up to you to do all the work—you’re the one who wanted it, after all; you’re the one who couldn’t sit proper and patient and wait for him to finish with his tasks and duties, too eager and desperate for the tiniest piece of him to stand it—and he declines to put in any effort at all, simply keeping his fingers still and stiff, a hairs width from your cunt. 

As such, it’s your responsibility to make yourself feel good.

He barely pays you a shred of attention throughout the entire tedious process, gaze prim and focused on the documents spread neatly across his desktop, his free hand leafing through papers and jotting down notes. 

But despite his cool, calm, seemingly unaffected demeanour, you know better. 

Because you can see it; his cock, hard and huge and straining against white trousers, just begging for relief. You can hear it; those gentle, almost imperceptible hitches in his breath—a subtle response to your own sweet little noises, whiny little mewls and airy little moans, sounds that melt in the heat of your mouth, sugared frustration on your tongue.  

Every brush of your clit against his fingers pushes another one from your pouty lips, features pinched and tight with concentration, muscles coiled and tense as they work and flex, desperate to achieve your goal. 

Yet despite what Sunday had claimed, it truly isn’t enough, each soft swipe of his fingers only working to fuel the fire roiling in your belly, spritzing kerosene on the flames but never fostering an explosion. 

“S’not enough, Sir,” you whimper after nearly an hour of this routine, a heavy ache beginning to settle deep within your flesh, 

“It’s not enough,” he corrects you, not sparing you a glance. “And I assure you it is, darling. Come, now, be a good girl for me, and show me that you can cum from just my fingertips.” 

“I can’t, I can’t,” you hiccup, lids squeezing shut as tears nip at your vision, aggravation budding at the corners of your eyes. “I need more!”

“Don’t get greedy, now,” he chastises, an implicit warning woven into the sentence. “You’ve already taken one of my hands away, and considerably slowed down my productivity, interrupting my workflow with your neediness. Isn’t that enough?” 

A flash of guilt sears through your stomach, bitter and sharp, and you lip juts out even further,  puckering your chin. 

He’s right—You know he’s right. He’s already making a sacrifice for you by just giving you this—time is money, time is power, time is control, and you’re eating up a substantial amount with your disgraceful desire. How much more selfish could you possibly be? 

“M’sorry, Master,” you slur out, eyes shut tightly enough to crinkle your lids as you attempt to scrape together the tatters of your concentration. “I’m sorry.” 

Sunday says nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitches, curls upward with something sick and sadistic, thick authority cracking in the atmosphere around him. 

With renewed resolve, your hips begin to swivel again, grinding your swollen clit against sheathed fingers. His fingertips flutter softly, just teasing, and your movements speed up, rocking into his feathery touch, the motion just shy of satisfying. 

Something similar to vexation chokes in your throat; a half-stifled groan smothered by your determination to be good, to obey. 

You will not complain again. 

The quick, light drumming of his fingers against your clit ceases a mere moment before your pleasure crests—it’s a curse, how proficiently he knows your body, how perfectly he can decode those precious little gasps, slipping unwittingly from your lips and tinged with exasperation, and those pathetic little ruts, pelvis stuttering as it chases his touch, stomach muscles coiled and clenched. 

He can read you so well, too well, almost as if he made you himself, took blood and bone between his palms and molded it into flesh, into his personal little angel—he is your creator, and you worship him flawlessly. 

It’s obscene, just how wet you are, copious amounts of arousal soaking through the cotton of his gloves to prune his fingers, turning the material slippery, puffy clit gliding over it with fluid ease.

It’s embarrassing, just how wet you are, thick dribbles of slick streaming down Sunday’s drenched digits to collect in little pools on the webs between his knuckles. It’s overflowing, leaking onto his palm slow and steady to seep into the fabric, now stained with evidence of your desire clinging to his hand. 

You’re saturated in sweat by the time you finally manage to orgasm, thin linen of your dress plastered to your form, contouring every dip and curve of your body, outlining every heave of your chest. A garland of tiny beads is strung along your hairline and collarbone, glistening dewdrops streaming down your cheeks and neck and leaving pretty shimmering trails of damp salt in their wake. 

Strands of matted hair stick to your temples, your thighs still tensing around Sunday’s now rigid hand, hips continuing to gyrate in sloppy little circles as you chase residual sparks of pleasure, quick jolts of overstimulation rippling your flesh. 

But despite the dull, dense ache in your muscles, heavy with exhaustion and filled with sand, and the prodigal sparks of pain-dyed ecstasy, pushing sharp hisses through the gaps of your clenched teeth with each bout through your blood, you just can’t seem to stop.

“Th-Thank you, Sunday, Sir, thank you, thank you,” you’re babbling out in hiccups, words hitching in time with the motions of your hips. 

So polite, his sweet little seraph, so devoted to making your gratitude known—it is, in essence, only right to thank your god after he grants you a tiny piece of heaven, a single taste of bliss, Sunday knows. And your reverence will not go unrewarded. 

Because your reverence far exceeds great respect and high regard; your reverence bleeds into veneration, obsession, addiction. Your love knows no bounds. 

Your love is voracious in its worship, devouring any morsel of attention or affection he grants you and being grateful for it—even something as small and insignificant as a fingertip. 

It’s fucking exhilarating to experience such power, and it sends a heady shot of rhapsody straight to his brain, dazing him and infusing his blood. He can feel it oozing out of every pore, clinging to his form like a protective shield, reinvigorating his hegemony and reaffirming his authority.

Yearning against his pants, his cock twitches, the stitches threaded across the groin stretched taut with how hard he is. 

His hand is doused in you—your cum and your sweat and your arousal—and he pulls it free from your flexing thighs to examine it, holding it up in front of his face and turning it; first this way, then that, leisurely admiring the way every inch of his glove gleams in the diffused sun spilling past the stained glass. Sheathed in you, it almost looks like a shimmery satin.

“Such a mess,” he grits out, the words wispy and ragged. “Such a pretty mess you made for me.” 

A pair of gloved fingers tap together in a scissor-like motion, slow and controlled, pupils blown wide with awe as he watches the slick material stick to itself, glimmering in the setting sunlight and separating with minimal effort, strings of your cum strung between the appendages, webby, quivering slightly. 

You’ve since slumped against him, face nearly buried in his bicep as he appreciates the gift you’ve given him. Your breath is hot and humid against his neck, panted out through parted lips in uneven little huffs and stammered by soft whines.

“Rest, angel,” he murmurs, cheek laid against your head after he’s peeled the soiled glove from his skin and stashed it away in a desk drawer for safe keeping. “You did well.”

He knew you would. A god is never wrong, after all.

[javier-pena]

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Word Count: 5k (so much for short drabble)

Rating: Mature

Summary: You work for the DEA in Colombia. Until one of your missions goes terribly wrong.

Warnings: hurt/comfort | attempted rape (nothing too graphic) | smoking | reader is being held captive | historical inaccuracies | period-appropriate sexism | difficult father-daughter relationship | canon-typical violence (kind of graphic) | panic and distress | brief description of wounds 

Notes: This is the first fic for my 10k follower celebration!!! Thank you, @lokischocolatefountain who requested “I’ll be here when you wake up” with Javier Peña. I hope you like it 🤭 This fic was very much inspired by Gabriel García Márquez' "Noticia de un secuestro" ("News of a Kidnapping") which I highly recommend if you're interested in what Narcos (Season 1) only covers in two episodes, namely the kidnappings of prominent figures in Colombia by the Medellín Cartel in the early 90s. As ever, huge thanks to Dani @alexturner who took the time to ask, "What does this mean?" and made me realize that I, in fact, don't know the answer to that question.

***

It’s night again. Or maybe it’s dawn. You don’t know. The blacked-out windows don’t let in any light. Your days are no longer structured according to the laws of nature (morning – midday – afternoon – evening – night), but according to the laws of your captors (wake up – bathroom – food – nothing – food – sleep). Maybe you’re awake all night and sleep all day. Maybe you only sleep for four hours and are awake for twenty. Neither your mind nor your body can tell the difference any longer.

Right now, for example, you’re in the “nothing” part of your day. It’s just you, rolled up on your mattress in your corner, and your thoughts, looping and looping, making you relive how you ended up here, in this room, somewhere in Colombia. And every single day, right at the end of “nothing” and the start of “food”, you come to the same conclusion: It’s all your fault.

It started with your childhood, you think. No, you can’t blame everything that went wrong in your life on your father, but he certainly did his bid – no matter what you did, it was never enough. Not even when you applied for a transfer to the embassy and you got selected, the youngest woman in DEA history who got an assignment like that. All he had to say to you was, “Huh”. So of course, you had to do better than that.

Here, in Colombia, you found yourself surrounded by men just like your father, old men in suits who sneered at you, confusing you with a secretary, asking you to make coffee and take notes. Old men with guns and enough war stories to fill a book, calling you “little lady” and pinching your cheeks. Old men that were just there, leering at you from corners and doorways. And they all had the face of your father.

Still, no one forced you to raise your hand that Thursday afternoon your floor ran out of coffee, the same afternoon Noonan called you all to a meeting and asked for a volunteer. “Dangerous assignment,” she said, “likely to get you killed.” You should have listened to her. But the looks on all those faces when you raised your hand and said, “I’d be happy to do it,” were worth it. Almost. Because, ultimately, it was the beginning of the end.

One of the men on guard duty today swears loudly and another one growls at him to be quiet. Sometimes they forget there’s a life outside those blacked-out windows and they’re not the only people in this city. You forget that too, but then you hear the voices of people living their lives, the sound of a car backfiring, a dog barking somewhere. If one of you makes the wrong noise, surely, you’ll be discovered.

The three men with you today (tonight?) know that, and so do you. They’re playing cards by the light of a dirty kerosene lamp, sitting so closely together their knees are touching. If they stretched out their legs, their feet would be touching your mattress. The room you’re in is barely big enough for one person, let alone for four. It’s the only room you’ve seen in months, apart from the bathroom they take you to once or twice a day. It’s across a small hallway you haven’t seen because they blindfold you. Every time, for every trip.

You can barely remember a time when not everything you needed to survive was dependent on another person. The autonomy you prided yourself on, your ability to achieve everything on your own, to survive everything on your own, those have been taken away from you. Could you even use the bathroom if no one gave you permission first? You doubt it.

You didn’t need anyone’s permission to go on that undercover mission that ultimately landed you in this tiny square room that is now your entire world. You were the fastest to volunteer, you fit the profile they were looking for: fluent in Spanish, low level enough to not be able to spill any secrets should you get arrested, pretty. It was supposed to be so easy. Infiltrate the Medellín cartel, gather intel, report back. There was even a plan in place to extract you should anything go wrong. And go wrong it did, and nothing was there to break your fall.

Before that, before you watched boys play cards all day, before your only window to the outside world was a small TV, there was one person who tried to get you to back down. You thought he didn’t think you capable of anything because you’re young, inexperienced and a woman, but in hindsight you should have listened to him. It doesn’t matter that the others called him an asshole and you thought he was trying to dissuade you because he was jealous. He knew what he was talking about and you should have listened to him.

The man closest to you lights a cigarette, his face briefly doused in a gloomy red light. You think of them as men because it somehow makes it easier, but he looks barely 16. Your room quickly fills with smoke and you try to suppress a cough so they don’t hit you again.

That’s how this all started, with you getting punched in the stomach.

Your undercover mission asked a lot of you, maybe too much. You were aware that it might be necessary for you to sleep with some of the men you were trying to get close to, and when they asked you about this back at the embassy, you wouldn’t have any problem with it... Until it was about to happen. The man touched you, breathed into your face smelling of cheap alcohol and expensive cigars, and in a moment of sheer panic, you fought back and blew your cover.

That’s it. That’s all. You ruined the mission because you couldn’t lie still for five minutes, and now you’re paying for it.

You know there have been attempts to find you and you know you’re not the only hostage. Right at the beginning, you shared a room with a Colombian journalist who, before that, had shared a room with a famous Colombian TV presenter. You know there are negotiations, you sometimes see on TV that a hostage is returned to their family. One time, there were shouts and sirens and gunshots, but they blindfolded you and put you in a truck. That’s how you ended up here, in this room.

At first, you focused on the stories of the people who made it out alive, not on the stories of the people who didn’t. You’re DEA, and even though you fucked up, you know those three letters are like a protective spell woven around you. Yes, they will hold you captive for as long as possible, yes, they will use you to fight everything you stand for, but they won’t kill you. The more time passes though, the more you doubt anyone is still fighting for your safe return. They might not kill you, but you also won’t be getting out of here.

With every day that passes, with every day you grow weaker and more tired, those men stare at you more and more. At first, they didn’t dare to look at you, ignored you when you tried to talk to them, acted like you weren’t there. Now you catch their eyes on you frequently, hungrily taking you in. They still don’t touch you – not like that, anyway – but they hit you when you’re too loud, they press their fingers over your mouth, the smell of cigarettes and gunpowder making you gag, and sometimes their hands wander, to the small of your back, to your side. Even if you make it out of here alive, you won’t make it out of here unharmed.

It's a different day. At least you think it is. You sleep more and more during your period of nothing, but it isn’t a restful sleep. If anything, it makes you more tired, wearier. You dread waking up and you dread falling asleep and you dread being awake. But something is different today, something has changed while you were asleep. There are only two men with you tonight, and they look at you more and more, their faces unreadable. It unnerves you more than their openly lustful gazes. You pretend to ignore them as best as possible, but it’s hard when you don’t want to turn your back on them.

A third man comes into the room, one you haven’t seen before. He’s big, broad, a tight shirt stretching over his belly, lines around his eyes, thinning hair on his head. He doesn’t look at you, just steps over the two boys and switches on the TV that comes to life with a static crackle. On your mattress, you come alive too, your heart starting with a painful lurch. Whatever it is, this can’t be good for you.

You barely recognize the face on TV. It takes you about a minute to make sense of what you’re seeing, so unfamiliar you’ve become with the ambassador you used to take orders from. She looks the same – it’s you who has changed. Her suit is still perfectly pressed, her hair is still perfectly styled, she still speaks into the cameras in that calm, no-nonsense voice. It’s you who you don’t recognize, you who doesn’t make sense anymore.

It also takes you a while to understand her, to make sense of what she’s saying. You hear the words “hostages” and “negotiation”, and you know she’s talking about you and whoever else there may be, but definitely you. It would explain your captors’ faces. Something has happened, some new development that’s inconveniencing them. Maybe this is it. Maybe you’re being set free. Maybe even tonight. The thought makes you feel light-headed; you have no idea who you are outside of these four walls and that mattress.

“… end of negotiations. We will no longer regard terrorists as equal opposites in this. Any American hostages they might still have, or pretend to have, will, from today onward, be considered missing in action.”

What does that mean? Surely, they wouldn’t just … they wouldn’t just let you die, would they? You’re DEA, you can’t be missing in action, you’re not a soldier. The cartels can’t kill you, they wouldn’t do that. Just how the US wouldn’t abandon you, wouldn’t go on TV to sign your death warrant in front of a live audience. It doesn’t make sense.

You turn to your captors, as if looking for guidance, but they look just as lost as you. Even the big man. He keeps running his fingers through his thin hair, sweat beading on his forehead. One of the boys looks at him too, as if waiting for orders, the other is running the tip of his index finger through the dust on the floor. Why won’t they look at you?

“So we just kill her?” asks the boy who keeps staring at the big man. His name is Andrés Felipe. You know that because another boy let it slip once. You’re not supposed to know their names, and Andrés Felipe made sure that mistake would never happen again, but by then it was too late.

“Not yet,” the man answers. “We have to wait.”

Andrés Felipe groans. “What for? You heard that woman on TV. They’re done negotiating.”

“You don’t know that,” dust boy chimes in. “It could be a ruse.”

Andrés Felipe laughs at him. “As if you know anything about politics. You can’t even read.”

You look at Andrés Felipe then, truly look at him. You need the distraction. You need to pretend it isn’t you they’re talking about, as if your fate doesn’t depend on these three men. And there isn’t much else to do in this room but look. Andrés Felipe is young, younger than you, but older than dust boy. His face is free of wrinkles, free of the tell-tale signs of hunger and a tough upbringing in the favelas. He isn’t here because he needs to be, he’s here because he wants to be. Which also explains why he dares to speak up in front of the big man, whose maturity puts him in charge.

You don’t like Andrés Felipe, never have. Maybe it’s because knowing his name humanizes him and it’s easier to hate a human than some faceless, nameless villain. Maybe it’s because of the cruel glint in his eyes, or the way he beat up that boy who revealed his name. And now there’s his eagerness to kill you. There is no reason for you to feel any sympathy toward him.

“He’s right,” the big man says then. “Maybe they want us to kill all the hostages so they’ll have an excuse to send in the military.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Andrés Felipe responds. “Everyone would know they’re liars.”

“They’re not,” dust boy dares to speak up again. “Missing in action also means they can be found. If you’re missing, you’re not dead. If the missing people die –”

He can’t finish his sentence because Andrés Felipe slaps him. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The big man doesn’t come to dust boy’s aid. He just smirks. “Quit it, you two, we’re sitting tight until we get our orders.”

“I’m fucking done waiting!” Andrés Felipe shouts and you flinch. He’s too loud. Someone will hear him. And they don’t have any reason to keep you alive now. It’s easier to shoot you and then run. “All I’ve been doing is waiting. Do you think I don’t have anything better to do with my time?”

The big man shushes him. You wish he would hit Andrés Felipe, put him in his place, but he just crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I say we wait.”

You close your eyes and breathe in deeply. Andrés Felipe says something else in that sharp, nasally voice of his, but you refuse to listen. Nothing good can come of it. Either they will kill you or they won’t. You’re too weak to think about either of these options. And you’re not going anywhere until those orders arrive, so you might as well …

When you wake up, the room is quiet, and you immediately know something is wrong. Even before you feel the cool, sharp blade against your neck, and before you smell the stale breath of the man holding it, cowering above you.

“Not one sound,” he hisses, and you recognize Andrés Felipe’s voice, uncomfortably loud in the quiet room. It’s so quiet, too quiet with just the two of you. The sounds of him unbuckling his belt are like explosions against your eardrums. You fight the urge to tell him to be quiet, but then your brain catches up with what your body already knows, and you kick your legs and shake your head.

You almost don’t feel the cut of the knife, but you do feel the hot drops of blood on your neck. “I told you to be quiet,” Andrés Felipe hisses. “Just don’t move.”

But you do, you do move, at least your hands that you ball into fists. You don’t want your life to end like this, in some shack somewhere in Colombia with a knife against your throat and a criminal inside of you. This can’t be it. They have to put you in front of a firing squad at least, don’t they? Not like this. Please, not like this.

Andrés Felipe touches your lower belly trying to unbutton your dirty pants, and you flinch, a terrified groan escaping your lips. The knife cuts deeper into the soft skin of your throat. “Shut up, you stupid bitch,” he growls.

Then there’s blood. Everywhere. It’s in your eyes, your mouth, you breathe it in, you taste it on your tongue. Andrés Felipe collapses on top of you, the knife landing on the mattress with a dull sound. You try to get out from under the heavy body, but you can barely lift his shoulders before your arm starts to tremble.

“Hey.” You wipe the blood out of your eyes to find a man kneeling next to you, shoving Andrés Felipe’s heavy body aside so you can sit up. You don’t know who he is, you’ve never seen him before, but he has to be someone higher up if he dared to kill Andrés Felipe. Because that is what just happened, you slowly realize. Andrés Felipe is dead and you’re covered in his blood.

The strange man reaches for you and you flinch away. “Ma’am, my name is Javier Peña,” he says, his voice steady and calm as if he’s been in this exact situation a million times before. “I’m with the DEA. I’m here to get you out.”

“The DEA?” you repeat, the English sounds feeling foreign in your mouth.

He reaches for you again, touches your shoulder, and this time you don’t flinch away. “You’re safe now.” He squeezes your shoulder, then stands up and holds out his hand to you. You take it and push yourself off the mattress.

“What happened?” you ask, trying to ignore the dead body, half its face gone.

“Maybe we should discuss this –,” Javier starts, but you don’t hear the rest of the sentence. Suddenly it feels like there are cotton balls lodged in your ears and the whole world turns dark, darker than it already is.

Someone is carrying you. You think you must be outside because you feel a light breeze on your face. You don’t remember the last time you smelled fresh air, but when you breathe in deeply, you’re enveloped in cigarette smoke and gunpowder. It’s not unpleasant, you realize with a start. It comes from a heavy leather jacket you’re wrapped in, and from the man carrying you. They never would have carried you like this, carefully, as if you might break, so you know you must be safe.

When you next open your eyes, you’re inside again. The room is so big it startles you at first. But the longer you let your eyes wander, the more your brain adjusts to help you realize you’re in a normal sized living room, sitting on a leather couch, a knitted blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You must have just sat up because your head is spinning and your limbs are trembling, but otherwise you feel like you can finally breathe again.

“Feeling better?”

You’re proud of yourself for not jumping at hearing his voice. “Yeah,” you answer, swallowing to wet your dry throat. You feel an unpleasant tug on your skin where Andrés Felipe cut you twice. “Where am I?”

You turn to look at him. He’s sitting on the couch next to you but with enough distance between the two of you so you don’t touch. He’s holding a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, trying to hide the look of concern on his face. It’s something you will see a lot from now on, people looking at you as if you’re about to break.

“You’re in my living room,” he answers.

“Why not,” you have to swallow again, “why not at the embassy?”

He taps his foot nervously so his leg is jumping up and down, takes a drag. “Us coming to rescue you … that wasn’t exactly sanctioned by Noonan.”

“So you really are DEA?” you ask, even though there are a million other things you should ask first. Like if the press conference you saw on TV was really true. If Noonan and the United States were really prepared to let the remaining hostages die. But the longer you look at the man next to you, the more familiar he looks.

Javier nods at the same time as you burst out, “You tried to warn me, didn’t you? Back at the embassy? You told me I was in over my head with this. You’re the asshole!”

The surprise on his face is almost enough to make you laugh for the first time in months. “I’m the what?”

You open your mouth, but instead of an answer coming out of it, you start coughing uncontrollably. Your sides are burning by the time you’re done, but Javier is right there next to you with a glass of water that you accept gratefully.

“Let me take a look at your throat,” he says, watching you swallow down the cool liquid.

If you think about it, you haven’t been touched in months. You know you’ll flinch away before he even touches you, so you stiffen your muscles, determined to remain in place.

He must see it all on your face. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” you say through gritted teeth.

His fingers are rough against your skin as he carefully tilts your head to the side. You barely flinch but you whimper because the movement hurts more than you would have thought. He hums quietly before standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

You raise your finger to your neck to find the skin there sticky with blood. Whether it is yours or Andrés Felipe’s you can’t tell. But the unfamiliar feeling makes you tremble again. You wish you could stop that, or at least suppress it. You wish the world would start making sense again. You miss your small room and your mattress and knowing what comes next. You don’t even know if Javier is telling the truth, if he really is who he says he is. Yes, he looks vaguely familiar, but until a few hours ago, you had no idea what time of day it was.

“Hey, hey,” Javier says softly. He is sitting next to you again, closer this time, but he’s still not touching you. “Breathe. You’re safe. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“None of it makes sense,” you mumble. You’re not sure if he’s heard you, but you do feel the pressure on your chest lighten.

“You have two cuts on your throat,” Javier goes on, shaking a small bottle of disinfectant. “They don’t look too bad, but I’d still like to clean them. Is that okay?”

How do you explain to him that you just spent months asking for permission instead of giving it? How do you explain to him that you don’t know how to decide anything for yourself anymore?

Not sure what to make of your silence, Javier goes on. “You can do it yourself if you want to. I can show you –”

You tilt your head to the side. “No, please. I want you to do it.”

Javier stops shaking the bottle of disinfectant, grabs a cotton ball, and pours some liquid over it. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

He does hurt you. The second he touches the cotton ball to the cut, you want to scream. It burns so much you can hardly take it. But you grit your teeth and you don’t complain. Because you don’t want him to stop. You know it’s just the isolation and the confusion of the last hours and the fact that your world doesn’t make sense anymore, but the way he dabs the cotton ball across the cut, brow furrowed in concentration, makes you feel safe. And you can’t remember the last time you felt like this.

“You’re being so brave,” he mumbles, and surely you must have misheard or you must have imagined it, because he continues in a normal voice, “Tomorrow, you should go see a doctor. I don’t have any medical training and it doesn’t look too bad, but it can’t hurt to be safe.”

You raise your fingers to touch your throat and briefly brush his as he draws them back. “Thank you,” you say when you find your skin free of dried blood. The cotton ball in Javier’s hand is now a blotchy red. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Javier says, standing up to dispose of the cotton ball. “I think he cut you with a knife.”

“No, not that.” You sink back against the couch cushions and tightly wrap the blanket around yourself. “With Noonan and the hostages.”

Javier, who is standing in the open kitchen with his back toward you, stiffens. “It was just you,” he answers, pretending to clean some dust off the counter. “You were the only American hostage left. Because it took so fucking long to find you.” He turns to you, cringing. “Sorry. I meant it took us forever to find you.”

“You can swear,” you tell him, your cheeks tingling from the unfamiliar sensation of a smile.

He walks back toward you, and it’s as if you’re seeing him for the first time. He’s no longer the jealous man who was trying to get you to back off from a mission he told you you weren’t qualified for. He’s the man who risked his job – and his life – to save you. And you don’t quite know what to do with that.

To your disappointment, he sits down in a chair, not on the couch, and lights another cigarette. “We had your location eventually. But then, two days ago, the cartel released the businessman, the only other American being held. We had to give them three men in exchange, and the exchange almost went wrong. Someone high up in Washington must have decided that’s enough.”

“So it was true, what Noonan said on TV?” You feel hot and cold all over. “It wasn’t a ruse? They were prepared to let me die?”

Javier nods. “Yeah, but I wasn’t.”

Your heart stops for a short while. “Why?”

He shrugs. “You’re one of us.”

“You warned me. You told me not to go on this mission. I thought you were jealous.”

He barks out a short laugh. “No, I thought it was a stupid mission. Too dangerous. Not worth risking the life of one of our agents for. And it was putting all our other informants at risk too.”

You look down at your hands, barely recognizing them underneath the dirt clinging to your skin. “What happens next? Will you get reassigned?”

“I won’t get a medal, that’s for sure.” He takes a drag of his cigarette and his face lights up with a red glow. “Noonan will thank me privately but reprimand me publicly. And then she’ll send you home.”

“Me? Why am I being punished?” Your voice, still hoarse from disuse, rings in your ears.

He laughs again, loudly this time. “Darlin’, Colombia almost killed you. I wouldn’t call it punishment.”

Your heart kickstarts at the use of the diminutive. “I want to stay here. There’s still so much to do.”

He stubs out his cigarette. “What you need to do is take things easy. You just went through a horrible ordeal you haven’t even begun to process. Even if you do stay here, you need a break first.”

You want to protest, but you can’t find the strength. You feel weary, exhausted, like you spent the last month trekking through the jungle without a break. Your body is a heavy lump you hardly have control over.

The next thing you feel is Javier’s arms around you as he holds you tightly. “Hey,” he says again, and you could get used to the softness in his voice. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“No,” you mumble, trying to push him away, suddenly trapped in the memory of closing your eyes and waking up to a man holding a knife cowering above you.

Javier doesn’t take no for an answer. “You’ll sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You’re still not sure this is such a good idea, but there is no alternative you can think of, and your body is begging you to lie down on cool, clean sheets and forget the world for a while. You let Javier pull you up, and you manage to stumble not more than once as he leads you into a dark bedroom. He doesn’t switch on the light.

“I’m going to let you sleep in,” he tells you, sitting you down on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to leave the door open in case you need me?”

“No, that’s fine,” you answer, weakly kicking off your dirty shoes. You just want him to leave so you can close your eyes.

He runs his hand from the top of your head down to your neck in a well-practiced, automatic motion. “I’m a light sleeper – just shout if there’s anything you need.”

You nod, and he finally steps back with a smile on his face. “Good night, Javi,” you say, your head hitting the pillow before you can stop it. He’s already at the door when you add, “And thank you.”

You can’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes when the sound of gunfire wakes you. It’s not close by, but the echo of it still reaches you, and before your brain has time to process, your body is already responding with a sob that shakes you from head to toe.

“I’ve got you,” Javier says, wrapping you up in his arms. You bury your face against his naked shoulder, trying to steady your breath, but you’re crying uncontrollably now.

“I’m sorry,” you sob.

All he does is run his hand up and down your back. “Shhhh, I’m here. Nothing is going to happen to you.”

His warm breath against the top of your head makes your heartbeat slow down, and you finally manage to swallow your tears. “I’m so sorry,” you repeat, feeling like you’re about to die.

“Come on, lie down,” he urges you gently, trying to lower you toward the mattress.

“No!” You cling to him desperately, but he pries your arms off him without much effort.

“I’ll be here, okay?” he soothes you. “Right in that chair over there.”

You don’t know what chair he’s talking about; you didn’t notice one when he led you into the bedroom, but you stopped noticing things a while ago. “Don’t leave me,” you beg.

He brushes your hair out of your face and places a soft kiss against your temple. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

When you next open your eyes, there he is, asleep in an armchair in the corner of the bedroom, the early morning sun dancing across his skin.

[countyourfreckleslikestars]

“Bigger then you’ll ever be”

Jun-Tae x fem!reader

Warnings: bullying, sexual harassment (non-con, groping attempts, gross comments) , violence, protective!reader / unhinged!reader, swearing, obviously, implied smut at the end (implied oral, praise kink, soft dom vibes, Jun-Tae’s a flustered mess) no proofread

You and your boyfriend had only been dating for a few months, but people already knew one thing about you: you didn’t play when it came to him.

It wasn’t a secret that you got expelled from your last school. After all, you had put a girl in the hospital. Rumor had it she said something slick about your best friend, and the next thing she remembered was waking up with a neck brace and a dislocated jaw.

So yeah — protective was an understatement.

The only school that would still take you was the one your boyfriend, Jun-Tae, attended. At first, it seemed like a blessing. But that changed fast.

Because what you didn’t know — what he hadn’t told you — was that Jun-Tae had been the favorite punching bag of the “popular kids” for months. And it wasn’t just teasing. It was humiliating, degrading, cruel.

And he had the nerve to make you promise: “Don’t get involved. Don’t get hurt.”

You had agreed, reluctantly.

But today? That promise died.

⸻

You were walking up the stairs, dragging your feet a little, your bag hanging off one shoulder, when you heard it.

Laughter.

Not the fun kind — the ugly kind. The kind soaked in superiority and venom.

You slowed. Peered up.

Jun-Tae was sitting near the top of the staircase. His uniform was rumpled. One side of his collar had been yanked loose. His face burned with shame, not heat. Around him were a cluster of boys — them. Hyo-Man front and center, laughing like he was God’s gift to bullies.

“Wait, wait, wait — precious Jun-Tae has a girlfriend?”

Laugh. Cackle. Sneer.

“Since when does the puppy bark loud enough to pull?”

“I never expected it,” Hyo-Man chimed in. “Our little Jun-Tae’s packing, huh?”

Jun-Tae looked down. You saw him try to play along. His lips parted. A weak:

“…No. Not really.”

They howled. One of them smacked his back, another leaned in, practically salivating.

“Lemme see your hotdog then!”

You didn’t register it at first. Not until one reached toward him and Jun-Tae flinched.

“Yo, he’s getting hard!”

“Please stop,” Jun-Tae mumbled. “Please—”

That’s when the switch flipped. Your breath vanished, but your rage lit like kerosene. You dropped your bag on the stair behind you.

Clatter.

They turned, surprised.

“Who’s this?”

“Damn, he wasn’t lying. She’s fine.”

You didn’t answer. You were already looking past them — straight at Jun-Tae.

His eyes met yours. Wide. Pleading. Please don’t.

“Let him go.”

Your voice was cold steel.

Hyo-Man raised an eyebrow.

“Ohhh. This is the girlfriend?”

He ruffled Jun-Tae’s hair.

“Now you can settle a little debate.”

Another boy grinned.

“Does he really have a big dic—?”

CRACK.

Your fist met his jaw with a snap that echoed. His head whipped sideways.

“YOU BITCH!” He shouted. Another lunged — you sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and slammed him into another, both tumbling down the stairs.

But Hyo-Man had already grabbed your hair. He yanked. You stumbled. Pain bit your scalp as he dragged you down.

“So this is your watchdog, Jun-Tae? Cute. To bad I’m gonna beat you bloody after I’m done with her.”

He slapped you across the face, hard enough that your vision stuttered.

But before he could swing again—

THWACK.

A textbook — heavy, hardcover, thick with science and rage — smashed into Hyo-Man’s skull. He crumpled like paper.

You blinked.

Jun-Tae stood over you, wide-eyed and shaking, holding the book for a second too long before dropping it.

“Sh-shit, you’re bleeding.”

You reached up to touch your lip, wincing.

“I’m fine,” you muttered. “He’s not.”

Jun-Tae helped you up, hands trembling. You turned toward the wreckage. The boys groaned on the floor ��� Hyo-Man especially, his head bleeding, eyes dazed.

You walked over and knelt beside him.

“Oh — and for the record?”

You leaned in, voice low and dangerous.

“He has a way bigger dick than you ever will.”

Jun-Tae flushed from head to toe as you took his hand and walked away, brushing past a circle of stunned bystanders.

⸻

Back at his place, things were quiet.

He was fussing — trying to clean your lip, his hands still trembling. You finally caught his wrist and set the ice pack down.

“I’m okay, Tae.”

“But you— you got hurt. Because of me.”

“For you,” you corrected gently.

You leaned in and kissed him — slow, deliberate. He tasted like guilt and peppermint gum. When you pulled back, his cheeks were red.

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered.

That’s when the shift happened. You pushed him back gently until he sat on the edge of the bed. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him.

His breath caught.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice shaking.

“Always.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head slowly. His skin was warm, flushed, trembling slightly under your touch.

You took your time.

Every touch was a reassurance. Every kiss said: You are wanted. You are safe. You are mine.

And when you slid down and kissed lower — when you finally undid his belt and looked up at him with a smirk?

“Told them you were packing. Time to prove me right, baby.”

The way he moaned your name?

Worth the fight.

⸻

A/n: heyyy sry for ghosting yall this weekend I was tired (like always) and I wrote this while half asleep so it isn’t good but I thought why not write smt for weak hero bc I love the mf show

Taglist:

@amoristt @lousypotatoes @infinetlyforgotten @mirahyun @takuma-talkz @sxmmerchxld @multifandomgirllol @gizaspicebag @truefandemonium @d-dilemma @lovestruck-sky

[lambmotifz]

hey! been following for a while, and I gotta say I love your takes and how vocal you are about, like, canon wincest, and reading the early seasons, and the gothic horror of it all. It might not be a popular stance to the wider fandom, but it's /correct/ and I love it. never change. that said, can you think of any fanfic recs that lean into that [canon] characterization, rather than the more widely accepted fanon? - <3

hey, i’m very happy to hear that you enjoy my posts ♡

i’ve recced these fics several times before but i come back to them monthly because they’re absolutely gorgeous and are closest to canon (and honestly it’s not like there’s much to rec anyway because most wincest fics are based purely on fanon)

feel about the same most every day [orphaned] (sam doesn’t know that dean wants to touch him…)

memory restricted to child’s play by @winpocalypse (dean would rather have sam broken, alive and alone than to be alone himself.)

loving lie by CleverUsernameHere (before dean’s time is up, sam gives him what he always wanted. it’s not what sam wants, but dean doesn’t have to know that.)

three days on the rack by keerawa, reena_jenkins (it’s been months, but sam finally found a crossroads demon willing to deal to get dean’s soul out of hell. the deal sounded too good to be true. sam took it anyway.)

i feel it way down (way down) by formalizing (dean eventually gets out of hell, but angels have nothing to do with it. sam is willing to make a lot of exceptions to his morals and principles in order to have his brother back.)

bleed my own by valleyofmidnight (blessed are those whose physical being matches their internal rot, for they will be made sacrifice. they will be lifted to the heavens, their blood kerosene for living fire. you believe it. or, you enjoy the thought of being lifted, of being burned.)

the consequence at hand by tradwifesam (nothing was ever supposed to get at her blood, nothing was ever meant to come between them that way. or, dean visits sam during detox.)

a stain that never comes off series by @winpocalypse (dean fucked him like he wanted to fill him up so much the trash inside just leaked through his pores. like he was righting all the wrongs. the thing is, sam is wrong to his very foundation. far deep in his cells, molecules, down to his atoms. he cannot be fixed. what he can do is look for redemption)

consequentialism and deontology series by Dyed_Red (sam has demons in his blood, angels in his bones, his all too human brother in his guts. how many pieces of him are there left to claim?)

to hell and back by unhappy_ghost (the mark is changing dean. it’s turning him into something he’s not. that’s what sam tells himself.)

we got that fire, fire, fire (and we gonna let it burn) by Trojie (hell marked them both, and now they mark each other. dean winchester is well-schooled enough in sick irony to know that it’s almost funny, that to help sam get over his tour in hell, dean has to relive his own.)

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Weekly Recap | October 21st-27th 2024

Sorry it's a little bit late!

Can't wait for Confessions!! 🤩

Complete

you make my heart beat by extasiswings/ @extasiswings (Post-S2, Different First Meeting | 1,8K | Teen): Eddie Diaz knows two things: 1) he's a great nurse; and 2) he does not fall for patients. After spending five months with Evan Buckley...well. Maybe that second one is a little more of an open question.

give me a sign by lecornergirl/ @clusterbuck (Werewolf Eddie, Eddie Coming Out | 2K | General): “Okay, okay,” he says, holding his hands up. So Eddie doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe it was embarrassing. Maybe he’d gotten really drunk, and he regrets it. Maybe it was with someone embarrassing, like an ex, or— Buck stops with his coffee halfway to his mouth. Maybe it was a man. Eddie’s never said anything about—he’s never suggested— But then, Buck himself never said anything until he said something. He’d barely known there was anything to say. OR: buck thinks he knows eddie's secret. he doesn't know the half of it.

love & magic (if the music is groovy) by ipretendtobesane/ @useramor (Witch Buck, Getting Together | 2K | Teen): buck accidentally casts a love spell on eddie. it doesn't quite work.

just call me sweetheart by snarkymuch/ @snarkythewoecrow (Kidnapping, Getting Together | 2K | Mature): They get knocked out and tied up, though Buck gets the worst of it. Eddie takes care of him, worries, and touches his dick, but not necessarily in that order. Oh, and Buck definitely thinks he must be dreaming because Eddie just called him sweetheart.

Well, This is Awkward by eightpackdiaz (S8E6: Confessions Spec, Getting Together | 3K | Teen): Eddie finds out about the well. Buck goes to awkward and amusing lengths to avoid talking about it.

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Eddie Diaz by giselleslash/ @gigi-gigi (Eddie Coming Out, Getting Together | 3K | General): Eddie comes out, and Buck decides to be his wingman. It all goes great. And Buck’s super chill about it.

if there’s a fire to be felt (call a cowboy) by justhockey (S8E5: Masks, Getting Together | 3K | Teen): “Looking good, Scarface,” Buck says, and he’s acutely aware of how breathless he sounds. “Not so bad yourself, cowboy,” Eddie remarks, his eyes trailing up and down the length of Buck’s body yet again. For a second, they’re the only two people in the room. The only two people in the whole world. The way that Eddie is looking at him - the approval in his eyes, the smirk teasing at the corners of his mouth - it feels like. Like something. It feels like a moment, maybe. Something stolen, right beneath the noses of all of their friends and family. And then there’s the clearing of a throat, and Buck feels a shoulder bumping into his. It jolts him out of the moment, and he turns to look at the man standing next to him. His boyfriend.

What a feeling (to be right here beside you now) by scarmaddiewrites (Post-S7, Sick fic | 3K | General): Buck shows up on Eddie’s doorstep after his break up with Tommy. Eddie takes care of him, naturally.

Mister I’ll make a husband out of you by scarmaddiewrites (Post Bachelor Party, Accidental Marriage | 6K | Mature): “Eddie doesn’t remember telling Buck he’s gay. No, Eddie has kept that shit on lockdown. In an envelope, inside a side, locked inside an apocalypse bunker, inside Alcatraz.” Or Buck is keeping a secret, until he isn’t.

kerosene by mandolare/ @roguebuck (S7E6: There Goes The Groom, PWP | 6K | Explicit): He doesn’t— need more of Eddie. This is enough. This is plenty. This is more than anyone else has of him; he can deal with the marrow-deep want that’s begun to choke him every once in a while. So what if sitting next to Eddie makes his skin feel like it’s on fire. At least he’s sitting next to Eddie.

it only takes a taste (when it’s something special) by weewooforever (Post-S7, Infidelity, PWP | 7K | Explicit): Eddie shifts slightly and clears his throat again. “But can you answer my original question? What’s it like kissing a guy?” Buck shrugs, trying to sound casual. “Honestly? It’s pretty much the same as kissing a girl. Lips are lips, you know?” Eddie crosses his arms, unconvinced. “Come on, Buck. It can’t be that simple. You’re telling me there’s no difference at all?” Buck leans back, a playful smirk spreading across his face. “Well, if you don’t believe me, I could always prove it to you.”

deep inside a gold mine by marviless/ @marviless (Established Buddie, Fluff | 8K | Teen): in which eddie is in love and a bit clingy about it.

I choose you, Pikachu (or the ways two idiots finally say you’re mine) by snarkymuch/ @snarkythewoecrow (Werewolf AU, Alpha Buck/Alpha Eddie, Getting Together | 8K | Explicit): Buck gets hurt at a scene, sparking a reaction in Eddie that is usually reserved for mates, which is especially odd since they aren’t nor have ever been dating, let alone bonded as a pair. So when Eddie shows up at the loft after his shift, feral and lost to his wolf, he proceeds to literally lick Buck’s wounds, nuzzle his crotch, then test every last fiber of Buck’s willpower as he desperately tries to do the right thing, not wanting to take advantage Eddie in this state. Which, for the record, he fails at—though neither is bothered by that in the slightest.

🔥 all our bruises beg for a chance by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergence, Amputee Buck, S4 | 10K | Teen): Buck is adjusting to life living with Eddie, Chris, and his service dog Cranberry, when his parents visit for the first time since he lost his leg. OR: A Cranberry-verse take on the events of Buck Begins. (Part 3 of Buck & Cranberry)

🔥 i could give you fifty reasons by marviless/ @marviless (Post-S7, Getting Together | 15K | Teen): buck is on a mission to help eddie recover his self-confidence. it goes well for exactly zero parties involved.

To Be Loved Anyways by Bookworm0303/ @insertlovelyperson (Future Fic, Established Buddie | 15K | Teen): “Just don’t expect me to walk you down the aisle,” Phillip laughed, looking around like he expected the rest to agree. And when no one did, glancing at one another in shock, confusion, and hurt on his behalf... it’d been the last straw: “I wouldn’t ask you to,” Buck said, as if discussing something as inconsequential as the weather, “I’d ask Bobby.” --- or Buck experiences the unconditional love of a parent for the first time in his life at a five year-old's birthday party.

🔥 white lies & a couple of dumb mistakes by justhockey (Accidental Marriage, S7 | 17K | Mature): “It could be worse,” Buck says. Eddie is pacing the length of the hotel room. Buck’s hotel room. The one that they shared last night, because they got married. Drunk married. In Vegas. By fucking Elvis. Jesus fucking Christ. If Eddie wasn’t so hungover he’d worry that the splitting in his head was a brain aneurysm. “How, Buck? How could it possibly be worse?” “We could have married strangers?” (Or, Eddie and Buck get married, move in together, and then fall in love. In that order. Kind of.)

���the city is a jungle and i’m a beast by putanauhere/ @putanauhere (Werewolf Eddie, S8 | 42K | Mature): or, Eddie has enough on his plate this summer – a newly empty nest, a terrible new captain, and a new mustache – without adding a new werewolf to the mix

WIP

🔥we won't look back, we won't be lost by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S7, Dad Buck | 1/5 | 8K | Teen): Over six years after the 118 rescued a baby from a pipe, Buck meets that same child again on a different call. And in all that time, she never found a home. OR: Buck adopts Pipe Baby while Eddie waits for Christopher to come home.

Kiss Me Once Cause You Know I Had A Long Night by I_still_dont_understand_13 / @sherlockcrossing (Prompt collection | 34/? | 22K | Teen): 100 kiss prompts.

34. 56. pulling your lover into your lap, making them straddle your hips 

Podfic

[Podfic] if i am lost, please call my dad(s) by Avanie (S4E8: Breaking Point, Outsider POV | 10-20min | General): Christopher's Uber ride to Buck's apartment.

🔥you could call me babe for christmas ('tis the damn season) by prettyboybuckley [Podfic] by Rhea314 (Rhea)/ @rhea314 // fic by @prettyboybuckley (Post-S4, Fake Relationship, Christmas | 3-3.5h | Teen): Buck and Eddie pretend to be dating as Buck takes the Diaz boys along to Hershey. Once there, things get a little out of hand, and Buck comes to a realization...

🔥To Fly The Skies by Kympossible for Spotsandsocks / @spotsandsocks (Dragonriders of Pern AU | 6-7h | Explicit): Eddie’s grieving and hurt but he finds a new home and then he finds Buck. Slowly things start to get better for him and Christopher. A story about moving forward from trauma and grief with help from the people you love and who love you back. Or a story about how life can work out ok even when you don’t expect it to.

🔥[podfic] Safe for Work by be_brave13/ @djemsowhat // fic by alsaurus (Pre-S7, Getting Together | 20-30min | Teen): Eddie offers to be Buck's official head scratcher, shoulder massager, and general tactile needs provider. It's a really normal thing for friends to do. Surely.

🔥[Podfic] hearts will hold by theyarnmaidstale/ @theyarnmaidstale // by farfromthstars/ @doeeyeseddie (Post-S7 Cruise, Getting Together | 20-30min | General): “Hey,” Eddie says when Buck opens the door, casual, like Buck should’ve expected him. Which he did not. “Uh, h-hey,” he says. “Didn’t you say you had plans today?” “Canceled them,” Eddie says easily, pushing past Buck into his loft. “I’d rather be here anyway.” “Eddie, I–“ Buck closes the door and turns to watch Eddie rummage through his fridge, emerging with two bottles of beer. “What do you mean, you canceled them? Didn’t you have a date?”

🔥 all i ever wanted was a life in your shape [Podfic] by blackglass/ @blackestglass // by tuckergreeen/ @henwilsonmd (Post-S6E18: Pay It Forward, Pre-Buddie | 30-45min | General): “Buck,” said Eddie, trying to school his face into something less fond and amused. “That’s my couch.” Buck turned from where he’d been happily showing off the new piece of furniture he’d gotten with Natalia the day prior. “What?” “The couch,” Eddie repeated, with a quirk of his eyebrow. “You bought my exact couch.” “No,” Buck replied with a shake of his head. “No, it’s definitely different.” Or: Buck buys a new couch, and a few other things that happen after the bridge collapse.

🔥[Podfic] One More Rainy Day by Avanie // fic by TalkNerdyToMe6 (S5 Spec, Dispatcher Eddie, Getting Together | 45-60min | Mature): “911 what’s your emergency?” “Oh, uh… hey Eds.” “Buck? What’s wrong?” “Nothing, uh, nothing’s really wrong. My radio just got messed up when I jumped. I can hear Cap but can’t respond. Can you let him know everything’s all good in here? Or, all good considering?” “Jumped?”

Re-Read

wrap your arms around me, baby boy by marviless/ @marviless (Getting Together | 6K | Teen): in which buck pretends to be asleep and overhears something he shouldn't.

you'll have what's meant to be by farfromthstars/ @doeeyeseddie (Hen POV, Fluff | 8K | Teen): Buck slaps the back of his hand against Eddie’s chest. “I even carried Eddie here once.” “That was the adrenaline.” “Well, yeah,” Buck admits. “But I could do it now, too. Do you want me to prove it?” That’s the flirtatious tone that was missing earlier, and Hen immediately pays closer attention. Eddie makes a sound that Hen has never heard him make, and it takes her a second to realize that it was a giggle. A giggle! If only she could record this shit for Chim and Karen. ~ Hen spends three weeks watching Eddie make a fool of himself in front of Buck.

[ragnarockz]

I'm begging you to write another g!pAgnes × reader fic I'M BEGGING YOU PLS

Tip Jar 💰

Hey, anon! While I've actually never written g!pAgnes that doesn't mean I can't start RIGHT now 👀😤💙

Music inspo: forwards beckon rebound - Adrianne Lenker, Sour Patch - Ruby Waters, Did I Say Too Much - The Beaches, Takes One to Know One - The Beaches, She's Kerosene - The Interrupters, Short Skirt/Long Jacket - CAKE, Knocking at the Door - Arkells

Thunder booms as a flash of lightning lights up Agnes' bedroom. You glance quickly at the window before tossing another sweater into the pile for donation. Sure, Agnes has a big enough house but you hadn't realize how much stuff you actually owned and how much of it would actually fit here upon moving in.

You had decisions to make as you tried on and mulled over each article of clothing. Was it worth shoving back into the closet? The dresser? You launch another shirt into the ever growing pile that'll soon be hauled away by you and Agnes on the weekend.

You dig into another bag; definitely older and filled with clothes you've almost forgotten about. Old sweatshirts from college, a t-shirt from a family vacation you had begged your Mom to buy you and, one remaining set of your high school uniform. You pull out the polo and the kilt and give it a good shake to try and get the wrinkles out of it from being in storage from so long.

So long pangs in your heart a little; the passage of time had been truly bitter sweet for you.

You give the uniform a half smile as you sigh out and try to relax your shoulders. You were such a different person back then; the same but different. Going with the flow and trying to fit in; no one knew you truly. You wore your heart on your sleeve and kept yourself hidden away because you were unsure of the consequences. You knew Agnes felt the same and it was something you both had bonded over many times before.

The leagues it both took you both to finally get to a place of familiarity and having some sense of being comfortable with yourself.

None of that happened over night and it was still a challenge, a struggle. There were days where you both felt inadequate in yourselves. You quickly shed the boxer shorts you had taken from Agnes' pile to throw on that morning and one of her tank tops; undressing to pull over the polo shirt and hike up the kilt over your hips.

"Didn't know Halloween came early..."

You whip your head to look over your shoulder at Agnes who's propped up against the door frame with her hands on her hips. She's licking her lips as her eyes graze over your body and decide to rest on your kilt. You feel your face flush and instinctively move your hands down to smooth the backside; your hands tracing the curve of your ass.

"...Guess it still fits..."

Agnes nods as she swallows hard and you stare at her neck; watch the muscle bob under her skin. You sigh silently and feel that flush spread downwards and in between your legs. It's only that you're aware the kilt doesn't have built in shorts anymore. You had cut them out back in tenth grade.

Agnes doesn't reply as she pushes herself off of the frame and takes big strides over to you. You continue to stare at her over your shoulder as she comes up behind you and wraps her arms around your waist. You instantly lean your head back into her neck and breathe in hard to take in her cologne; something musky with a hint of spruce. Her lips have already found your earlobe as she bites gently and tugs with her teeth.

Your body reacts before your mind does as you push your ass back into her crotch and feel how painfully hard she is against her track pants. You moan and she whispers sweet nothings against your ear as she pushes her hips into your backside; forcing you to walk towards her bed.

You've played this game many, many times with Agnes before.

"Tell me how badly you want me, Daddy..."

You whisper from parted, wet lips as your eyelids gently close. Agnes' fingers are digging into your hips; just above the buckles of your kilt. You can feel her short nails already fiddling with the tiny belt as she tries to push them loose. You moan again and she laughs against your ear; wet and hot and dangerous because of course, she's slipping away from having any sense of control now.

You had no idea your high school uniform would be such a turn on for her.

But Agnes never really tells you, not right away. You chalk it up to her finding it hard to put her emotions into words; wanting to show you what she's feeling inside. And she does, of course, by the way her right hand snakes to your behind until they're up and under the hem of your kilt and grabbing your ass.

You open your legs a little which, of course, is an invite for Agnes to slip her hand between your legs and cup you. She presses her palm, her fingers against your underwear and you can feel them sticking to her skin. You're already wet and this does nothing but rile her up even more.

"I need to fuck you so bad...just like this, exactly like this..."

Agnes grunts into your ear as her left hand leaves your hip to, what you already know, pull her track pants and boxers down just enough to take her cock out.

You whine in anticipation, in impatience and push your head back a little further against her neck. You can feel her neck becoming moist with your ragged breaths as she uses her upper body to bend you over. She's laughing under her breath still as she feels you squirm against her; getting wetter with every passing second until she brings her right hand back to your kilt to flip the back hem up and over your hips.

Your backside is fully exposed to her now; her hand still cupping you between your shaking legs. You feel those blunt nails gently scratch against your skin as she uses her fingers to pull your underwear to the side now; the cool air of the room hitting your wet skin. You moan and you hear her coo somewhere behind you; almost trying to sooth you down before she pulls away completely.

The absence of her weight, her touch hits you like a slap in the face but you know she's sauntered off to her bedside table. You take this opportunity to catch your breath and readjust yourself a little better against her bed. You hear the snap of latex and then the drawer closing and Agnes' footsteps coming back behind you. You bite your lip as you lift your chin so your words don't come out muffled.

Because god, do you want Agnes to hear what you have to say.

"You sure you don't wanna try and knock me up this time around?"

The air in the room stills before you suddenly feel her hand between your legs once again; cupping your bare skin as she presses harder. You choke back a sob as you let your face drop to her bed.

"Gotta be a sin of some kind to get you pregnant while you're wearing that kind of a uniform...wouldn't it, Baby?"

You can only moan in response as you spread your legs a little wider and feel the head of her cock teasing your folds; daring to push inside of you. You feel added wetness against your skin; the lubrication from the condom slicking you up a little more. You mumble a string of curses before Agnes slowly pushes her erect cock into your cunt.

The sensation that blooms inside of you is a release of pressure you hadn't realized was building. It evaporates for a mere second before you clench your walls around Agnes' cock in a plea that you crave more of her. The pressure returns in a different form; hunger and an itch that needs to be scratched. You want that dull, aching throb taken care of.

You push you body back in one hard motion which, takes all of Agnes up inside of you. Your bodies collide and her left hand shoots out to press down into your lower back. She lets you ride her, milk her in the way you need it. She watches you lose yourself over her, against her, on her as you roll your hips back to fuck yourself with her cock that twitches every now and again deep inside of you. The moan you let out is loud and pitchy; cutting the air in hopes that your sounds set Agnes off herself.

It does, of course, because you know Agnes better than you know yourself.

Her groans are deep and raw, unfiltered as she presses her palm down onto your skin as she tries to hold you. She knows there's no stopping you now as you completely take over. She knows she's merely an instrument for you now even though she was the one who initialized it all. She allows her fantasy and turn-ons to turn into yours; something that was once so mundane and routine as a uniform becoming and object of unhinged desire.

"That's it, Baby...you fuck yourself good on my hard cock...look how well you take it, Babe...fuck..."

Your movement picks up in speed, almost losing yourself in your greed. You feel the sensation of just her head inside of you and you whine; that beautiful burning pain and mixes with pleasure as it hits at an angle that's neither comfortable or uncomfortable. You try to catch your breath and feel Agnes' hand now rubbing small circles on your lower back. She's allowing you to make the next move whatever it may be. You choose the level of pleasure here and now.

Maybe you surprise her as you pull away so far that you're now left empty. You can hear Agnes catching her breath behind you before she takes a wobbly half step backwards to give you space. It takes you a moment to catch your own breath before you turn against her bed; legs wobbly as you face her now. She's absentmindedly stroking her hardened cock into her hand as she stares at you with half-lidded eyes. You see nothing but love, compassion and, desire. It makes your heart hammer against your chest and your stomach somersault.

"Let me say thank you..."

Your whisper as your gaze lingers on Agnes' cock; tracing the veins you can barely see through the sheath of the condom. You slowly peel the polo shirt off of you before you sink down until you're on your knees in front of her. Her hand suddenly stops stroking herself and you can tell she's holding her breath as you shift a little closer and reach out with your hands to bring them around her legs to pull her a little closer to you. She obliges with a half-step forward to close that gap between your mouth and her cock. Her eyebrows quickly raise in consideration as she looks down at you and her words tumble out of her mouth hastily.

"Letmejust...takethisoffso...youcantasteme..."

You watch in awe as Agnes drags her hand up to the base of her cock; fingers teasing through her pubic hair. She finds the ridge of the condom with her fingers and drags it down her shaft until she's taken it off completely. You take Agnes in with your eyes and a sudden pool of saliva fills your mouth.

Your mouth opens before you even tell your body to do so.

Agnes takes another half-step towards you as her free hand finds the back of your head and her fingers rake through your hair to guide your mouth to her.

Your first thought it always just how good Agnes tastes in your mouth; something you didn't know you could crave until you started being intimate with her. She said the same thing about you whenever you rode her face or she had herself down between your legs. You couldn't get enough of the other.

Your cheeks hollow and your tongue slides underneath her shaft as you take more of Agnes' hard cock into your mouth. You make sure to hum, something she's moaned about loving as the vibrations rock right through her. You can feel your own cum dripping down your inner thigh.

Your nose buries deep into Agnes' pubic hair as she pulls you in closer with an inclination to have you choking on her in your throat. Your vision blurs as you blink away the tears that prick your eyes. You moan again and hope, fucking pray, that she gets the hint.

And Agnes does, because she knows you better than she knows herself. You feel the sweet and salty taste of Agnes inside of your mouth as you feel her body relax against you and her fingers loosen their grip on your hair. She cums into your mouth; down your throat and lets out a strangled sigh of relief.

Your mind makes a mental note to keep your old school uniform. It'll have a nice spot in the closet next to Agnes' things as a constant reminder of how much she loves it.

[rottenpumpkin13]

I imagine that AGSZ would get into a Hangover type of situation with Cloud missing in the Wall Market and had to retrace their steps.

The Wall Market Hangover Debacle

• After a night of partying in Wall Market, Sephiroth wakes up in Zack's apartment, of all places. He has a pounding headache, his mouth tastes like pizza, his hair is a mess, he's missing a shirt (concerning when he remembers putting one on), and everything is just wrong.

• And then he notices the baby chocobo in his lap.

• Sephiroth is instantly placated and cares for nothing else.

*Angeal wakes up beside him, equally as confused and bedraggled*

Angeal: Why are you in my bed?

Sephiroth: We're on the floor.

*Angeal notices the random phone numbers and "call me"s written all over his arms*

Angeal Oh my god. Are we in Zack's apartment!? What happened last night? I can't remember anything!

Sephiroth: Are you aware that you're covered in lipstick marks and that your breath smells of kerosene?

Angeal: Are you aware that you have a baby chocobo?

Sephiroth: Extremely aware, actually. The moment I encountered an orphaned infant, my protective instincts kicked in, just like how many mammals are biologically wired to care for vulnerable young.

Angeal: It's too early for this.

Sephiroth: It's 16:00.

Angeal: WHAT?

*He gets up quickly. Sephiroth follows him (with the baby chocobo) and they run over to the kitchen. Zack is laying spread-eagle on his kitchen floor, snoring*

Angeal: ZACK!

*Zack wakes up screaming*

*The baby chocobo kwehs, unsatisfied*

Sephiroth, holding the chocobo close: Your screaming is upsetting the child.

Zack: What happened last night? My head is pounding, I can't remember anything, and—is that a baby chocobo?

Angeal: I can't find my phone! Zack, go get yours and check your camera roll, call history, everything. There's a good chance we got robbed!

Sephiroth: Why do you believe we got robbed?

Angeal: Because this place is a mess! Paint splatters on the walls? A pile of energy drink cans? Glitter everywhere??

Zack: Actually, it was like this before we left last night.

Zack:

Zack: I'm trying out art therapy and collecting energy drink cans for recycling :)

Angeal: PHONE.

Zack: On It!

*Zack stumbles into his room to grab his phone*

• Sephiroth is tending to the baby chocobo, fussing over it as a mother would.

• Angeal is watching Sephiroth tend to the baby chocobo, wondering whether or not he's dreaming.

*Zack stumbles out of his bedroom*

Zack: THERE'S A GIRL IN MY ROOM!

Angeal: What did you do!?

Zack: Nothing! I don't even know her!

• All three of them run into Zack's room and sure enough, there's a girl in a pretty, red dress and long red hair sleeping in his bed.

Zack: She's beautiful, but I fear she'll think lowly of me now that she's woken up in my bed.

Angeal:

Zack: I didn't even make her breakfast. Should I make her breakfast?

Angeal: That's GENESIS.

*Upon hearing his name being yelled, Genesis wakes up*

Genesis: Why am I in the puppy's room?

Zack: Dude, why are you wearing a dress!?

Genesis: What? *he looks down* Oh. OH? Who's the scoundrel who did this to me? Which one of you dolts thought it would be funny to dress me like a doll?

Angeal: It wasn't us. We all woke up out there and I can't remember anything.

Sephiroth: And I woke up with this adorable infant chocobo, carrying all the joy of life in its heart, and it brings me a sense of peace I never knew I needed.

Genesis: Where's Cloud?

*There's deafening silence as they all realize Cloud isn't there*

Genesis: We forgot Cloud in Wall Market!?

Angeal: Shit! Sephiroth, put that chocobo down and call Cloud!

Sephiroth: Notice how I’m cradling the chocobo with one arm while using the other to reach into my pocket and pull out my phone—an action that reflects the care of a devoted parent.

Zack: Man, nice!

*They high five*

Angeal: WHAT PLANET ARE YOU TWO ON!? CALL HIM!

• They try to call Cloud several times but he isn't picking up, which means that there's only one way to go about this: They need to retrace their steps back in Wall Market to find him.

Genesis, while everyone else is getting dressed: I’m still in disbelief that someone snuck up on me while I slept and dressed me in this. The shade of red isn’t even close to what I usually wear, and I would never style my hair pin straight like this—I prefer it curled! Plus, this push-up bra is incredibly uncomfortable.

Sephiroth: Then go get changed.

Genesis: No.

Sephiroth:

Angeal: Okay, I'm ready. Grab your stuff and let's go.

*Sephiroth walks towards the door with the baby chocobo*

Angeal: Seph! Leave the chocobo!

*Sephiroth puts the baby chocobo down but it immediately follows him and jumps back into his arms*

Sephiroth: It’s settled, then. I am now the chocobo’s guardian. From this moment forward, I embrace the role of parent to this delightful creature. I shall nurture it, guide it, and cherish it as if it were my own.

Genesis: I think that if you talk to Lazard you can get paternity leave.

Sephiroth: I already checked, and it appears only maternity leave is possible.

Genesis: I'll help you fake a pregnancy.

Sephiroth: You're a good friend.

Zack: Guys? Guys?? Angeal is having a panic attack!

• Once they reach Wall Market, they go to Madam M first because the last thing Zack remembers is getting a massage before he blacked out.

• It turns out that there's a reason why.

*Zack walks through the door and Madam M throws a shoe and starts screaming at him in Wutaian*

Zack: !?

Angeal: Excuse us, Madam M? We're looking for our friend? Cloud Strife? Have you seen him.

*Madam M is still throwing items at Zack and screaming in Wutaian*

Zack: !!!??

Angeal: He's 5'7, spiky blond hair....

*Madam M is still screaming in Wutaian but now she's doing impolite hand gestures*

Sephiroth: She's calling you a, quote, cheapskate hillbilly with ugly hands.

Zack: Rude.

*Madam M is still screaming*

Sephiroth: And now she's cursing your bloodline both past and future.

Zack: ....

*More screaming*

Sephiroth: And now she said something that if I were to repeat, I would have to empty my life's earnings into Angeal's swear jar.

*Screaming*

Sephiroth: She said that you came in here last night, asked for the finest massage, and then tried to pay with a friendly hug.

Zack: Oh yeahh! I remember now. I was trying to see how far positivity stretched.

Genesis: So you robbed an establishment.

Zack: Hey, the hug was enough for the hot dog stand guy! It was enough for the dude selling counterfeit Sephiroth plushies!

Mandam M: I haven't seen your friend. You weren't with him yesterday. Try Andrea. The loudmouthed one in red was very instant last night that your little group go to the Honeybee Inn next.

*They all turn to Genesis*

Genesis: Oh please. What are you all implying by those judgemental looks? That I dragged us to the Honeybee Inn for a night of sin that resulted in Cloud's disappearance??

• At the Honeybee Inn.

*Andrea runs up to Genesis and embraces him as soon as they walk through the door*

Andrea: My darling! I thought the day would never come when you’d grace us with your presence again! You are the very essence of radiance in this establishment! Never has there been a soul more attuned to the fluidity of gender, the artistry of theatrical performances, and the tantalizing allure of rebellion!

*Everyone looks at Genesis, long and hard*

Genesis: I've never seen this man in my life.

Andrea: I see you're still in the fabulous outfit I gifted you last night.

Genesis:

Angeal: Really, Genesis? Honestly, I’m relieved I don’t remember a thing, because I can’t even begin to imagine the shame I’d feel knowing what you did here.

Andrea: Ah, Angeal. You came to pick up your wallet and Shinra ID, I presume?

*He hands them to him*

Angeal: Oh, wow. That's dangerous. I can't believe I'd lose track of these.

Andrea: Yes, well, when you started stripping you threw your pants into the crowd and the wallet went with it.

Genesis: HAAA!

Angeal, irritated: Where's Cloud?

Andrea: Your friend was never here. You were only a group of four when you were sat at one of the tables, and I do believe Commander Rhapsodos mentioned that you were coming from Sam's Delivery Service.

Zack: The chocobos!! That makes so much sense! Come on guys!

• At Chocobo Sam's

Zack: Excuse us, sir! We're looking for our friend, Cloud. Andrea said that we were here last night, but we can't remember anything.

Sam: Yeah, you were here to rent a chocobo to ride around the market on. But you came here as a group of four. There ain't no Cloud here.

Everyone: WHAT?

Sam: Yeah, but from the way you returned Goldie, all covered in glitter and trinkets, I take it you took her for quite the ride around Wall Market.

Angeal: Goldie??

*Chocobo Sam points at one of the chocobos and suddenly everything makes sense*

Zack: Ohhh, that's right! We never came here with Cloud! It was a chocobo all along!

Genesis: I cannot believe we were fooled by our faulty memory.

Angeal: Yeah, I guess in all the confusion, everything got mixed up, and we ended up thinking the chocobo was Cloud.

Zack: An honest mistake.

Sephiroth: Which he would kill you for if he knew. Excuse me, sir, but I have a question. Would this adorable creature happen to be Goldie's child?

Chocobo Sam: No, son. We ain't got no baby chocobos here. That one there belongs to you.

Sephiroth: I see. It seems this chocobo has become my responsibility, and I wouldn’t dream of parting with it. It’s more than just a creature in my care—it’s my child now, and I’ll protect and nurture it as such.

*The chocobo leaps from his arms and runs to play with the other chocobos, leaving him behind*

Sephiroth:

*Sephiroth drops to his knees*

Sephiroth: BETRAYAL. DISLOYALTY. ABANDONMENT—

*They grab Sephiroth and haul him off kicking and screaming*

Zack: We'll get you a puppy!

Sephiroth: I DON'T DESIRE A PUPPY.

Zack: SLANDER. DEFAMATION. INSULTING—

*Chocobo Sam watches them walk away and disappear around the corner*

Chocobo Sam: This day cannot get any weirder.

*The spell wears off and the baby chocobo turns back into Cloud*

Cloud: SONS OF BITCHES.

Chocobo Sam:

[al-1-na]

ꨄꨄ𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐮𝐭ꨄꨄ

ꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄ

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Smut, Angst, Fluff

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: Language, sexual tension, eventual smut, slight violence/roughness (verbal sparring), emotionally messy Rafe, toxic flirtation vibes that evolve

Masterlist

ꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄ

You hated Rafe Cameron.

And the feeling was mutual. Supposedly.

Since the day you moved back to the Outer Banks—thanks to your dad’s sudden obsession with reclaiming “family roots”—you and Rafe had been at each other’s throats.

He was the golden Kook prince with a temper like kerosene and a sneer for anyone that looked at him wrong. And you? You were the outsider with too much attitude and not enough fear. You’d bumped heads with him at a party your second night in town and hadn’t stopped since.

He flirted like it was a weapon. You retaliated with biting sarcasm.

He’d get in your space. You’d shove him out of it.

But the tension?

God. The tension could swallow both of you whole.

⸻

You found him alone one night after a bonfire, sitting on the hood of his truck, cigarette lit, that stupid smug look on his face like he knew you’d come looking.

You didn’t.

You just… wandered.

Right into hell.

“Lost, sweetheart?” he asked without looking at you.

“Looking for a reason to ruin my night. Found one.”

He chuckled darkly, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “So hostile. Starting to think you like me.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned against the truck opposite him, arms crossed.

“You’re not nearly interesting enough to like.”

He slid off the hood and stalked toward you, slow, eyes dragging over your face, your mouth, your neck.

“You sure about that?” he asked, voice lower now. “Because I see the way you look at me. Like you want to kill me and fuck me in the same breath.”

Your heart kicked up.

So did the heat low in your stomach.

But your tone stayed ice cold.

“And you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

Rafe stepped in close, so close his chest brushed yours, his cologne and smoke and salt air all clinging to him like sin. His fingers reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear—rougher than it needed to be.

“I’d ruin you,” he murmured. “That’s what you’re really scared of.”

You shoved him hard in the chest.

“I’m not scared of you.”

But your voice had thinned. And your body betrayed you, leaning in instead of away.

His grin widened. Dangerous. Beautiful.

“No,” he whispered, mouth brushing your jaw, “you’re scared of how bad you want me.”

⸻

You didn’t remember how it happened after that—how the fight turned into heat, how your hands were suddenly in his hair, yanking. How his mouth found your neck, biting, like he wanted to mark you up just to prove he could.

Clothes came off in a blur of teeth and tangled limbs in the backseat of his truck.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was war.

You moaned his name like a curse. He groaned yours like a confession.

And when it was over, your back arched against the leather seat, his hands still gripping your thighs like he couldn’t bear to let go, both of you breathing like you’d run miles—neither of you said anything for a long time.

Until he leaned down, lips brushing your shoulder, and muttered:

“…Still hate me?”

You turned your head to meet his eyes. Something softer flickered there—something vulnerable, even if he’d never admit it.

You didn’t answer.

You just pulled him back down and kissed him again.

ꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄ

To be continued…

(Because enemies-to-lovers doesn’t stop after one night.)

[syntheticavenger]

enamel - three

enam·​el • to beautify with a colorful surface

ransom drysdale x female reader

enamel masterlist

words: 2K

warnings: 18+ ONLY. DNI if you are a minor. Language, more world building, toxic relationship, mentions of past sex, jealousy.

summary | if your marriage to ransom drysdale was a lit match, he’s the kerosene.

The wine kicks in thirty minutes later than expected, another voicemail on your phone that you let play out, Ransom’s threats no longer thinly veiled. It’s an all out command for you to return home, to stop being childish and come to your senses.

”Selfish son of a bitch,” you mutter, taking another sip of your Cabernet. 

Being alone is a strange feeling, especially since you hadn’t planned this out in advance. It was a simple whim, a response to once again feeling like you weren’t enough. The flirting had gone on longer than you had expected, the burning jealousy propelling you to want to make a scene, to embarrass the both of you. Your self-control will never let you falter in such a way, to show that side of yourself that you only show to him when you’re alone.

Somehow, deep down, you know Ransom was betting on you to break and that unnerves you the most. He’s the balance when you’re finding yourself going too far, relegating you both to the car to argue in private, to have make up sex in private, to apologize in your own way in private.

Too close for comfort this time.

Still, you let your mind wander to the man who caught your attention. A slight boyish smile, a sense of unbridled freedom that you haven’t let yourself ever have.

”Colin,” you say out loud, testing his name on your tongue.

You’ve got to hand it to him. The small crowd of people waiting to check in and he gave you his undivided attention, even bringing up your dinner himself, something you didn’t overlook. It’s almost too easy to let your mind linger to what ifs: what if you flirted back to have a story to hang over Ransom’s head. Maybe you’d get caught up in the ego build up, bask in feeling like you’ve gotten someone’s gaze that isn’t Ransom’s.

It’s always only temporary. Ransom clouds your thoughts again, wondering if he’s pacing in the living room or upstairs, his number flashing across the screen once more.

For once, you got smart and turned off your location. Which is probably why he’s going off the rails - access to you was a given and taken for granted.

When his number lights up once more, you scoff.

Access to you is a privilege. 

He’ll learn that lesson eventually.

”Bastard,” you hiss, turning your phone over and looking out at the view of the city.

-

After his fifth message, the tension in his shoulders makes him shudder, looking at his phone and knowing deep down that you won’t respond.

At least not right now.

The brunette had been fun to lead on but there was zero chance he’d ever entertain keeping her company outside of what little attention he’d paid her. It was enough for you to get riled up, Ransom’s eyes following your own the entire time you stared, sometimes forgetting to finish your own thought when you were in the middle of a conversation.

The sheets still smell like you - faint perfume that cost a small fortune that he got you for your birthday that you’ve been obsessed with. He inhales for a moment, remembering the night prior when you were under him, fingers scoring his back and eventually leaving puncture marks when he hit a spot that made you nearly feral. There’s a sense of entitlement he enjoys, knowing that you’re aware of how he can find every single spot in and on your body to bring you to your knees.

He’d like to see that juiced personal trainer of yours to even try.

Flopping onto his back, Ransom stares at the ceiling, phone still in hand as he secretly wishes that you’d return his phone call. As it stands, he’s dodging the brunette, who can’t take a hint that he’s not interested. These little games he likes to play usually don’t last long and they can take a hint - but not her. Blocking her number, he swipes through some pictures of you and him during your winter holiday in Switzerland the year prior, your happy smile lighting up the room under the backdrop of pristine, fresh white snow.

Turning off your location is new, the picture app swiped away as he focuses on looking at your pretty face on his screen.

For a moment, he wonders if he’s gone a little too far, only to remember Jake Jensen standing in his kitchen.

”Serves you right,” he grumbles, thinking back to how Walt had gleefully told him you left.

You should be home now, next to him, poking him in the chest to make sure you relay your opinions on how he treats you. It’s a preamble to how you want him to treat you in other ways, demanding tone turning into breathy sobs when he takes you into his arms.

Your jealousy is like a powder keg, something Linda had warned him from the get go when he’d proposed. She’d cautioned him on teasing you, giving him a road map of a woman’s emotions among a reformed playboy like him.

For a while, he had listened. But under the surface, he liked to coax out your wild side, the sharp tongued insults you’d hurl at the women who dared to get close. Unafraid of your own emotions, willing to show a passionate side of yourself that you had reserved for just him.

And he had wanted more of it.

Publically was even better because he reaped the rewards at home.

For the first time, he’s rendered speechless at your distance, almost wondering if he should make a few phone calls to track you down. Oddly enough, he’s not worried - yet. With a quick view of the credit card, he smirks at the charge.

”Stubborn,” he says to the ceiling, closing his eyes. “At least you have good taste.”

-

Normally Colin Shea isn’t interested in the clientele who patronize this boutique hotel, the exorbitant rates enough to keep normal travelers away. There’s something about you, the way you’d asked for a room, credit card in hand before he even had to ask, determined to take no for an answer as Colin had furrowed his brow to wonder if there were any rooms left. The big rock on your finger meant you were probably a trophy wife, something that filled him with disgust for even thinking so until you’d rambled off your last name.

Drysdale.

He’d known that name well. Joni Thrombey had done a few seminars at the hotel across the street, opting to stay here so that people wouldn’t follow her. If you asked him, he wasn’t even sure if she was able to garner any sort of recognition by her name only. 

Knowing his luck, a simple phone call to the usual suspects that ask about the patrons who are lucky enough to get a reservation, a tip that a disgruntled wife of a rich man would be enough for someone to talk about it but Colin has never been the sort to even attempt to get involved in someone else’s business, let alone report out to the masses.

You were running from something, looking over your shoulder more than once while he processed your reservation, no bags for the bellhop to take up as you quickly muttered that you just needed to get away for a night, only to call down a few minutes later to order dinner.

He didn’t have to deliver it himself. There was that pesky sense of curiosity and the smooth talking to the server who was trying to get off a little early that he could do it himself. What Colin didn’t expect was you to answer the door, barefoot and nearly teary eyed, pulling the strap of your dress up over your shoulder. 

For a short moment, he dreamed of punching Ransom Drysdale right in his smug face for making you upset.

He had to calm himself down to thinking such a thought, stepping inside of the hotel room to place your food down, even uncorking the wine and pouring you a glass to start. 

The clock shows an ungodly time when he finally glances up from his computer, rubbing his eyes for a moment before deciding to take a break. The amount of call outs for a Celtic’s game had him pulling a double - not that he minds it, he needs to make rent this month, after all. 

There’s a little space that he can retreat to, grabbing his backpack before heading toward the elevator.

-

By the time he takes the steps up to the top of the hotel, he’s aware that he’s not alone, the door slightly ajar. His suspicion is at high alert, moving through the next set of steps to the chairs that some of the servers have left out when they need a smoke break and a view.

The last person he expects to see is you, drinking straight from the bottle of wine, your dress hiked up to your thighs while you look out at the glittering lights from the city.

“I was wondering who found my hiding spot,” Colin says, breaking the silence when you look over your shoulder at the sound of his voice.

”I used to climb rooftops when I was a teenager. Felt a little freeing,” you say with a shrug. “And if this is your hiding spot, it’s not exactly a secret. I scared two people who tried to come up here.”

Colin takes a seat next to you, rummaging through his backpack while your stare follows him. He pulls out a sandwich from the deli down the street, opening it quickly before slowing down his movements.

”You want some?” He offers, seeing you shake your head.

”Thanks but I’m good. Probably should stop drinking but,” you pause, taking another long sip. “This wine was fucking expensive. It would be a waste if I stopped.”

He wants to ask why you’re up here, not to scare you into going back down but because you don’t seem like the sort to do something spontaneous like finding yourself at the top of a hotel, drinking from a wine bottle without a care in the world.

Or maybe it’s the wine talking, he isn’t sure.

He decides to be brave and ask anyway.

”What brings you up here?”

You look up at the blanket of stars in the sky and back to him.

”I needed to breathe.”

He nods, knowing that feeling all too well.

With another sip, you cradle the bottle to your chest.

”What about you?” You counter.

”Same. World gets a little suffocating sometimes.”

”Tell me about it,” you agree, looking down at your phone, eyes narrowing at the time. “Shit, I need to sleep. Check out is at what, ten?”

”Eleven. Unless you want a later check out. Not that I would say anything.”

You waver for a moment, unlocking your phone to take a picture of the skyline and then back at him, Colin giving you a thumbs up in the picture with a smile. You laugh at the action, carefully hoisting yourself up as you teeter for a second, taking a deep breath.

”You have a goodnight, Colin, wearer of many hats.”

He watches you carefully as you go down the steps, bottle in hand. You move with such grace that he’s not even sure if you’re as drunk as you seem, possibly an act for sympathy - or you’re just conditioned to draw back any authenticity before you reach the door.

“Leave the door open!” Colin calls out, seeing the door open slightly.

You’re gone in an instant, leaving him to wonder what you’re all about as he takes a bite of his sandwich.

-

Ransom sleeps past his alarm, the sun hitting him squarely in the eyes when he finally wakes, lulled into a false sense of security by a dream he had of you.

It comes crashing down when he realizes you still aren’t home, looking at his phone to find a picture you sent. It isn’t of you but a random man, giving a thumbs up to the camera under cover of darkness. He studies the picture for a long while, a cold smile coming over his features.

It’s not the personal trainer this time but a hotel employee, judging by the name tag. Ransom expands the picture to look closer.

”Colin,” he says to himself, saving the picture to his phone. “What were you doing with my wife, hmm?”

Pulling himself out of bed, he heads to the shower, thinking just how he’ll get all the answers to his questions.

He’ll go right to the source.