#the crooked man masterlist

[sxnshinebag]

𝚃𝚑𝚎  𝙲𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚗  𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

| 𝘈, (𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵) 𝘍 |  𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳, 𝘏𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳, 𝘚𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘎𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘚𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘈𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵, 𝘔𝘢𝘫𝘰𝘳 𝘋𝘦𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘚𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘛𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘴

| 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘪 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 |  

↳   𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 - 𝘑𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘑𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘬𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳  

↳ 𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 - 𝘠/𝘕 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘠/𝘕 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘥𝘥 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵.  

𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦.  

𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯, 𝘠/𝘕 𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.

(𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 "𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘯" 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴)

𝘛𝘢𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 - 𝘖𝘱𝘦𝘯 (𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘴𝘬)  

𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦 - 𝘠/𝘕'𝘴 𝘙𝘰𝘰𝘮

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘖𝘯𝘦 - 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘭

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘸𝘰 - 𝘉𝘪𝘨 𝘏𝘪𝘵 𝘓𝘢𝘸 𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘭

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦  - 𝘊𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘏𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘳  - 𝘊𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘏𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭

𝘌𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦

[punkshort]

Have A Good Night

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Every week like clockwork, the same devastatingly handsome man comes into the grocery store where you work to buy flowers. It's not until he asks you out when you realize the flowers aren't for his wife or girlfriend.

Warnings: no outbreak AU, language, flirting, alcohol and food consumption, smut (18+ MDNI), protected piv sex, size kink, shy!joel, fluff, mutual pining, cringy/embarrassing crush interactions

WC: 7.9K

Written for @morallyinept's Flora & Fauna Challenge (masterlist here)

dividers by the one and only @saradika-graphics

It was never roses that he bought. That should have been your first clue.

Every Friday he came through your checkout lane with a beautiful flower arrangement. Sometimes it was lilies, sometimes it was daffodils, but never roses.

He hardly spared you a glance when he slid his card through the machine. Occasionally he would comment about the weather or how busy the store was, but he rarely ever made eye contact.

It wasn't unusual and it didn't offend you. Most customers had other things on their minds and they preferred to get in and out of the store as quickly as possible. But this particular customer, the one with dark hair and eyes, broad shoulders and patchy beard always caught your eye. It was the best part of your week. You never had the nerve to say anything to him, but your friend Andy noticed the way you always got nervous when you saw him standing in line, how your demeanor shifted and your hands shook just a little bit.

He's not wearing a ring, Andy pointed out one day as you counted your drawer. You rolled your eyes.

That doesn't mean anything, you replied. Why else would he be buying flowers?

Then one day, as you scanned your handsome stranger's flowers, you noticed a few of the daisies were wilting.

"Do you want to pick out a different bouquet?" you had mustered up the courage to ask. The store was quiet, no one was lined up behind him. There was a big football game that night and it kept most people at home.

His eyes snapped up to yours and he froze like a deer in the headlights. You raised your eyebrows, waiting for an answer while trying to think if you said something stupid to warrant such a delayed reaction. "A few of these flowers are already dying. See?" You tilted the bouquet in his direction so he could see the flowers with the petals that were turning brown.

"Oh," he finally said, then nodded his head. "Y-yeah, thanks. D'you mind if I just-" he jutted his thumb over his shoulder.

"It's no big deal, I'll wait."

He gave you a crooked grin and disappeared back into the store. The florist department wasn't far from the registers but it was enough time for Andy to lock eyes with you from customer service and give you a look. You rolled your eyes at him and turned back around just as the hot flower guy was returning with a new selection.

"Thanks," he said again once you handed him his receipt. He didn't make a move to leave.

"Don't mention it," you replied, feeling Andy's stupid grin burning into the back of your head the longer hot flower guy stood there.

"Have you worked here long?" he asked after a brief silence that was bordering on uncomfortable. You blinked, taken aback at the random question and tried to ignore your heart fluttering excitedly in your chest.

"Um, just over four years," you replied. His beautiful dark eyes drifted over your face as he nodded and swallowed before looking back down at his flowers.

"You work most Fridays?"

You could feel your cheeks warming up and you wished the ground would open up and swallow you whole. How can someone be embarrassed for being embarrassed? Jesus, you were such a mess.

"Yep," you said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear and praying he didn't notice how flushed you were.

He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted his weight. If you weren't so absorbed in your own uneasiness you might have noticed he was acting just as uncomfortable as you.

When he opened his mouth to say something else, a middle aged woman pushed her cart up behind him and began to unload her groceries onto the belt. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and nervously swiped his palm over his mouth.

"Have a good night," he told you abruptly, and before you had a chance to reply he was halfway to the front door.

The following week was busier and you lost track of time. Typically, as your shift dragged on, you began to anticipate his arrival but on that particular day, you were distracted. Andy ended up having to help out on another register, it was so busy.

"You wanna come out with us tonight?" Andy asked you over his shoulder. He was closing down the extra register while you were finishing up with a young mom who had her hands full wrangling her toddler away from the candy.

"Uh, yeah, sure," you agreed absentmindedly, lifting the last paper bag into the cart. You tapped a key on your register so she could slide her card through the reader and looked over at Andy. "Where are you guys going?"

"Murray's," he replied immediately, his focus still on counting the coins in the drawer. You rolled your eyes and grinned.

"Why am I not surprised?"

It was well known Andy harbored a huge crush on a bartender there and he had been trying to work up the courage for months to ask for her number.

"Thank you, have a good night," you told the young woman, handing over her receipt with a smile. When you glanced up to greet your next customer, you felt your heart skip a beat when you were met with those dark brown eyes you had grown so enamored with.

"It must be later than I thought," you said, without even thinking twice. Surprise passed over his beautiful features as you scanned his flowers and then your nerves finally caught up with you. "I-I mean, you usually come in around the same time every week," you explained hurriedly. Andy was smirking at you from behind hot flower guy's broad shoulder and you made a mental note to punch him later.

"I didn't realize you noticed," he replied after he cleared his throat.

Oh, you idiot. You could tell you made him uncomfortable with your comment and you just prayed he didn't figure out you had been lusting after him all these months with the little observation you made.

"You always pick out the best flower arrangements, it's hard not to," Andy piped up. Relief flooded your veins for the save. Maybe you should rethink that punch. "Must be one lucky girl," he added with a mischievous wink in your direction before picking up the drawer and walking towards the office, leaving just the two of you with Andy's loaded comment hanging heavy in the air.

He took his time pulling his credit card out of his wallet, wracking his brain for something to say. His cheeks dusted with pink the longer he took to formulate a sentence.

"So... Murray's, huh?" he asked, cringing inwardly at the stupid question as he swiped his card.

You blinked, confused at the change in topic until it clicked. "Oh, yeah. He drags a bunch of us out after work sometimes because he's got a thing for a girl who works there." You gave the man behind hot flower guy a smile as he unloaded his groceries on the belt.

Your handsome stranger froze, his hand still holding the receipt midair while the gears turned in his head.

"So, you two aren't-"

"Oh, sorry, excuse me," the customer behind him mumbled when he accidentally bumped into him with his cart.

"Have a good night," you told him with a sweet smile, then quickly turned away, hoping your hair would hide your embarrassment.

"I am not playing darts with her! Don't you remember last time? She almost took my eye out!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up!" you laughed, shoving Courtney, another co-worker of yours, in the shoulder. There were only five of you that night, Courtney being the only other girl in your group, but you were fine with that. Over the past few years you all bonded over the shared trauma of nasty customers and terrible management to the point where you were like family, and nights where you blew off steam only brought you closer together.

"Anyone need anything? I'm heading up," Andy shouted over the live band.

"Didn't you just get a water a minute ago?" you teased, knowing full well he was looking for an excuse to talk to the bartender.

"What can I say? I'm thirsty," Andy replied with a smirk before pushing his way through the crowd to get to the bar.

"When the hell's he just gonna ask her out? We've been coming here for months," Courtney said, turning away from the bar to look at you. You took a sip from your mixed drink and shrugged.

"Probably for the best. You know if he makes things weird then we'll need to find a new spot to hang out."

She giggled and winced when the band began to sing Journey off-key. "God, these guys are... not it."

"I think it's the owner's way of making us drink more!" James shouted from across the table, the four of you dissolving into laughter. He had a good point because your drink was nearly empty.

"Why didn't you just have Andy get you one?" Courtney asked when you slid down from your barstool.

"If I did, there was, like, a one percent chance he would bring it back to me within the hour," you told her, nodding towards Andy setting up shop against the bar, his eyes trailing after the cute bartender.

It took several minutes but you were finally able to wedge yourself between other patrons and secure a refill of your drink, but when you turned around to walk back to your table you nearly ran right into someone's chest.

"Oh! Sorry, I - " your eyes widened when you tilted your head up to find those familiar brown eyes staring down at you. "It-it's you!" you finally said as the shock began to wear off. He gave you a lopsided grin and nodded.

"Joel," he offered, sticking his hand out. Joel. Joel. Joel. You rolled his name around in your head like a ping pong ball. It suited him.

You took his hand, his long fingers dwarfing yours. "I'm-"

Then he cut you off and said your name and once again, you struggled to keep the shock from your face. "Your nametag," he explained, letting your hand go and gesturing towards his own chest where a nametag would sit. "I remember."

"Yeah," you said breathlessly with a smile. You glanced around the room while people shoved past you to get to the bar. "What are you doing here?"

His smile faltered a bit and he rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't live too far. Had the night to myself so I came out with my brother. He's over there," Joel pointed to the opposite corner of the bar but it was impossible to see him through all the people.

"Oh, cool," you nodded and took a sip from your glass. His eyes drifted to your lips, getting lost in the way they puckered around the straw. "Do you guys come here a lot?"

He chuckled and dropped his chin shyly to his chest before shaking his head. "No, um," he cleared his throat and looked back up at you. "Was hopin' I would run into you, actually."

"Me?" you squeaked and your heart began to race. He nodded and grinned.

"Yeah. Wondered if maybe you'd-"

A huge, burly man who definitely had too much to drink shouldered past you, accidentally shoving you into Joel's chest. His arms immediately wrapped around your ribs to steady you and somehow you didn't spill anything on his clothes.

"God, I'm sorry," you mumbled, his scent making you dizzy. You always had a register between you. Never before had you been that close, noticing he smelled like he had just gotten out of the shower and it was instantly overwhelming.

"It's alright," he said, his arms still loosely wrapped around your midsection. "But I gotta get this out before I lose my nerve, darlin'."

Darlin'. Your brows furrowed and before you could reply, he spoke. "I wondered if you wanted to go out on a date sometime? Maybe a movie or somethin'? I know you work alotta nights but I -"

"You want to go out with me?" you asked in disbelief. He looked at you like you had two heads.

"'Course I do. Wasn't it obvious?" he could feel the heat creeping up his neck.

"No! I thought... nevermind, it doesn't matter," you told him, a smile pulling across your lips. "Yes, I would love to. God, if you only knew-" you stopped yourself by slapping your hand over your mouth and he quirked a playful eyebrow at you but he was too excited that you agreed to go out with him to ask you to finish your thought. He handed you his phone as you shakily typed in your number, hoping your trembling fingers didn't mess it up before giving it back to him.

"I'm gonna text you tomorrow, set somethin' up, yeah?" he asked and you nodded numbly, your mind reeling as you tried to process everything that was happening. He grinned and slid his phone back into his pocket. "Have a good night," he said, the familiar phrase making you smile before disappearing into the crowd.

"Um, who the hell was that?" Courtney questioned the second you arrived back at your table.

"I need a fucking shot first and then I'll tell you, holy shit," you said, taking a deep breath to calm your nerves with no success. She laughed and got you each tequila shots, then you spent the rest of the night telling her all about Joel the hot flower guy.

The next morning, you paid for your crimes. Your head throbbed and your mouth was dry as sand as you stumbled into your bathroom to scoop water from the faucet, desperately trying to quench your thirst. You weren't normally a huge drinker, but after your run-in with Joel, you were so nervous that you found yourself tossing back a few extra drinks than normal. Fortunately, you didn't work until late afternoon, so after you fumbled around your cupboards for some crackers, you fell back into bed. Your eyes widened when you saw a missed text from an unsaved number an hour ago.

Hey, it's Joel. It was great running into you last night. I was thinking we could go to dinner this week, if you're still up for it. What nights are you free?

"Shit," you muttered, running a hand anxiously through your hair. Now that you were sober, the prospect of seeing hot flower guy outside of work made you inexplicably nervous.

You must have typed out and deleted fifteen responses before going with I would love to! I'm free Sunday, Monday and Wednesday nights. Or we could do something after I get out of work, we close at nine.

Did you sound too desperate? You chewed on your fingernail as you read your sent text over and over, then shrugged and put your phone down. Too late now, anyway.

It took a while to get his response, but to be fair, you didn't reply to him for an hour.

I can make Sunday work.

Sunday? As in, tomorrow?

"Oh, fuck," you groaned, fully not expecting him to set something up so quickly. You needed time to mentally prepare, but of course you agreed, then quickly texted Courtney, begging for her help on what to wear and how to do your hair.

Yay!! We can talk about it at work tonight!

After you ironed out a time and restaurant with Joel, you popped two pain relievers and chugged some water, hoping to get rid of your hangover before work.

"Okay, so where's he taking you?" Courtney asked excitedly as you stocked cereal together.

"This Italian place on Westwood. Here, I looked it up," you said, pulling out your phone and showing her the menu. "Have you been there before? What do I wear?"

She squinted at your screen and shook her head. "I haven't been there but we can figure this out. It doesn't look that fancy, but you should probably wear a dress or skirt."

"Ooo, do you finally have yourself a date?" Andy asked from halfway down the aisle, clearly overhearing part of your conversation. "Hot flower guy is going to be so disappointed."

You laughed and pocketed your phone. "It's with hot flower guy," you said triumphantly. Andy's eyes bugged out of his head, confused, until you and Courtney explained what happened the night before when he was busy staring at the bartender.

"You should have told me last night! So I guess that means he really is single."

You paused and cocked your head to the side, realizing all of the sudden you still didn't know why he bought flowers every Friday.

"Uh, yeah, I guess so," you replied, turning your attention back to the cereal. Andy and Courtney exchanged worried glances behind your back.

"I'm sure he's not stupid enough to buy flowers from you for another woman every week and then ask you out," Courtney said, glaring at Andy. He cleared his throat and nodded.

"Y-yeah, I mean, maybe they're for a grave or something."

You both turned to him and gave him an incredulous look.

"Hey, I'm just trying to help," he said, throwing up his hands and walking away. You bit your lip and glanced at Courtney.

"Don't worry about it. There's tons of reasons why guys would buy flowers weekly... maybe he just likes to have fresh flowers in the house. Maybe they're for his mom!"

"Yeah, good point. I bet they're for his mom," you agreed, feeling a little better as you ripped open the next cardboard box full of cereal boxes.

When you woke on Sunday morning, you were already nervous. You could have sworn your heart was slamming in your chest from the moment you opened your eyes, already overthinking your date with Joel.

You spent the afternoon texting Courtney pictures of outfits you hauled out of your closet and tossed on your bed, then decided you needed to try them on for her to get the full effect. You were sitting on your bed, wearing a light blue sundress, the last outfit you had tried on as you gathered your pictures. Your thumb quickly tapped all of the photos of you modeling your options and typed out what one looks the best? then hit send.

As you were unzipping your dress and sliding it down your legs, you heard your phone ping from your bed. You hung up the dress and pulled your sweats back on before reaching for your phone, hesitating when you saw Joel's name pop up. You felt a pit in your stomach, worried that he came to his senses and was asking to cancel, so you sat down on the bed before sliding your thumb over the screen to open his text.

You look great in everything, but I really like the pink one.

Your palms instantly broke out into a sweat and you felt lightheaded.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no," you mumbled, scrolling up in your text chain before cursing and throwing yourself into your pillows to scream. In your rush to send your text, you accidentally sent the pictures to Joel instead of Courtney. You waited until you got your bearings and tried to convince yourself it wasn't really that bad, that it definitely could have been worse, before replying.

Ha, sorry. I meant to send those to a friend, but if you like the pink one, then I guess that answers my question

You stared down at your phone, anxiously waiting for his answer, which didn't take very long at all.

You could wear a paper sack and you would still look beautiful.

The grin that stretched across your face was massive. He was probably just sweet talking you and trying to make you feel better about making such a stupid mistake, but damn, it worked.

Looking forward to tonight :) you said in response, then bit your lip and flung yourself backwards on your bed. Your eyes drifted to the light pink dress hanging in your closet and you smiled.

As it turned out, the Italian restaurant was owned by Joel's brother, Tommy. You met the younger man at the host stand when you walked in the door. He had a huge grin plastered across his face and although you were an only child, you could still tell when someone was itching to tease their sibling. Tommy's eyes flickered back and forth between you and Joel, silently communicating with his brother as you introduced yourself. You managed to catch Joel shooting Tommy a warning glare before nervously resting his hand on your lower back and guiding you through the restaurant to an empty booth in the back.

"Have I told you how beautiful you look?" Joel asked, his dark eyes sparkling even under the dim mood lighting. You giggled and shyly looked down at your lap.

"A couple times."

Joel smiled warmly and leaned forward, his eyes trailing over the soft curves of your jaw and the way your plush lips stretched when he made you smile.

Before the food arrived, you learned a little more about him. He worked in construction, doing mostly residential but some commercial property work. He was trying to go into business for himself, which he told you was difficult but he already had years of experience and contacts in the area. He preferred to do most jobs himself or with as little help as possible because he only trusted his own work, but sometimes he did hire Tommy for a job to help his brother earn extra money.

"And in return, he lets me eat here for free," Joel finished, wiping the small smudge of red sauce from the corner of his mouth.

"That sounds like a win-win," you joked, and Joel chuckled.

"Tell me 'bout yourself. You said you been workin' at the store for four years?"

"Yeah," you nodded, pushing your empty plate to the side. "It's just meant to be temporary. I'm going to community college three days a week. Trying to get my degree so I can get a job with normal hours."

Joel hummed and leaned back in the booth. "What'dya wanna do?"

You shrugged. "I'm not sure, really. Hoping I figure that out as I go. I just know being a cashier for the rest of my life isn't for me, you know?"

"Yeah, sure," he agreed. "I could ask 'round if you want. Maybe some place is hirin' a receptionist or somethin'?"

"Oh, it's okay," you waved him off with a smile. "I appreciate it, though."

Afterwards, he took you for ice cream. You sat together outside the ice cream stand on a bench. The temperature outside was perfect and the place was mobbed. Kids ran around playing tag while other families gathered around picnic tables, laughing and telling each other about their days while you tried not to stare at Joel licking his ice cream and fantasizing about what that would look like between your legs.

"I wouldn't've pegged you for a strawberry girl," he said, nodding towards your rapidly melting ice cream.

"It reminds me of when I was a kid. My grandma liked to take me out for ice cream when she babysat me and strawberry was her favorite."

He smiled, listening to you talk about your family, getting a brief glimpse into your life, leaving him wanting more.

You thought everything was going so well. The date went perfectly. There wasn't as much awkwardness as you originally thought there would be and Joel was very easy to talk to. So when he dropped you off at your door and you invited him inside, you were surprised and somewhat hurt when he declined after a quick glance at his watch. He only kissed your cheek before telling you have a good night and backing out of your driveway, leaving you confused and a little self-conscious.

"He's probably just a gentleman," Courtney assured you the following day, "wants to take things slow and all that."

And you agreed. Once you had time to process everything, that seemed like exactly what it was, and you began to feel better.

But then Joel took you on a second date, and then a third, and he still hadn't tried to kiss you or make a move whatsoever.

"Maybe he's just rusty," Courtney offered after the fourth date and still finding yourself being shot down. "He wouldn't keep going out with you if he didn't like you."

Once again, Courtney made sense and you agreed he just liked to take things slower than you were used to.

But on your fifth date, where he took you to a baseball game, you misjudged the size of the beers they sold and you found yourself tipsier than you expected. Joel seemed really into the game but turned his focus on you whenever you searched for it, which, as the night wore on and the alcohol buzzed in your veins, became more and more frequent. You would ask him questions about how the game was played, even though your father watched baseball your whole life, just so you could listen to him talk. You looped your arm through his when the game was over and you both shuffled out of the stadium with a whole herd of drunk fans, back out into the parking lot. You tightly held onto his bicep, the feeling of his muscles under you fingertips more intoxicating than the beer, as he escorted you to his truck.

On the drive back to your place, you could feel your confidence building. Maybe he's just shy and doesn't know how to make a move. Maybe he just needs a clearer sign. Maybe he's waiting for you to make a move.

So, when he walked you to your door and he leaned in to kiss your cheek, you turned your face at the last second and locked your lips with his.

You could feel his surprise when your lips met. He froze and stopped breathing as he tried to figure out what to do, so you decided to make things easier for him and draped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and massaging your lips over his, urging him to reciprocate.

And finally, his hands flew up to your waist and tugged you against him. His mouth began to move and he crowded you up against your door. When your back made contact with the wood and his large palms squeezed gently at your hips, you moaned into his mouth. You had been dying for this for weeks and you would be damned it you were going to let it stop too soon.

Without even asking this time, you reached behind you and fumbled with your doorknob, twisting it blindly without breaking the kiss so you could both stumble inside. He kicked the door shut behind him, tongue licking at the seam of your lips while he brought one of his hands up to cup the back of your head. You granted him access, parting your lips and tangling your tongues together as he continued to walk you backwards. He opened his eyes and glanced around the dark living room quickly before pulling away and whispering one word: bedroom?

The way he said it made your knees weak and your heart flutter excitedly in your chest. You pulled him down for one more kiss before grabbing his hand and practically dragging him down the hall. About halfway to your room, his lips latched onto the crook of your neck and you slowed down, closing your eyes and twisting around in his arms so you could kiss him again. He pinned you against the wall with a groan, his thumb and forefinger clutching your jaw, prying it open so he could devour you. You hooked one leg over his hips and he let go of your jaw so he could grab the backs of your thighs and haul you off the ground.

You tugged at his hair impatiently, then gasped when he ground himself against your core, your body jolting in his arms and knocking a canvas print off the wall.

"Shit," he muttered, barely sparing the picture a glance before peeling you off the wall and carrying you towards your bedroom with your ankles hooked together at his lower back. You giggled against his mouth then squealed when he tossed you onto your bed. His hands glided underneath your dress and up your legs, slipping his fingers around the the waistband of your panties and tugging them down, pausing once he got to your knees. He blinked a few times like he was snapping out of a stupor and glanced up at you.

"Is this okay?"

"God, yes," you said, reaching behind you to tug at your zipper. You tried to shrug off your dress but his lips found yours and you quickly got distracted. You nibbled at his bottom lip while simultaneously tugging at the hem of his shirt, pushing it up over his soft stomach and stopping at his broad shoulders. He broke away just long enough to lean back and toss the shirt over his head and he was back on top of you before you could even drink him in.

You dragged your mouth over his chin, biting and nipping as you went. He groaned as you left open mouthed kisses across his jaw, his prickly beard tickling your tongue. "My dress," you whispered against his cheek before mouthing at the skin there, "take it off."

His palms slid over your shoulders, pushing the straps of your dress down while you wiggled a bit, helping move the fabric down your body. You arched your back so he could pull your dress all the way off, his breath getting caught in this throat when your nipples brushed against his bare chest.

He couldn't resist. When your dress was discarded on the floor, he sat back between your legs to admire your naked body, completely transfixed. Too much time had passed without him saying anything and you grew self-conscious, so you slowly began to cross your arms over your chest, but he stopped you.

"No," he rasped with a shake of his head. "You're so beautiful, just wanna look at you another minute."

Your cheeks flared with heat but you dropped your hands and gazed up at him, watching his eyes flicker excitedly over your body, memorizing every curve and freckle he could find. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a twitch in his pants and you glanced down at the outline of his cock through his jeans. You bit your lip and he followed your gaze, palming his erection briefly before undoing his pants.

"Oh," you whispered to yourself when you saw his cock spring free. He wrapped his hand around his thick shaft and glanced up at you as he crawled back up the mattress on his knees. "You're big," you added, unable to look away. He blushed but didn't reply. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed you, this time slower. You shuddered in anticipation when you felt the tip of his leaking cock brush against your pussy and he froze.

"Shit, wait," he grumbled, sitting back on his heels before reaching for his wallet, which was still stuffed inside his jeans. You figured out the problem and leaned over to your nightstand, fishing around in the drawer until you found a condom and held it out for him. He looked relieved when he saw the little foil square and tossed his wallet back onto the ground before ripping open the condom and rolling it on.

"Sorry. It's... been a while. Wasn't exactly prepared," he explained, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. The endearing confession just made you want him even more.

"It's okay, come here," you murmured, reaching your arms out for him. He grinned and fell down onto his elbows, kissing you slow and deep. When you felt him rest his tip at your entrance, you tensed up.

"Relax," he whispered in your ear. You slid your eyes shut and snaked your arms around his shoulders, gasping sharply when he pressed forward. When he sunk his teeth into your shoulder, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, the pain mixing with the pleasure in a way that made you dizzy.

"Oh, fuck, Joel," you whimpered when he bottomed out, your body stretching around his girth, the sting setting your nerves on fire.

He groaned against your neck and began to rock his hips steadily, making sure to not go too fast. He could tell you were still getting adjusted but it had just been so fucking long and he liked you so much, it was difficult to hold back. He could feel the sweat collecting between his shoulder blades as he focused all his energy on going slow, and when he felt your thighs relax around his waist and your back arch underneath him, he sighed with relief.

"More," you moaned, pressing your body against his, trying to get as close as possible. He growled and dipped his mouth down to capture one of your nipples, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud, releasing it with a wet pop and reveling in the sweet noises you made for him.

He wanted to tell you everything. He wanted to tell you how much he thought about you, how long he wanted to ask you out, how he wanted to know everything about you, how nervous you made him with just a simple glance. But he didn't say any of that. It had been so long since he had gone on a date that he wasn't even sure what women liked anymore. So he remained silent, focusing on not coming too soon while paying close attention to your cues, memorizing what you liked based on the breathy whines in his ear and the way your fingers clutched frantically at his hair. You, however, took his silence to mean he wasn't enjoying himself and you really, really didn't want that, so you pushed gently on his shoulder, drawing his attention.

"Let's switch," you murmured, and he gave you a quizzical look. "Why don't you lay back and let me do some of the work?" you explained, nipping playfully at his jaw.

When his head settled into your pillows, watching with heavy lidded eyes as you straddled him before catching his gaze and slowly sinking down, taking every inch of his cock with a low moan, he thought for sure it would be the death of him. You looked so beautiful all spread out and full of him that he had to squeeze his eyes shut so he wouldn't come just looking at you.

Then you started riding him and his eyes flew open, his chest heaving as he watched your tits bounce and your head tip back in ecstasy and he knew he was done for.

"Wait," he rasped, grabbing your waist and stilling your hips. You stopped, swollen lips parted as you panted for air and looked down at him.

"What's wrong?"

"N-nothin'," he stammered, taking a few deep breaths in before chuckling. "I'm just... I need a minute, is all."

You could see the red beginning to stain his cheeks and the look of embarrassment flicker across his face, melting your heart. Leaning down, you cupped his jaw and kissed him tenderly.

"Is that why you've been so quiet?" you asked softly, leaning back so you could look into his eyes but still holding his cheek in the palm of your hand. He nodded, his fingers gently wrapping around your wrist.

"I'm sorry. I haven't been with anyone in years and I've been tryin' to take things slow with you but I think all the buildup just made it worse." You grinned and took his other hand.

"Don't be sorry. I think it's hot," you whispered, pulling his free hand down between your bodies. He splayed his hand out across your lower abdomen and you took his thumb between your fingers, pulling it down so it made direct contact with your clit. You sucked in a sharp breath when you felt the pressure and a slow smile spread across his face when he realized what you were doing.

"Yeah? Why's it hot?" he asked, drawing slow circles over your clit and watching your jaw fall open and your eyes flutter shut. Both your hands dropped to his chest, holding yourself up.

"Because," you began, then bit your lip and moaned when he picked up the pace. "Because it's l-like you c-can't control yourself. Like y-you need me so badly, you can't hold back." You knew it sounded pathetic but you didn't care. His touch was intoxicating and you needed more.

"I can't," he admitted, his eyes glued to your face, taking pride in how good he made you feel. "I can't control myself. Wanted you for so long. Been thinkin' about this for months."

You gasped and your eyes snapped open, locking onto his. "Me, too. I never thought, shit, never thought you noticed me."

"Are you kiddin' me? I noticed you the first day." Now that the truth was out there, the words wouldn't stop coming. "You were wearin' a yellow shirt and I saw these perfect fuckin' tits when you bent over. Went home that night and-"

He stopped himself, wondering if he was going too far, but you dug your fingers into his chest and urged him to continue, desperately gasping for air as his thumb applied more pressure.

"Say it," you whispered. His cock pulsed angrily inside you, begging for release.

"Went home and fucked my fist thinkin' 'bout you."

You groaned loudly and leaned back, grabbing your breasts and playing with your nipples. "Fuck, I'm close, Joel."

"Yeah? Can you ride me, baby? Wanna come with you," he begged, his voice strained. Immediately, you resumed bouncing on his cock, letting go of your tits so you could brace yourself on his chest once again.

He watched in awe as you gasped and squeezed your eyes shut, stilling for just a moment, pulsing around his length as you came, his name and curses tumbling from your lips.

He couldn't hold back any longer.

He grabbed your hips with both hands and slammed up into you, grunting louder and louder each time. And it didn't take long. You had barely recovered from your own orgasm before he groaned, his eyes trained on where you were connected, thrusting as deep as he could go while his cock throbbed inside you.

"Fuck," he whispered, his head falling back limply onto your pillow. You slumped forward and buried your face against his neck, each of you trying to regulate your breathing.

"That was..." you began, trailing off when you realized your brain was still a pile of mush.

"Better than I ever imagined," Joel finished for you, wrapping his arms around your ribs.

Regrettably, he eventually pulled out, making you both wince. You rolled over onto your back and watched as he made his way to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. If you had any energy left, you might have shot off a quick text to Courtney, but you were barely coherent by the time he slipped back into your bed.

You didn't even need to ask if he was staying the night. He pulled you into his arms, his chest pressed up against your back when you fell asleep, completely at ease.

It could have been the beer or the sex, but you didn't hear his phone go off in the middle of the night. You didn't feel him slip his arm out from under you so he could answer the call in your living room, and you definitely didn't hear him quickly dress and leave.

It was finally Friday and you were moments away from calling off from work. The thought of facing him again made your stomach roll and your head swim.

You hadn't heard from Joel since he left in the middle of the night after you slept together, days ago. You foolishly texted and called him multiple times, but he never answered. Eventually, you got the message.

Countless hours were spent crying, then more were spent stalking around your place angrily, and a mixture of the two happened at work when either Courtney or Andy asked you about hot flower guy.

They eventually learned not to ask.

As badly as you wanted to call off, you dragged yourself into work. Andy offered to take over the registers so you could hide in the aisles stocking shelves during the hour Joel typically showed up, and you shamefully took him up on it. But when it was close to closing time and you made your way back to the front, Andy shrugged his shoulders.

"He never came."

You had a moment where you worried that something happened to him and you considered texting him just one more time, but when you got into your car that night and opened your text chain to a long list of unanswered texts, you changed your mind.

However, the next morning you awoke to a handful of texts from Joel. At first, your heart raced in your chest, but then your anger crept up and you had half a mind to just delete them. After you had some coffee and a chance to think clearly, your curiosity won and you opened the texts.

I'm so sorry

Something came up

Can you call me back?

Please let me explain

Your fingers hovered over your screen as you debated on what to say. Then you decided to leave the messages unanswered. At least for a little while. If he left you hanging for almost a week, he could wait a few hours, right?

What you didn't expect, however, was for him to show up at the store on a Saturday. He only ever came on Friday evenings. You were cashing out a customer, zoning out a bit, grateful for the distraction. When you reached for the receipt, your eyes locked with his and your pulse began to race. He was holding a bouquet of white roses and looking at you with a guilty expression. Your fingers froze around the paper momentarily until the little old lady in front of him cleared her throat and you blinked, snapping out of it and handing her the receipt with an apologetic smile.

"Hey," he said, but you kept your gaze trained down at the scanner.

"Hi."

Your hands shook as you scanned his flowers, doing your best to get the interaction over with as quickly as possible. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Andy at customer service notice Joel in line, watching from a distance in case you needed rescuing.

"You didn't respond to my texts," he said quietly. You shrugged.

"I've been busy," was all you said, tapping the button on the register for credit.

After he paid, you handed him his receipt and forced yourself to look at him. You could see in his eyes he looked exhausted and run down and despite how upset you were, you felt bad. But you felt even worse after he pocketed the receipt and handed you the flowers.

"They're for you."

"Oh," you said, surprised, as you looked down at the roses. "T-thank you."

Joel looked over his shoulder when a young couple began to unload their groceries on the belt. You panicked, not sure what to do or say, and then you felt a tap on your shoulder.

"Why don't you take your break?" Andy offered, "I'll cover."

You gave him a shaky smile, both of you knowing full well you already had your break. "Yeah, okay." Glancing over at Joel, you tilted your head towards the front door and he nodded.

"I'm so sorry I left without sayin' anythin'," he began when you sat down together on a bench outside the store. "There was an emergency and I had to go."

"You could have texted me or left a note," you said sadly, looking down at the flowers clutched in your hands.

"I know, and I was gonna, but my damn phone died and I was in the hospital for days. I was outta town, couldn't leave, I even wore the same clothes the whole time," he rubbed his face and sighed. "And once we got back home, I wanted to explain in person what happened."

"We?" you questioned. He dropped his chin to his chest and nodded solemnly.

"I have a daughter," he confessed, and your jaw dropped in surprise.

"W-what?" you whispered softly, "why didn't you tell me, Joel?"

His eyebrows pinched together, still avoiding your gaze.

"I don't know. In the past, women haven't exactly been thrilled findin' out I come with baggage and I guess I was bein' selfish." He finally looked up and you could see the pain behind his eyes. "I was tryin' to find the right way to tell you but I was so scared of losin' you."

You shook your head in disbelief. "It doesn't bother me at all that you have a daughter, Joel," you told him, "it bothers me that you lied."

He inched forward on the bench and put his hand on your knee. "I know. I'm so sorry. It was stupid. If you gimme another chance, I promise I'll never lie to you again."

Your chest tightened and you had to look away. He was so sincere, you could feel your resolve crumbling. After a moment, you dragged your eyes back up to him and you could swear he looked like he was on the verge of tears.

"Is she okay?"

He blinked rapidly for a moment, surprised by your question, then nodded.

"Yeah. She's okay now. She had appendicitis. She was with her mom last week. She lives an hour outside Austin and I just went right there from your place. Scared the shit outta me," he finished with a dry chuckle. Then something clicked.

"Your daughter..."

"Sarah."

"Sarah," you repeated. "The flowers you bought every week. Were they for her?"

He smiled shyly and nodded. "Yeah. She gets nervous goin' to her mom's still. The situation is a little rocky so I always get her flowers. Whether she's goin' there or comin' back. They make her smile," he said with a little shrug, and your heart melted.

"That's... that's really sweet," you said, looking down once again at the roses he bought you. He watched you closely for a moment then sat back on the bench, scratching his chin and trying to read your mind. Everything was out in the open now. He should have listened to Tommy and just told you the truth from the first date, but he couldn't remember the last time he ever felt so strongly about someone else before.

Just when he was about to leave, wanting to give you your space to think things over, you spoke again.

"So when are you free next?"

Joel exhaled in relief, then laughed. "Tomorrow?"

You bit your lip and nodded, then leaned forward and cupped his jaw, giving him a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"It's a date," you whispered before standing up. He watched you from the bench as you walked towards the front doors. At the last moment you turned around, the white roses clutched against your chest, and called out, "have a good night."

He grinned.

"Have a good night."

[yawnderu]

CW: gaslighting/manipulation, Obsessed!Simon Riley, Bimbo!Reader, breeding, corruption.

If there was a contest for the dumbest girl in the whole UK, Simon's bimbo girlfriend could easily win it. He's fully convinced of it, hips thrusting into you as he fucks you raw, managing to sweet talk you into letting him. It's not like you even know the risks— hell, do you even know how pregnancy works? It's clear you need a big, strong, and smart man like Simon to explain it to you.

''Almost gonna make me cum, baby.'' He whispers into your ear, face buried on the crook of your neck as he takes in the sweet scent of your shampoo and body wash— expensive gifts from him, back when he was trying to court you.

''Let me cum inside.'' He begs, silencing what he knows will be a negative answer as his lips crash against yours, hips slamming harder and harder into you, the tip of his cock hitting your spongy cervix. His hand comes down to rub your clit, tongue dancing with yours as he tries to overwhelm you enough to not think twice about it.

'''S a safe day for you, angel.'' He reminds you, though he himself has no idea what a safe day even is. All he wants is to cum inside your pretty, tight cunt, maybe make you have one or two of his babies, too pretty and dumb to let you go.

He almost sighs in relief when you nod your head and give him permission, knowing that even if you said no, he's too close to cumming to even think about pulling out. His hand comes up to pinch your pierced nipple, open-mouthed kisses planted all over your neck as he pushes his cock all the way inside you, holding you in place as thick ropes of cum shoot directly into your fertile womb.

Bimbo!Reader Masterlist

[yeyinde]

bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i

mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader

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

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

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

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

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

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

Meth this time. Oxytocin the last. 

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

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

“And if it seems sketchy—”

—run.

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

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

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

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

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.” 

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

You feel sick—

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

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

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

Just like the movies, he'd said. 

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

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

It looks almost like—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not as tight as he could. 

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

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

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

A warning, maybe. Stop looking—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing to worry about. 

Then his friend went missing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well.

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

Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon. 

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

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

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

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

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

Like—

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

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

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

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

He sends you instead. 

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

Right. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's already shaking his head. 

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

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

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

That calculative gleam is back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That thread is cut. Snipped. 

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

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

And—

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

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

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

Indifference. 

Defeat. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘pected you t’run.” 

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

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

Where would I go?

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

“Smart girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That's not fair—”

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

“Life ain't very fair, is it?” 

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

And he's just doing his job—

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

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

Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter. 

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

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

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

But empty. Barren. No light.

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

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

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

Unlike him. 

Disjointed. 

You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monstrous, you hope. 

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

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

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

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

His eyes are lavascapes.  

“Are you, birdie?” 

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

But the rest—

You'd rather not think about. 

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

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

Run, stay. 

Smart and stupid. 

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

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

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

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

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

Hunger. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You think he feels it, too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes don't break away from yours once. 

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

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

Help, though. 

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

Right. 

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

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

Either way—

You won't be coming back alive. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on now. Strip for me.” 

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

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

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

Child's play. 

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

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

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

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

It belies the danger underneath. The steel. 

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

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

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

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

And you hesitate. 

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

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

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

His—

Well. 

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

You knew. And now—

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

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

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

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

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

“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?” 

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

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

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

But he doesn't wait.

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

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

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

Until something gives. 

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

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

“Not s’hard, was it?”

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

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

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

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

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

He feels big. 

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

The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.

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

It's fear and heat. 

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

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

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

“Wait—” but he doesn't. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't like it. It's too much—

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

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

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

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

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

Go’ a problem, you an’ I

—he does. 

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

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

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

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

Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—

“Needy.” 

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

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

It feels good. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—” 

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

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

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

A gap.

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

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

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

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

“Now—”

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

Needy, just like he said. 

Just a bodily reaction—

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

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

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

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

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

—and he bites.

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

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

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

And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You jerk at his touch, flinching back—

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

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

He's not—

He's not handsome. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quietly amused, and—

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

And he looks. 

And looks. 

Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—

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

But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—

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

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

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

So he gives it to you. 

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

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

“Gonna be good f’me?” 

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

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

You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—

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

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

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

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

It's too much. 

Too harsh. Too sharp.

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

It's good. 

And that's the problem. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—than man.

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

On paper, anyway. 

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

Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook. 

His is anything but. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your silence is loud enough. 

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

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

In. 

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

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

“You should—”

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

“Need me to gag you, birdie?” 

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

Just fucked raw. 

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

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

“An’?” 

“Um. No–no condom, either—”

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

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

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

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

"Cum—cum inside me—"

“Good girl, birdie.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Hungry for something you can't name—)

“And you will.” 

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

Stupid, foolish thing—

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

You'll take every fuckin’ inch—

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he knows. 

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

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

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

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

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

Every fuckin’ inch. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too big. 

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

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

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

“Relax.” 

You can't. Can't—

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

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

Inexplicably, it pleases you. 

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

It was a powerful feeling. 

Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touch me—”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

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

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

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

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

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

Well. 

He'll make room to fit. 

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

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

And you do. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You'll what?” 

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

(Run, and run far—)

He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”

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

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

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

“I'm—”

“Go to sleep.” 

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

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

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

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

He wakes up hungry. 

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

Filled now with his cum. 

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

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

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

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

Simple hunger. An appetite. 

He could eat—

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

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

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

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

Rare. 

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

Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His. 

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

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

Until Price gave the order to take care of it. 

And that he did. 

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

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

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

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

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

(So—

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

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

All her stuff is on your porch. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “Get dressed.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are we going?”

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

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

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

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

“What? You can't—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can't do this. It's not right.”

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

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

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

“Until the debt is paid off.”

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

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

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

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

[skyrigel]

“Sweet nothing”

Pairing: Benjicot “davos” blackwood x fem!reader

Benji masterlist

Between war, blood and chaos, your husband founds himself running home to your sweet nothing.

Nsfw, Benji being a tease but absolutely feral for you, bath chamber hinted sex, kissing and biting, nudtidy, groping, consent is sexy, domesticated!ben, fancast! Benji.

“ Darling, did you miss me ? ” You opened your eyes to find your lord husband strolling in your bath chambers.

All the servants were walking out with their head bowed down and knowing closed smiles, Benji grinned when he caught your eye, before he trailed his gaze down at your naked body, drinking you in with a smug tug of his lips, rubbing his jaw.

“ I missed you.” you breathed, feeling your heart ache to touch him, to hold him, to breathe him in.

You were beginning to get out of water when Ben shaked his head, mouthing a 'love' before stripping off his clothes, one by one.

He was being torturous with the pace, he knew well how driven you were, your mouth agape as you saw him, so so long. He tossed his tunic, because teasing you was one of his greatest amusement, but then again, he was dying to be in your embrace and let everything mute in the background, and regardless to say how pretty you looked, like those sirens they talked about, luring him and he would, he would crawl and beg and plead and surrender, for you he was insane.

“ My lord.” you whispered, giving him that, ‘I'll never sleep with you again’ look and it only took a moment before he was stepping down in the bath, beaming.

His naked body disappearing in the mist of water, you followed his movements, his smile climbing to a grin as he reached you, taking your hand and pressing it to his chest. Beneath your palm his heart was beating for you, loud and rhythmic.

“ You have no idea how much I missed you.” you pressed a soft kiss on his chest, just near a bluish bruised wound. You hoped they were all dead, all of them who hurt him.

“ you can always give me a idea, don't you think my lady.” He pouted, sensing your worry as he lifted you chin with his finger tip, eyes sparkling with mischief, you pushed forward your hands to cup his face, needless to say about him. He was everywhere, cupping your ass cheeks to kneading your breast, pulling your waist as he placed sweet kisses all over, like a starved man and he was, a very starved man for your love, your affection, your body and all of your sweet nothings.

“ I missed this.” he bited at the crook your neck, you arched back, allowing more access.

“ And ? ” you asked because Benji liked that, liked knowing everything that swirled in your mind, to know what you thought about everything and nothing.

You couldn't see him as he was sliding down your body, open mouthed kisses all over your skin while you tugged at his soft hair, but you knew how stupidly he would have smiled.

“ And this.” he bumped his nose to your navel, looking up to meet your gaze.

“ Tell me more.” you whined, dropping your head back, Benji wrapped your legs around his waist, taking you out of the water as he laid you on the floor, climbing over you.

“ More ? ” He smiled, leaning to kiss your nose tip, then claiming your in hard embrace and clatter of souls, his lips soft and warm and sweet.

You were flushed under him, you didn't dare look between him and you because the hard length that pressed against your thigh was enough proof of how madly you drived him crazy.

Benji watched as your breath hiccuped in your throat, watching your heart swell and eyes dazed with lust, like blown back.

“say it my sweet love.” He was propped on his elbows on either side of your head, his own voice shaky, he wanted nothing less to dive inside you, take you all and leave nothing, to devour and to worship you. But he needed you to say it first. “c'mon sweetheart” He nuzzled his nose at the side of your neck, breathing in your scent, humming along.

“ yes...Ben.” you bited your lower lip as his shaft was leaking with pre cum, weakening your legs and the pressure in your pit grew, dazing your senses.

“ huh.” Ben perked up, relaxing in a smirk, pecking down your jaw as he raised one eyebrow, like he didn't listen. Bastard.

“ T-take me.” you demanded and pleaded and that was all he needed to hear, before his lips parted in a gasp, He's bloody going to moan every sweet nothing out of you. Oh, how sweet.

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 5: Night Out

You find yourself squeezed into the center of a round corner booth, Johnny to your left and Kyle to your right with John beside him. The bar is relatively quiet, even for a Saturday night. It is early, though. Plenty of time left in the night for more people to file in. Apparently they go out drinking every third week of the month, a day set aside for them to be together and celebrate another month of success. It’s sweet that they invited you, if not a little nerve wracking - you’re not exactly sure how much they plan on drinking and you’ve been known to be rather… sloppy after one too many.

You nervously adjust your top while Johnny yaps about the equipment sales person with the incredible ass. It’s hard not to squirm being packed in between them, hyper aware of the width of your hips and the size of your arms as they squish against far more toned, muscular limbs. A mean itch in the back of your mind lectures you about taking up too much space - about inconveniencing the people around you. About the optics of the pitiable fat girl tolerated by the handsome men around her.

An elbow to your arm finally knocks you out of your daze. “Och! There he is!”

You blink, following Johnny’s gaze to the man climbing into the booth beside him. It takes your brain a moment to catch up, processing the person in front of you. Your eyes turn to saucers as you realize it’s Simon - signature tattoos, piercings and all - just without his usual surgical mask. It shouldn’t make that much a difference, he still has that low brow and big dark eyes that slide over to you and make your stomach flip…but now you get the addition of his crooked nose, broken more than once and not set right, a small cleft scar leading down to a part of pretty, pink lips that quirk up in the corners when he catches you staring. A few scars scattered across his sharp jaw you hadn’t noticed before and a light layer of blonde stubble around each engraving on his face.

“You’re pretty!?” You gasp, words tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them. You bury your face in your hands while the others (Johnny) burst out in a fit of laughter. Simon’s shoulders shake in that signature, barely audible chuckle as he settles into the booth. Suddenly you feel a little less self conscious about the amount of space you take up in comparison.

John orders a round for everyone. Some light mixers to sip while you talk. You stick to listening, mostly, while the boys talk shop. You pick up a few personal tidbits here and there - specifically about Simon’s apparent sweet tooth as Johnny teases him about going through an entire package of licorice in one sitting. You file that away for later. Apparently John got his start after he enlisted in the military and got several very shitty tattoos during the first couple of years. Dropped out to get an apprenticeship, figuring he could do better. Kyle rolls his eyes, as if he’d heard the tale a few too many times.

“Where ye thinkin’ of lettin’ Kyle ink ye?” Johnny leans in close, breaking out of the group conversation.

You tilit your head. “Haven’t really thought about it. Wherever he’s comfortable, I guess.”

“Givin’ him free reign? Tha’s dangerous, bonnie. Might put it somewhere scandalous.”

“Wouldn’t be the first.” You blurt, regretting it immediately when you see that impish sparkle in his eye.

Johnny dips closer to you, shoulder pressing against yours. “Oh? Thought ye were a good girl, hen.”

“I’ve got a couple you haven’t, and will never get close enough to see, MacTavish.” You laugh.

“Is tha’ a challenge?” He grins, hand just barely ghosting over your thigh.

You shrug, face hot. ”Even if it was, you’d lose.”

There’s probably something deeply wrong with flirting with your coworkers while your boss sits a foot away, but your skin is too warm and your drink tastes to good for you to focus on that fleeing thought for long.

“From the gentleman at the bar.” A woman appears in front of your table, sliding a glass of pink cocktail toward you.

You stare at it before glancing up to meet a pair of dark eyes. He’s handsome, smiles and nods before going back to his own drink. Something cold runs down your spine, the bar warping for only a second. Your lip catches between your teeth before you push it away.

“That’s bold.” John scoffs, a twitch in his brow.

“Not gonnae take a free drink, bon?” Johnny teases, batting at your arm. “He’s no’ half bad lookin’. I’d take a bite.”

“I don’t take drinks from strange men.” You snap, a little harsher than you meant as you push the glass even further. “You can have it if you want.”

There’s a beat where you keep your eyes square on the table, waiting for an insistence that you take it, that you talk to him, that you just do what he wants because he seems nice enough. That you’ve ruined the mood by being sensitive, like you always do. Instead, Johnny grabs the glass and downs whatever fruity cocktail was inside.

“Alright, if I pass out ye have t’ carry me now.” He laughs, the conversation returning to the same pace as before. You just look up at him for a moment - his eyes bright and unwavering.

The more you’re with them, the more guilt you feel for doubting them in moments like this - but, equally, the more unreal they seem. Too perfect of men for you to have stumbled across. Too good for something as damaged as you. There’s a pang of loneliness at the thought.

You’re one again pulled from your thoughts - well, redirected, more like - when John’s arm comes to rest around the back of the booth behind Kyle, fingers brushing against your shoulder ever so slightly. You’d been noticing it more recently - John’s tendency to hover. He doesn’t cling like Johnny but he stays just a hair away. Fingers ghost over your arms and a hand hovers over your back. Sometimes he holds the back of your seat, leaning over you while looking at the appointment book, that wafting scent of leather and petrichor enveloping you.

He doesn’t look at you, talking across the table to Simon about some business thing. At least you think, you really hadn’t been listening. Maybe you should have.

“We should go check out that new place up the street.” Kyle announces, scrolling through his phone. “They’ve got great room for dancin’, apparently.”

“Is dancin’ the mood for the night?” Simon sighs, tilting his head forward. Even without the mask his expression remains placid. Difficult to read.

“Aye!” Johnny wraps an arm firmly around your shoulders. “We’ve got t’ take our little lass out on the town!”

You scoff, cheeks warming at the idea that you’re theirs. Their lass - their girl. Fuck that last drink really good to you, huh?

Johnny walks with an arm sling around Kyle’s waist ahead of you, John laughing and shaking his head at them. Simon hangs back a bit as you walk, taking small, slow steps to stay beside you with his hands in his pockets. The same as when he walks you home every night you close together. You silently revel in the safety of it - of having this massive man in your shadow to block out everything else. You risk glancing up at his face - so new to you despite knowing each other for weeks. His skin glows in the passing street lights.

So not fair that he’s been hiding lips that kissable.

That’s totally the drinks talking.

“Y’alright?” He murmurs, glancing down at you.

You jump a bit, not realizing you’d been staring, eyes wide and hazy. Since when we’re you such a lightweight? “Yeah.”

“Still bothered about that guy?”

You blink. In all honesty, you’d completely forgotten him. Too busy enjoying your time with your boys. Your boys. Your boys. Their girl. That feels really good.

“No.” You shake your head and grin. “Sorry for being weird about it.”

“Y’weren’t.” Simon shakes his head solemnly, lapsing into a comfortable silence as you walk. It’s made up for by Johnny’s forceful cover of Pink Pony Club.

The place is packed when you get there, Simon having to use his bulky form to push through and secure you all a standing table. Not that you really need it, it’s mostly so the four of you can do a few shots - as per Johnny and Kyle’s insistence. Yours too, but it’s more fun to use them as an excuse to down two green tea shots back to back. You’ve never been good at saying no anyway.

“C’mon, luv.” Kyle herds you toward the dance floor and you follow, not unaware of Johnny right at your back. Your head buzzes, the world feeling loose and slow and comfortable around you. That wall you might otherwise have up long gone as you’re safely pinned between two of your favorite boys.

Kyle’s hands trail down your sides to knead at your hips, guiding them to move in tandem with his. Johnny presses closer to your front, hooking your arms up around his neck. If you were any more sober, you might have thought twice about the way you grind back against Kyle and press your chest into Johnny - your coworkers - but as it stands you couldn’t care less. Your body buzzes with a comfortable warmth, the music seems to course through your veins. It’s so easy to let them guide you, to melt into them, to tilt your head back onto Kyle’s chest and grin up at Johnny’s big blue eyes.

It’s the loosest you’ve felt in a long, long time

Johnny says something you can’t hear, his head ducking and lips grazing the shell of your ear. A touch starved part of you wants to whine, to throw yourself into him and burrow into his chest. Bury yourself right between his ribs - surely it’s warm in there. The very sun itself housed where his heart should be.

Maybe you’re reaching the water-only time of the night.

You tilt your head, half-lidded eyes making contact with Simon’s. They’re boring into you, seemingly memorizing the way you three move against each other. Each step and sway stored away for future reference. Surely it’s in your imagination.

Eventually, you shuffle around - trading yourself for Kyle as John’s big hands come to rest respectfully on your waist. The music slows a bit, at least, making it easier to dance with your boss without feeling like you’re crossing a boundary. Not that you would mind crossing that boundary. You’d leap over it if you could - those pretty blue eyes smiling down at you in the multicolor bar light. Leather and petrichor fill your nose. There’s a spice to it that isn’t usually there. Your drunkenness sets your fingers alight as they trace up his strong arms to rest on his shoulders.

“Glad y’came tonight, dove.” John says, barely having to shout over the music. His voice just has that commanding timber to it that makes itself heard no matter the circumstance.

You give him a crooked grin. “Me too.”

John just hums, swaying you carefully. People don’t do this, a small part of you thinks. Don’t dance with their bosses. You look down to where you’re pressed together. It feels good, though. You wonder if you’re more to him than an employee - if he considers you a friend despite your inequalities of age and rank.

“Is it silly to say that I’m really happy?” You mutter, not expecting John to hear over the music.

“Not at all.” He shakes his head, dipping lower so you can hear him more clearly. “I’m very grateful that we get to have you.”

Somehow your face gets hotter and in an attempt to calm down you glance over his shoulder to where Simon still stands, leaned against the wall with a glass in hand. His eyes rake over the crowd, sometimes resting on Johnny and Kyle, sometimes you and John, sometimes they seem to just look off into the distance. A woman walks up to him. She’s pretty. Tall with dark hair. You can’t see her face - can’t tell what she says. A slimy, nosy little part of you doesn't like it, despite having no right to an opinion. Simon’s expression remains flat as he responds and she stomps away.

You turn back to John. “Does Simon not dance?”

John chuckles. “Rarely.”

You pout. “I hate that he’s all alone.”

“He’s fine, love. Promise.”

“I’m gonna ask him.”

“Good luck.” John laughs, letting you push your way out of the crowd as the current song comes to an end.

“Si!” You call loudly over the music, movements sloppy.

“Hm?” He cocks a brow.

You lock your hands around his wrist like a child trying to pull their parent toward some bright thing that caught their eye. He doesn’t pull away like a more sober you might expect. “Come dance with me!”

“I don’t dance.” He scoffs.

“Please?” You beg, giving him your best puppy dog eyes. Not nearly as effective as Johnny’s but they’ll have to do.

“No.” Even in your drunken state you notice the corner of his mouth quirk up before he forces it back down.

“You can’t stand over here all night!”

“Watch me.” Simon huffs.

You pout and let your fingers drift over his forearm, all muscle and so very vascular. His skin is warm under your hands, the ridges of scars dancing across the pads of your fingers - invisible to the eye under his tattoos.

“Well, then, I’ll just have to do what you like to do!” You say with a discerning nod, clambering up onto the stool at the table beside him.

He frowns. “Don’t let me take you away-“

“I don’t wanna leave you alone!” You continue to pout, the cotton in your head only making things fuzzier outside of your new single minded goal: Hang Out with Simon.

He looks you over for a moment, something passing through those dark eyes of his. They’re so mysterious - so deep. Like the Mariana Trench. That’s the really big one, right?

Simon sighs and downs the last of whatever golden drink was in his glass, setting it on the table beside you. “Fine. I’ll give you one song.”

You’re practically preening as you pull him into the crowd, hand firmly around his thick wrist. Part of you briefly acknowledges a few jabs from Johnny and Kyle as you pass them on their way toward the bar.

A squeak escapes you as Simon suddenly turns you around, pulling you close and leading you to the beat. He’s good. Weirdly good. You feel a bit like a floundering fish all of a sudden. It definitely doesn’t help that you’re a lot more drunk than you felt five minutes ago. He smells like spice, too.

“So much for can’t dance!” You laugh.

“I said I don’t dance, bird. Nothin’ about can’t.” An arm loops around your waist, suddenly twisting to dip you low - holding your weight so easily. You fall into a giggling fit, face hot as you playfully push at his chest.

As the night goes on, things get fuzzier. Blurred. There’s one last shot with Johnny and Kyle and all you know is an overwhelming sense of joy.

A/N: Don’t love love this part but it’s cute and this is supposed to be my easy to write fic so I’m not stressing about it. Suuuuper excited for the next couple parts tho🤭

[2kiran]

❛ 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦, 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢ó𝐧 ❜ ➖ drb.

pairing: ghostface x reader content: bottom ghostf, top male reader, unspecified m!character, held at knifepoint genre: smut | series masterlist

“Fucking—!” Ghostface sucks in a gasp, the metallic blade gleaming under the narrowed light over your forms. “With something as big as this,” On quivering knees and one gloved hand planted on your abdomen, he lifts. “y’sure know how t–to, oh fuck me—” He drops himself down, his walls clinging to the base of your dick. “—hide it. Bet you like how a killer feels, don’t you? Yeah, you do.”

You huff, your skin adorned with a thick sheen of sweat. Pleasure rolls down the length of your spine, the muscles of your thighs trembling with the effort to not buck up into his warming heat. He leans down, grinding his hips forward as he holds up the pointed end of the knife to the center of your throat. “You like your victim.” You deflect, and he clenches around you to punch out a sharp intake of breath from you. He isn’t doing greatly himself, the bursts of a peeking orgasm building in the pit of his belly setting his mind to a blur.

There’s an itch he’s unable to scratch—one that the head of your cock can only graze and prod. But it isn’t enough. You’re not touching him, disregarding the fact that he was the one who commanded you not to. He needed your hands on him, on his leaky, aching dick, and on his neck, even. “Haah, fuuuuuck, shut it.” He pants, his tip throbbing with slickness. The weapon is dangerously close to your sensitive skin, ready to delve into your sickly blood and drown within it.

And you knew he’d take horrifying amusement in seeing you wounded. Wounded with a brand-like marking, giving you a reminder that you’re his. Ghostface’s man, whether you want the title or not. You’ll be haunted with the glimpse of his dark, tainted robe and that long-lasting expression of screaming.

“That’s right...” he mumbles under his breath, burying his obscured face to the crook of your neck and shoulder. He doesn’t realize he’s already speaking his fantasies, his need for you. He rides you harder, his walls spasming as he’s hit by a familiar warning of a climax approaching. “You’re mine, oohhh shit, this s’all mine.”

Your mind is swimming, your hands balled into fists. Your cock pulses inside of him, a numbing tightness coiling in your gut. His speech is hushed, meant to keep it to himself, but your ears manage to pick up on the soft syllables. You can’t deny it, not with your mouth running dry, and certainly not with your cock nestled to the hilt. He feels you jab at his sweet spot, sending the bundle of nerves aflame. Ghostface whines, eyes squeezing shut while his pace stutters.

His brain runs static. His body shudders, legs quaking almost violently. It lasts relatively long, his subconscious setting the knife beside your head to avoid accidentally cutting your jaw. Ghostface wanted you. He needed you; and when you paint his hole white, he begins to think about how badly he needs you to feel the same way.

[gabbytbll]

❦ love and deep space💫

Part 2

Masterlist

~ As i just started to play this game Sylus will be OOC! ~

Authors notes: I feel like I'm cheating on Zayne but that's ok I can just take both at the same time ehehe I JUST KNOW ITS BIG! I CAN FIX HIM!!!!!

✦𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒♔

Warnings!!: Creampie, BDSM, Nudes, choking, Teasing, orgasm control, sex toys, Dacryphilia, Hand cuffs, Roleplay, Slapping, Rough sex, Switch Sylus, Public sex, Markings, Biting, Big dick Sylus, Blindfolds, Knife play, Blood kink.

MDNI!!!

SFW!

major fluff ahead!

✫ Sylus hates staying away from you to long like this man is obsessed with you from top to bottom, inside and out.

✫ this man loves everything about you! your scars, your crooked teeth, your acne EVERYTHING!!! he just can't get enough of you.

✫ This man loves PDA he loves to show who you belong to in front of people who flirt with you

✫ Whenever a girl or boy flirts with him he gives them the stink eye and gets sassy with them because he belongs with you. (cause we all know he is a sassy man).

✫ He loves to go on rides with you with his bike at night to just look at scenery and play around.

✫ He loves surprising you with random kisses on your cheek, lips, forehead it doesn't matter to him.

✫ Sometimes he makes his cook have a day off just so he can cook for you all day or so you can cook for him.

✫ He loves coming home to warm cuddles in your shared bedroom

✫ He always make sure you don't see blood on him when he comes home so he sneaks into one of the guess bedrooms to get a quick shower and change.

✫ This man loves pet names so he loves calling you kitten, sweetie, honey, etc.

✫ On his days off he loves when you make him breakfast in bed, he loves your cooking even if it's simple.

NSFW!!

sexual content ahead!!

✧ One of his favorite thing in bed is when you cry, he loves the face full of pleasure as you cry and moan.

✧ He loves to tease you to the point you beg for him in any way possible just to cum.

✧ He loves when you try to dominate him, so he lets you play with him for a while until he's had enough, so he switches on you and punish you.

✧ When ever you let him, he loves knife play he makes tiny cuts on your chest, your neck, anywhere he just loves to lick up the blood that trickles down your beautiful skin.

✧ He has special hand cuffs made for some of your punishments, he loves hand cuffing you to the bed.

✧ Sometimes when he gets so into roleplay, he lightly slap's your face a couple times.

✧ When he's not home he often sends you nudes to tease you and to get you all hot and bothered so he can fuck you when he gets home.

✧ He made a dildo that's a replica of his dick so whenever he's not home you still have a piece of him plus, he loves the videos you send him when your riding the dildo!

✧ When the both of you go on your nightly rides on his bike he loves to stop at a secluded area and just fuck you on his bike, since he loves both his bike and you, he feels like he's in heaven.

✧ This man never wears a condom because he said he loves how you feel wrapped around his cock tightly whenever he releases in you.

✧ When he releases he cum's a lot, he loves to take pictures of his cum dripping down from your wet cunt onto the bed or floor, etc.

✧ He loves to put you in blindfolds so you can't see what he's going to do to you next, he loves to surprise you.

✧ He loves to leave markings on your neck and body rather it be hickeys or bite marks he just loves how his markings look on you.

✧ The both of you kind of have a Dom and a Sub relationship in bed it depends on how the both of you feel or if you're up to it.

✧ Before the both of you have penetrative sex, he has to open you up with 4 fingers because his dick is so big he might tear you apart.

✧ When you have sex its mostly rough because he loves how much control he has in bed but he loves making love just as much because he loves how your body slots against his like you were made for him.

დTHAT CONCLUDES THIS POST! i hope you loved reading this please make sure you support me by liking and reposting i would appreciate it!!დ

©️ gabbytbll do not copy, repost, or translate across other sites. do not copy my sentence structures, plot or characterization.

[hellishjoel]

wild like the west

3.3k / pairing: cowboy!joel miller x cowgirl!reader

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summary: joel and his cowgirl warnings/information:  MA 18+ (minors DNI), implied but unspecified age gap, joel is technically reader's boss (so power dynamic stuff), swearing, dirty talk, pet names (baby girl, brat, etc.), unprotected p in v, pussy pronouns, asphyxiation kink, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, clean up on aisle reader's stomach, reader is described having hair but otherwise (I believe) reader is a blank slate, no use of y/n, barely edited A/N: I unfortunately have not stopped thinking about a game joel miller x yellowstone crossover, and I feel like he would like this to be his long, happy life. I also haven't written for joel since may which feels like a sin! sorry baby!

It doesn’t matter how many ass bruises you get, or the pain of repeated thrashes to your knees from getting bucked off; this unruly horse will bend its spirit to your will. 

Half the job of purchasing new horses for the Miller Ridge Ranch is breaking them in like a pair of new shoes. 

Any cowboy, or for you, cowgirl, knows that a horse can sense your personality and fear from a mile away. If you sprout fear, it won’t trust you to be the guide on its back. It’s a mutual thing to trust one another. It’s the trust Joel thrust upon you after loyally working at the ranch for a handful of years. Sure, you were young, but you had a good head on your shoulders.

He perches his cowboy boot on the low fence rail, teeth gnawing at a toothpick as he watches you with careful eyes. The morning dew settles over the long grass and tall trees, untouched by man, fostered by nature. With the sun clawing at the horizon, the land turns from a pale blue to a beaming orange glow.  It’s beautiful here, peaceful. You imagine this is the life that Joel always wanted, craved. He’s not from around here, he’s got too much Southern twang to be from these northern Montana woods. 

Life guided him up here and he never turned back. 

You can feel the horse grow agitated under your haunches, whinnying with anxiety as it takes a few rough steps backward in the ground-up dirt. 

“S’okay, boy, take it easy, easy,” you coo in a gentle voice that lets the horse breathe through its panic. You grip the colt’s mane at the very base of his neck, right by the horn of your saddle, gently scratching that sweet spot that seems to bring him some tranquility.

You’re the only one who seems to calm these beautiful boys. 

“You got a habit of gettin’ in’ta trouble before it even knows to start lookin’ for ya.” Joel’s southern drawl rumbles deep from his chest, stepping into the training ring and crooking his first two fingers in your direction. 

“I got it, Joel,” you say insistently, guiding the horse by a little squeeze of your boots to its belly in Joel’s direction. 

“Know ya do.” Joel stops at the horse’s chest and pats its neck, large and calloused hand stroking down its coarse mane as he stares up at you, squinting from the morning sunlight. 

His eyes are starkly brilliant in this light, typically a dark brown, now a glowy amber under the brim of his black cowboy hat. “You know that part of learnin’ how to be a cowboy is lettin’ them break in their own horse. Hop down.”

A sigh leaves your parted lips as you unhook one boot from the stirrups and throw yourself off. Taking the reigns, you walk with Joel back to the main fence. 

“You’re too nice to ‘em. I hired you to be a bit more…” He pauses indefinitely, tilting his head.

“Ruthless. I know.” Your eyes connect, both hardened after years of this long life. One day of being a cowboy felt like a year at any other job. 

The plan was plain and simple, a route you’d taken a hundred times with a crew that changed on and off for the past couple of years. The cattle were in need of fresh resources, lush grass to graze on, and streams of pristine crystal water. Up through the valley they’d go. 

The cowboys and cowgirls were gathered on their horses, Joel sat atop his beautiful black mare, eyes piercing his crew even behind his tinted sunglasses. Any season besides summer in this state demanded thick, warm work wear. Joel adorned a chocolate brown Carhartt and thick denim jeans under old, worn-out brown chaps. 

“I want Wyatt and Jack to take front, Bo and Sadie, swing, Jess and June on the flank, Tucker and Sammy on the drag. Wear your bandanas, it’s gonna get dusty back there,” your eyes flick up to a string of confused faces, “any questions?” 

“Why do we have to go through the valley? We’d have to push hundreds of cows through open water,” Bo mutters, disdain for a woman making all these choices for him, perhaps. 

“Yeah, n’I can’t swim. Never learned.” Another pipes in. 

“Then you’re a goddamn idiot,” old man Wyatt gurgles up a chuckle. Wyatt has been a cowboy longer than you have been alive. He raised you up to be tough with a streak of kindness that could never be washed away. He gives you a tight nod of reassurance as you sigh weakly. 

All this tomfoolery seems to be a bit much for Joel’s taste. “She’s takin’ questions about the plan, not your ‘pinions on it. I tell her what to do, she tells ya’ll what to do. You question her, you question me. So do as she says, or you answer to me.”

Joel’s always had a tight hand on the crew. He intimidates them. He is their boss, after all. They have a problem with you or this ranch or anyone else, they answer to him. Joel takes off his sunglasses and narrows his eyes on Bo, the newest cowboy with a pretty big mouth on him who bucks just as bad as your new colts. And his dead eyes are set on you. 

The rest of the crew sets off towards the direction of the cattle herd, everyone except Bo. 

Your head jerks upward in his direction, your own eyes narrowed. “You wanna say somethin’?” You ride alongside Bo, who seems to be wrestling with his stupid thoughts. But before he gets a chance to say anything, Joel intervenes. 

“Got a fight in you? It starts an’ ends with me.”

Bo looks between both of you, simply scoffing before he backs his horse off and trots along towards the crew. 

The view from the top of the valley is beautiful, all yellow and golden, with a pale blue sky and tall trees that harbor the secrets of the forest. Joel used to tell you it would whisper to him, warn him. Your chestnut-colored horse stands tall next to Joel’s, and both of you are overseeing the herd and the crew working together. 

“Not as bad as I thought this was gonna be,” Joel mutters, turning his head in your direction. You’re unrecognizably quiet. He’s never known you to be so still. 

He watches as your fingers anxiously twirl your horse’s mane. “You undermine me in front of them, and they don’t respect me, Joel.” 

So that’s what got you so stiff. He takes in a deep breath of mountain air, crossing his wrists over the horn of his saddle and glancing over at you out of the corner of his eye. Your hair blows in the wind, gentle and flowing. Almost graceful if it wasn’t in this wild west. Your beauty was city beauty, he was surprised you ever found your way out here. 

“Bo’s as green as grass. He needs to learn not t’talk to you like that. And if he needs to learn from me, so be it.”

Keeping your lips zipped, your eyes scan the points that use the dogs to guide the herd in the right direction. The swings and flanks work the mid to back-mid to maintain movement, and the drags stationed at the back ensure that any loose stragglers keep up. 

Joel rolls his eyes and sighs, reaching his hand across to your horse’s reigns, keeping your horse tucked to his side. 

“C’mon, Cowgirl. Spit it out.” 

“You go about defendin’ me, it looks like we’re sleepin’ together,” you gripe, “and I don’t need our crew slingin’ the slander that I got my job fuckin’ the boss. I don’t want that shit, Joel.”

Joel shifts his jaw from side to side, silent as he usually is. His tongue muscles over the right words, the words that will settle that ball of uncertainty you have nestled in your gut. 

He settles on the truth. 

“We are sleepin’ together.” 

Shaking your head, you steal your reigns back from Joel and gently nuzzle your boots against the horse’s underbelly. “Well, maybe that should end.” 

Joel watches on with a small smirk as your horse is set in motion down the grassy hill. He shouts loud enough for his voice to carry down from the high ground. “You set those boys straight, or I’ll have to keep doin’ it for ya.”

You sling back your middle finger in his direction, both of your horses riding side by side now as you follow the crew through to the valley. 

Joel sighs upon entering his large, private cabin, resting his cowboy hat to air out on a hook by the front door. His clothes wreak of his musky sweat, and the shower calls his name. He walks stiffly. Joel’s thick thigh muscles are as strong as iron from riding his horse, and his back cracks each time he inhales.

But he can’t deny that this life was made for him. 

Training to be a carpenter, earning pennies on the dollar to work in the hot Texas sun, and for what? Building someone else’s dream property? He had his own dreams. 

The ranch was his dream.

He always had a profound appreciation for nature and the outdoors. 

Fuck the city, fuck car horns honking obnoxiously, fuck the traffic. He found more fulfillment in listening to the wind flutter through the trees and would much rather hear the moos of his cattle than impatient commuters at six in the morning. 

Plus, he’s never felt more free or independent. This was his land, and he made the decisions on how it was run. Hiring the sassy cowgirl from the metropolis just happened to be a nice bonus on lonely nights when there wasn’t much left to his whiskey bottle, and the ride into town was more than twenty minutes for a new one. She sated him all the same, better, even.  

Despite years of riding and wrangling, you’re so fucking soft. You have soft eyes, a pretty voice, and satiny thighs. Your lips are plush against his weathered ones, and you don’t seem to mind sitting in his lap with his rougher-than-barbwire hands feeling over your body. 

But in turn, you’ve made a little soft spot in his wild like the west heart of his. And he swore he’d never settle down; you seem to have the same intentions. 

Things were easy. Nice and easy. Almost routine. 

The bunkhouse would be busy with cowboys and cowgirls playing card games, drinking their beers, singing to the music on the radio, and talking nonsense. You’d slip out after dark and wind up upstairs in his bed. 

He recalls you saying something about how his bed is more comfy than the ones in the bunkhouse. 

“Whatever you say, darlin’.” 

Tonight was no different. Fresh from his shower with a towel secured low on his waist, he hums curiously at the sight of you sprawled out across his bed. No more than a minute later, you are tugging it loose from his frame and letting it pool around his ankles. 

“Thought you said you were done,” Joel muses with a hint of teasing. You sit up from the bed on your knees and wrap your arms around his broad trap and shoulder muscles. 

“I ain’t a quitter,” you mutter against Joel’s mouth, feeling his tongue glide along yours as he explores you freely. 

He sheds your clothes, feeling your freshly showered skin and hair under his rough palms. He can’t help but touch you like you’re his, like he owns you. But no man can possess the wind. 

You kiss as he slips you under the bed’s cool sheets, drunk on the way you move so pliantly under his guidance. His lips move to the slope of your neck, his greying whiskers scratching your skin before he washes over the irritation with more kisses. 

Joel’s hands slip between your legs, cupping your clothed center in one hand. Your eyes light up at the friction, mewling up a moan of his name as he massages over the wet spot growing on your panties. 

“She’s already soaked, darlin’. You been thinkin’ ‘bout this?” Joel muses, sitting up properly to peel your shirt off your body, two fingers curling around the hem of your panties and chucking them mindlessly on the floor. 

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly as he’s about to slip down between those pretty legs of yours. 

“What?” He asks, damn near annoyed. 

“I can’t wait,” you beg breathlessly, his eyes meeting yours. “I-I can’t, I’m beggin’ you, please. It’s been a long day.” 

Joel sighs but ultimately nods. It’s not what he wants, but sometimes you both need a quick fix. 

Joel’s body parts your legs, a grunt escaping the depth of his throat as he ruts his hips against your own. 

“Good idea,” he mutters against your mouth, leaning down and distracting himself with your kisses as he lines his length up and down your soaking center. 

You sharply inhale as he enters and the sound is music to his ears. He feels your nails carving into his back muscles as he sinks himself in deeper deeper deeper, both of you panting with eagerness by the time his hips are flush with your own, lost in where you end and he begins.

You let out a string of moans as he reels himself back, only to return to your depths with a snap of his hips that releases a shrill whine of his name from your throat. His forearms are buried in the fluff of the pillows on either side of your head, forehead against forehead, his hips grinding against you now. 

The friction is enough to make your head spin. You can feel the coarse hair of his happy trail tickling your already anxious pearl. 

“Fuck,” you huff out, letting your hands slip down his back, knowing that if you want him to pick up the pace, you’ll have to ignite his fire. In one quick movement, your hands drag themselves up Joel’s back, your nails creating etched lines that raise red once you finish at the very tops of his shoulders. 

Joel releases a long, low groan in response as his eyes snap open to meet yours. The sting of pain creates heat along Joel’s spine. His jaw is wound tight as he brings his large hand to wrap around your pretty throat, thumb on your chin to force you into staring straight at him. 

“Such a goddamn brat,” he growls, adding pressure to the column of your throat as he begins to pound into you harder and harder with each thrust of his hips. You cry out his name, a cacophony of your panting moans and your slick squelching against his hips fill your ears. The ecstasy of losing just a smidge of air is enough to make your eyes roll into the back of your head. 

He’s obsessed with the way your eyes gloss over in lust, your body jerking up the bed with each powerful thrust he gives you. Your mouth hangs open, gasping for air that’s just out of your reach. 

“You take it, baby girl, you keep takin’ it. She’s so fuckin’- goddamit, so fuckin’ good for me,” he pants, feeling the warm air dissolve against your skin as Joel begins to swell fatter inside of you. 

Perfectly slick and warm, he loses himself in your pussy. You squeeze and choke him, his orgasm only building as you whimper how good he feels. 

“Holy fuck, Joel, please please please, right there, ohmygod you’re gonna make me-” you gasp, your back arching off the mattress as you grip onto his forearm that’s still holding your delicate throat, your other hand gripping the hair at the nape of his neck. He knows to squeeze a little harder as you fall apart, the euphoria of the combination sending you over the edge. 

Joel’s holding on for dear life, always focused on putting you first, always trying to prove your jokes of him being an old man wrong. But he can’t deny he’s nearly finished twice now, your pretty cunt all nice and warm for him. 

What’s wrong with pushing you over the edge a little?

Joel abandons the hold on your throat as you still are witnessing the aftershocks of your orgasm, his two thick fingers circling over your swollen clit. 

Joel smirks as your eyes snap open, your jaw dropping wide as you silently scream in pleasure. He nods sadistically, smirking as he overstimulates your already twitchy clit.

“You’re gonna give me another, right here, right now,” Joel grunts, stilling his hips as he’s buried to the hilt inside you, feeling your pussy clench around his cock as your gasps and strangled moans fill the room. 

“Fuck, Joel I don’t think I can,” you cry out, bracing the wrist of the hand that’s still working figure-eights around your pearl. Joel watches as your chest rises and falls quickly, nipples at peaks as you continue to clench repeatedly around his cock. 

 “Know you can, baby, cum on this cock again. You’re a strong cowgirl, ain’t’cha? You been thinkin’ ‘bout this all day, getting this pretty girl drilled by me, know ya have.”

And he’s right. Shamefully so. Denying Joel looks good in and out of his cowboy attire is just nonsense. The way he rides his horse with his thighs snagged tight around its middle, gnawing on his toothpicks to ward off the need to smoke a cigarette or chew; at this point, it’s everything that he does that turns you on. 

And maybe that’s why it’s so easy to give him a second one. 

Your nails pierce into his skin as your hands grip his biceps, mewling and moaning something wrecked, feeling the warmth gather deep in your belly once more. 

“Keep fuckin’ me, I didn’t say to stop,” you pant.

Joel disguises his laughter by meeting your lips with his own, giving you messy kisses that taste better than perfect ones. His hips and fingers work in tandem to force you over the edge. You’re shaking under him, your thigh muscles twitching with excitement, legs wrapping around his middle as he grows closer to his own finish. 

Just as he feels like he’s going to give way, he can feel your pussy clenching around his aching cock, his tip brushing so perfectly against that spongy spot that sets your insides alight. 

“Fuck,” he grits, ripping himself loose of your perfectly wasted cunt as he yanks over his length. One, two, three more times, and he’s spilling warm spend across your belly. The pretty splatters are like a Jackson Pollock. He stares in awe at how pretty you look getting finished on. 

The bed dips as he falls into place beside you. He doesn’t lay idle. He reaches for some tissues from his bedside table, politely wiping away his mess as you stare at him with lustful eyes. You were so fucked out. Sorta cute. 

“Quit,” he mutters, avoiding your eyes. 

“You ain’t as old as I thought you were.” You whisper, a smirk tugging on the corners of your mouth. 

Joel chuckles softly at your familiar tease. He's heard it countless times, but it never ceases to make him roll his eyes and pull you closer to him. He kisses your forehead affectionately, his voice carrying a hint of playful banter.

“You gonna keep remindin' me about my age every chance you get? Don’t stop ya from comin’ back each night.”

You lay your head on his chest and listen to his heart thump. 

Joel’s got one arm slung around your shoulders, the other on your thigh that’s draped across his middle. His strong hand works slowly into your tired muscles. You play with the greying curls on his chest, taking note of the dark, nearly black ones still speckled throughout. 

“Goodnight, old cowboy.” You say, patting his chest, hearing his slow laughter rumble from his chest. 

“G’night, pain in my ass.” 

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[maysileeewrites]

HEAVENLY

Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader || 18+, mdni!

Synopsis: It’s this gentle glow, this steady and strong flame within him that you fell in love with, and continue to fall in love with every day. || Or: a glimpse into married life with Jacaerys.

content & warnings: fluff and smut, smut (piv, oral (f), hair pulling, slight praise kink if you squint), established relationship, arranged marriage, light banter, some tooth-rotting fluff as well

masterlist || word count: 3.9k

AN: yes I totally hopped on the Jace hype train, but my man’s just sooo dreamy. I also saw a post pointing out the similarities between him and Robb Stark, and now my love for Jace totally makes sense 😭😭 I loved writing this and I have sooo many ideas for other Jace fics (Robb as well but idk if anyone is still interested in that). Anyways, have fun reading :)

You wake up to warm sunlight streaming through the window, a gentle morning breeze blowing through the room, birds chirping somewhere in the distance. If you really concentrate, you can also hear the gentle lapping of waves against the shore, can smell a faint, salty breeze in the morning air.

You yawn, trying to stretch and to draw the blankets up a bit higher - only to find yourself unable to. 

Even fast asleep your husband is still curled around you, his head resting on the crook of your shoulder, his dark curls tickling your neck, his warm, even breaths ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck, causing you to shiver. His legs are still entangled with yours, and one of his hands is still splayed possessively over your stomach, the other resting on your waist. 

Your waist - where, if you were able to move and stretch, you’d surely see imprints of his fingers on your skin. 

You can’t help it - even just thinking of the previous night’s activities brings a furious blush to your cheeks. 

Jacaerys has always been an attentive lover, gentle yet passionate, and last night has been no different. 

You bite down hard on your lip, remembering.

The way he’d thrusted up into you while you were sitting in his lap, the fingers of his right hand digging into the skin of your waist, steadying you; while his other hand had been between your thighs, his thumb rubbing soothing circles onto your clit while you moved up and down on his cock. 

That had been your third orgasm of the night, and while you already felt overstimulated and exhausted at that point, Jacaerys had seemed to have made it his own personal mission to bring you to ecstasy at least four times that night. 

After he’d gotten you to your peak, he kissed you passionately, and then, without having finished himself, he lowered his face between your legs, coaxing your fourth orgasm from you. 

By that point, you were a quivering, panting mess. Jacaerys cradled your face lovingly, peppering your skin with gentle kisses. 

„You did so well for me, Princess“, he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. You smiled exhaustedly, reaching up your hands to wind them around his neck again, drawing him in for another kiss. He shifted, covering your body with his again and you could feel his painfully hard, throbbing length against your stomach, causing you to whine. And though your clit was still swollen and you could already feel a familiar feeling of soreness settling between your legs, there was a familiar heat pooling between your legs yet again. 

While he’d already driven you to your peak four times, Jacaerys had only finished twice, and you couldn’t have to that. So, removing one hand from his neck, you reached between your bodies, positioning his hard length between your legs.

„Princess, what-„, Jacaery‘s question was cut off by the loud, broken moan that left you when you felt him sliding back into you, filling you to the brim. 

„Fuck, Princess“, Jacaerys moaned, looking down at you. You could see the different emotions he was feeling warring on his face - there was that desire to stay gentle and tender and take care of your needs, but there was something else there as well, something darker, more primal, his own lust, a desire to finally find his pleasure.

And so, you tangled your hands in his hair, tugging and pulling at his dark curls the way you knew always drove him insane. 

„More, please“, was all you needed to moan, before Jace groaned, grabbing your legs and hitching them over his shoulder. The new angle allowed him to thrust even deeper and more intensely into you, and soon his thrusts were becoming more and more erratic. 

One of your hands moved to his back, nails digging into his skin, leaving a reminder of this moment. Just like his handprints on your waist. 

And the permanent imprint he’d left on your heart, the moment you made your vows to each other.

It didn’t take long for either of you to reach your peak.

Afterwards, Jacaerys scooped you up in his arms, leaving gentle kisses on your skin, his fingers stroking over your skin gently, his touch once again feather-light. 

You close your eyes, a small smile on your lips, as slow, gentle kisses on your neck bring you back to the present moment. 

„Morning, Princess“, Jacaerys says, his voice still thick with sleep. 

„You’re tense …“, he comments only a moment later, his hand leaving your waist and reaching up to intertwine with yours. 

You feel a blush creep up on your cheeks, which is ridiculous, considering everything that happened last night. Or the night before. 

Or the night before that. 

Any night since you and Jacaerys have been married, really. It’s only been a few months, but still - you always find yourself looking forward to the nights. And the mornings, and sometimes, if you find the time for it, the afternoons as well. 

Before, when you were younger, you’d never imagined that marriage could be like this. You’d heard the stories whispered between some of the older maids, had seen the cold, distant way your parents always interacted with each other. 

And so, when your parents first told you of your betrothal to Jacaerys Velaryon - the first child and heir of Princess Rhaenyra, a rumored bastard- just a few weeks after your eleventh name day, you’d been terrified. 

You were even more terrified when you first met your betrothed two years later, on the feast that was thrown in honor of your thirteenth name day. 

Later, after you were married, Jace had confessed to you that he’d initially thought that you hated him, because you almost didn’t speak to him for the entire evening. Which was true, but you also told Jace that back then, you’d simply been terrified, anxious. Shy and nervous and about to crack under the pressure your parents had put on you, telling you that it was imperative that you left a perfect impression on the royal family. 

You’d slipped away from the festivities the first chance you got, after an incredibly awkward dance with Jacaerys. You were so caught up in your own thoughts that you didn’t even notice the young prince following you, until he made his presence known. 

„I’m sorry, I know I’m a terrible dancer-“

A loud shriek escaped you and you turned around to face him. There he was, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking at you uncertainly and with a tender shyness on his expression. 

„I’m sorry,  I didn’t mean to frighten you - I - I only wanted to make sure that you were alright …“ 

You nodded slowly, tucking a stray strand of hair that had escaped your hairdo behind your ear. 

This conversation wasn’t what you’d been expecting, not at all. You certainly hadn’t counted on him even noticing that something was wrong, yet alone following you to make sure that you were alright. Earlier that day and night, conversation between you two had been stiff and awkward, with neither of you quite knowing what to say to each other, and always someone from either of your families lurking around in the background. 

But this was different and this was the moment you slowly started to realize that maybe Jacaerys Velaroyn wasn’t all that bad. 

So, you found yourself taking a tentative step towards him. „I - I am now, I - thank you, Your Grace.“ 

„Jacaerys - it’s Jace, if you like“, he corrected you gently, also taking a tentative step towards you, before holding out his hand. „Friends?“ 

You nodded, feeling a small smile tug at the corners of your lips. „Friends.“ 

You and Jacaerys hadn’t seen much of each other after your name day celebrations, but only a few days later, you received the first raven he ever sent you. 

Since then, you two had been writing to each other constantly, sometimes sending three or even more ravens during a fortnight. And though you only continued to see him for very few occasions - his or your nameday celebrations, the royal wedding of Prince Aegon and his sister Helaena, the Queen Rhaenyra’s coronation -, you found yourself looking forward to these occasions more and more. He was your best friend, and with the years passing, the space he occupied in your heart only grew more and more. 

And so, when a few weeks after your eighteenth nameday, your wedding was finally held, it was entirely different than what you’d been imagining it to be as a little child. 

You weren’t afraid or terrified, not in the slightest. No, you were excited and happy, and if Jace is to be believed, you were glowing with joy the whole day through. 

„Princess?“, Jacaery’s voice, now sounding concerned, draws you out of your thoughts yet again, and so you turn around, until you’re facing him. 

You squeeze his hand, reaching up with your other hand to touch his cheek, unable to fight the warm smile tugging at the corner of your lips. 

Jacaerys returns your smile and you feel your heart skip a beat. When Jace smiles, really smiles, it’s as if his whole face is lightning up. There’s a gentle glow in his warm brown eyes, calming and reassuring.

It’s this gentle glow, this steady and strong flame in him that you fell in love with, and continue to fall in love with every day. 

„What’re you thinking about, love?“, Jace asks you, his hand squeezing yours, his other hand leaving your waist and reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

You smile, leaning into his touch. You don’t answer his question, not with words, at least. Instead, you just lean forward, gently pressing your lips to his, hoping to convey all the emotions you’re currently feeling through your kiss. 

It seems to be working, because when you break apart a moment later, there’s a soft smile on Jacaerys’ lips and that warm glow in his eyes.

„I love you“, you say, before reaching for him again, connecting your lips again. He sighs, shifting, until his arm is at your waist again. Your hands find their way to his neck, one hand tugging at the curls at his nape. 

For a while, the kiss stays tender and slow and loving. But then you shift, trying to find a position that’s a bit more comfortable for you, completely forgetting that your legs are still entangled with Jacaerys’. You end up drawing him even closer to you, until there’s no space left between you two, his body covering your own. 

His grip on your waist tightens and he uses his other hand to support himself, drawing himself up a bit as to not crush you completely under his weight. This new position allows Jace to bunch up the fabric of your nightgown, slipping his fingers under the thin fabric, until his fingertips are stroking over the bare skin of your waist. 

You sigh contentedly, locking your legs around his waist - and pause, wincing. What before was only a slight feeling of discomfort has now turned into an intense, unpleasant burning between your legs. You feel incredibly sore and you can only imagine how hard it will be today, walking around with this unpleasant soreness between your legs, trying not to wince at every step. 

„Princess?“, Jace who’s noticed that something’s wrong, asks you, concern lacing his voice. His warm brown eyes find yours and in them you see his worry and concern for you. 

You shake your head, trying to smile. „It’s nothing“, you say, trying to wave away his concern. 

„No“, Jace says, shaking his head. His hand leaves your waist, gently cradling your cheek instead. „No, I know it’s not nothing, love.“ 

You sigh. „Well, it’s nothing important.“ 

„Princes“, Jace says, his gaze still holding yours, „please - you can tell me.“ 

You close your eyes briefly, trying to fight of the blush that’s threatening to creep onto your cheeks. Really, all things considered, it’s so stupid to be embarrassed to admit to something like this, when you’ve already shared so much with your husband. 

You sigh, opening your eyes again, finding Jace still looking at you with worry in his expression. „It’s nothing, really, I - I’m just - I’m just a bit sore after last night …“, you say, feeling your cheeks blush a furious red. Great, now you probably look like an overly ripe tomato. 

As if that weren’t already bad enough, Jacaerys’ puzzled expression really has you wishing to die from embarrassment, if only for a short moment. 

„Oh - oh …“, Jacaerys says, a bit sheepishly, his hand leaving your waist, drawing himself up, but you stop him by reaching out a hand and touching his forearm. 

„Jace, it’s fine, really-“

„I didn’t - I didn’t mean to hurt you“, he says, genuine concern in his voice. 

You squeeze his shoulder. „Jace, you didn’t hurt me.“ 

„But-“

„Jace, this happens. It’s normal, really.“ 

„Wait, do you mean - is it always like this for you?“ 

You shake your head. „Not always … last night was - intense …“ 

You don’t even know how that’s possible, but your cheeks seem to be getting even hotter. But when you look up at Jacaerys, you see his cheeks growing rather pink as well, and somehow, that brings a small smile to your lips. 

„I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry, I - is there anything I can do to make it better for you?“, Jace asks you, fingertips softly stroking the skin of your cheek. 

„I-“, you start to say, at the same moment that Jace says: „I have an idea.“ 

You laugh quietly and you’re relieved when you see a shy smile on his lips as well. 

„I - will you let me - do you trust me?“, Jace asks you and you smile. 

„Always.“ 

Jace nods, returning your smile. „Good. Lie back, try to relax. And do tell me if something I do is hurting you at all, please?“ 

You nod, lying back down on the sheets. Jace watches you with a small smile on his face. Then, he lifts himself off of you, and you almost protest when you don’t feel the reassuring weight of his body anymore, but as if he’s sensed the direction of your thoughts, his lips find yours again in a featherlight, tender kiss. 

The kiss is soft and sweet, and for a moment, you find yourself thinking that it’s almost a bit too innocent and gentle, but then Jace slowly deepens the kiss and one of his hands moves to your collarbone, the touch of his fingertips featherlight on your skin. 

As the kiss turns deeper and more sensual, his tongue coaxing your mouth open, his fingertips start exploring your skin, slowly, but surely moving downwards. 

Your collarbone. 

Your sternum. His fingertips stay there for a moment, drawing circles on your skin and you find your heart beating faster in anticipation. Then, as Jace breaks the kiss, only to attach his lips to the spot on your neck that he know always drives you nearly insane, his fingertips finally move lower to the valley between your breasts. 

Your breath hitches and you swear that you can feel Jacaerys smirking. He can be such a tease-

Then, the fabric of your nightgown is shoved aside rather unceremoniously. You shudder, because at the same moment that Jace’s fingertips move to your breasts, cupping the tender skin, his lips start suckling at the spot on your neck and then you can feel his teeth lightly graze over your skin and you’re sure that he’s going to leave a mark, a purple love bite that will be hard to cover up and conceal - joining two other ones that are slowly starting to fade - but you find that you don’t care, not at all. 

All that you can think about is that you want, no need, more. More of Jacaerys. More of his hands and lips on your skin, more of that blissful tension. 

„Jace, please“, you say, your voice breathless. His lips leave your neck then and he looks up at you, desire clear and tangible in his gaze. 

A look passes between you and Jacaerys seems to understand exactly what you need without you having to say a single word. His hands leave your waist and breasts briefly, to take off your nightgown. 

Now, you’re completely bare before him, while he’s still in one of the soft linen shift he always wears in bed. 

„Gods, you’re so beautiful“, he whispers, awe and adoration in his voice. 

Then, he leans in towards you again and you think that he’s going to kiss you, but instead, his head moves between your breasts and he takes one of your nipples in his mouth, while his left hand starts playing with the nipple of your other breast. 

You moan, squirming. 

At that, Jace looks up at you, mouth still attached to your breast and you can’t help but let out another loud moan. You’re so dizzy and driven by desire that you only notice Jace’s other hand start to move lower, when you feel his fingertips lightly brushing over your core. 

„Jace, oh gods-“ Your voice is breathy and full of want, and once again Jace gives you exactly what you need, his fingertips moving lightly over your core, his other hand playing with your breasts, as his lips continue to move lower and lower and lower. 

He leaves soft, featherlight kisses on your breasts, your stomach, the inner sides of your thighs. Your breath hitches and you feel your heart beat faster and faster as Jace peppers more and more kisses, moving closer and closer to where you really need to feel him. 

There’s a burning ache beside you, a fire and his touches are stoking its flames. Feeling his fingertips move lightly over your core isn’t enough, you need more, you need to really, truly feel him. 

Your hands move on their own accord, coming to settle in his dark curls, softly tugging at his hair to get his attention. 

Jace looks up at you then, his dark brown eyes slightly glassy. His lips are red and swollen and his cheeks are red, but he still looks absolutely angelic. Heavenly. 

„Jace, please“, you breathe, you voice shaky and barely more than a whisper. 

You think you see him smirk at your words, but then you can’t think straight anymore, because he lowers his head again and then his lips are right there where you so desperately crave them. His hand has moved and he’s now pressing his thumb against your bundle of nerves, steadily applying pressure while leaves soft, featherlight kisses on your core. 

He’s teasing you again, something he really, really likes to do. And though normally you enjoy him teasing you quite a bit, right now, you’re desperate. And so, you tug at his curls just a bit more stronger, trying to convey your desperate needs to him that way. 

At first, you think that he’s just going to continue teasing you, but then, suddenly, you feel his tongue licking over your slit, before delving between your folds. 

Your unconsciously tighten your grip on his hair, squirming, panting. 

It just feels so good, too good. Jace’s tongue continuing to delve between your folds, nearing that sweet spot that always has your vision go hazy, his thumb continuing to press against your bundle of nerves, his other hand still between your breasts, alternating between rolling your nipples between his fingers and roaming over your tender skin. 

You’re panting now, quivering and moaning, tugging at Jace’s dark curls with abandon. Dimly, you worry about tugging too hard, maybe even hurting him, but the quiet, satisfied noises that leave him tell you a different story. And so, you don’t loosen your grip, steadying yourself with your hands in his hair. 

Then his tongue reaches that sweet spot inside you that has your vision go hazy and you moan loudly. 

Two of his fingers enter you as well then, and he keeps finding that sweet spot repeatedly with his tongue, all the while circling his fingers and keeping pressure on your bundle of nerves with his tongue. 

You’re getting closer, you can feel it. The fire in your is building and building and building. One of your hands leaves his hair, blindly reaching for Jace’s free hands. He meets you halfway, lacing your fingers together and squeezing your hand. Steadying you. 

„Jace, oh gods, I-“, you moan, panting and quivering as Jace’s tongue and fingers continue to move in and out of you. His pace gets faster, the pressure a bit more intense and then, fire consumes you. 

You moan his name loudly, your back arching off the bed. 

An intense, dizzying wave of pleasure crashes over you, threatening to drown you. 

Jacaerys guides you along through it all, taking everything you give him - the desperate tug on his curls, the harsh squeeze of his hand, your legs pressing closer. 

He takes it, takes everything. Your pleasure is his, and his is yours. 

You burn, together. 

You squeeze your eyes shot, drowning in this intense pleasure, breath heavy and panting. 

After a few moments, your breathing has returned to normal, and you blindly reach for Jacaerys, drawing him up towards you. Your hands wind around his neck, and you draw him in for a kiss. It’s messy, a bit of your slick still connected to his lips and you can still taste yourself on his lips, but you don’t care. 

You try to convey everything you feel through your kiss, but it’s not enough and so you break away, still panting heavily. „I love you - gods, I love you so much.“

There’s that glow in Jace’s eyes again and you move one of your hands to cup his cheek. „I love you, Jacaerys Velaryon“, you say, before connecting your lips to his again. 

This kiss is slow and tender, and not rushed at all, instead full of emotion. 

When he breaks away, Jace rests his forehead against yours, his warm breath ghosting over your skin. „I love you, Princess.“ 

You smile, kissing him once again, before snuggling up next to him, resting your head on the crook of his shoulder. He reaches out one arm, splaying it over your stomach, drawing you closer. 

It only occurs to you then, lying so close to him. You look up at him. „What about you, Jace?“ 

He frowns slightly. „What?“ 

You feel yourself blushing. „Do you want me to-“

„No“, he quickly rushes to interrupt you. When he notices your confused expression, one of his hands finds yours, squeezing it. „It’s not that I don’t want to - I do, really, just … I wanted to make you feel good. And besides … I - I … I uh … I already finished …“ The last part is said so quietly that you almost don’t understand it. But then you notice his cheeks growing rather pink and you smile fondly, squeezing his hand. 

You leave a soft kiss on his shoulder, before sitting up, supporting your weight on your elbow. With your free hand, you reach for his face, tucking a stray curl back behind his ear, before leaning in to kiss him again. 

„I love you, Jace.“ 

He smiles, resting his forehead against yours. 

„I love you, Princess.“ 

Thank you so much for reading! <3 my requests for Jace are currently open 🤭

[navybrat817]

Hold You Tight: Part 1

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Series Masterlist | Part 2

Chapter Summary: You encounter an unexpected visitor in your home.

Chapter Word Count: Over 2.8k

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, breaking and entering, stalking, coercion, threats (not against reader), creepy and unhinged behavior, flashback, possessiveness, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: Welcome to the Turn It Up AU! Thanks to @starlightcrystalline for helping bringing this unhinged Bucky to life and @targaryenvampireslayer and @tavners for the support. Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You yawned as you flipped on the light switch in your apartment and set the keys on the table. It was early, but you were ready to settle in for the night after a busy shift. Maybe you could make a cup of tea and curl up with a book to unwind after dinner. Or maybe even a nice, hot bath and a glass of wine.

If only Addison could hear your thoughts now. She’d tease you for not living it up and enjoying the single life. Nothing new.

Your mouth fell open as you walked into the living room, but no sound came out as you skidded to a stop. Your heart nearly burst out of your chest and plummeted to your stomach at the same time as your phone fell from your hand. It was like you couldn't breathe. Because a man was sitting on your sofa.

And you lived alone.

“What…” you exhaled, no louder than a whisper.

The man didn't speak as he stared at you. He didn't even blink. The staring contest gave you a moment to take in his appearance. Intimidating even though he was sitting, his dark suit looked tailored to perfection on his broad frame. Dark brown hair framed his face and matched the stubble on his face, with the exception of a few gray hairs. The dangerous glint in his hard blue eyes did little to put you at ease, but there was something soft there as well.

In any other circumstance, you would've said he was handsome.

You bent down to pick up your phone before he let out a tsk, a subtle warning for you not to try anything. “Who are you? Why are you in my home?” You asked as you straightened up, hoping your tone didn't betray how terrified you were.

Nothing looked out of place. If he was there to rob you, there wasn't much worth taking. While you weren't struggling, you were far from rich.

He smirked and leaned back further into the cushion, his eyes roving over your body. You hadn't noticed right away, but the hand draped on the back of the sofa appeared to be metal. Or was it a glove? He didn't have to stand for you to know he was larger than you. If things got physical, you wouldn't stand a chance.

“Okay…” If he wasn't going to give you any sort of answer or clue as to who he was or why he was there, you’d just leave. You could go to a neighbor’s place or Addison’s to call the cops. But he didn't seem to like it when you took a step back since he pinned you with a glare and crooked his finger, beckoning you to go to him.

Your legs wobbled with the first step, but you righted yourself as you continued to move forward. If he noticed your misstep, he didn't acknowledge it. You swallowed, worried that bile would rise to your throat from how sick you felt when you stopped in front of him. That feeling only grew when he leaned in to grip your waist and roughly pulled you toward him.

A scream escaped this time around, but his hand clamped over your mouth to smother the sound. The cold fear that trickled down your spine would stick with you for days to come as he pulled you onto his lap and shook his head with another tsk. There was no mistaking the evident lust in his gaze as his eyes bore into yours.

What was he going to do to you?

You put your hands on his shoulders to push yourself away, but the hand on your hip held you tighter. You squirmed in his lap before you brushed against the outline of his cock, your body stiffening when he let out a low groan. With wide eyes, you decided moving wasn't a wise decision.

“Keep moving your hips if you want, but don't scream again,” he warned, his deep voice rumbling from his chest as you breathed through your nose. “There’s time for that later.”

Blood rushed to your ears as your heart pounded faster. You wished you could've stopped the tears from filling your eyes, but you weren't that strong. Was he going to hurt you? Kill you? If so, why?

The brunette cooed as a tear slid down your cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay? But I will gag you if I remove my hand and you scream again,” he promised, his tone lighter than a moment ago. “Blink once if you promise not to scream.”

You blinked, another tear falling from your eye.

A pleased look crossed his face when he removed his hand and you complied. “Good girl,” he whispered and you ignored the new kind of shiver that rolled down your spine. “I didn't mean to startle you, but I couldn't wait any longer to see you.”

You exhaled as he used his thumb to wipe the tears away, your body still stiff as you focused on trying to stay calm. Couldn't wait to see you? You had never seen this man before in your life. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name is Bucky Barnes. And don't worry. I already know your name.” He smirked as he rested his hand on your cheek. You managed not to flinch at his calloused touch. “Did you have fun at my club?”

Confusion flickered in your gaze. “What?”

“My club, The 107th. I own it. Did you have fun?” He asked again, looking at you expectantly.

The 107th was the most luxurious and expensive nightclub in the city. Chic and glamorous in design with a friendly staff who waited on people hand and foot, you felt like royalty as you hung out in the VIP section. The upscale venue wasn't one you frequented often. In fact, you had only been once.

For Addison’s bachelorette party.

“Y-Yeah,” you replied, still confused as to what he wanted. “It’s a nice club.”

He hummed, his thumb brushing across your trembling lip. “I’m glad to hear it, but you didn't seem to have as much ‘fun’ as your friends. Did you?”

You nursed your drink as you gazed out at the dancefloor from your seat. The place was packed, the strobe lights flashing over the crowd in various hues as they grinded to the beat. You adjusted the hem of your short black dress as you debated going out to dance. You decided against it since you weren't looking to hook up.

“Come on! Another shot!” Addison yelled, adjusting her tiara on her head. She was lucky the “bride to be” sash was still on straight. “Shot, shot, sh-sh-sh-shot!”

You giggled as she plopped down beside you. “I did a shot. I'm fine,” you hollered back.

Your best friend grumbled something you couldn't make out as she put her head on your shoulder. “But you aren't even driving.”

“I don't want to deal with a hangover tomorrow,” you argued, thanking the server as she brought another bottle.

“Ugh. If you won't drink, at least get laid,” Addison whined a little. “You're wearing a slutty black dress and everything.”

You looked around at the group. Addison was the only one in white since she was the bride. Everyone else wore black. They looked great, but you weren't dressed to get any sort of attention.

“Yeah! Get fucked!” Dana shouted.

“Is that encouragement or an insult?” You teased, glancing at the small blinking light in the corner of the VIP section. You didn't notice it before.

“Raise your hand if you think our girl should get laid!” Addison announced, raising her hand high and spilling some of her drink on the seat. “Whoops.”

The group raised their hands as you attempted to clean up the small mess. “I’m not hooking up with anyone tonight,” you said to their disappointment. “This night isn't about me and my love life.”

“Your love life? Babe, it doesn't exist!” Addison grabbed your left hand and held it up to stare at your bare ring finger. “I don't get it. You're the only one not engaged or married yet. And you're, like, the sweetest one in our group. And you're so pretty! It’s not fair that you don't have a man. You deserve one.”

“And sex!” Dana chimed in. “You deserve lots of sex!”

You gently pulled your hand away and pushed down the sadness that surfaced at the reminder that you were the only single one left of your friends. You didn't know why you hadn't met the right one yet. It wasn't like your standards were too high and you were a good, loyal partner. You wouldn't say you were supermodel gorgeous, but you were pretty. You knew how to have a good time.

Right?

Addison's lip wobbled when she saw the look on your face. “Hey, hey, hey. I’m sorry. I didn't mean anything by it,” she rambled, hugging you from the side. “I just want you to have what Brady and I have. I want someone to love you.”

Guilt crept in before you shook your head and flashed your best smile. You know she wasn't trying to make you feel bad and you didn't want to ruin her night. “And one day, I will. Someone will love me the way Brady loves you and I’ll love him, too,” you assured her, giving the other girls a shrug and wishing they'd stop with the pitying stares. “Shots?”

“Shots!”

Your eyes briefly went back to the blinking light before you put a small smile back on your face. Addison was having fun and that was what mattered. You could worry about yourself and your feelings tomorrow.

“I’m sorry, but did my friends and I do something wrong?” You asked, dodging his question. You booked and paid for the section well in advance. Your group danced around in the area, and behaved overall and kept to yourselves. The server got a nice tip at the end of the night.

So what was the matter?

“Not at all,” he said, tilting his head. “I’m just sorry I couldn't introduce myself to you that night.”

“I don't understand. You broke into my home just so you could introduce yourself to me?” You asked as he traced small circles on your hips, the motion making your head spin a little. “How do you even know where I live?”

He chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, before he got serious again. “I have my ways. And I can be a little intense and forward at times, but you’ll get used to it,” he said, your eyes wide again. What was wrong with this man?

“Okay, Bucky,” you said slowly, seeing something wicked flash in his eyes when you said his name. “Being intense and forward doesn't excuse breaking into my home. And since my friends and I didn't do anything wrong at your club and you formally introduced yourself, I think it's time for you to leave.”

A second passed before he shook his head. “No, doll. It’s time for you to get the love life and man you deserve.”

Fingers brushed your throat as you struggled to take your next breath. “What did you say?”

“I'm going to take you out to dinner tomorrow so you can get to know me and you’re going to wear the dress I bought for you,” he explained as if he didn't hear you, nodding toward the hall. “It’s waiting for you in your bedroom and, yes, it’s your size.”

How did this man have the nerve and how long had he been in your place? “You went into my room? You-”

“And I bought you that perfume you recently ran out of. I know how much you love it. I know everything about you,” he continued, running his nose along your neck as your blood ran cold. “Oh, we’re going to have so much fun together.”

You moved back, desperate to get away as your stomach twisted. He didn't let you get far, easily yanking you close again. How did he know anything about you? How did you catch his eye?

The blinking light in the corner of the VIP section …

“And if I say no?”

Bucky pulled back, his eyes calculating as he studied you. “I’m not going to force you into going out with me. It’s your choice to say yes or no, but I want you to think carefully about that choice.”

Dread pooled in your gut. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I obviously know where you live and I can get in and out undetected,” he pointed out. You wondered now if this was the first time he had been in your place. “I also know where your friend Addison and her fiancé, Brady, live.”

A wounded sound escaped at the thought of anything happening to your friends. “Please, leave them alone.”

“And the shop you work at, I know where it’s located. Those floral arrangements you make are stunning. Your boss even gave you a raise recently. You should be proud,” he smiled.

Your eyes watered again. The man was certifiably insane. Maybe this was a sick joke or a bad dream. Soon you'd wake up in your bed.

But the iron grip on your body reminded you that this was very real.

He waved a hand dismissively. “But we both know you’ll make the right choice because you're a good girl… a smart girl,” he said like he hadn't just threatened your friends or livelihood. “Just take the night to think it over. Have a glass of wine and draw yourself a nice bath while you do.”

He surprised you by moving you from his lap to the sofa. His hands and eyes lingered on you momentarily before he released you and stood up. Towering over you, he gave you a tender smile as he buttoned his jacket.

“I’m going to lock the door behind me when I leave and I’ll be back tomorrow at 7pm so you can give me your answer. And if you try and tell anyone I was here tonight, I’ll know about it,” he said, grasping your chin when you tried to look away. “It’s taking all of my control not to drag you to bed, but I can wait a little longer.”

Fear prickled the back of your neck as you tensed up. “You couldn't just ask me out like a normal person?”

You almost regretted asking when he narrowed his eyes, but he huffed out a laugh. “Where's the fun in that?” He winked as you shrank back in your seat. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I won't hurt you. And you know what? I just thought of something. You still need a plus one for the wedding. I’m free. I’ll get a suit to match your bridesmaids’ dress. We’ll look perfect together. And Addison will be so happy that you aren't going alone.”

His tone was light and happy like it was a suggestion and not an order, but the ferocity in his gaze had you trembling. “Why are you doing this?” You asked above a whisper.

“Because I want you and I get what I want,” he said as a matter of fact, releasing your chin. “Like I said, it's time for you to get the love you deserve. And I know you'll give it to me in return.”

It was like your spirit floated out of your body as he bent down to kiss your forehead. You couldn't move or speak. Was this what shock felt like? Or was it complete and utter fear?

You stared ahead as he picked up your phone and unlocked it with your passcode. He knew that, too? “Can’t leave without giving you my phone number,” he smiled, putting his information in before he set the device down. You didn't respond. Once he was gone you could scream and cry. But you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of breaking down in front of him. “I’ll be back tomorrow night, 7pm. Get some rest. You'll need it.”

Even as he left you alone and locked the door behind him as promised, you didn't move from your spot as tears streamed down your cheeks. You didn't dare go to your bedroom to see the gifts he left for you, your hand shaking as you wiped at your face. The scent of his cologne lingered, as did his touch. It was like his shadow covered you, leaving you cold and afraid. Your home was no longer safe.

You weren't safe.

With his subtle threat looming over your head, you’d have no choice but to go out with him. Maybe he’d get bored of you quickly and move on. Or maybe not. You had no way of knowing. All you knew was that your average life was upheaved by the owner of The 107th.

And you were going to be his girl whether you liked it or not.

Bucky isn't wasting time. Where is he taking you on your first date? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[vanderlesbian]

dating simon riley means constant clinginess. large arms wrapped around your waist at any given moment, simon is most comfortable when he's holding you. after being away from a long mission, he'll find you wherever you are in your shared apartment and silently crawl into your arms like a puppy. he'll bury his face into the crook of your neck, slowly inhaling to bask in your scent that he missed more than anything. with an amused chuckle, you'll wrap your arms around his warm torso, gently rubbing his back. "no hello?" you'll tease, to which you always earn a content hum in response, along with simon's hold tightening ever so slightly.

dating simon riley means lots of playful teasing. if you make a typo in a text message, he'll begin spelling the word as your typo for the rest of the day. if you believed in a silly fact, he'd bring it up for the rest of your life. "this is like when you thought our blood was actually blue" he'd snicker, which would cause you to whine for him to stop and swat his arm.

dating simon riley means constantly being cared for. simon is a man who can do everything, or at least tries to. he somehow manages to get to all the chores before you do, which has ended in you reassuring him that you can handle it many, many times. when doing something potentially dangerous like standing on a ladder, handling a knife or using tools, simon will constantly glance in your direction to make sure something won't slip and injure you. like a spidey sense, he's quick to pull you away or come to your rescue if you're in a situation where you're about to hurt yourself. "you alright?" he'll mumble softly, dark eyes laced with worry that is a rare sight to be seen by anyone else.

dating simon riley means you have a second wardrobe. his large clothes are just too comfortable to resist, and he's often left searching the apartment for a shirt that you had placed amongst your own clothes. though, he makes no effort to steal them back from you, as seeing you in his tshirt, his boxers and his hoodie fills him with a loving possessiveness. he'll walk into the kitchen to see you turned away as you wash dishes, wearing one of his shirts as a short dress. managing to silently sneak behind you even with his bulky frame, he'll wrap his arms around you from behind and place a kiss against the nape of your neck. "you look so pretty in my shirt, love." he'll then purr into your ear.

dating simon riley means seeing a side of him that many never do. whether it be physically or personality wise, you see so much of simon that you can't remember the last time you referred to him as ghost. his large pointy nose, his dirty blonde hair that he always forgets to fix in the mornings, and his lopsided smile that appears when you tell the corniest of jokes are all things that many have never seen and never will. he speaks so softly to you; a low tone that you can feel reverberating in his chest when you lay against him. simon is kind, patient and vulnerable with you, and will mutter the words "i love you" against your lips, just loud enough for only you to hear.

dating simon riley means being friends with the rest of the 141. you were the one who wished to host hangouts at your apartment, wanting those closest to simon to like you. despite their intimidating demeanors, you quickly realized just how kind they were. they know just how important you are to simon, which is a rare feat in itself, so they would never treat you in an ill manner. soap will always refer to you as "the missus" when speaking to simon, which never fails to make you giggle when you overhear their conversations.

masterlist

[lvlyghost]

Tainted Heart

PAIRINGS: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SUMMARY: After not seeing you for a few weeks, you come back to the base acting strange.

WORD COUNT: 1.9k

TW: sexual themes, smut but not too explicit. anxiety, self-doubt. worried!simon, poor baby thinks he's done something wrong💔comfort and fluff, mind the english!🐸

A/N: okay so yeah, i can't believe I finished this so fast. anyway enjoy!🥹✨🫶🏻💚gif's not mine' iloveyousimonriley!💗

Masterlist✨

You try to even your shaky breathing before opening the door of the meeting room. Taking more than usual to toughen up, the last thing you want is anyone asking if you were okay. Not even your teammates and especially not Simon. Hands trembling when you open and close them, a cold sweat that runs down your spine with the clear signs of anxiety that will soon start to bubble up if you don't get this over with soon.

Another moment passes when all you can hear is your own heart racing in your ears and the world spins for a second; pushing the door open you enter. Everyone's already there, sitting around the wooden table. Four pair of eyes find you, Soap and Gaz smile your way and John nods motioning for you to take your seat next to Ghost. But you can't bring yourself to do it. You need space. You need to be left alone to battle with your own mind. Instead you grab one of the chairs and set it far from them, sitting in the far corner.

Price's eyebrows furrow but doesn't comment on it, merely resuming what he was just telling the rest of the task force. Everyone's attention is back to the Captain except for Ghost. Ghost who's frowning so hard behind the mask at your refusal to join them. It sparks a sense of irritation and worry.

He knows he shouldn't be feeling that way. You are not even together, even if a few nights spent in each other's rooms had taken place, he considered himself something akin to a friend more than just your superior or a few hook ups here and there. Were you important to him? Absolutely yes. He needed to see your eyes, needed you to look his way so he can see through you as he usually does. Your beautiful eyes would tell him what he needed to know.

But you ignore him.

Glaring at Price without really looking. Lost in your head. You know you should be paying attention but it's all static to your ears, it's the sound of every pen writing down on a sheet. Of feet being dragged across the tile floor. Bodies shifting in their seats. Someone sipping on water.

One of the boys making a comment as your leg bounces up and down not being able to stop it. All the voices inside are muffled and you just want to get out of there so bad.

"Sergeant?" Price calls you, raising his voice and pulling yourself back from your stupor.

Eyes blinking rapidly as your attention turns to him and the room is deadly silent. Was that a hair pin dropping in the hallway?

"Yes Captain?" You ask, body numb and cold.

Price sighs.

"I asked if there's anything else you want to know about the mission? You're leaving in two weeks with Ghost."

"Oh." The answer is muttered so lowly they can barely hear your voice. You find the face of the Lieutenant for one second before looking away as if it had burned you. Simon's body goes stiff. "No."

Not convinced but not wanting to push for another answer he dismisses all of you. You're storming out of the room before he's fully done, leaving the four men taken aback by your strange demeanor.

It's not until you've reached the women's barracks that you stop. If anyone had followed you, you didn't notice too preoccupied and deep in that somber haze that's been clouding your mind since you got back from home.

Memories of everything that went wrong. And the memories of the man across the room.

-

A beautiful, warm feeling forms in your belly, big hands tightly hold your waist. His face hiding in the crook of your neck as your arms circle his broad shoulders holding onto him, sinking up and down on his lap. Sweet sounds of skin slapping against skin echo around the quiet night of his room. Simon mutters sweet nothings in your ear as you both chase your highs, coming undone at the same time he forces you took straight to his brown eyes and your heart flutters, overwhelmed at the way he takes in your presence and breathes the essence of you. Just you as a whole. He doesn't let you go until he's spilled everything inside you, massaging you over the soft fabric of your —his— shirt that neither bothered to take off, too enraptured to care.

"Hey, you with me?" giving a small squeeze to your hip Simon let's you touch his face and trace the scars that adorn the uneven parts of his skin. He notices the way your attention seems to drift away from where you are.

"Yeah. Was thinking about us."

His brows lift.

"What about us?" Inhaling deeply you shake your head lifting from your spot and walking on somewhat wobbly legs, Simon follows you to the bathroom wondering why you're acting so strange. "Sweetheart?"

"It's nothing, I promise." He watches as you clean yourself, he could've done it —he has every other time— but now with your sudden change he doesn't know what to think. "I have to go. My parents are waiting for me."

Clenching his jaw he decided to not pressure you on the matter. Ghost was aware that visiting your parents or talking about them struck a nerve within you.

"Want me to give you a ride?" You look at him through the mirror and shake your head in denial.

"I can take the bus."

"Love..."

"It's fine, Simon." You utter. "It's fine."

Turning around on your heels you walk past him, who stays anchored to the same spot outside the bathroom. He watches as you gather your belongings and begin to dress. Simon crosses his arms over his chest.

"Text me when you get home, please?"

A curt nod is all you give him.

-

You never texted him although he had tried to reach out to you in the next few days and you try not to think about everything that's happened as you strip naked and step in the shower. Warm water washing your body, forehead pressing on the cool tiles of the wall. Shoulders shaking, hands coming to your mouth trying to muffle your sobs.

The all too clear picture of your father telling you no one could ever love you. Your mother doing her best to console you when you had told her the truth.

"I- I think I love him mom." sad eyes fixated on the far wall. "And I don't know what to do."

She had taken your hand with a beautiful smile on her lips.

"Any man would be lucky to have you, darling."

Her words resounding in your ears, and your eyes glimmer with hope. Hope that maybe she's right.

But you had promised to never let it get that far. You'll lose him and that's what pains you the most.

Girl's snickering and walking in the shared showers can be heard from behind, you can't see them but the sound of their giggles fade away in an instant. Gone as soon as they came. Turning off the water pipes you wrap yourself with the white towel neatly hung on the bathroom rack and the moment you slide the curtain open you're met with brown eyes leaning against the opposite wall. He's been waiting, hearing you cry. Shooing away all the women who came with a single hard look their way. No doubt gossiping about the Lieutenant being in the women's section.

A long silence stretches between the two before he finally breaks it, pushing himself off the wall and slowly walking towards you, who holds the towel against your body in a vice-like grip.

"Haven't heard from you in days. Weeks." He starts, eyes following the droplets that travel down your body and back to your face. You've been crying. Simon hates seeing you cry and not being able to do anything about it. It makes him feel powerless, worthless. What do you call a man that can't even help his girl? "You've been ignoring me. May I ask what's going on?"

He's calm, controlled despite the rage within him. You never texted him back that day, never answered his calls leaving him worried and dwelling on the whole situation.

His own insecurities sparked the worst.

"Nothing, just personal stuff Lt." clearing your throat you try to walk past him but he grabs your arm.

"Bloody hell don't call me that. I'm asking as...-"

"As what?" You bite back, eyes snapping up at him as tears collect in your eyes. Simon grits his teeth he wants to say a lot but no words come out. "You shouldn't be here. People will talk."

"I'm not leaving until you speak. What's got you like this." You shake your head. "Fucking Christ I can't fix this if you don't tell me." He hisses.

"There's nothing to fix!"

"Just bloody talk to me, I'm losing my mind was it something I said?" He's not screaming but he's panting hard. "Was it something I did?!" He demands, big terrified, desperate orbs screaming for a sign.

"I fell in love with you!" You confess, eyes widening in horror at what you just said. Fervently shaking your head and walking back, away from him. Simon's eyes widen for a fraction before he's reaching out again hands cradling your face in them with a wild, desperate look. Your vision blurred thanks to the tears.

"Say it again." He pleads, his voice barely above a whisper. Like the sound of snow falling from the sky during the winter. You freeze in your spot, chewing on your lower lip.

"I fell in love." His body relaxed, all the tension he has been bearing on his shoulders for the past days slowly fades. "And we agreed we couldn't let this happen. Never. Forgive me Simon."

"Silly girl." He breathes in, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs. "You haven't been paying attention, have you?"

"What?" You mumble, one hand coming up to rest on one of his.

"You're in my mind even when you're not supposed to be."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I'm an idiot." His forehead connects with yours and you can finally breathe again. After the hellish days at home, the sense of being loved and protected by the man you love is enough to overwhelm you. "Thought I was losing you for a moment. Nearly lost my mind, love."

"No. Never." You promise, hugging him tightly against your body. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Simon I just... I just didn't know what to do."

"S'alright." He soothes you. "I've got you." Feeling like the luckiest man alive, even if he didn't deserve to be loved.

He remembers the moment when he had fallen for you, the day you smiled up at him under the starry night on the roof of the safe house, covered in blood and dirt.

He knew there would be no one else after you.

[delirious-donna]

The Temporary Assistant [Higuruma Hiromi]

an: I’ve been obsessed with the exhausted lawyer for some time now, but this is the first time I’ve written a fic for him… please be kind cause I baby.

pairing: Higuruma Hiromi x female reader

warnings: NSFW, pwp, established relationship, reader is assumed to be a little bit on the booby side, pseudo boss/subordinate dynamic, spit as lube (don’t do this folks), Higuruma is a breasts man, nipple play, little prep, cumshot

Masterlist

“She quit. What do you mean, she quit?”

Higuruma massaged his tired eyes in steady circles, huffing out a laugh at your exasperated questioning and the equally perplexed look on your face.

“Darling, I don’t know how else to phrase it other than the young lady no longer works for me,” he offered with fatigue lacing his tone. It was late, and he didn’t want to be having this conversation for the third time today. The first had been with his partner at the law firm they jointly owned, and the second with the agency supervisor his previously employed assistant worked for.

Nanami hadn’t been surprised at the news, a fact that bothered Hiromi more than he cared to admit. His partner was not one for pulling his punches, so Hiromi was accustomed to his sometimes blunt manner of speaking, but it still hurt to think that Kento had seen something coming that he had been blindsided by.

“I’m only surprised she lasted this long.” Those were his parting words as Hiromi stalked dejectedly back to his office at Nanami’s insistence that his assistant would be far too busy to spread her attention to them both. Not words he’d been happy to hear.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Higuruma. That’s not like her, but I’m afraid it’ll be at least two weeks until I can provide a replacement.” The agency supervisor sounded genuinely shocked at the sudden resignation, and his day simply went from bad to worse.

Hiromi flopped onto the couch, his head lolling back with his eyes sliding shut from the weight of his fatigue. It had been mounting all day, and now that he was home, where he should be finding solace in the comfort of his surroundings and his loving wife’s embrace, he was hit suddenly with a fresh reminder of the shit he’d landed in.

A soft hand caressed the side of his neck, inducing a shiver of relief. It was followed by the weight of your body settling over his spread thighs, your head resting against his shoulder. His suit jacket still hung from his lithe frame, the button undone and the shirt beneath badly wrinkled from the long commute home, but you didn’t care about his untidiness. 

He felt every quiet exhale fan his throat, the ghost of a smile finding its way to his face despite it all. Your nimble fingers burrowed into the knot of his tie, loosening it until you could pull it free and toss it away. “What are you going to do, Hiromi? I know you have that court date coming up… it’s a busy time. How about Nanami’s assistant?”

“Not an option. I already tried,” he muttered with a shrug. 

Opening his eyes, he peered down at you tucked into the crook of his neck, a hand inside the collar of his shirt and your nails grazing gentle patterns over his collarbone. He chewed his lip, fearful to broach the idea planted by his partner when his foot was almost out the door. “You could always ask your wife…”

Selfishly, he indulged himself in your affections, your scent that permeated every corner of the home you shared and let his fingers, stiff from the cold, warm against your feminine curves. You might not be so keen to indulge him once he suggested you work as his temporary assistant, so he would take what he could until push came to shove.

“Your fingers are icy, Hiro. Come here,” you chided with a click of the tongue, though he knew it was only born of concern for his health. Hiromi hummed happily, grateful when you pressed his palms together with yours on either side and blew hot air to dispel the chill.

“What would I do without you?” He whispered, sitting upright and nudging your nose with his when you glanced at him. Hiromi’s eyes drooped, heat dusted his cheeks at the proximity, and when you let out an airy giggle… he swore he swooned all over again. Just as he had when he first met you and fell in love.

He doubted he would be in the position he was today had it not been for you. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he would be here at all if he hadn’t met you when he did, but that was a story for another day.

You admired the side profile of your husband, eyes low and hazy with appreciation of his strong jaw and prominent nose that hooked just so at the end. “Good thing you’ll never have to know.”

Hiromi groaned aloud, burying his face between the soft skin of your décolleté. His cool lips skimmed the tops of your breasts, first on one side then turning to the other, making you shudder and hum. Your fingers threaded through his black hair, tugging firmly at the roots just how he liked, and his hips jerked in response.

A great fuck and a good night’s sleep would fix him, you were certain of it. It wouldn’t resolve his work issue, but Hiromi worked better with a clear mind, and you knew it was murky as bog water right now. Your man was a brilliant lawyer, dedicated to working towards a more just legal system for those normally underrepresented along with his partner, but he was a terrible workaholic.

You couldn’t count the nights he traipsed home from the office at an ungodly hour only to drag his tired body into his home office to continue where he left off. Only coming to bed when you physically dragged him away from his keyboard and desk with threats of pain and not the kind he typically enjoyed.

It couldn’t be easy to be his assistant, though you knew damn well that he was a good man. The poor girl probably had enough of the endless expectations and incessantly long hours which were necessary to get through all of his demands because he refused to finish at five like normal people. On the few occasions you’d stopped by his office, you could see the fraught expression written all over her young face and how her eyes pleaded with you to distract her boss enough so she could catch up with the mountain of requests waiting for her attention. Poor girl…

Ready to go to town on your poor overworked and stressed husband, you rocked your pelvis against the seam of his zipper, pushing his head further into your chest whilst his cock twitched and hardened beneath you. Hiromi practically purred, the sound muffled and vibrated right down into your soul. The possibilities were endless, and you were considering if you should slide to the floor and bathe his cock in your spit or ride him until all that wicked tension left his body when he suddenly paused.

His hands moved to your waist, the pressure firmer than expected and he gently slid you back along his knees so you were no longer planted over his poorly concealed erection. The flicker of guilt burnt in his whisky-smoked eyes, and it soured your smile. Hiromi shook his head and exhaled deeply, his eyes flitting away from yours.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered.

“You… can’t fuck your wife?” Your voice broke into a laugh that had nothing to do with amusement and everything to do with the bitter twist of uncertainty in your stomach. “Since when?”

“Don’t say that. I want to, but I need to ask you something first.” Hiromi cupped your face in his hands, leaning in to press what he hoped were reassuring kisses to your forehead, cheeks and lips. “Then you can decide if you still wanna… y’know.”

Your eyes narrowed, suspicion forming like a snake ready to strike, and your arms folded tightly across your chest. He swallowed nervously, struggling not to ogle your beautiful breasts that he would be fully buried in by now and likely suckling on had it not been for his damned conscience. 

“Spit it out, Higuruma.”

Oh, he was in trouble.

Hiromi cleared his throat and fixed you with a beseeching look. “Will you be my assistant?” He rushed on when you visibly bristled. “It’s only for two weeks until the agency can find me a replacement and, and… it was Kento’s idea!”

“Throwing Kento under the bus isn’t going to save your hide, Mr Higuruma!” You slid sideways onto the couch, ignoring the groan of disappointment from beside you. “You know very well I am in the midst of my PhD. How could you think it would be feasible for me to come work in your office as an errand girl for a fortnight?”

“Well… I have a plan,” he said, both pointer fingers coming together as he continued to give you the best impression of those adorable dogs with the droopy eyes.

When he didn’t elaborate immediately, your eyebrows rose and you nudged his knee with yours. 

“R-right. I know you’ve been writing your paper here at home. So, I thought that maybe I could also work from home. You could help me out and continue your work in between the things I need.”

Dammit, that wasn’t quite the terrible idea you had initially anticipated. You eyed your husband from head to toe, and he desperately tugged at your folded arms until he could take your hands into his. He kissed across your knuckles, nuzzling his cheek, rough from a faint five o’clock shadow, into the back of your hands.

“Hiromi…” you warned, but he was almost too overjoyed to hear his given name once more to heed the warning in your voice.

“Two weeks. That’s all. And I promise not to ask for too much, only the absolute necessities that I can’t manage myself. Please?”

How could you deny him when he asked so sweetly and especially when you knew just how under the cosh he was with his upcoming trial? It would only interfere with your deadlines if he didn’t uphold his promises, but you chose to believe that he would. After all, Hiromi was rather keen on keeping his balls attached to his body.

“Fine, but you owe me.”

~

The first week went by without incident. It was an adjustment, to say the least, but once you found your feet and Hiromi got used to not having to leave at the arse crack of dawn, it was rather lovely to see more of your handsome husband.

Being able to sit down at the small kitchen table to eat lunch together was a daily treat, and it filled you with triumph when he would eagerly seek you out in the kitchen with his nose sniffing out whatever delicious treat you had prepared that day. Ensuring Hiromi ate during the working day was, more often than not, a struggle, with several text messages bouncing back and forth until he acquiesced–but not now.

Maybe it was the lure of stolen kisses or the giggles shared when you called him Mr Higuruma, breathlessly pressing your body into his and squealing playfully when he pawed at your backside in turn.

You’d be lying if you weren’t enjoying the pseudo roleplay of boss and subordinate. Playing pretend with a power balance that didn’t translate to your relationship outside this current scenario. There was no top or bottom, no dominant or submissive, just two people enraptured by each other. Sometimes you led, and other times he did. Your marriage was well-balanced, and you loved that about Hiromi. He wasn’t threatened by a woman that initiated, in fact, he loved it—loved you. So this new experience, where he was large and in charge at all times, was certainly thrilling, but not everything was smooth sailing. 

Hiromi was demanding, to say the least. When he was engrossed in a specific piece of work, he had a way of speaking that made you want to smack him round the head with one of his many manila folders, preferably one of the thicker ones.

No wonder his assistant had quit if he regularly spoke to her in the clipped manner you had heard on more than several occasions now. Only your intimate knowledge of the man kept your tongue in your head and your hand away from the folders. Niceties were time-consuming when he was against the clock. He didn’t mean to be cold, and you told yourself this over and over, but it still hurt, just a little.

Higuruma could get used to this. 

He idly wondered how he would feasibly make the transition back to office working once this temporary fix came to an end. He didn’t miss his morning commutes, the packed trains that felt like being crammed into sardine tins, nor the chill of the office before the heating had a chance to warm the rooms sufficiently. 

It was a treat to be able to roll out of bed and right into his desk chair. If he wanted to start at 6am, he could, though you would chastise him thoroughly if he dared to. He knew you liked your morning snuggles, and so did he. Waking slowly to your soft snores which he liked to call purrs, and soaking in the smell of your sleep-soaked skin whilst his hands roamed every inch of your softness he could reach. It made it easier to escape the clutches of sleep, knowing you were waiting for him.

However, the star attraction of the current situation was you. Never had he cast an appreciative eye over one of his assistants, not even before he met you, but you were his wife, and he couldn’t help but gawk at his sheer dumb luck. There was something altogether forbidden about the fantasies in his head which, of course, made them all the more alluring.

The first few days at home he had stayed in comfortable clothing, favouring the sweats he’d wear around the house on the weekends and his old college sweater, but quickly, he realised that this didn’t work for him. He needed the structure of his routine even if he wasn’t venturing past his front door, so the suits returned—starched collars and a black tie at his throat. As if to match his energy, you started to dress formally too, and what a treat that was.

Pencil skirts that he didn’t think he’d ever seen, blouses that nipped in your waist, pinafore dresses that swished around your thighs and most decadent of all–lace-topped stockings. 

You were driving him to distraction, and the worst of it was that he was certain you didn’t realise. It made him sound shorter than he liked, his words coming out clipped, and his pleasantries sounded cursory rather than heartfelt. You were doing your best to accommodate his needs whilst still working on your paper, and here he was, wishing to bend you over his desk to run his nose and mouth over your squidgy thighs, the meat of your backside and the seat of your underwear until it soaked through with his saliva.

By the time the second week rolled around, Higuruma was a volcano, ready and raring to erupt at the slightest breeze or incident. The lunchtime kisses were no longer satiating his desires, nor were the evenings spent worshipping at the altar of your puffy, spit-covered pussy. It wasn’t enough to scratch this very specific itch.

“I’ve made the copies you asked for, Hiromi. I’ve also updated your calendar with the pre-agenda meeting that came through from the opposing side. Was there anything else for now?”

Hiromi audibly moaned when your wrist grazed his fingers, setting down the documents in question and lingering by his side, waiting for an answer. He tugged sharply at the knot of his tie, feeling choked for air—starved of logic. 

As he glanced up at you, he paused. Your bottom lip was held fast between your teeth, eyes positively alight with playful mischief. So maybe you were more aware of the thick-as-sticky treacle tension than he gave you credit for. He fixed the cuffs of his shirt in an attempt to mask the shake of his hands, setting his pen down before leaning back in his chair. It creaked in protest, and you raised a hand to stifle a laugh. 

“Actually, there is something else, and it cannot be put off a moment longer,” he drawled with a tone that suggested he was going to dictate a letter or something equally menial. 

You were not expecting him to spin his chair towards you and yank you down by the arm into his lap. The shriek that left you was genuine, only silenced towards the end by the firm melding of warm, insistent lips. His hands were everywhere and all at once; squeezing the tops of your arms, ripping at the buttons that hid your cleavage from him and skimming beneath the tight hold of your skirt until it rucked around your hips.

There was such urgency to his movements that you struggled to catch up, but finally, you broke apart from his mouth, saliva strands webbing and breaking apart as your tongue passed through them and across your swollen lips. “Mr Higuruma! What would your wife say?” 

It was meant as a spicy joke, a nod to the little games that had been at play and the dynamic the two of you had fallen into, but you sensed immediately that it didn’t go over well. He stopped fumbling with the buttons of your blouse, half of them free from their holes and the lace of your bra now prominently on show, breasts firmly squeezed together given the constraints of the material.

“I-I would… never. I mean…” You watched the desire in his eyes shift to panic, and you shushed him with a finger over his lips. Your heart ricocheted in your chest at the sincerity, and if you believed you couldn’t love him any more than you already did, it proved untrue when you witnessed the devotion that shone in those whisky-coloured eyes.

“I know. It’s okay,” you murmured, closing the distance and trailing your lips over his jaw and up to his ear. “I like it… keep going, please?”

Oh gods, how could he have ever deserved a woman like you in his life? Hiromi whimpered, his eyebrows pinched together, and he felt that final strand of restraint snap clean in two. His lip trembled for a second before he was on you again. Hungry kisses pathed down your throat, a hand at the back of your head to keep you close and manoeuvre you exactly as he wanted.

You scrabbled at his tie, pulling it free with a whip crack until you could toss it behind you and return your focus to his shirt so you could scratch at his chest and leave red welts across his skin.

“No.” The frantic lawyer shook his head, pressing his fingertips over the fresh mark he’d sucked into your neck simply to watch you whine from the pressure of the blooming bruise. “Belt, now.”

Jumping at the ragged command that rasped from Hiromi’s throat, you complied without teasing or complaint. Working the tail of his leather belt through the buckle and sighed at the clatter of the metal when it rattled free to join his tie somewhere unseen in the room.

“Fuck… take it out, please.”

He didn’t wait for you to say anything, nor did he wait for you to pop his top button or lower his zip. He was too focused on freeing your bountiful tits and taking them into his mouth. Your eyes raised to the heavens when his hot needy tongue licked around your nipple, the lace cups shoved down to push your breast up and into his face. 

For long moments, you only watched as he laved you with his spit, lips drawn around your pert buds to elicit that deep-seated squirm of pleasure that echoed between your thighs. Hiromi lifted his gaze to your face, making sure you watched as he sandwiched your breast together with his broad palms so he could suckle both nipples at once. Your jaw slackened, your stomach sucked in, and your hips undulated atop his thighs.

It invigorated the tightness of your hold on his cock, drawing it out of his briefs followed by his heavy balls to stroke him hard and fast. He could take it, you knew that, his purpled cockhead sticky from precum that painted your fingers and palm. You paused with his foreskin pulled back, fingers ringing his base to use your other hand to tickle the seam of his balls. He jerked up with a muffled grunt, a resounding pop echoing in the study when his lips pulled free of your breasts.

“Need you, Sir. Please, want this,” you paused to squeeze his shaft in emphasis, “Inside me.”

“Little fucking temptress, you know that? Should’ve bent you over this desk days ago…” He growled against your collarbone, marking it with his teeth.

Higuruma stood abruptly. You squealed and anchored an arm around his neck, refusing to give up your possessive grab of his throbbing dick. He turned and shoved the back of his chair flush against the edge of his desk to stabilise it before dropping you into the leather seat and folding your legs back to your chest. 

His rough fingers pinched into the fat of your thighs, fiddling with the sticky bands of your lace stockings and damn near ripped them. You would have complained had it not been for the raw emotions written all over Hiromi’s face, his eyes fixed on the seat of your underwear and the obvious stain that was caused by his ministrations.

Bending his knees to drop closer to you, he savoured your mouth with his tongue pushing past the seam of your lips to curl over your teeth. He filled his hands with the fat of your ass, pulling the cheeks apart and massaging the roundness with little gentleness. It was all you could do to moan, the sounds swallowed greedily only to be replaced by a pleading keen when he tugged your underwear away from your cunt. The fabric bunched around your knees, and you assumed he’d move back to remove them fully, but he didn’t. Instead, he twisted the material until it was tight around the bend of your knees, pinning you in place. 

His long slender fingers stroked your pretty slit, coming away with remnants of your arousal and using it to mix with his precum that continued to weep onto your hand. Hiromi’s head sagged forward, black hair falling into his eyes as a long string of saliva fell from what he’d gathered behind his teeth to your sensitive clit. He smeared it around the bundle of nerves, scissoring his fingers until he could tug it feverishly.

“Hiro… fuck me already. Goddammit, I’m gonna blow,” you whined, painfully aware that you were dangling by a thread.

You helped him lead his cock to your entrance, tapping it against your folds to see the tendons in his neck strain and giving you some semblance of smug satisfaction. When he finally notched where you needed him most, your breathing was coming so rapidly you faintly worried you might pass out from this. The air was so thick you struggled to inhale, drowning in this faux forbidden tryst.

He groaned, long and low. His nose nudged into your warm cheek as he bent even lower and pushed into your velvet heat. “That’s it. This pretty pussy is sucking me in—fuck—oh, you like that?” He teased, his hips drawing back only to plunge in again, and deeper this time when he felt you clench around him.

You gripped his forearms, head lolling against the headrest when his cock reached your depths, and the coarse midnight patch of hairs at his pelvis rubbed delicious friction into your pert little pearl. 

“Mhm… mhm. Keep going. Don’t stop.”

Higuruma could have laughed at the absurdity of your words. What made you think he could stop even if he wanted to? You were hugging him too perfectly, pulling him back in each time he withdrew his hips. The rhythmic pap of his full-to-bursting balls against the split of your ass rocketed him closer and closer to the finish point, enough so that he fisted the base of his dick to stave off his looming orgasm. He wasn’t ready for this to end, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop either.

The tails of his shirt escaped his trousers and obscured the view of his cock disappearing into your warm cunt, and he growled in frustration. You were so close to the precipice of your orgasm that you didn’t realise why he was growling, only moaning at the primal noise and clenching down hard enough that Hiromi’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

Releasing his hold on your thighs, he grinned wolfishly at the imprints of his fingertips on the backs of your legs. With his heart pounding rapidly, he ripped his shirt up his torso and gripped the material between his teeth. His cock sawed in and out at a pace that was losing its rhythm at an alarming rate. 

He’d never looked like this before, crazed with desire and burning heat covering the apples of his cheeks. The whisky smoke in his eyes was barely visible due to how blown out his pupils were, and you lifted a hand to caress his cheek. His eyes cut to you, hips rotating whilst buried against your cervix, and with a sharp nod, he asked you to cum for him. His thumb sought out your clit, working it from side to side whilst his balls drew painfully tight and the first lick of molten heat dripped at the base of his spine.

Your eyes rolled over, limbs going lax and pliant pinned between the chair and his body. Your toes curled within your stockings, thighs trembling and butterflying open onto the arms of the chair. Hiromi rode out your high, slowing himself just so, but he couldn’t hold back for too long.

With a willpower that shocked him, he pulled out at the last moment and pumped himself until thick viscous spurts of cum shot across your exposed breasts and stained the blouse covering your stomach. He convulsed so intensely his knees nearly buckled, long drawn-out whimpers ripping from his throat, and you watched it all through hooded, blissed-out eyes. 

Hiromi sagged forward, his forehead pressed against yours as he fought to catch his breath. His cock twitched as it softened, the sensation worsened by your toying little fingers exploring his sensitive skin and rubbing the mixture of his and your arousal into his pelvis and across his balls. He didn’t know what to say. The fantasy lived out was so much more than his imagination could conjure, but he still felt a little vulnerable now it was over.

He unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth and licked over his parched lips. Words caught in his throat, but they were cut off by the trill of his phone on the desk as it vibrated across the wood. You handed it to him with a shy smile, and he answered it after smoothing back his hair.

“Mr Higuruma?”

“S-speaking,” he answered, clearing his throat urgently.

“I’m calling from Clerical Angels. Unfortunately, I have bad news. It is going to be another week before a new assistant can start. I’m sorry for the delay, I know it must be an inconvenience…”

Your eyes widened at the conversation you could hear as clear as day, meeting his steady gaze with cheeks that burned with a combination of mild embarrassment and intrigue. One more week.

“Not at all. I think I can cope, my wife is happy to bend over backwards for me.”

Oh, Hiromi would pay for that comment… but not for at least another week.

[rebelliousstories]

Can I request suggestive headcanons for Remy, Logan, Wade, and poly Logan & Wade reacting to his shy gn s/o immediately covering their eyes while apologising profusely because they accidentally saw him half-naked because he was changing clothes please?

Walking in on Their S/O Changing…

Fandom: X-Men

Request: Yes by Anon

Warnings: Suggestive themes, Brief Strong Language, Fluff

Word Count: 1,043

Main Masterlist: Here

X-Men Masterlist: Here

Logan Howlett/ The Wolverine

* Okay, so keep in mind that this man has been alive for more than 200 years. He’s seen a lot. He’s done a lot. There is not much else that can surprise him in terms of learning new things

* However… You can still surprise him

* I completely see him as a man that would just casually steamroll past the fact that you were only in your undergarments. He’s not phased, nor does he care.

* Logan will definitely take the time to ogle if he gets the chance, but he’s aware there is a time and place for that.

* “Hey, we were out of beer so I took the truck to go get some… oh shit.” And with that, he was speechless. Logan’s eyes would trail up and down your figure, even though part of it was obscured by the tshirt that was pressed against your body

* Silently, he would stalk closer and closer to you, never once taking his eyes off of you. His hands would gently pull the shirt away so he could get a better look. Feather light touches would cascade themselves down your arms, and chest; all the while his eyes would drink it up

* Picking you up, he walked over to the bed while holding you and pressing his nose into the crook of your neck

* “What about the beer?”

* “Forget the beer.”

Wade Wilson/Deadpool

* Oh, the beloved merc with the mouth. How do I say this gently? He will both make you love and hate him walking on you. It all started because he had gotten you a new suit that he wanted you to wear.

* Wade had begged and begged you to wear it, but there was no appropriate timing to do so. It had gotten to the point that he had accepted that you weren’t going to wear it. But when you finally had been worn down enough, he got super giddy at the prospect of you wearing it. But you had taken too long in his mind which prompted him to take matters into his own hands.

* “What’s taking you so long, angel cakes? Oh, hello.”

* “Wade! Get out!”

* Throwing things does not deter this man, oh no, my friend. For when he gets a glimpse of you, half undressed with the suit on the bed, he’s gonna need his special sock. Wade is frozen in a state of bliss and was unable to move himself. Not until you forcibly pushed him out, and shut the door on him. When you had finally put the suit on and came out to show him, he was still unable to form complete sentences or even words at you.

* Safe to say, you had finally silenced “the mouth”

Remy LeBeau/Gambit

* Ah, Le Diable Blanc. See, I know, you want me to come on here and talk about how big of a flirt Remy is. But no! That boy is a southerner, and southern men are raised to be gentlemen. I truly, in my heart of hearts believe, that if Remy caught you changing, he would blush and book it out of there.

* Hear me out! Just, imagine it, okay…

* It’s late and Remy hasn’t come home from his night out playing cards. The hour was nearing one in the morning, when you finally decide to call it a night, but you’re unable to fall asleep quite yet. Fearing that you’ll have to spend another night watching horrible late night reruns in the motel, you began changing into one of his tshirts to sleep in when you heard the door open. Struggling to get the shirt over your head to have some sort of coverage, you weren’t quite fast enough.

* “Ooh, I tell you cher, it was a goo- oh lord have mercy.”

* And like that, the door was shut again. Maybe you let out a squeak, maybe a gasp. But either way, your ragin’ Cajun was outside the room, breathing heavily and holding it shut. After a few minutes, he pressed his ear to the door to hear inside.

* “Cher, you dressed yet?”

* “Yeah. You can come in.”

* When he does, you’re already under the covers with the remote to the tv next to you, looking at the door. Gambit just grabbed his change of clothes that didn’t smell like sweat, alcohol, and smoke, and went to change in the bathroom. When he came out, he assumed his place with you in bed. On his back with you tucked into his side.

* Although, the only mention he ever gave, was a whisper of, “You look real pretty under all that, cher. Like an angel sent straight to save ol’ Gambit.”

Poly! Wolverine and Deadpool

* Prepare for trouble and make it double! Two lovers with a regenerative healing factor that makes snarky comments? Sign me up!

* This is definitely happening after a morning food run. You’re living with them, and Mary Puppins, and Blind Al, and Wade decided that today was the day for donuts and good coffee. Logan was thoughtful enough to leave a note on his side of the bed stating where they were going and that they would be back.

* This left you and the dog to get ready for the day by yourselves. After a lengthy shower that you didn’t have to share, you had made your way into the room to get some fashion advice from the sweet little pupper.

* “Okay girl. Do we go with the yellow dress, or the red dress today?”

* There was a noise, and two men bumbled into the room.

* “Avert your eyes, sweet summer child. But you should just forgo the dress. And the under garments while you’re at it.”

* “Can you go five minutes without something becoming sexual?”

* Wade gave an mhm while shaking his head, and turned back to his partner. Logan had to do a double take at your state, but there was appreciation in his eyes.

* “Can you two give us girls some privacy?”

* Logan had to drag his counter part out of there even though he managed to break free from the mutant’s hold on a number of occasions. As he left, the Wolverine sent an affirmative grunt and nod towards the red dress in your hands.

[mellowswriting]

new perspective

pairing || Din Djarin x f!Reader

word count || 2.8k

summary || teaching the infamous Mandalorian to slow down and enjoy life isn't easy. it takes planning, patience - and silken sheets apparently.

content || SMUT, domesticity, simple pleasures, shower sex, sensual massages (i'm incorrigible), p in v sex, cowgirl position 🤠, slow sweet sex, post-orgasm planning for the future (this is din, after all)

a/n || i know, i know. i can hear it all now. "mel, where the fuck have you been???" celebrating my graduation and then immediately devolving into an existential crisis. but that's okay! not only have i figured out my direction in life, but i've returned with everyone's favorite topic: simping for Din Djarin.

Din Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Library Blog

Din Djarin is not a man who knows how to take his time. He’s a workhorse, constantly on the go from one job to the next. He simply never learned the skill of savoring the little things in life. A good meal, a hot shower, a full night’s rest, leisure time. All of those things are simply a stranger to him. Any pleasure he takes, usually at his own hand, is perfunctory at best, a release of tension for its own sake.

Until you.

It starts simple - a set of silken sheets that you bring onto the Crest. Din returns to find you sprawled out on the small bed you share with a sleepy smile that makes his chest feel funny. Your fingers fan out against the soft material.

“Come feel.” You murmur. He doesn’t hesitate to tug off the thick leather gloves and brush the fabric with the back of his fingers. You watch as his shoulders soften, his head tilting as he takes in the foreign feeling. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” He says contemplatively. “It’s soft.”

Your smile widens and you shift over, making room for your lover. “Join me?”

“In a bit,” Din promises. The chill of his beskar soaks into your skin as he presses his forehead to yours. His warm palm cups your cheek and he holds you there for a breath before pulling away. “I have some more work to do.”

It isn’t hard to convince him to strip down when he joins you later that night. He’s exhausted, body aching from a long day’s work. He lets you strip away his armor and flight suit until he’s left in his briefs. You’re used to him falling asleep the moment he collapses into bed - but tonight is different. His eyebrows raise in surprise when he relaxes back into the pillows, his fingers rubbing circles against new sheets. Din is a man of few words but it’s obvious how much he likes the new addition to the bedroom.

“Come here,” He whispers, beckoning you to join him. The tension melts from his body as you curl up against his side. He tilts your chin up and kisses you softly, a wordless offer of his thanks that you eagerly accept. Surrounded by the cool sheets and the woman he loves, he falls asleep within minutes. That morning, Din lingers in bed for those first drowsy moments after waking. He wakes you with a few gentle caresses of his hands over your shoulder and arm and a murmur of your name. He looks more rested than usual.

You make sure to buy matching pillowcases the next time you’re out.

With every passing day, Din learns how to slow down and savor the morning. It doesn’t take much to keep him in bed with you a little longer each morning - a few soft touches and sweet kisses, and Din sinks right back into your arms. He rubs his face into the crook of your neck and drifts in and out of sleep, practically purring with every brush of your fingers through his hair. His voice, so deep and rough first thing in the morning, rumbles low in his chest as he murmurs his love into your skin. It’s simple, this early morning peace the two of you share. So simple, but so important.

You slip into the shower with him one random evening. You can’t help it. He’s been gone for two days straight on a bounty hunt and you’ve missed him. His eyes light up with interest as they trail over your naked body, his hands finding your waist and tugging you against him. A shiver of desire arcs up your spine - but you didn’t come here to get fucked silly in the shower. Well, not yet at least. You loop your arms around his shoulders and press up on your toes to kiss him properly. Din groans against your lips, already moving to press you against the shower wall. A gentle tug on his hair is enough to stop him in his tracks.

“Can I wash your hair?” You ask, looking up at him like the picture of innocence.

Din blinks at you, confused. “You want to… wash my hair?”

“Yeah,” You say softly.

There’s no need to over-explain. The two of you have mastered this silent communication over the months you have spent together. He searches your face for a moment before his expression softens, implicit permission given in the way his eyes shine for you. You gently lather shampoo into his thick curls and let your nails drag along his scalp in the way he loves. His eyelashes flutter under your touch but his eyes don’t close. He’s too intent on watching you. The grip he has on your hips tightens as you work, little groans falling from his lips at the simple pleasure of your hands on his body.

He lets you maneuver him and tilt his head back into the water without a hint of resistance. For a man so used to keeping everyone at arm's length, the trust he holds for you is plain as day. His cock twitches against your belly as your fingers meticulously work the suds from his hair. The barest hint of your skin against his is enough to get him riled up, but this…? The press of your slick, bare body pressed against his? His body language begs for more. He leans into the press of your fingers and cants his hips forward, slowly grinding against you with stuttered breaths.

The moment the water runs clear, Din lifts you by your thighs and presses you against the cold shower wall. You can’t help but admire the bulge of his biceps as he leverages you up and nudges your entrance with the head of his cock, searching your face for permission. The hungry kiss you drag him into is all the permission he needs. A new rush of adrenaline seizes his body as he sinks into you. He fucks you hard and fast, pace faltering at the pure heaven of your body. He wedges his hand between your bodies and rubs insistent circles against your clit. He just knows your body too well - within minutes, those frantic bursts of pleasure built into a powerful orgasm that leaves you trembling and weak in his arms.

Din buries his face in the crook of your neck as he spills inside of you just seconds later. Every moan and panted breath echoes through the small shower. You shiver at the feeling of his lips pressed against your neck. He always knows just where to kiss and touch to leave you like putty in his hands. He goes willingly when you guide him in for a real kiss, lazy and slow as the water streams against you. Careful not to let you slip, he lowers you onto your feet and maneuvers you until the water pounds against your back.

You should have expected him to return the favor. Din doesn’t take no for an answer.

“It’s your turn.” He murmurs, too adamant and stubborn to be swayed. You’ve always loved that about him, even when it gives you grief.

You melt into his chest as he works product into your hair, his fingers massaging at your scalp in a way you didn’t even know you needed. Little sounds of satisfaction fall from your lips with every touch. Sometimes you forget just how big his hands are. He palms the back of your head and draws you close enough that your noses brush, but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. He just watches you for a moment as he thoroughly washes your hair. He takes in the way you look up at him with an expression so full of love that he aches.

“I love you,” His voice is so low that it almost gets lost in the thrum of water, but you hear it. He can tell by the way your eyes light up, by the soft smile that curls your lips.

“I love you, too.” You whisper back. Din kisses you softly before tilting your head back and rinsing the suds from your hair.

Slowly but surely, you introduce Din to a life he never realized was possible. He learns how to revel in the attention and care you give him. He learns how to give it in return. His thoughts always return to you when he’s on a bounty, knowing he has to return to his little love waiting for him at his ship. Every now and then, he finds something to bring back to you - a little trinket, some sweets, a new book. You always look at him as if he’s placed the entire universe in the palm of your hands. Fuck, he would do it, too. Anything to see you so happy.

Din returns from a week-long bounty exhausted, sore, and with a little gift in hand. It’s just a new robe, something soft and airy for you to wear on those long nights in hyperspace. You gasp softly when he hands it to you, your fingers exploring the silky fabric as if it’s precious - and to you, it is. Not because it’s some rare or expensive treasure. Just because it comes from him.

Allowing you to remove his armor is as easy as breathing. He eagerly accepts every touch and kiss you give him, more than happy to let you do as you please. You set every piece of armor aside with care and neatly fold his flight suit. It doesn’t take any convincing to get him into the shower with you. The burning heat of the water soothes some of the aches that linger in his muscles. A dull throb still follows his every move but he powers through, not wanting to spoil such a pleasant evening with his lover.

He never really learned that he can’t hide anything from you.

“What’s wrong?” You ask as he eases himself onto the edge of the bed.

“Just sore,” He concedes, slowly rolling his shoulders in a vain effort to ease the tension. Your eyebrows furrow as you look him over with a keen eye. All you wear is that scrutinizing expression and the pretty robe he got you, and he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful. He sighs and reaches for your hand. “Come on, let’s just get some sleep.”

“You can’t sleep if you’re this uncomfortable.” You squeeze his shoulder, frowning when you feel how tight his muscles are. “Let me help.”

Din meets your gaze, your eyes so earnest that he doesn’t even think to deny you. He lets you maneuver him as you please until he’s laid out on his belly with you straddling his hips. A low groan rumbles through his chest when your hands bear down on his shoulders. Every pass of your fingers brings a strange combination of pleasure and pain that leaves him melting into the bed.

Even after all these months, he just isn’t used to the feeling of your skin against his. A simple passing touch is enough to have him shivering, but this? It’s overwhelming, all-consuming in the best possible way. It doesn’t take long for that pain to melt away into pure pleasure. Breathless, needy sounds follow every pass of your fingers. He can't help but rock his hips, grinding his cock into the silken sheets.

By the time you've finished working your thumbs into his lower back, you've reduced the Mandalorian beneath you into a desperate, hungry mess. He goes without hesitation when you urge him onto his back. His hands immediately find your hips and he grinds up into the heat of your cunt. The only thing that stops him from flipping you over and fucking you into the sheets is the gentle hand you place on his chest.

“Let me.” You whisper. Your voice carries a soft thrum of need that leaves him aching. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers tighten at your hips at the mere brush of your fingers against his cock. That grip becomes bruising as you slowly sink onto him. Pleasure curls through his belly at the feeling of your cunt fluttering around him, so hot and slick and perfect - it would be so easy to lose his mind in the rapture of your body. It isn’t easy to keep his eyes open under the onslaught of pleasure, but it’s well worth it. He’s rewarded with the sight of your jaw falling slack and a shiver wracking your body. The stretch, the angle - it’s all new to you. You aren’t used to taking him this way. He isn’t used to letting you.

You sigh a breathy, pleased little sound that makes his heart skip a beat or two. Fuck, you might just be the death of him one of these days. It’s a demise he welcomes if it means meeting his end at your hands. That first roll of your hips has his head tipping back into the pile of fluffy pillows, yet another addition of comfort you’ve brought to this bed. You can’t take your eyes off him - the flex of his biceps, the clench of his jaw, the sheen of sweat that glistens on his tan skin. A delicious vision of the man you’ve come to love so dearly. You lean down and press a kiss to his chest, his collarbone, to that sweet spot where his pulse thrums in his neck.

Your fingers comb through his curls, bringing his pleasure-clouded gaze back to your own. His lips part as you set a slow, steady pace. Every rise and fall of your hips makes his eyelashes flutter but he doesn’t look away. He’s too entranced by this, by the pure newness of it all. Heat pulses and courses through your belly with every grind of your clit against him, grows stronger with every needy sound you pull from him. His chin tips up, an obvious plea, and you kiss him. Soft and slow, full of tongue and teeth.

Din doesn’t think he’s ever experienced anything quite as overwhelming as this. He isn’t a stranger to the feeling of your body or the love you somehow hold for him, but this is all new. Every slow rock of your hips sends honeyed pleasure slinking down his spine. There’s no need to rush. He can take his time and truly feel you, revel in the plushness of your thighs and the wet heat of your cunt. For the first time, he lets himself explore your body unhurried. His hands drift up and palm your breasts, his fingers rolling your nipple with a gentle touch. Your head tips back as you hum a pleased little sound.

Din can’t help but press his hips up, rising every time yours fall. He doesn’t take control, doesn’t try to set a faster pace. He just moves with you as fluid as rushing water. His hands shift to cup your ass, his fingers digging in and spreading you out for him. Desire clouds your gaze as he grinds his hips at that perfect angle that makes you see stars. You’re so close - he can feel it in the telltale rhythmic pulse of your cunt, in the way your thighs tremble. Slick drips in little rivulets down his thighs.

“Perfect, so perfect,” He rambles between rushed breaths. “My sweet girl, all mine.”

“Yours,” You promise. “I’m yours.”

All it takes is one perfect rock of his hips to have you falling apart for him. That tension finally bursts through your belly, your cunt tightening around him with every aching wave of pleasure. You lose all sense, all ability to keep your pace, but Din is quick to take over. His grip on your waist tightens as he pulls you down, spilling himself as deep as your body can take him. You let yourself melt into his chest, a wave of pleasure shuddering through you with every twitch of his spent cock.

Din locks his arms around your back, all too content to keep your body against his. No complaint comes from you. You just tuck your face into his neck with a spent sigh. The two of you float together in that sweet, exhausted haze. He doesn’t know for how long, but he never wants it to end. He never wants any of this to end. He wants this forever, for every possible moment of his life to be soaked in this contentment. Surrounded by soft sheets and the smell of your perfume. Unhurried and easy, with you.

Months ago, such a realization would have thrown him into an existential crisis. But he didn’t have you all those months ago - this sweet, bright-eyed, spitfire of a woman currently taking a cat nap on his chest. He didn’t have the sweet scent of your shampoo infused in his sheets. He didn’t have your soft exhales ghosting along his throat. He just didn’t know that life could be like this. The moment you shift as if you’re making to get off of him, his arms tighten around you.

“Just a little longer,” He murmurs, his voice sleepy and pleasure drunk.

You're more than happy to indulge him.