arabella’s fanfics

This isn't an affectionate friendship, one you'd have since childhood. The mere goal of it are the connections it offers Tom. Of course he approached the topic a little differently—however, money is power, and if someone has money, it is your father. The thought to infiltrate his closer circle came naturally, and without too much effort on Tom's side, given his well-practiced charm.

At first, you were merely an unexpected bonus to the long evenings he spent discussing politics and business on a table with 20 men, sometimes more. Though not too long after—perhaps four to five meetings into this business deal, as he likes referring to it—when you snuck him to your room for the first time, Tom came to the conclusion he'd perhaps stick around for a while longer than he originally intended.

Now, given you are at a well-visited and crowded ball tonight, he doesn't expect to exchange much more than a mere greeting today. However, as so often, your careful hints over the course of the evening tell him otherwise.

You are wearing the necklace he left under your covers a few months ago. Steal glances at him all the whilst you are talking to men your age. Smirk at him over their shoulder when they ask for a dance and you accept—it's what your father wants for you, after all. To find your match.

A respectable, young gentleman from a wealthy family.

You think these requirements are quite easy to fulfil with the man you've been eyeing all night, whose eyes are locked onto yours as you dance with anyone who dares to ask you.

Except for the fact that, perhaps, he isn't young.

・・・

You are sitting on the bed, one leg slung over the other, sipping away at the half-empty glass of champagne you brought with yourself in the rush of the moment. You've been waiting for it all night—for Tom to move away from your father, who hasn't left him an inch of personal space since he joined the ball a few hours ago. And when he did, finally, you immediately rushed upstairs, waiting for him to follow after you. He did so without attracting attention, gracefully ascending the staircase while greeting other guests who occasionally started a conversation with him.

After another fifteen minutes of waiting, the door finally opens to reveal the man you've been itching to touch all evening. His eyes are on yours the instant the lock puts a barrier between you two and the real world outside, and you can't help the smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

You can't deny he looks like he was sculpted by the Gods themselves. The suit he's wearing is from a familiar tailor shop, arguably one of the finest and most luxurious stores in London—and oh, have they done their work well. It's a dark grey fabric, fitting him closest to perfection you've had the honour of seeing in your long history of attending balls.

"You wish for me to punish you for your behaviour, don't you?" Tom grumbles, tugging off his suit jacket and tossing it somewhere to the corner of the room, stalking towards you as a predator does with their prey.

"Hmm," you pretend to think, watching him undress, your eyes slowly descending his body, drinking him in. "I do not quite recall a moment that would warrant a punishment, Mr. Riddle."

"Don't," he mutters, lifting your chin with his index finger, making you look at him. His eyes are dark as they stare down at yours, radiating caution, and yet sparkle with desire. "Don't act innocent now, sweetheart. Not when both you and I know what we are here for."

You smile, deciding to test his patience, as always. Licking over your bottom lip, you lower your voice when you speak up again. "Enlighten me then, sir, what are we here for exactly?"

Tom swallows tightly at the sound of your innocent voice and your big doe eyes looking up at him, batting your eyelashes. The things you do to him. Fuck.

He leans down then, his hot, steady breaths brushing past your ear, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he answers your question.

"You, darling, are here to have your sweet little pussy ruined. And I, I am here to grant you your wish."

You can't help but giggle at the filth spilling over his lips, settling the glass of champagne on the nightstand before you pull back slightly and crash your lips onto his.

"You'd be— oh—" you start, though interrupted by one of his warm hands slipping under your dress and wandering up your inner thighs. "Correct."

His hand doesn't stop there, pushing the lace of your panties to the side, dragging his index and middle finger along your slit, humming softly when he feels the slick wetness soaking his skin.

"Mmm," he mumbles, crouching down in front of you on the bed, nudging your thighs apart before he slips two long, thick fingers into your dripping cunt. "I assumed so, angel. Is this all for me? Been thinking about me all evening, haven't you? Poor thing."

You have been, yes. And in fact, you should stop teasing him if you want to get what you've been craving for weeks, now that your father has been travelling Europe and not hosted a meeting in more than a month.

But, as so often, your mouth works quicker than your brain, and instead of just agreeing with him, making him move those two digits he's shoved knuckle deep inside you but kept completely still until now, you shake your head.

"Silly old man," you joke half-heartedly, leaning backwards until your shoulders meet the cold wall behind you. "Rosier's cousin and I have had quite the… enjoyable interaction, to put it simply."

Tom merely stares at you for a long moment before he sighs, slips his fingers from your aching pussy, and straightens himself, wiping his hand on the bare skin of your legs. You whine at the loss of contact, ready to apologise and plead with him to continue with whatever he was attempting to do—without success.

"I see how it is. In that case, brat, I'll leave and find him for you, shall I?"

"No no no," you repeat hurriedly, sitting back up and wrapping your hand around his wrist. "I didn't mean to! It's for you and for you only, it's been you I've been wanting all night. For weeks. Don't leave now—please."

As if considering your words, he stops in his tracks—a sly smile playing on his lips. He turns to watch you for a moment, then, when he's seen enough of your anxious, pleading eyes, he gently tugs you towards him. "Get up for me, pretty girl."

Not daring to drag this out any longer, you do as he says—standing before him as he gestures for you to turn around so that he can open the zipper of your dress. The expensive fabric smoothly slips down your body, pooling around your ankles when you assist him with his own clothes, kissing him deeply as you undo the buttons of his suit vest.

Tom guides you backwards in the direction of the bed—but when you reach it, he switches your positions and lowers himself onto the soft mattress instead, sitting with his back to the headboard.

He says nothing for a moment, just enjoys the sight of you in front of him, his eyes mapping your naked body as though it were the first time seeing you like this. Then, he beckons you onto his lap with a gesture of his hand. "This is it. Your punishment. You do the work while I watch."

"You can't possibly be serious," you complain, pouting at him—without use, as you come to realise when he grabs your wrist and pulls you onto his lap.

He brushes kisses down your neck, his rock-hard erection resting heavy against your inner thigh—so close and yet way too far to give you what you want. "Old man can't move fast enough to keep up with your needs, sweetheart. You'll have to make do."

You whine, rocking your hips forwards slightly and pressing your thighs together in an attempt to make him rethink his decision. "But— it was only a joke! You aren't even that old."

Tom's hand holds you steady, then leisurely glides up the length of your ribcage to cup one of your breasts in his palm—testing its weight, thumb and index finger pinching gently at your stiffening nipple. His other hand adjusts your position slightly—just so his cock is nestled between his body and your pussy, brushing against your slick folds.

"Go ahead. Move, pretty girl."

You murmur a string of curses directed at him in defiance, lifting your hips just slightly as you wrap your hand around his swollen length and guide his flushed, leaking tip towards your entrance.

Then, you sink down.

Both of you gasp in unison.

This angle is… different. Feels different than the positions you have done up until now. Somehow, because your pelvises are so close to each other, he feels even deeper than what you are used to, and the friction has your mind go numb with the sparks of pleasure threatening to consume you.

"God, I—" you pant, slowly setting a rhythm—grinding your hips forwards and back rather than moving up and down, and you think you may actually reach heaven without having to succumb to death first.

"I know, darling. Don't you stop. Keep going, just like that." If you're obsessed, Tom is absolutely consumed by you on top of him. His brown eyes—now darker, unguarded—are fixed on you. On the way you move, the way your tits bounce with your every move, on your parted lips, which have the sweetest sounds spill over them.

He hasn't realised just how much he's missed you.

Tom takes a sip of the champagne you left abandoned on the nightstand, his second hand moving to your thighs, kneading softly. He lets it slip further upwards, grazing his knuckles over your lower tummy before his thumb finds your neglected, throbbing clit and he begins rubbing those majestic circles over it—the way he has learned you love it.

"So tight, sweetie. Stop clenching, fuck—" he groans, hips rutting up into yours, his brown curls falling messily over his forehead.

You lean down to kiss him, your lips crashing against each other for a hungry kiss that has you both panting once you part.

If there were people walking by outside, they would hear you. You are sure of it—but you have never cared less about being caught with a man double your age. With one of your father's best friends.

Gods, he himself could be knocking at the door, and you wouldn't spare it any mind.

You couldn't.

Every last nerve ending is entirely consumed by the pleasure coursing through you, by his cock nestled so deep inside you, you feel him in your stomach, and his hands roaming over your naked, smooth skin.

"I— Tom, please," you whimper, dipping your head forwards to rest it in the crook of his neck, your muscles screaming in protest with every renewed thrust—yet you keep moving, even if more slowly so.

"I got you, darling. Come for me. I can feel how close you are, squeezing me so tightly. Let go, pretty girl."

And so you do. When your pace falters and he takes over, hips pounding up against yours fervently, he somehow manages to aim his every thrust just right while telling you how you're doing for him. The knot deep in your stomach snaps at once, leaving you moaning his name and gasping for air as he helps you through your high, keeping your trembling body pressed snugly to his.

Tom follows right after, groaning deeply as he spills himself inside your pulsing hole, his thrusts slowing soon after. You two stay like this for a minute or two, chests heaving with the need for oxygen.

Like the gentleman he is, Tom allows you to rest for a little longer, collecting his clothes from where they are scattered on the floor, dressing himself. You watch each other, but none of you says a word. Too sacred is this moment of peace where it's just the two of you in a room, with no one to steal you away from the other's presence.

You wish you could stay like this for longer, even if you are aware your father has perhaps already started looking for you.

Nobody lets their diamond stay missing for too long, after all—even if the thief is reluctant to hand it back.

Tom hands you your dress and helps you stand, steadying you on your shaky legs. With a hand splayed between your shoulder blades he tucks you into his chest, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Now go and enjoy your evening. I'll be there until you leave, keeping a watch over you. From afar."

Before you get to say anything in return, he's checking whether there is anyone walking the corridor and slips out of the door.

Not without glancing back one more time, though—giving you a wink, which you know translates to "until next time, darling."

thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

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The phone hits the mattress next to your head with a thump, and suddenly, a staticky, Scottish-accented voice fills the room through speakerphone. Simon’s grip forces your head back at an awkward angle, your body arched to meet his thrusts, and before you can process it, his spare hand darts forward to pinch your nose shut. Your eyes blow wide, and in the same choking breath, you've realized that this was deliberate all along. He wants you like this.

Sputtering feebly, the instinctive response is to breathe through your mouth—but you aren't sure you want to. The stupidly unfair part is that inhaling—and by proxy, taking a drag—is effortless, while the hand clamped over your mouth makes breathing out a struggle.

“I've got eyes on it, don't worry—” A groan catches in the back of Simon's throat—a rare falter in his deep voice, narrowed eyes fixed on the glowing screen—as your spasming walls clench around his cock. Your eyes are red and glossy, searching for him, but his attention lies elsewhere. “—You focus on your part.”

Your vision tunnels as he fucks you back on his cock, a strange feeling rolling in your belly. You're puffing somewhat haphazardly on the cancer-stick, like an awkward teen fighting against the cigarette without taking a pull—which, in a sense, you're doing just that. The thought of sitting still and acting rationally escapes you in that moment.

The gray sheets rustle as he leans over you, pressing you into the mattress, and you're half-sure Soap can hear the frantic shuffle of fabric combined with your flesh smacking together. You've long since been on the brink, and stars dance behind your eyelids with the combined sensation. Simon can feel it too, how hot you are under him. Reduced purely to the feeling of him inside you. Heartbeat roaring in your ears.

Simon looks down at you, and something flickers in his expression. Not concern. Curiosity—desire—a beat of contemplation passing over his features as he wonders how long you'll let this go on.

“Hold on,” Simon says to the mic.

Simon pulls the cigarette from your lips—it's almost out. Stubs it out in the ashtray next to the mattress on the floor. “Breathe,” he says against your cheek, speaking to you for the first time—low, devoid of affection.

You gasp, a raw, coughing inhale. Air finally hits your lungs. It hurts, yet your senses rushing back to you is heady enough to make you moan. You're crying now, you realize, tears tracking down your hot cheeks.

Having you under him like this, like a fish out of water, at his whim, satisfies some morbid part of him. A child wearing heels too big, a lock without a key, and so on. You're pretty and misshapen—breakable, usable, fuckable. He can feed you his brand of poison and you don't say no, whether that's your choice or because Simon is strong enough to keep your mouth shut. Johnny always did say Simon needed to find himself an easy lay to take the edge off.

He watches you for a long moment, the way you look at him like a bird with a wounded wing, then taps the screen and lifts the phone back to his ear.

“Alright, still here. What'd I miss?”

𖧁୧ hi there ! gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here, they make a huge difference! ♡

a/n — somehow found the perfect picture for this fic by pure chance AFTER i started writing the draft and iʼm still so amazed.

Joel's hot hands roam the soft swell of your ass, meaningfully dipping his thumb between your cheeks and splaying you open under his palms—taking his time, though you whine and fist the sheets like a petulant child. His mouth waters—makes him feel like a depraved pervert at the sight of your puckered hole, fluttering under the pad of his thumb—and he lifts his hand to his lips to collect the spit and smear it on your hole.

“No, please..!” you sob, your cheek smushed into the mattress as you peer over your shoulder meekly. Your voice wobbles, lower lip sticking out petulantly, and fat, convincing tears cling to your lashes. “No, I don't want it!”

Damp tearstains soil the floral bedding under your head as Joel shoves your face down, guiding his wetted cock to the soft valley between your cheeks. “That's the point, baby,” he says, “You know how it is—only good girls get to feel good. I don't think you deserve my dick in your cunt today.” You bite your lips together nervously as he lets out low groans above you, rolling his hips against your soft ass, his thick fingers curling around one of your wrists and pinning it to the small of your back.

“No fair!” Sniffling, you kick your feet out against the floorboards—a pointless, noisy scuffle as you feel him push against your tight hole, your breath coming out in short bursts. “Iʼm a big girl. I don't need your help alls the time!”

“Big girls…” Joel's rumbly voice shudders into a groan, his chest heaving under his thick flannel shirt as the head of his cock pops past your tight ring of muscle—subsequently tearing a squeal from your lips. The burn makes your eyes water, a dull pain blooming across your backside as he drives deeper. “…face the consequences of their actions- Hah, fuck, that's tight- Ain't that so, sugar? You'd know, being such a big fucking girl now.”

“Mm- N-no--! Stop-” You can hardly sound out your words through the drool and stammers, your head rolling back against Joel's chest to peer up into his unforgiving gaze with mascara tracking down your dewy cheeks. His thick arm curls around your neck, holding your body fast against his front as he rocks you with heavy thrusts. “Iʼm sorry, I'm sorry, Iʼm sorry..!”

He squeezes his cock inside inch by inch, unceremoniously fisting the fat base of his cock and guiding himself deeper while you whimper kittenishly beneath him, actively fighting the resistance of your tight hole to bury himself in your ass. “Oh no, why would I stop, darlin'? Iʼm not finished yet. You just gotta hold out 'til I cum, that's how I'll know you can be a good girl.”

“J-Joel..! Oh- Joel, please-” Itching for some relief from the unbearable pressure between your legs, your thighs press together fruitlessly as the lube trickles down your slit, cool air hitting your sopping folds. A low grunt punches out of him as he feels you tighten around his cock, your pussy clenching around nothing uselessly.

“No, no.” Joel tuts, his disapproval more felt in the harsh grip on the scruff of your neck than seen. “No 'please's,” he murmurs hoarsely, “I won't hear nothing but apologies from that mouth o' yours. You just learn to be good and take your punishment.”

So, you bite the sheets and take your punishment. Taking the full, oversized girth of the big man, feeling his big hands knead your flesh and tug you back on the mean, throbbing intrusion, heavy sack slapping against your neglected cunt with every stab of his hips. It's a good thing, you think, even if you can barely handle it, being able to take your bad behavior and turn it into something good—making him feel good for nothing in return. A lesson in selfnessness because you'd been a ridiculous, thoughtless girl. He deserved this much after you'd acted so unappreciatively. Maybe you could learn to be more like him, more caring.

You really hadn't meant to sound ungrateful for all the care he gives you, but you know hearing that would be the least interesting part of all this—at least opposed to how much he sounds to be enjoying your tight body. It's a heady dichtomy—the guttural, wanton moans as he slams inside you, pre-cum dripping down the cleft of your ass, and the frustration belying his every move. Manhandling you like a small, unruly animal trying to escape his clutches. Only, there's nowhere else you'd rather be but here, under him—though your survival instincts seem to say otherwise: your hips recoiling from the brutish force he uses on you, reduced to teary-eyed petulance with staccato whimpers pouring past your lips.

You've clearly succumbed to your punishment, knowing you deserve it and feeling so, so sorry, but you haven't stopped sulking about it. It's hard not to, with the achy throb between your thighs that just won't go away and Joel won't pay any attention to when he's not mocking you for how wet you are.

Joel doesn't let you off the hook easy; no, he makes any punishment memorable enough that the same mistake doesn't happen twice.

“Well, would you look at that? You're fucking soaked. You're not supposed to be enjoying this, baby,” Joel croons, vaguely exasperated, as if talking down on a small, dumb thing that doesn't quite understand its own predicament, wry amusement curling the corner of his mouth.

Plain as day is your dripping, weeping center between your legs, untouched while he plunges in-and-out of your other hole, pretty clit swollen and begging for attention. You cross your legs sheepishly, suddenly fearing the measures Joel might take to make sure you aren't enjoying yourself too much. “I-I'm sorry,” you stammer between gasps, tears blurring your vision and sticking your lashes together as you screw your eyes up, legs nearly giving out under you. “I-Iʼll be good, Daddy, promise. You can do what you want to me.” Your bottom lip sticks out invitingly as you look back at him, and it's all Joel can do to not empty his load in you right then and there.

He pulls you back on his cock with a low growl, slamming inside you with a dizzying thrust that makes you see stars, veins bulging angrily along his forearms. A high-pitched keen—or a shriek, almost—that you aren't even quite sure how the noise belongs to you, rings in your ears beneath the violent roar of your own pulse. Your lungs overwork to pull in air as his heavy body bears down on you—so much smaller and feebler than him—all but crushing you into the mattress, grunting next to your ear feverishly. You can almost taste that virile musk that clings to him, to his flannel shirt, his sweaty torso molded to your back.

“Daddy-” Not for the first time, you think that he's maybe too big, the stretch too much. But no one else has ever introduced such overwhelming feelings to your body, and you find that you're all to willing to be molded to accommodate him. To be his good girl. “Please cum in me, Daddy, please cum in me, Daddy- Please, Daddy, please—”

The misty, rose-tinged water sloshes around your body, licking your knees as you draw them up to your chest. You peer over the rim of the tub as Joel sets your bottle of micellar water down on the bathroom counter with visible skepticism, absently rubbing at the scruff on his neck and shifting his weight, notably out of place in your girly-safehaven bathroom. A pile of used cotton makeup pads sit next to the sink after he'd gently swiped them across your skin and cleared away your smudged makeup, the tiny white rounds having looked almost absurdly small between his broad fingers.

“Jo—el,” you whine willfully, batting your wet lashes and beckoning him closer. “Get in.”

A soft, involuntary chuckle rumbles in his chest as you tug on the leg of his jeans, reaching down to brush your damp hair out of your eyes, your lashes fluttering slightly at the disturbance before he helps you out. His other hand is already reaching for the top button of his shirt.

“Don't mind if I do, sweetheart.”

𖧁୧ hi there ! gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here, they make a huge difference! ♡

The field behind your apartment building is open and dark and the grass is slick and knee high in places, whipping against your shins as you crash through it, and somewhere behind you something is moving at a pace that doesn't match yours.

You're sprinting. The thing behind you is not. The thing behind you is covering the same ground at a walk, maybe a jog, the unhurried gait of something that understands the end of the pursuit better than you do: that your speed is borrowed from adrenaline and adrenaline has a half life and the distance between you is a loan you're taking out against a body that will come to collect.

The tree line. You can see it in the lightning, ragged dark mass, oak and ash and whatever else grows in the scrubby, unloved patch of urban woodland the city council hasn't developed yet. You've walked past it. You've never been inside it.

The dark between those trees is absolute and unknowable and you are running toward it anyway because the open field is killing you. Open means visible. Visible means found.

You hit the trees and the world changes.

The rain doesn't stop but it fractures, breaking against the canopy and reaching you in fat, cold drops that fall from leaves instead of sky, landing on the back of your neck.

The ground goes soft. Mud swallowing your foot to the ankle on the first step, the earth making a sound around your slipper that is wet and when you wrench free the shoe stays behind. You keep going. Barefoot on one side, the mud pressing between your toes.

You can't see. The canopy hides the lightning. What was blue white and blinding in the field becomes a dim, grey flicker in here, enough to show you shapes, trunk and branch, before the dark closes back over.

You navigate by collision. Bark under your palms as you bounce off trees you don't see until you're hitting them. Your shoulder clips an oak hard and something tears and you catch yourself on a low branch and the bark strips the skin from your palm in a hot, wet line, blood bubbling between fingers, and you keep moving.

Behind you, a branch breaks.

Something heavy stepping on something small, and the crack travels through the trees with a clarity that cuts through the rain and the thunder and lands in the base of your skull like a nail. You don't turn around. Turning around means slowing down.

A root catches your foot- the bare one, the one with no slipper- and you go down hands first, and the mud is cold and deep and your fingers sink into it to the second knuckle and the impact jars through your wrists and into your shoulders and your chin catches a root knuckle and the pain is bright, a flare of white behind your eyes, a copper bloom across your tongue where your teeth meet the inside of your cheek. You're on your hands and knees in the mud and the rain is hammering the canopy above you and the thunder rolls through the ground beneath your palms.

You push yourself up. Your hands slip. The mud gives and doesn't give back and your arms are shaking, not fear, not just fear, but the muscles beginning to fail, the glycogen stores emptying, the body starting to make panicked desperations your brain won't: how much farther, at what cost, for how long.

You get up. You run.

The woods thicken. The trees are closer together now and you're weaving between them with a gait that's barely controlled, pinballing off bark with your forearms raised to protect your face, and the branches catch you everywhere else, across the collarbone, the bicep, the soft skin at the inside of your wrist, leaving lines of heat that surface as welts, thin red marks that swell and sting in the rain.

Your bare foot finds something sharp. Glass, maybe, or a stone with an edge, and the pain blooms upward from the arch and you feel the skin open and the heat of blood mixing with the cold of mud and you don't stop. You can't stop.

The trees thin. You stumble out of the dense growth and into a gap in the canopy where a tree came down years ago. Rain returns full and direct, hammering the crown of your skull and running into your eyes. The ground is more leaf litter than mud. Your feet find traction for the first time in minutes.

You stop.

Not because you decide to. Because your body stops. The quadriceps seize, the calves lock, and you stand in the centre of the clearing bent double with your hands on your knees and your mouth open and the rain pouring down your face and into your gasping mouth, and the sound of your own breathing is the loudest thing in the world, ragged, wet, the desperate bellow pump of lungs operating past their margin.

You listen.

Rain on leaves. Thunder, further now, rolling east. Wind in the upper canopy, moving through the branches with a long, low hiss. The drip of water from a broken trunk to your left, rhythmic, metronomic, almost soothing.

No footsteps. No branches breaking. No displacement of air or weight behind you. The woods are empty. The dark between the trees is just dark. You turn, slowly, a full rotation, and every shadow is a shadow and every shape is a tree and the clearing is a clearing and you are alone in it.

The seconds pass. Ten. Twenty. The thunder moves further east and the lightning becomes occasional, distant, a flicker on the horizon rather than a detonation overhead. The rain eases from hammering to steady.

The breath comes out of you.

Not a sigh. Something deeper, something that originates in the locked down muscles of your lower back and travels upward through the ribs and the shoulders and the clenched, aching vice of your jaw. Your hands unclench and the tendons in your fingers straighten with the slow, creaking reluctance of something that's been locked too long, and your shoulders drop a quarter inch, and the shaking changes, less adrenaline, more cold, the tremor shifting from survival to exposure, and you straighten up and push the wet hair off your face and you breathe. In. Out. The rain is cold and clean and tastes like nothing and you stand in it and let it hit you.

You're out. You're alone. Whatever was behind you is gone, lost in the trees and the dark and the rain, and you're going to find the edge of the wood and a road and a light and-

The hand comes from behind you.

It covers your mouth and nose in a single motion, a seal, the palm wide enough to close over the entire lower half of your face with no gap, no sliver of clean air, and the cloth against your skin is wet and cold and sweet in a way that is immediately, viscerally wrong. The other arm locks around your waist, and your back meets his chest and the air leaves your lungs in a scream that doesn't make it past the cloth.

His cock is hard. Pressed against the base of your spine, unmistakable, the obscenity of it, that this is arousal, that the chase and the catching and the feel of your soaked body pinned against his is doing something to him. His breathing doesn't change. That's the worst part. The breathing stays steady, metered, controlled, even as the evidence of what this is doing to him presses against you with a bluntness that is almost conversational, almost casual, like a fact stated without shame: this is what you do to me. This is what catching you does to me. 

His arm around your waist tightens, a fractional shift of pressure that brings your hips flush against his, and the adjustment is small and deliberate and possessive in a way that has nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the specific, private, unhurried pleasure of a man pressing a caught thing closer because he can.

The cloth stays where it is. The chemical is sweet and heavy and it's in every breath now, saturating the fibres, filling your sinuses, coating the back of your throat with a taste like overripe fruit left in a closed room.

Your hands are on his forearm, both of them, gripping, pulling, nails digging into skin that doesn't give, and the strength in the arm is not reactive, not straining, just there. Your feet are sliding in the mud and you're pushing backward, trying to use his weight against him, but his weight doesn't move and your weight is leaving you, draining out through the soles of your feet.

Your knees soften, the tension that holds you upright dissolving. The chemical is fast. Faster than it should be, which means the concentration is high, which means the dosage was calculated, which means someone did the math on your body with an accuracy that implies knowledge of measurements you've never shared with anyone. 

Your arms drop, fingers uncurling from his forearm one by one like petals off a dead flower, and your hands hang at your sides and your weight shifts backward into him and he takes it. He takes all of it. The arm around your waist becomes the only thing left in your body, the single point that keeps you vertical while everything else goes soft and dark and far away.

The rain is still falling but it sounds like it's happening to someone else, in a room you've already left. The thunder is just vibration. His chest behind you is just warmth. The cloth is just cloth and the chemical is just a taste now, fading, everything fading, the clearing going grey at the edges and then dark and then nothing, and the last sensory information your brain processes before the dark takes the rest is not the storm or the cold or the pain in your foot or the blood on your chin.

It's the smell of cigarette smoke. Old, stale, ground into the skin of the hand over your mouth- the same smoke that you swore you could smell inside your flat for weeks. And underneath it, faint, almost imagined: your own shampoo. On his skin. In the creases of fingers that have been inside your home, your bathroom, your bedroom, opening and closing around objects that belong to you with the slow, ritualistic patience of a man cataloguing a collection he hasn't finished building.

The dark doesn't fall. It rises. Up from the ground, up through your feet, up through the muscles and the bones and the blood, filling you from the bottom like a vessel being submerged, and the last thing you feel is his mouth against the crown of your head and then the vessel fills and the dark closes over the top and there is nothing left of you that is yours.

Simon Riley lifts you out of the mud.

The storm covers the sound.

No one sees him leave.

***

Several weeks ago…

Finding your address takes Simon Riley eleven minutes.  

You don’t exactly do anything to hide your social media presence after all. Two photographs from your public account, backgrounds cross referenced. A corner shop's CCTV feed he shouldn't have access to and does and he has everything he needs. The flat number. The floor. Which windows are yours.

He parks the truck across the street one evening and doesn't move it for three nights.  Doesn't need to. Does it anyway. Watches your lights. Learns the routine of your evenings- when you eat, when you shower, when the last light goes out. Flies it all away, memorized completely, until it's as indistinguishable from the air. 

He waits until he sees you leave for your shift. Watches the way you pull the door, checks the handle twice, a thing you probably don't know you do. Watches until you round the corner and are gone.

Then he crosses the street.

The lock takes nine seconds.

(Wet ground. Gravel digging into a bleeding back. A sky the colour of poured concrete, no depth, no distance, just grey pressing down. The sound his own breathing made when the next one becomes a question of ‘if’ not ‘when’.) 

The flat smells like vanilla lotion and laundry still holding warmth from the dryer and coffee that brewed hours ago and hasn't fully left the air. He stands in the doorway for a moment longer than he needs to. Just breathing it. Then he closes the door behind him, cock twitching, heat pooling low, infatuated hunger.

He moves through the living room slowly. No urgency. Your place is small, everything in reach of the sofa, everything angled towards comfort for a person who comes home tired and wants to stop. An empty mug on the coffee table, lipstick on the rim. He picks it up. Holds it for a moment, turns it in his hands, brings the stained edge to his face and runs his tongue across the porcelain.

Sets it back in the ring of condensation it left.

(Pressure. Hands. Small, delicate. Pressing down. Warm against his skin.)

The bookshelf. He runs a finger along the spines without pulling anything until he finds the one with the broken spine, the cracked glue of a book read too many times in the same place. He opens to the bookmarked page. Reads filthy words about a man taking what he wanted. Hums when he imagines you touching yourself, fingers sinking into your cunt while you fantasize about strong hands pinning you down. 

Every room feeds the obsession and he’s rock hard by the time he reaches your bedroom, the air thicker here, soaked in your scent. The bed is unmade on one side only, the pillow still holding the impression of your head, the duvet pushed back, the small evidence of a morning abandoned to the alarm. He stands beside it and looks at it for what is probably too long and then he steps inside. 

(You hadn't spoken to him the way people speak to someone who might be dying. No performance of calm. No hollow reassurance. Just looked down at him like his death was just a minor inconvenience in your day.)

He finds the vibrator tucked inside your nightstand, still faintly sticky. A low, guttural groan rumbles in his chest. Naughty thing, fucking yourself after a long day. He turns it on for a second, the quiet buzz making his cock strain against his pants, before switching it off and returning it as if he was never there.

He opens the hamper, his own little treasure chest, and finds a worn pair of your panties- soft cotton, crotch still damp and stained with your slick, makes his mouth water. He brings them to his nose and huffs deeply, eyes rolling back. 

(Stay with me. Maybe you said it. Maybe he built it later. Memory at the margins of consciousness is unreliable, the brain filling negative space with what it needs. But the hands he would know. Would know the specific weight and purpose of them anywhere.)

“Fuck…,” he mutters, voice rough and depraved, takes a step backwards, then another, another, until he’s sitting on your unmade bed. He lays down, presses his face into your pillow, grinds hips until he’s rutting against your bedsheets, imagining you beneath him. 

Pulls out his thick drooling cock, veins pulsing on the underside, and fucks your pillow hard enough that the headboard taps onto your wall. Imagines your face right there, flushed and needy, lips pulled wide around the head of it, so pretty under him, taking every inch down your throat every night. Pre smears across the fabric and his breath comes heavier, more animalistic, huffing your panties again, again as he chases the high. 

(You hadn’t looked scared of him. He remembers that specifically. Whatever you’d seen when you found him- the mask, the gun, the scars- you’d moved past it in about a second and a half. Inconvenient details. Not your problem.)

The pressure builds fast. He grabs the bottle of lotion from your night stand, the one you slather on your soft skin every night- He wants his teeth in that skin. Wants to bite down to the bone and hold on- and unscrews the cap with shaking hands. 

At the last second he pulls his cock off your pillows, presses the swollen head onto the bottle and cums, ropes spurting heavy. He milks every drop, stroking himself through the aftershocks, watches his cum mix with the bottle you’ll use later, rub onto your skin without even knowing, carry him with you. 

(The way you'd sighed through your nose. Not fear. Not shock. Just the exhale of a person whose evening had just become more complicated and who was already calculating the cost.) 

He straightens up.

Tucks his dick away. Buttons his trousers. Stands in the centre of your bedroom for a moment, just looking- the pillow, the nightstand, the lotion bottle returned to its exact position- and something in his chest settles.

He checks the room once. Twice. Leaves nothing out of place. Tucks your panties in his pocket and leaves.

(Civilian hands. No calluses in the right places, no muscle memory of this. Tearing fabric without being asked to. Figuring it out as you went.)

He lets himself out. Pulls the door closed behind him until the latch clicks soft. Stands in the corridor for a moment, existing in spaces he was never invited into.

Lights a cigarette on the way down the stairs.

He doesn't smoke it inside.

He's not a fucking animal afterall. 

***

The man outside the pub doesn’t know Simon Riley exists. 

That’s fine. That’s usually how it goes. 

He's been watching him long enough to understand what kind of man he is. The type. Broad in the shoulders and soft in the middle, who moves through the world with the loose, unexamined confidence of someone who had never once been made to feel small. The kind who followed women to their cars and called it a compliment. Who'd saw you existing after a late shift and had decided that constituted an introduction.

Simon had watched him outside the chippy a week ago. Had watched you clock him from twenty feet out, the way your pace adjusted, fractional, barely perceptible (How loud. How fast. How much trouble.) Had watched the man's hand close around your wrist for just a moment, fingers wrapping with the casual presumption of someone who had done this before and found it went fine, before you'd pulled free and he called you a fat bitch in response. 

(The torch in your teeth while both hands worked. The angle of your head. Completely absorbed. He'd been a problem to be solved and you were solving him and the indignity of it had been the most alive he'd felt in years.) 

You hadn't reported it. Simon had waited three days to be sure, watching for the signs of someone who had- the variation in route, the hypervigilance, the particular flattened stillness of a person who has filed a thing and is waiting to see what happens to it. Nothing. You'd absorbed it and kept moving. 

He understood that too, in a way he couldn't have put language to, couldn’t have articulated.

He follows the man from the pub at closing. Last out, loud with his friends until he isn't, splitting off at the corner with the bac slapping ease of men who don't think about walking home alone at night because they never have to. He navigates with the rolling gait of someone three pints past sensible, loose in the joints, nodding to himself about something, unbothered.

The night is cold and damp, the pavement still wet from earlier rain, the street lamps doing that particular thing they do where they light the ground directly under them but not the spaces between. 

The man doesn't look up. Doesn't look behind him.

(You'd told him to stay still in the tone of someone who expected to be listened to. He had- god he had- a soldier through and through.) 

The man makes a sound, at the end. They usually do. Something small and bewildered, the realization a person makes when they understand all at once that the night has a different direction than they thought it would go. Simon holds on until the understanding passes.

Then he steps back.

(The quality of your silence. Not frightened silence. Not careful silence. Just… you had nothing to say, so you said nothing. He hadn't known what to do with that for weeks.) 

The van is parked at the alley's far end. Simon had left it there this afternoon. He'd known, by then, how the evening would go.

The man is breathing when Simon puts him in the back. Zip ties at the wrists, tape across the mouth, a canvas hood that smells like other jobs in the city. Simon closes the doors without urgency.

He drives for forty minutes.

The lockup is on an industrial estate that stopped being used for anything legitimate around 2019, the kind of place that gets planning notices taped to the fence for months before anyone acts on them. Simon has used it several times before. It has a drain in the floor and the walls are thick enough.

(At some point you’d sat back on your heels and just waited. Watched the wound. Your breathing had been even throughout. His hadn’t.)

The man is awake by the time Simon drags him out of the van. Awake and making sounds behind the tape. His eyes above the tape are blown wide. Simon looks at them for a moment.

Finds he has nothing in particular to say as he drags him inside and straps him down.

It's quiet work. It always is.

(Afterwards, you wiped your hands on the back of your jeans, methodical. Then you’d stood up and that had been that.)

Checks his hands. His jacket. Rolls his neck once, the vertebrae popping in a slow sequence from the base up. His breathing hasn't changed. It never does, the body learned a long time ago that this doesn't warrant elevation, settled it into the same category as any other task completed, any other problem resolved.

He looks at what’s left of the man for a moment; eyes above the tape still blown, chest still instead of panicked, a body now and not a person.

And finds he has no particular feelings about it.

(Left without waiting to see if he'd be alright. He'd watched you go from the ground. Decided something then that he hadn't put words to until later. 

Hadn't needed to.)

***

Present…

The first thing that comes back is smell.

Cold metal. Old damp. Something chemical underneath it, industrial cleaner, thick and lives in the back of the throat and doesn't leave when you swallow.

The second thing is the surface beneath you.

Not soft. Not a bed. Something hard and flat and slightly raised at the edges, the metal seams pressing into your shoulder blades and the backs of your thighs through your wet clothes, and the cold of it has been working its way into you long enough that you can't feel the distinction between the table and your own skin anymore. Just cold. Just hard. Just the weight of a body that hasn't been moved in a long time.

You open your eyes.

The ceiling is wrong.

High. Concrete. A single bulb on a wire, the light it throws pooling down onto you in a jaundiced circle and leaving everything past its edge in deep, pressurised dark. Something hangs from the rafters. You blink. Focus.

Chains. Heavy gauge, looped through iron rings bolted into the beam above you, hanging in loose coils, some ending in hooks, some ending in nothing. Just chain. They catch the light in segments. They don't move.

You sit up.

Too fast. The room tilts, the chemical still moving through your blood in slow pulls, your vision lagging behind your head by a half second, and you put both palms flat on the table and look at your hands and think: table. You're on a table.

You look down at it.

Metal. Stainless steel, or close enough. Dull with use and age. A drain at one end and channels running toward it, worn smooth, the edges of them a colour the rest of the surface isn't.

The walls.

You make yourself look at the walls.

Covered. Arranged, and that's the thing that takes a moment to process, that it isn't chaos, that there is a system here and someone maintains it. Metal implements on pegboard hooks. Shapes you have names for and shapes you don't. Coils of rope hung in neat loops. A length of heavy plastic sheeting folded into a rectangle with creased edges. Zip ties in three sizes on three separate hooks.

Your brain moves through it. Moves past it. Files it somewhere it isn't going to open right now.

You get off the table.

Your bare foot touches the concrete floor and the cold shoots upward through your ankle and you remember the wood and the root and the skin opening on the arch and you look down. Someone has wrapped it. Gauze, tight and clean. You stare at it for a moment longer than makes sense.

You wrap your arms around yourself. Your clothes are still damp, stiffening now as they dry wrong against your skin, and the cold is bone deep and total.

Somewhere behind you, a door opens.

You turn.

He's bigger than the room should allow for. That's the first coherent thought- not fear, or not only fear, but the lizard brain focusing on the right thing or the wrong thing or the only thing that matters in that half second delay. Tall. Broad. The balaclava still on, the eyes above it catching the yellow light. He's not moving fast. He's not moving with urgency at all. He steps inside and closes the door behind him and stands there for a moment, looking at you.

You say nothing.

He says nothing.

The chains hang in the space between you. The drain sits at the edge of your vision. The table presses cold against the backs of your thighs and you are standing in the middle of all of it in stiff damp clothes with a wrapped foot and a mouth that tastes like chemicals and copper and your heart in your chest is doing something loud and relentless that you are not going to think about right now. 

He takes a step toward you.

You take one back and your hip catches the edge of the table and you stop, your hands coming up not quite in front of you, not a fighting stance, just the instinctive, trying to make yourself account for the space it needs.

He stops. Looks at your hands. Looks at your face. Something in the set of his shoulders changes, a small adjustment, a fraction of something releasing that you couldn't have explained if asked. 

"Sat up on your own." His voice is low. Manchester flat, the vowels worn down, consonants that don't waste themselves. The voice of someone for whom speaking is a tool and not a pastime. "Good." 

You stare at him.

"Where am I." Not a question. The grammar of a question with the punctuation of a statement, because some part of you has already decided that the answer is less important than the act of speaking, of making the room contain your voice as well as his.

He looks around the space briefly. Back at you.

"Somewhere no one's lookin’ fer you."

"That's not an answer." The chains catch a draft from somewhere and shift, a soft metallic sound, barely there. You don't look at them. You keep your eyes on him and your hands where they are and your back against the cold edge of the table and you breathe.

In. Out.

"No," he agrees. He says it without apology, without particular interest in your objection. Just a fact acknowledged and set aside. 

The rain outside hammers the corrugated roof in waves, loud then quiet then loud again, and the single bulb swings a half inch in the draft and the shadows move and then settle.

He takes another step toward you.

You don't move this time.

"You wrapped my foot," you say.

He says nothing.

"Why."

He looks at you for a long moment. The pale eyes move over your face with the same unhurried attention he brought to the room, to the door, to everything. Like assessment is just how he exists in the world. Like everything he looks at is being filed.

"Didn't need it gettin’ infected."

"You chloroformed me in the woods."

"Mmm."

The flatness of it. Not defensive. Not guilty. Just the confirmation of a man who sees no contradiction between the two facts and isn't going to pretend otherwise.

Your hands are still between you. You lower them slowly. Not because you've decided anything. Just because holding them up is starting to feel like a performance for an audience that isn't here.

"What do you want," you say.

He takes another step. You stay where you are this time, hip against the table, and he stops close enough that the space between you is no longer large. Close enough that you can see the pale of his eyes properly now, the way they haven't moved off your face since he came through the door.

"You know what I want," he says.

Your heart does the loud thing again.

"I don't," you say. "I don't know you."

Something moves across his expression. Not quite a smile. The ghost of something that might have been one in different circumstances, on a different face.

"You've known fer months."

The rain. The chains. The single bulb throwing its yellow circle down onto both of you now, the shadows pressed back to the edges of the room.

You look at him.

He looks at you.

The table is cold against the backs of your thighs and the gauze on your foot is tight and professionally done and the room smells like metal and old damp and somewhere underneath all of it, faint and almost imagined, cigarette smoke.

You don't say anything.

Neither does he.

The silence stretches, thick and charged, until the air between you feels like it might snap. The single bulb sways overhead, dragging yellow light across the sharp cut of his jaw beneath the balaclava, across those pale eyes that haven’t left your face once. Heat rolls off his massive frame in waves, bleeding into the cold of the room, into the cold of your soaked clothes, until your skin prickles with it.

Your heart slams against your ribs like it wants to crawl out and hand itself over. The metal table bites into the backs of your thighs, the gauze on your foot is tight pressure, but none of that matters when he finally moves.

One big hand curls around your wrist, rough calluses scraping over your racing pulse. His thumb strokes once, like he’s tasting the fear and the want underneath it and then he lifts you like you weigh nothing and slams your back down onto the table. 

The impact jars through your spine, cold steel shocking against your skin as your soaked shirt rides up and your joggers bunch at your hips. He’s on you in the next breath, caging you completely, the thick, heavy ridge of his cock grinding hard against your cunt through the wet fabric.

You gasp- half protest, half broken moan and his mouth crashes down on yours, claiming, devouring. The balaclava is shoved higher now, just enough for his lips and teeth and tongue to bite through your skin, blooming blood against your tongue. He tastes like stale tobacco and rain, and he kisses like he’s starving, tongue fucking into your mouth in time with the harsh, obscene roll of his hips. 

His cock is massive even through his trousers- thick, burning hot, the fat head already leaking and smearing precum against the soaked seam of your joggers.

One massive hand shoves under your shirt, palm rough and scalding as it palms your breast, callused thumb dragging over your nipple until it’s aching and peaked. He pinches hard, twisting just enough to make you arch and whimper into his mouth, tears splashing down your cheeks and then he’s yanking your joggers down your thighs, wet fabric catching at your knees; he doesn’t bother pulling them off all the way. Just rips them down far enough to bare your dripping cunt to the cold air.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look. Two thick fingers drag through your folds, spreading the slick mess, circling your swollen clit until your hips jerk helplessly. “Soakin’ already. Knew you’d be a greedy lil thing fer me.”

He frees his cock with his other hand, the thick, veined length springing out heavy and flushed dark, the head glistening with precum, a fat drop beading at the slit. 

It’s obscene how big he is, how it throbs in his fist as he strokes himself once, twice, smearing the wetness. Then he’s lining up, the blunt head nudging against your entrance, stretching you open before he even pushes in.

Your eyes widen, panicked. “Wait-!”

He drives in, bottoming out in a single stroke that punches the air from your lungs in a high pitched whine. The stretch is vicious, burning, your walls forced wide around the thick girth of him until you feel every vein, every ridge dragging against your insides. A broken cry tears from your throat as he bottoms out, tears spilling, balls heavy and tight against your ass, the head of his cock kissing so deep you swear you feel it in your throat.

“Christ, tha’s it,” he groans, hips grinding deep, holding himself there so you can feel every inch of him pulsing inside you. “Takin’ every fuckin’ inch. Been dreaming about this tight cunt swallowin’ me whole.”

He starts to move slow at first, dragging out until just the fat head is stretching your entrance, then slamming back in so hard the table creaks beneath you. 

Every thrust is wet and filthy, slap of skin on skin echoing off concrete walls, your arousal coating his cock and dripping down to soak the metal beneath you. His hips snap harder, faster, the thick head battering that spot inside you that makes white hot sparks explode behind your eyes.

Your hands fist in his jacket, nails digging in as he pounds into you. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head, the other grips your thigh, yanking it higher so he can drive even deeper. His mouth finds your throat, teeth sinking in.

Your orgasm crashes over you, walls clamping down around his cock so hard he snarls. Your back arches off the table, cunt gushing around him, soaking his balls and the metal beneath you as wave after wave rips through you. 

You’re crying out, shaking, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, and he fucks you through it, chasing his own release.

“Fuck- good girl, squeezing me so fuckin’ perfect- ” His rhythm stutters, turns sloppy and desperate. He buries himself one last time, grinding deep as his cock pulses and throbs inside you. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your cunt, spilling deep, so much it leaks out around his shaft and drips messily down your thighs onto the table.

He stays buried inside you, heavy and twitching, one hand sliding up to cup your tear streaked cheek almost tenderly. His thumb brushes the wetness away as his breathing slowly evens out.

The chains overhead sway softly in the draft, clinking like they’re keeping count.

***

Several weeks ago…

You can’t prove it, but someone has been in your apartment. 

You stand in the doorway of your own flat for a long moment. Coat still on. Keys in your hand.

Then you step inside and close the door behind you, and you don't change anything about your face. 

You notice the mug first.

Not displaced… that would be too obvious, and whoever came through your door is not obvious. It's the ring. The condensation ring on the coffee table is wrong, slightly, the way a thing is wrong when it's been lifted and replaced by someone who understood the importance of replacing it but didn't account for the fact that you always set it down on the same quarter inch of worn lacquer, the same groove. You've been setting it there for two years. The ring is two millimetres off.

Your shampoo. The bottle on the shower shelf that you could swear was turned slightly. And underneath all of it, you stop in the middle of your bathroom and just stand there, breathing in something like cigarette smoke. Old. Ground into skin.

You are not scared. That's the thing you keep examining, turning over, looking at from different angles. You have every reason to be scared and the feeling that surfaces instead is something more like…  recognition. The specific recognition of something that has been true for a while finally making itself legible. Someone has been watching you and the part of you that should be running is instead sitting very still and watching back.

You think about what kind of person does this as a matter of course.

You think about this more than you should.

(And then you stop thinking about it altogether when your landlord- the one with the master key and the habit of using it “accidentally” when you’re showering or laying on the couch with your vibrator between your legs- goes missing on a Wednesday and turns up dead in a Birmingham car park on a Friday, and the police use words like opportunistic and random and you use no words at all, just stand at your kitchen window with your mug and watch the street below and breathe. And then the man from HR who cornered you in the stairwell stops showing up to work, and a week later someone finds him in a canal in Leeds with his wallet still in his pocket. And you stop thinking about it when the pervert who harasses women on the way to work and who rubbed himself against your ass for seven stops isn’t on the bus one morning and doesn’t get on it the morning after that either. You think “huh” and stop looking for the stories in the local paper after that)

You put this information somewhere quiet inside yourself and you close the door on it.

Then you make decisions.

The next morning you put on lipstick before your coffee. Not the lipstick you wear to work, the dark one you only put on when you're going somewhere worth the effort, a rich, specific red that leaves a clean mark on porcelain. You drink slowly. You set the mug down in its groove. You leave it on the table when you go. (Smeared now when you come back)

You buy a new book. Cracked the spine yourself, deliberately, over the place you wanted him to open to. Bookmarked the right page. (And the book mark is not exactly where you measured it when you put it in the pages, tucked down three millimeters more.)

The panties took more consideration. You stood in front of your drawer for a long moment, the particular cold logic of the thing settling through you. Then you put on the soft cotton ones, the worn pair, and you wore them for a full day, and you touched yourself in them until the gusset was soaked, and you left them near the top of the hamper. (Gone when you change out of your work clothes and go to throw them in the dirty laundry)

Rewards, you were beginning to think of them as, for the ledger that someone was keeping on your behalf, without your asking, without your knowledge of the specific terms, but not, you were becoming increasingly certain, without your participation.

You hadn't asked for any of it.

You hadn't not asked for any of it either.

This is the part you sit with. The part you turn over in the small hours when the flat is quiet and the street below has gone still and the cigarette smell has faded but not entirely left.

You are not innocent. You are not sure you want to be. You put on the lipstick and you left the mug and you walked close to the city drunk long enough that the message was legible, and three days later he ceased to be a problem.

The ledger exists. You are on it. The question you haven't answered- the question you keep not answering, keep setting aside- is whether you are the subject of it or the cause.

The night you saved his life is the night the ledger tips.

You don't think of it that way at the time. At the time it is simply a matter of logistics: a man bleeding out in the alley behind the Tesco Metro, the specific dark of blood, a wound that is going to kill him in four minutes if someone doesn't intervene, and you are there with your hands and your knowledge and the particular absence of panic that your colleagues have always found slightly unsettling in you.

You don't think about the balaclava. You don't think about the gun- empty, or he'd have used it- that you'd stepped over to get to him. You think about the wound and the pressure and the count.

Stay with me.

He lives. That's the metric.

Afterwards when the sirens got close and radio chatter from the paramedics were nearby, you stood up and wiped your hands on the back of your jeans and the calculation is already running somewhere below the level of words: he owes you something now. Not gratitude… you don't want gratitude, gratitude is soft and symmetric and what exists between you is neither. What exists is something that runs deeper than the ledger of your landlord and the others, something that reorganises the terms entirely and you’ll take advantage of it for as long as he’ll allow you and you’ll reward him for it for as long as he does.

He watched you go.

You knew he was watching.

You didn't look back.

(And you do not let yourself think about what happens when crumbs stop being enough. When the man who has been living on the edges of your life decides the edges are no longer satisfying and wants th full thing, everything you can give to a man like him.)

The storm comes on a Thursday. You've been watching the weather for two days, the way the pressure dropped, the way the air went close and electric and tasted faintly of iron- meteorological preconditions for a power cut in this part of the city, the grid unreliable, the substation two streets over that goes out whenever the rainfall hits a certain rate.

You go to bed with your phone charged.

The lights go out at half past eleven.

The thunder is already overhead, close enough that the flash and the crack arrive almost together, and you sit up in the dark and breathe and wait for the backup on the hall light to kick in the way it usually does and it doesn't kick in this time, and the flat is completely dark, and then lightning fills the window for a single white second- 

-and there is a shape in your bedroom that is not furniture.

The thought arrives lie lightning does: total, white, gone before you can hold it. Whether your name was always on the ledger too. Whether you were ever the one keeping it. 

Your body moves off the bed, through the door, navigating your flat entirely by memory because the dark is total and the thunder swallows the sound of your feet and somewhere behind you something large and patient shifts its weight and doesn't rush, and that is the worst of it, the not rushing, because it means he already knows how this ends-

You hit the stairs. You hit the rain. Your slippers begin to fray.

You can’t breathe.

You have been working hard, though. Any harder and your glutes will give out, you think with a pout.

Rocking you with a cursory thrust from below, Simon pops his thumb in your mouth before you can argue. “Quiet,” he mutters, a flash of genuine ire hardening his gaze as he glances towards the door, light footsteps scampering past.

You blink owlishly with his thumb stuffing your mouth and rope your arms around his neck in a meek grip, heart beating a little faster at the unexpected noise disturbance outside. You huff into his neck as his hand rubs your back, soothing—then drifts southward.

The nerves in your body feel overwhelmingly attuned to every brush of his calloused palms against your heated flesh, slick collecting between your legs as he guides you up-and-down his curved shaft. His hands roam your body without discrimination—those big, searching things kneading and pulling you closer. They dictate your brisk grinding, and his fingers dig into the softness of your ass, your flesh dimpling under his fingermarks.

A combination of your spit and wetness coats his fingertip as it circles your other hole, the coolness back there making you flinch, though you shrug it off. The way his hands maneuver you up his waist, cupping the underside of your ass and holding you snug, force your hips to open up all the more. Simon siphons the questioning sound you threaten to let slip with a swallowing kiss when he presses against your hole, groaning into your mouth at the way your cunt flutters around him when he does it—like a trigger.

“Shh, shh-”

“Simon, what are yo- hey-” You thwack your hands against his forearms while he shushes you on and on, making you feel small, your body twisting and squirming in his lap. “Wait- Not there-”

His slick finger circles then breaches the tight rim up to his cuticle—not even reaching a knuckle, but the wind knocks out of you—crooking his finger back and forth steadily.

“Unh- stop, you weirdo-!” You feel like a fool as you flush and squeak out protests without conviction, jolting in his lap and feeling your cunt squeeze around him. The mortification tips your brain into panic and every argument coming from your mouth sounds juvenile, more so playground insults.

He shushes you—again—interrupting your blubbering, and causing your hips to sink back on his finger an inch as you accidentally ease up. Then you clamp up again. “Shh, didn't you wanna make me feel good, luv?” Simon murmurs quietly, grinding you down on his cock while his finger continues to dip in-and-out. “This is it, baby. Just keep ridin' me.”

You make an unintelligible, petulant sound and pout at him in a way that seems to convey how unfair his argument is and call him a cheater—the equivalent of huffing, crossing your arms and stomping your feet. Of course you want to make him feel good!

Relax, baby. Keep going. It'll hurt more if you're tense. His low voice threads through your train of thought, having a strangely sedative effect as you continue to rock your hips on his cock. Your hands fly to his shoulders with a shrill gasp at the stretch when his thick finger enters you completely—the foreign feeling neither painful or pleasurable altogether, but full. Stuffed. Both holes plugged and claimed by him.

It isn't until Simon starts to move his hips again that you realize how wet you've gotten from this, looking down to see your arousal glistening on his body and wetting his trimmed happy trail.

You swallow your discomfort, rocking against him tentatively, your palms splayed out on his waist. The initial dull sensation sharpens to pain when the finger starts to move with purpose, and you stagger, but Simon doesn't let up.

“O-ow-” Your walls flutter around him with each pass as he stretches you out on his finger, more spit added for lubrication and dripping down your ass. “Si, please-”

With a second finger, tears brim on your waterline. Every roll of your hips brings you down on his fingers and his thick shaft all at once, molten hot pleasure coiling in your gut. The smarting pain that his thick, intrusive fingers bring is tempered by the fat cock drilling into your cunt, your creamy folds wrapped around him. The combination of the two sensations seems to confuse your bodily instincts—whether to run from or chase his touch. It makes you dizzy as you burrow in his neck, his shoulder blacking out your vision.

“Oi. I said relax,” he groans at the tightness around his fingers, swatting your ass with his free hand and causing you to flinch. “You'll hurt yourself. Be a good lass f'me, yeah?”

You'll hurt yourself. It's a funny thing, that heady, disorienting feeling when the power dynamics get all mixed up in your head. How convincing he is at pretending you have equal footing, while quite literally holding you in the palm of his hand.

You always go along, of course—letting his choices be yours.

“Good lass,” he croons while fucking his fingers deeper, a rumbly chuckle lodged in his throat as he glances you over reverently, at your compliance. “That's my girl. You're just a bit of a crybaby, innit? Little crybaby with the sweetest cunt. You're alright now. Just had a lil' scare.”

He says all this while pulling his cock out of you, sliding it between your thighs while you flounder in confusion. He wedges it right between the apex of your legs, making you sit on him while he pushes the head towards your fluttering hole and your lips fall open in a silent cry.

“Easy now,” Simon grunts as your tight channel engulfs him. You watch his sweat-damp blond hair fall back against your frilly pillow as he tosses his head back, a hiss slipping through his gritted teeth. Veins stand out angrily along his neck and arms, drawn taut beneath his skin as Simon's thick arms wrap around your thighs.

Your tears track down his chest as you cry his name, your babbling and blubbering muffled. It's a tight fit despite stretching you out, his cock squeezing in inch by inch in a brute-force drive, until the last inch finally pops past your resistance.

You gasp in unison, his thumb wedging past your lips to block the sound before it fully erupts. Salty tears wet your cheeks like pearlescence under the gauzy light filtering through your sheer curtains, the windows carrying the sound of blissfully ignorant chatter downstairs. You dread to imagine the imagine the horror on your family's faces if they saw you right now.

It's a continuous strain of having your orifices occupied by him one way or another, it seems. The taste of his skin overwhelms your mouth as his thumb probes around and delves through your drool, garbled whimpers and gags taking over your cries.

“Bloody hell, you're tight.” Raspy groans slip past his lips as he drags his cock deeper in your clenching asshole, shifting his hips off the bed to fuck into you. The unending strings of praise—So fucking good for me... Y'feel perfect... Gonna make me cum inside—validate the reason why you do this in some dumb way, why you bite your tongue—or his thumb, rather—while he splits your virgin ass open on his cock as a mere means to an end. Getting himself off in your tight heat and relishing the way the muscles milk him. He makes every decision sound like it makes sense.

“Keep it down, luv,” Simon says with a wry laugh, “Don't want them to see you like this, do ya? Whiny little thing.”

You shake your head no while Simon smears your spit across your lips obtrusively—the possibility too mortifying to consider—stammering meekly that it hurts, even though you really can't tell apart the sensations anymore with the pulse in your empty cunt as he fucks your ass. Your cunt leaks onto his lap and you're forced to sit in a pool of your own arousal as he bounces you on his cock, the back of your neck prickling with the embarrassment that the pathetic state you're in with your neglected cunt has gotten you so wet.

“Sh, it'll be over soon.” The reassuring nature of his words are at odds with the feverish tone of his voice, deep, guttural groans brushing past your ear. His thumb is back in your mouth as you can't help but moan, feeling like putty as he nearly pulls you off his cock before shoving your hips back down. The heat in your belly feels wound-up, taut like a bowstring about to snap, the tension spreading to your toes. “Just a few more minutes.”

You cum while collapsing on top of him, his hips snapping up to meet you with an urgency that makes your toes curl, his bulky arms locked around your waist and leaving you with no place to go. Brutish, like a bear-trap trapping you in place. You stifle your voice desperately, Simon's name right on the tip of your tongue.

His hot seed trickles down the cleft of your ass to your inner thigh as he follows suit shortly after, and you feel his hips jerking under you with the waves of his orgasm. Your tight heat milks him through the last spurts, a breathless, strung-out sound punched out of him.

You bury your face in his chest shyly as you feel his big hands fondling your ass and spreading them apart, rubbing your fluttering rim as his milky seed drips out of you. He'd stay inside you forever if it weren't for the party, and he tells you that—unbothered by your embarrassed whine—mourning the heat of you around his cock, and not particularly looking forward to the post-nut clarity after fucking his favorite niece yet again.

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