🔞NSFW🔞

(1) Wink at Bailey at high respect. last sentence needs high lust and skulduggery to show up.

(2) Flip Bailey off at high respect.

(3) Look away

variation for rent day

variation for desperate action

(1) Wink at Bailey at low respect. Flipping them off has the same response.

You have teeth. It’s the weirdest thing Bailey focuses on. Not your mouth, not the strength that threads and coils your body, not even your voice that speaks with that annoying steadiness as if you thought yourself anything but a nobody. No, it’s your teeth that gets him, that enters his brain like an unwanted parasite.

He knows the different angles of your teeth, of the blood drenched in them when you inevitably sink them into whatever unlucky fuck decided to try and get a hand on you. You don’t scream, you don’t call for help or look to anyone with wet eyes because you don’t think to do so. You just know you have teeth, and so you use them.

Bailey’s seen you rip flesh before. Like a wild, rabid animal that he got straight from the woods. But wild animals have voices. They howl, they scream and they growl. They make themselves known, slot their existence into the weaker minds of others with noise. But you? You let your teeth speak for you, let your hands talk a brutal tune, and let your eyes sing their apathy.

Sometimes, Bailey wonders if you remember any of the people you’ve scarred and taken chunks out of. He’s seen the way you’ve run your tongue over your teeth, the way you click them together near Robin’s ear just to scare him. You probably don’t. Why would you? As far as Bailey knows, they don’t matter to you so long as they leave you alone.

And if they don’t, you always turn those teeth right towards the throat.

It’s kinda funny to him that you somehow never killed anyone. At the same time, he wanted to barge into your room and wrap his hands around your throat. Or perhaps tie you up and toss you into the nearest police station because he knows those pigs hate you. But, that ain’t gonna lead anywhere besides more money leaking out of his pockets when you inevitably beat your way out.

Money, and probably his blood too. You don’t like him. You don’t like many things to be honest, hard to please little shit that you are, but you especially don’t like him, and Bailey’s content to keep it that way because why would he care? What matters is that the public think him decent. Not a saint, not a miracle worker, but decent enough. Kindly enough to be ignored, to turn a blind eye to because he likes nothing more than to count his every growing pile of notes.

That’s all he should care about, but when he’s in the middle of flicking through another week’s worth of notes, your teeth inevitably always flash by his head. Canines sinking into reaching fingers, snapping off the delicate joints with the ease of carrot sticks. Made Bailey’s own fingers ache and suddenly he can’t concentrate on his beloved numbers anymore.

…why sugarcoat it at all? Give you one bad day, one stupid idiot muttering his name like you were some empty-headed doll, and you’ll come right into his office and take all his fingers. Like he’d let you, but the idea would never leave and you wouldn’t stop. Not for anything, and he isn’t about to empty his own pockets just to sick someone on you. Get an extra goon just for you.

He’s not afraid of you and you’re not anything special. But you are trouble, and that Bailey is familiar with.

…he could get someone to bust your teeth, and have someone else pay extra to get a gummy, bloody blowjob. He could collect your teeth and have them plated in gold, arrange them in some fucked up sculpture to sell. At least then he could extract some worth from you after years of leeching off of him.

A good night’s sleep, that’s all Bailey wants. He can’t remember the last time he had a solid night of rest. Tonight seems to be shaping up to be the same as every night before it. Dozing off on the run down couch in his office, only to be woken by the scream of one of his many wards, having to rip perverts off them who hadn’t paid Bailey his due. That, or the nightmares. How many times had he had to wake up a screaming brat, thrashing in their sleep because their dumb little brains had decided to give them a fright? More than he’d care to admit. Then, it's back to paperwork and trying to get his shitbox computer to work because, for all his flaws, he knows himself well enough that it’ll take hours for him to fall back asleep.

Just his piss poor luck that he hears a bang from upstairs right as he’s about to finally drop off. 

Bailey doesn’t have to go far to find the source of the noise. There you are, the bane of his fucking existence, stumbling down the stairs.

You look at him, and he can tell something is wrong. It’s in how you hold yourself, in how your breaths come quick and hard. He’s been in this hell hole of a town to know exactly how you’ve fucked yourself. Your pupils blown wide, a thin sheen of sweat glazing your skin, and, the dead give away, the outline of your cock straining against the thin fabric of your sleeping shorts. Stimulants. You’ve gone and overdosed on stimulants, like the moron Bailey always knew you were.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, brat?” He hisses the question, and you blink dumbly back at him. Sighing, he runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. This was gonna be a long fucking night. 

Taking a trembling step towards the caretaker, he thinks, for a moment, that you’re going to beg him for help. He’d like to see it, he’d like to see you, the thorn in his side you are, sinking down to your knees, sobbing, clinging to his leg as you babbled about being sorry for always being such a pain if he could make the burning need he knew the drugs induced stop.

He’s wrong.

To his chagrin, you catch him by surprise. One moment he’s staring down the most annoying brat he’s ever had the misfortune to house, the next his head is bouncing off the cold floor with a sickening crack. 

Black dots skitter across his vision, the ability to hear momentarily lost as his ears fill with static. 

Bailey expects more pain, for your fist to connect with his face. Even high off the stimulants, he expects you to hurt him. He’s not a kind man, he knows this. He knows you must despise him just as much as he does you. It’s why he braces himself, and why he’s too stunned to stop you when you start tugging at his clothes instead of clawing at his skin.

He’s only wearing a pair of old sweatpants, something comfortable for his long, restless nights. Burning fingers delve under the waistband, twist and pull, stitches creaking, as you drag the fabric down. 

It’s when your hand wraps around his soft cock that he snaps into action, starts to push you off him. But, the stimulants have driven you feral and the hit to his head leaves him with a weak grip.  It’s with a freakish strength you pin him. Your face hovers above his, eyes wild, skin burning.

“Just…” your voice trails off, words slurred as you try to focus on Bailey’s face. His hand wraps around your thigh, attempting to pull you off but he can’t quite get his body to obey his mind. Instead, he just squeezes your overheated skin, your body shivering at the touch. “Just…I need…” You groan low, collapsing forward, still managing to keep Bailey stuck in place as you tuck your face into the crook of his neck. 

A hardness presses against his thigh. 

There's a singular moment where Bailey's mind goes blank. The air feels heavier, stuffy, full of dust and rot. No longer is the night quiet, save your labored breaths. Whines of others fill his ears. He understands what's happening, understands your cock pressed against his thigh, your skin burning his, your hand feverishly working his dick. It doesn't take a genius. 

Bailey shakes his head, hard enough that you let out a disgruntled grunt, hard enough to shake those memories back into the corner of his brain he kept them locked in. You wrench back from him, eyes dark as they flick down to his slowly hardening cock.

“I hate you.” Your voice is soft, loose. Nearly inaudible, even as Bailey lays dizzy under you. “Hate you so much,” you mumble, tone almost like a lover's if you didn't punctuate the word with a sneer. 

Your thumb rolls over the tip of his cock, collecting some of the precum that had started to leak against his will, before digging into his slit. Bailey sucks in a harsh breath, once again trying to buck you off him to no avail. Worse of all, a low groan sounds in the back of his throat, pleasure edged in pain as you continue to jerk him roughly. 

“Your…fault,” you manage between labored breaths. It takes Bailey far too long to process your words. It's almost comforting, knowing there's something wrong with him, his thoughts moving sluggishly. It's a confirmation, a blessing, to know that, if his head hadn't slammed into the floor, none of this would be happening. Because, otherwise, he might have to admit that it wasn't just his body's natural reaction. He might have to admit, even if just to himself, that he liked having you on top of him, liked that it was your hand around his cock, even in these fucked circumstances. “Your fucking fault.”

He’s had thoughts like this before. Quiet fantasies in the dead of night when his mind couldn't reset. Not like this exactly, not you forcing him down, but still you. For all the difficulties you cause him, all the shit you've stirred up, he'd still let those thoughts linger. The thought of you on top of him, under him. How you'd feel, taste, sound if he had you squealing for him. If he could fuck you into some type of submission, into promising to be better behaved. 

Bailey has no idea how you got your dick out and managed to keep him pinned at the same time, but you do. It feels strange, another man's bare cock resting against his thigh, hot and heavy, twitching while precum leaked onto his skin. 

He tries to move again, each action taking monumental effort, only to go still. Sparks of pain skitter down his spine as the grip on his cock tightens. God, he'd raised a mean lil shit. 

“Ever…” your voice trails off, as your hips seemingly move of their own accord, idly rutting your throbbing cock against his thigh. More precum dribbles out, staining his skin, easing your movement. Even in his impaired state, Bailey can almost see you fighting through the haze of the stimulants. Your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut as you let out a soft sigh. Something in his stomach twists at the sight of the column of your throat, at the soft sound, your grip on his dick faltering for just a second. 

You snap back to yourself, gaze intense as you catch his dark eyes. “Ever taken it up the ass before?”

He’s not even fully aware of how his lips curl back, teeth flashing in the dim light of the hall. Bailey tries to speak, tries to snap at you to get the fuck off him. The only word he manages to get out is a wheezed brat.  He must have hit his head harder than he thought, something that would worry him if an icy pit hadn’t formed in his stomach at your words.

You drop his cock, hand driving down to squeeze his ball, the tip of a finger tracing his rim. His grip on your thighs tightens enough to leave bruises in the shape of his hands later.  

“Don’t,” you shudder, eyes rolling back again for a split second. Then, you lean down over him, face filling his view, nowhere to look but into your frenzied eyes. “Don’t worry,” you sigh against his lips. “You might’ve raised me b-but,” you pause, another shiver racking your body, spurt of hot precum painting his thigh, “but I’m no monster. Not like you.” 

You shift up, pressing your mouth to his. Not only that, but, as your tongue curls around his, your hand returns to his dick, your cock joining his in the tight grip of your fist. 

His brian short circuits. 

Bailey will blame it on how hard he hit his head. He’ll blame the aftertaste of stimulants on your tongue. He’ll blame the position of the moon, the alignment of the stars, anything and everything else before acknowledging the soft sound that escapes him as you pump your cocks together. 

You’d worked enough precum out of the caretaker to coat your palm, filling the air with sloppy, lewd sounds with each pump of your fist. They burn in Bailey’s ears, something he’s sure he’ll remember for ages to come. Hips jerking, you start to fuck your fist. Bailey’s not sure if it’s you or him who grones louder as the underside of your shaft drags against the top of his. The pad of your thumb rolls over the head of his cock again, pressing down against the weeping slit. Through it all, your mouth stays pressed to his. 

He’ll cum soon. He can feel the build up, the tightening in his balls, the twist in his stomach. Bailey squeezes your thighs, nails digging into your flesh, blood welling up beneath them. You respond, biting down hard on his bottom lip. Rust drowns out your taste in his mouth. 

That’s what pushes him over the edge. Hot cum spills over your hand, onto Bailey’s stomach. You pull back, eyes still strange, his blood smeared across your lips as your hips keep moving. Your grip constricts around the two cocks, pressure near unbearable on his sensitive prick as you chase your own end. 

Thankfully, you don't last much longer. You let out a strangled groan as your cum mixes with his, shuddering as the effects of the stimulants finally  start to subside. 

It's as your body starts to relax that Bailey manages to push you off him. You land on the floor with a soft thump, seemingly content to stay there, or maybe unable to move, as he staggers to his feet. The world shifts around him, the ringing returning to his ears. Every movement feels like he’s wading through jelly as he fixes his clothes, leans against a wall for support.  

You’re still laying on the ground, panting with your eyes closed. You don’t make a move to sit up, to scurry away, to even tuck away your softening cock. Slowly, your lids flutter open, and you give Bailey a hazy grin. “Enjoy yourself?” You hold up your cum coated hand, waving it mockingly.

Bailey swings his leg back, aiming to kick you in the ribs, only to hit air as you roll away with a laugh. His foot slams back onto the floor as his head spins at the sudden movement. Fuck, he better not need to see a doctor. 

As Bailey steadies himself, you pick yourself up from the floor, righting your clothes. You’re out the back door before he can even think about stopping you. 

Swearing under his breath, Bailey staggers back into his office. Little shit. He’ll have to punish you later, maybe even drag you off to one of his business partners. Though, it wouldn’t be as satisfying as doing it himself.