Fanfic I Love

Karen introduced you to Frank Castle on a Tuesday, and afterward you blamed her for it constantly. At first, he was just the terrifying guy who showed up at her apartment bleeding half to death and refusing medical help like it was a personality trait. You thought he was rude. He thought you talked too much. Karen thought you were both idiots almost immediately.

But then Frank kept showing up. Always with some excuse. Information for Matt. Coffee for Karen. Food nobody asked for. And somehow he always lingered longer when you were there too. You fell for him slowly.

In stupid little pieces.

The way he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. The way he automatically walked closest to the street at night. The way his giant terrifying self softened every time you laughed at one of his dry muttered jokes like he couldn’t help it.

And Frank— God.

Frank fell hard.

Karen noticed first.

“You’re staring again,” she told him one night while you sat on the floor stealing fries from the takeout container in your lap.

“I ain’t starin’.”

“You absolutely are." Frank looked at you like you were something dangerous in the best possible way. Like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to. That was the thing about him. He never pushed.

Not once.

You dated other guys before Frank. Plenty. But they always got impatient eventually. Always acted like sex was some finish line they deserved to cross if they waited long enough. So you kept saying no. And after enough bad experiences, the fear just… stayed. Frank never made you feel guilty for it. The two of you became disgustingly affectionate anyway. Constantly touching. Your legs over his lap on the couch. His hand at your back guiding you through crowds. Falling asleep tangled together during movies. Stealing his shirts. Sitting between his knees while he cleaned guns and listening to him grumble about your taste in music. But every time things almost turned sexual, panic crept in. And every single time, Frank stopped immediately. One night he walked you home and looked at your mouth long enough to make your knees weak.

“If I kiss you,” he asked quietly, “you tellin’ me to stop?” You panicked. And Frank stepped back instantly like your comfort mattered more than breathing. That was probably when you realized you loved him. Not because he wanted you. Because he didn’t need anything from you to stay.

----------

You stand in the bedroom, pacing back and forth, chewing on your thumb.

God, you feel so stupid.

Your heart is pounding hard enough to make your ribs ache. You’ve faced armed men before. You’ve patched bullet wounds with shaking hands. You’ve stared down monsters and lived through it. And somehow this is worse. Because this is Frank.

Frank, who kisses your shoulder every morning without fail.

Frank, who drapes himself over you on the couch like a weighted blanket because he knows you secretly love it.

Frank, who always reaches for your hand first in crowded places.

Frank, who has spent months loving you with his entire body while carefully avoiding the one line you kept drawing between you.

Not because you hated touch.

God, no.

You’re practically glued to him half the time. You sit in his lap while he cleans guns. Fall asleep with your face in his neck. Steal his shirts and crawl into his arms every night like it’s instinct. And the need that crawls inside your skin when you see him shirtless, or doing anything with his hands- god. It's insatiable.

But sex— Sex always felt different to you.

Too vulnerable.

Too permanent.

Too much.

And every guy before Frank eventually got tired of waiting. Some were patient at first. Most pretended to be. Then came the guilt trips. The sighs. The passive-aggressive comments. The inevitable: What, you don’t trust me?

And eventually, somehow, time just… kept passing. Until suddenly you were here.

A grown virgin.

In Frank’s apartment.

In Frank’s clothes.

Hopelessly in love with a man who has never once made you feel bad for being scared. Which honestly makes this so much harder. You stop pacing long enough to stare at yourself in the mirror.

“You are a grown woman,” you mutter weakly. The reflection looks unconvinced. From the living room, you hear the low murmur of the TV and the faint clink of a beer bottle against the coffee table. Frank’s home from a job. Showered already. Clean black t-shirt. Gray sweats hanging low on his hips. You know because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying not to think about it. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Fuck it.

Before you can lose your nerve, you walk out into the living room. Frank’s sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched across the back cushions, beer balanced against his stomach while some old war documentary drones quietly from the television. The second he sees you hovering there, he frowns slightly.

“You alright, baby?” he asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank immediately sits up straighter.

“That bad, huh?” You blurt it before you lose your nerve.

“Frank, I want to have sex with you.” Frank spits beer all over himself. You jump backward as he starts choking violently.

“Jesus Christ—”

“Oh my God.” He’s coughing hard enough his face turns red.

“Sorry-shit-” Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at you like you just confessed to arson. “You—what?” Your face burns.

“Well now I regret bringin’ it up.”

“No, hold on.” He sets the beer down carefully like sudden movements might scare you off. “What?” You groan and cover your face.

“This is humiliating.”

“Sweetheart.” His voice softens immediately. “C’mere.” You shake your head aggressively.

“No, because now you’re gonna look at me weird.”

“I have literally never looked at you weird a day in my life.”

“You absolutely have.”

“Okay, fair. But not for this.” You peek at him through your fingers. Frank still looks stunned. Not upset. Not uncomfortable. Just deeply confused. “You wanna…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “With me?”

“Frank, there are no other people in this apartment.”

“That ain’t what I mean.” You know that. Your stomach twists violently. Frank studies you carefully now, all teasing gone.

“I thought you didn’t want that stuff,” he says gently. “And I was okay with that.”

“I do want it.”

“Then why’ve you looked ready to bolt every time things got heated?” Your face gets hotter.

“Because I’ve never done it before.” Silence. Frank blinks once.

“…done what before?” You stare at the floor.

“Any of it.” Another beat. Then:

“…Baby.” You want the earth to swallow you whole.

“I’m a virgin, okay? I've never been kissed, never been touched by anyone except myself. ” you blurt out finally. “And before you make a face about it—”

“I ain’t makin’ a face.”

“You are internally.”

“I’m really not.” You risk a glance up. He genuinely isn’t. He just looks… shocked.

“You never—?”

“No.”

“And nobody ever—?”

“No.” Frank leans back slowly against the couch cushions like he just got hit with something.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I know. God, i'm so fucking embarassing.”

“No, sweetheart, I just—” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I thought maybe you just weren’t comfortable with physical intimacy.” You snort nervously.

“I’m literally attached to your spine twenty-four hours a day.”

“That’s true.”

“I love physical stuff.” Your voice gets smaller. “I just… wanted my first time to actually mean something.” Frank goes very still at that. “And all the guys before you kept acting like they deserved it eventually because they waited long enough.” You shrug tightly. “So I kept saying no.” Something ugly flashes across Frank’s face. Not at you. Never at you. At them.

“I’m gonna need names,” he mutters darkly. Despite everything, you laugh.

“No, you absolutely do not.”

“They sound annoyin’.”

“They were.” A silence settles between you. Not awkward. Just… full. Frank looks at you for a long second, something almost painful softening his face.

“You know I’d wait forever, right?” he says quietly. Your chest aches instantly.

“I know.”

“And I mean forever.”

“I know.”

“You don’t gotta prove anythin’ to me.” Your throat tightens.

“That’s kinda the problem,” you admit softly. Frank frowns slightly.

“What d’you mean?”

You stare down at your hands.

“I mean…” God. “I’m not doing this because I feel pressured.” Your voice gets quieter. “I’m doing it because I’m in love with you and I trust you and I think about you constantly.” Frank exhales sharply.

“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tryin’ real hard to keep actin’ normal.” Your stomach flips. You walk closer to him, just so he can drag you to stand between his legs, his hands on your waist. You force yourself to keep talking before fear catches up again.

“I think about you kissing me,” you admit quietly. “And touching me.” Your face burns hotter. “And I think about your hands a lot, which honestly feels medically concerning at this point.” Frank makes a strangled sound. You look up just in time to see him drag a hand over his face.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps.

“And I know I’m late to all this and weird about it and probably overthinking everything—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through immediately. Firm. “None of that.” You stop. Frank leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying intensity he gets when he means something completely. “There is nothin’ wrong with you.” Emotion punches straight through your chest. He softens instantly seeing your face change.

“C’mere,” he says quietly. This time, you go immediately. Frank catches you the second you lean into him, pulling you straight into his lap like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around your waist automatically, warm and solid and safe, and you bury your face in his neck with a shaky breath.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly against your hair. You cling harder.

“I’m nervous.”

“I know.”

“You still want me?” Frank actually leans back enough to look offended.

“Baby, I have wanted you since the second you yelled at me in Karen’s kitchen for bleeding on her floor.” A startled laugh escapes you.

“You remember that?”

“You threatened me with a mop.”

“You were bleeding everywhere.”

“And I still thought you were cute.” You groan into his shoulder.

“This is awful.”

“No,” he says softly, one hand sliding up your back. “This is you trustin’ me.” His thumb strokes slowly along your spine.

“You sure about this?” he asks quietly. You nod against him.

“Yeah.”

“And if you change your mind at any point?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“And then we stop."

“Yes.” Frank studies your face carefully for another second. Then his hand slides gently into your hair.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. Your heart practically stops. You nod once.

“Yeah.” Frank closes the distance so gently you almost don’t feel it at first—just the soft, rough drag of his thumb along your jaw, then his lips, warm and chapped, brushing yours. It’s not the kind of kiss you expected from Frank. You were bracing for a car wreck, something bruising and violent, the way he is on a job. But it’s nothing like that. He kisses you so slow, so careful, like you might shatter. You don’t shatter. Not exactly. But the sensation is so intense you feel yourself splitting open from the inside out. His hand cups the back of your head, steadying you. He pulls back barely an inch.

“You okay?” Voice low, hoarse. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you push forward, mouth crashing into his, desperate for the centrifugal force he’s been holding back. He lets you, lets you climb messily into his lap, lets you fist your hands in his shirt. And when your tongue nudges against his, Frank gives a little grunt and opens for you, just a hair, just enough. Every nerve in your body catches fire. You’d thought, maybe, that the first time would feel awkward. Like taking a test you never studied for. But Frank makes it easy. He keeps checking in with you, saying your name between kisses, grounding you with his hands, never letting you get lost in the panic of it. At some point, you realize you’re straddling his thighs and he’s got one palm splayed wide over your lower back, the other bracing your jaw, like he’s afraid you’ll tip out of gravity if he ever lets go.

“You still good?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you say, and it comes out as a gasp. You’re trembling. Not with fear—the opposite. You want to crawl out of your skin. Frank’s hands are on your hips now, then under your shirt,dragging slow up your ribs. He keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, like he’s reading your mind. When his thumb sweeps over one nipple, you arch so hard you nearly headbutt him. He huffs a tiny laugh, then grins, wide and wolfish.

“Sensitive?”

“Shut up.” He does, at least for a second. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast. He peppers all of it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that threaten to melt your brain. He lifts the hoodie up and off in one slow motion, and you almost laugh at yourself for being nervous; it’s just Frank, looking at you like he’s been starving and you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted.

“Christ,” he says, low and reverent, and runs a thumb just under the swell of your breast, gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll spook. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, and the words go straight to your cunt. You whine, grinding down against him on instinct, and he groans, hands darting out to steady you. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part for him. You feel his hands everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—steadying you, coaxing you closer. His touch is a little rough around the edges, always bordering on too much, but never quite crossing the line. He’s so careful with you it almost breaks your heart. He pulls back long enough to look you up and down, like he’s memorizing you. There’s a heat in his eyes that makes you shiver, but it’s the possessiveness that really undoes you. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him see you like this.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, low and rough, and you nearly combust. You can’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck. He likes it, you can tell, because he keeps pressing you closer, like he wants to crawl inside your skin.

“Can I touch you?” you whisper. You don’t even recognize your own voice, breathy and shaking. Frank’s face goes soft, like you just handed him a live wire and told him to hold it for you.

“Baby, you can do whatever you want to me.” He grins, then kisses you again, slow and deep, while guiding your hands under his shirt. You run your fingers over his chest, all scars and muscle and heat. His skin is hot to the touch, the steady beat of his heart pounding under your palms. You dig your nails in, just a little, and Frank makes a sound that’s half-growl, half-moan, like he’s straining not to just take you apart right there.

“You good?” he asks again, voice ragged. You nod, then remember to say it:

“Yeah. Yes. I’m good—you’re…” You can’t finish the sentence, so you just kiss him again. It feels less scary now, more inevitable, like gravity. He lets you push him back against the couch, your thighs tight around his waist. His hands slip from your ribs to your ass, squeezing gently, like he’s testing how much you can take. You whimper, hips jerking forward, rubbing against the hard line of him through his sweats. Frank curses, low and frantic, and you get drunk on the sound.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he pants. “Gotta slow down or I’m gonna blow it before we even start.”

“Don’t slow down,” you say. “I want—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. Frank does it for you.

“You want me?” He’s grinning, but his eyes are almost desperate.

“Yes,” you say. “Frank, I want you.” Something in him snaps. He reaches down, clearing his throat as he taps your thighs.

“Sit up, baby.” He hums. You lean forward, sitting up on your knees. His hands are slow and careful as they pull down your shorts, and you bite your bottom lip as he softly coaxes it off your legs. Your wet cunt soaks through your panties, and when you sit back down on his sweatpants, that extra barrier of tissue removed makes the strain in his pants much bigger against you. He’s hard as hell now, and you can feel the heat of him even through his boxers. Your thighs tremble. The air in the apartment seems thinner, more electric. Frank’s hands run reverently up your thighs, slow, no rush, but the tension in his arms says he’s holding himself back. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel safe.

“Gonna take these off, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb sliding under the band of your panties. He’s watching your face, checking for panic. There isn’t any. Not anymore. You nod, and he peels them down, slow, exposing you inch by inch. When the fabric finally drags off your ankles, you’re left straddling his lap, bare except for your tank top, skin goosepimpled and desperate. Frank’s hands splay wide over the soft meat of your ass, kneading you, warm and solid. He guides you forward, grinding you down against the bulge of his cock, and you gasp. The friction’s almost too much. Not enough. You can feel yourself slick up, can see it glistening on his gray sweats when you grind on him again.

“Fuck, look at you,” Frank rasps, voice tight. “So fuckin’ wet, baby.” Your face should be burning, but you just want more. You want him everywhere. You want to come apart all over him. It makes you brave.

“Can I see you?” you whisper, hands curling under the hem of his shirt. Frank doesn’t answer. He just lifts his arms, lets you peel the shirt up and off, revealing the wild scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle , the old bullet wound you once stitched shut with trembling hands. You run your fingertips over every inch, tracing him like you’re memorizing a map you’ll never get to visit again. He shivers under your touch.

“God,” you murmur, awe in your voice. He grins, lopsided and a little shy, and pulls you in for another kiss. This one’s dirtier—the way his tongue drags over yours, the way his hands squeeze your waist, the press of his cock as he grinds up into you. He’s leaking through his boxers now, hot and slick, and you rub yourself shamelessly against it, chasing the friction. Frank groans, deep and desperate.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he breathes. “We got time.” You don’t know how you’ll survive it. He nudges your thighs apart, makes a show of looking down at the space between your bodies. All his focus is on you: on your bare knees bracketing his hips, the hungry, worshipful way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. It’s more than he deserves, and he wants to say something gentle to you, but all that comes out is a low,

“Fuck, baby. You’re drivin’ me crazy.” You laugh, but it’s nervous, hands trembling a little as you brace them on his shoulders. Frank has to slow down, to make sure his hands are steady as he slides them up and down your sides. You’re soaking wet—so wet the slick’s already darkened the front of his sweats, and his cock is straining, thick and angry, beneath the fabric. The look on your face terrifies and thrills him, like you’re balancing right on the edge of a rooftop, dizzy from the height and the want. He wants to say something to make it easier.

“Hey. We can stop anytime, you hear me?” He cups your face in one big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You nod, but the motion’s a little frantic, like you’re trying to prove you’re not scared. He’s never seen anyone so fucking brave.

“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, voice shaking, “I just—” You squeeze your eyes shut, like you’re embarrassed. Your hands dig into his shoulders. “Frank, I don’t know what to do.” He nods, softly guiding your hands down to his sweats. He kisses your temple.

“Take these off.” Your hands fumble at the waistband, palms slick, vision swimming with nerves and need. You hook your fingers under the elastic and pull, unsure, but he lifts his hips to help and the gray cotton peels away easy as a wish. His cock springs free, heavy, flushed, the head slicked already, and you stare, breath burning in your throat.

He’s… god, he’s big.

You don’t even have enough data points to compare, but your brain still tries, and it short-circuits. Frank watches you with a patience that’s almost predatory, like he’s holding himself together with staples and baling wire. His hand covers yours, guiding it, and you curl your fingers delicately around the shaft. He hisses, jaw clenched, and the muscles in his thighs jump against your knees. Your thumb drags along the vein, and god, it’s hot, how responsive he is. How it makes him shudder.

“You’re a quick study,” Frank murmurs, voice gone low and rough. “Jesus.” He slides his hand up your thigh, kneading gently, and then reaches between them, thumb brushing over you where you’re soaked and swollen. The touch is electric, makes you jerk forward, grinding against his cock. The head bumps you clit, and you whimper, dizzy with it. He holds you by the hip, steadying, anchoring.

“You want to keep going, baby?” You nod, frantic and eager. He grins, but there’s an edge to it; it looks like he might snap in half from wanting her. You bite your bottom lip, face flushed. Frank’s watching your face hard.

“Hey. You okay?” You nod, eyes never leaving him. He’s so solid. So alive. The kind of body that absorbs bullets and wins bar fights and breaks things for a living. You want it inside you. That realization hits so hard it makes you whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek, hand gentle as it cups your jaw, pulling you back to him for a kiss. “Don’t gotta do anything you don’t want,” he rumbles. “Just say the word.” You shake your head.

“I want to. I just…” The words get stuck in your throat, so you scrape them out: “I don’t want to be bad at it.” Frank actually laughs, low, delighted.

“You’re not gonna be bad at anything, baby. Not with me.” He pulls you in and the kiss goes molten, needier, his hands anchoring your hips and rocking you down against his cock, bare now, the heat and velvet of it dizzying between your legs. He groans into your mouth, one hand finding your thigh and urging it higher, opening you more. The stretch is intense but perfect; you want to be wrecked by him, want to feel it for days. He strokes his thumb up and down your thigh and says, almost reverent,

“You’re dripping.” You hide your face in his neck, mortified, but his hand finds your hair and tugs you back, just a little, so you have to look at him. “Nothin’ to be nervous about,” he says softly. “This is supposed to feel good, sweetheart. Let me make it good for you.” You nod, not trusting your voice. Frank sucks in a harsh breath and lines himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, rubbing slow circles right at your entrance. You see stars. Every part of you is wound so tight you feel like a strummed string.

“Gonna go slow, okay?” he murmurs. He’s all gentleness, which would piss you off if you weren’t so desperate for it. His cock pushes in, just the tip at first, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for something to hold. There’s an ache, deep and unfamiliar, but it’s not bad. Not really. Frank watches your face, waiting for a flinch, for a stop, but you just nod and grind down, needing more. He exhales sharp, lets you take him another inch. Then another.

“There you go,” he says, voice a rumble in your chest, “you’re doing so good—shit, better than good, you’re doing fuckin’ amazing.” The pain is blinding. Stars explode behind your eyes, your eyes clenched shut. You’re clinging to him, shaking, every muscle locked up with that dizzying, too-much pressure. Your nails dig into his shoulders so hard he thinks he’ll feel them for days. The pain-pleasure blend is exquisite. Frank moves slow, gives you time, lets you adjust, but it’s still a stretch—he’s not small, and your body’s never done this before. He cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the spot just under your ear.

“Breathe, baby. That’s it. You’re doin’ perfect. All you gotta do is breathe for me.” You nod, jaw clenched, and force yourself to inhale. The ache eases a little, edges softening, and then you’re not so much impaled as full.

So, so full.

Like Frank is the only thing holding you to the world now, insides stretched almost to breaking, but in a way that makes you feel alive and forged. He’s not moving, just letting you get used to it. You try to shift, testing the fit, and holy shit, it’s… you have no words. It’s everything. His patience is infuriating and tender at once.

“Hurts?” he asks, all concern and hands.

“Yeah. But… not bad.” You burrow against him, seeking his pulse with your lips, needing the distraction. “Just—give me a second.” He does. He’d sit here all night if you needed, hold you open and safe, and never ask for more than you could give. But it doesn’t take long.

You’re greedy beneath the nerves, hips rolling forward for more before you’re halfway ready. Frank groans, the sound vibrating through her whole body, and drops his head back against the couch. His hands find your waist, bracing you, guiding every tentative movement. He’s letting you control this, but he’s not shy about what he wants, either; he helps you set a rhythm, each grind down taking him deeper, your slickness making it easier with every slow, careful stroke. Frank’s hands steady your hips, anchoring you to him, and every measured inch you take feels like the world dividing into before and after. Your thighs tremble, every muscle in yout legs a live wire; your knees dig into the worn cushion, and you’tr sure there will be bruises tomorrow, bruises shaped like Frank’s hands and your own hunger. You can’t imagine anything more perfect.

It’s all so much. Too much, and not enough. Every time you rocks your hips down, he lets you take what you want, but the stretch is so heavy it’s almost dizzying. Your breath comes out in little, shaky bursts, and your hands scrabble for purchase—his shoulders, the rough line of his jaw, the knotted muscle of his biceps. He likes that, you can tell by the way his whole body goes taut when she squeezes. You lose yourself in the mess of it, in the heat pressed chest-to-chest, in the pulse of his cock inside you, in the rasp of his voice when he says your name. You’re barely moving, just grinding yourself down, but it’s everything. Every inch you take feels like a little victory. Frank’s patience is a living thing, the tension in his arms shaking by the second, and the only way he lets it show is the bite of his fingers into you skin and the scruff of his jaw brushing you cheek.

“Attagirl,” he rumbles, voice shredded. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” You whimper, overwhelmed. The pain’s still there, but smaller now, a bright spot eclipsed by the full, shuddering pleasure carving up your spine. You shift your hips forward again and the angle changes and—oh—your thighs lock up with the shock of it. You gasp, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hair falling between your faces. Frank groans, arms squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe, and the sound is so raw, so animal, you want to cry. You try to move, to find a rhythm, but it’s awkward at first, your body still learning the mechanics. Frank seems to sense it, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hip bones, talking you through it with broken little instructions.

“Just like that,” he says, his hand guiding the small of your back. “Easy, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He moves with you, not against, and suddenly it clicks, your hips rolling forward and up, down, forward and up, and his cock—God, it’s so deep—rubs along something inside you that makes your whole body lock up. You cry out, surprised. Frank’s teeth find your shoulder, biting down just enough to ground you, and then he’s kissing the spot, like an apology.

“Good?” he grits out, barely holding on. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you rock down harder, desperate for more. The friction is brutal, the stretch never-ending, and you want it to last forever and end now, all at once. You grab his face in both hands and kisses him, messy, desperate, Your tears breaking loose and trailing down your nose onto his face. Frank's breath hitches, and for a second, you think you've broken him. His whole body goes rigid under you, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he's trying to crawl inside you through your mouth. One of his hands slides up your back, fisting in your hair, holding you in place while the other grips your hip, guiding you into a rhythm that's less tentative and more purposeful.

"Fuck, baby," he pants against your lips. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob. You're overwhelmed—by the sensation, by the emotion, by the sheer Frankness of it all. He's everywhere. His scent, his taste, the feel of his scarred skin under your hands, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear. It's a sensory overload that threatens to short-circuit your brain.

"Frank," you whimper, burying your face in his neck again. "I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he growls, cutting you off. He shifts his hips, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, slow and deliberate. The drag of him against your inner walls is exquisite, a perfect, friction-filled agony that makes your toes curl. "Feel that? That's you takin' me. That's you, sweetheart. All you." You nod, but it's a frantic, desperate motion. You're chasing something, a feeling building deep in your belly, a coil of heat that gets tighter with every thrust. Frank seems to sense it, his movements becoming a little more forceful, a little more confident. He's still letting you set the pace, but he's not just a passive participant anymore. He's an active force, a storm you're willingly riding.

"God, you're tight," he grits out, his voice strained. "So fuckin' tight for me. Squeezin' me so good." His words are filthy, but his tone is reverent, and the combination is heady. It makes you feel powerful, desired, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. You rock your hips faster, matching his rhythm, the awkwardness of before replaced by a desperate, primal need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a vulgar, beautiful symphony that's all yours. Frank's hands are everywhere now—one gripping your ass, the other sliding up your back to trace the line of your spine. He's mapping you, claiming you, and you've never felt more seen. Your head falls back and Frank lets out a low guttural groan, his hands squeezing your waist to help you grind against you harder.

The new angle is a revelation. It’s like he’s found a secret switch inside you, one you didn’t even know existed. The head of his cock drags against a spot so sensitive, so electric, that a sharp cry tears from your throat. Your back arches, a deep, involuntary curve that presses your breasts against his chest, and your hands fly from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, holding on for dear life.

“Jesus,” Frank grunts, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face. “Right there, huh? Found it.” He doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds like a hunter who’s finally cornered his prey. He does it again, a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips that sends a shockwave of pure, unadulterated bliss through your entire system.

Your answer is a broken moan, your hips moving on their own now, chasing that feeling, chasing him. The rhythm is frantic, messy, desperate. You’re no longer thinking, no longer worrying about being good at it or doing it right. You’re just feeling. Every nerve ending is on fire, every muscle in your body strung tight as a bowstring. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy pressure that promises an explosion.

“Frank, Frank, Frank,” you chant his name like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain can still form. It’s a plea and a praise all at once.

“I got you, baby,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of letting you lead. His hands are bruising on your hips now, his grip the only thing keeping you grounded as you start to lose yourself to the sensation. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body on fire as your hands slide up to tangle in his hair.

You've only ever come on your own fingers.

This.. This feels different.

The pressure building in your stomach is tighter, more feral.

It’s not a wave you can ride out. It’s a dam breaking. A fault line splitting open. The pressure in your stomach doesn't just crest; it detonates. A sharp, guttural cry is ripped from your throat as your entire body seizes, your back bowing so violently you’re surprised you don’t snap in two. Your inner walls clamp down on him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that you have no control over, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot static of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your eyes go wide, at the feeling, thinking something is wrong.

"Oh my god, Frank- I - I might- I don't-"

"No, no, baby, hey, look at me." Frank's voice cuts through your panic, rough with his own impending release but sharp with command. His hands leave your hips, one flying up to cup your jaw, forcing your wide, terrified eyes to meet his. "It's not wrong. You're not wrong. You're just feelin' it. Let it happen. That's it, that's the good part." His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, a frantic, grounding motion.

"Don't fight it. Jesus Christ, don't you fuckin' fight it, just let go." Frank’s name is a shattered gasp on your lips as you shatter, your nails digging into his scalp, your body convulsing with the force of it. It’s endless, a series of crippling, ecstatic spasms that wrack you from the inside out, leaving you a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.

“Fuck,” Frank snarls, the sound torn from his own chest as your orgasm drags him over the edge with you. The tight, milking grip of your cunt is too much, a final, perfect torment. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, desperate groan, his hips jerking as he pours himself into you. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release, a deep, primal claiming that seems to go on forever, his body shuddering against yours with the force of it. For a long, stretched-out moment, you’re both frozen, locked together in the eye of the storm. The only sounds are the frantic, ragged pulls of your breaths and the frantic hammering of his heart against your ribs. You’re limp, a dead weight in his lap, every muscle liquefied, your brain a blissful, static-filled void. You’ve never felt so completely wrecked. So completely whole.

Your entire body is spasming in his grip.

Frank’s breathing is still ragged against your throat, his arms locked around you like if he loosens his grip for even a second you’ll disappear. Your whole body trembles uncontrollably, tiny aftershocks rippling through your thighs and stomach, and he notices every single one.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice wrecked soft now. “Easy, sweetheart. I got you.” His palm slides up and down your spine slowly, grounding you back into your body piece by piece. You’re still shaking so hard your teeth almost chatter. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this exposed before. Not physically.

Emotionally.

Frank presses a kiss to your damp temple, then another to your cheek, slower this time. Careful. Like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he just set on fire.

“You okay?” he asks again quietly. You nod weakly against his shoulder.

“I think my soul left my body.” That earns a rough little laugh out of him. The sound vibrates warm against your skin.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Mine too.” Your muscles finally start unlocking enough for you to realize how boneless you’ve gone in his lap. Frank shifts carefully beneath you with a low grunt, one hand rubbing your thigh.

“C’mere,” he says softly. “Lemme clean you up.” You make a tiny noise of protest when he helps lift you off him. The sudden emptiness makes you whine before you can stop yourself, legs trembling violently the second your knees touch the mattress. Frank freezes like the sound nearly killed him.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. You bury your burning face in his shoulder immediately.

“Don’t.”

“No, sweetheart, you don’t get it,” he says, sounding half tortured. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna need another minute.”

“You are such a pig,” you mumble.

“Correct.” You hear the smile in his voice. Then he reaches for the discarded t-shirt on the floor beside the couch, gentle again as he wipes carefully between your thighs. You hiss softly at the sensitivity, instinctively trying to squirm away.

“I know,” he murmurs immediately. “I know. Sorry, baby.” The nickname settles warm in your chest now instead of frightening you. Frank glances down as he cleans you up. Then pauses. You notice the tiny streak of red a second later. Your stomach drops.

“Oh my God.” Frank looks up instantly.

“What?”

“There’s blood.” Panic climbs your throat so fast it makes your voice pitchy. “Frank, there’s— I—did I start my period? Oh my God, am I bleeding? Did something tear?” Your breathing starts speeding up again immediately. “Jesus Christ, am I dying?” For one single second he just stares at you. Then a startled laugh bursts out of him. Not mocking. Just genuinely caught off guard.

“Baby,” he says gently, trying very hard not to smile now. “You are not dyin’.” You blink at him, horrified.

“There’s blood!”

“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb soothingly against your knee. “That can happen your first time.” You stare.

“…what?” His expression softens instantly at your confusion.

“You were a virgin,” he says carefully. “Little bleeding’s normal sometimes. Especially ‘cause I got carried away.” Guilt flickers briefly across his face at that last part. “You ain’t hurt bad. Promise.” Your entire body floods with relief so intense you nearly flop sideways.

“Oh my God.” Frank finally chuckles properly now, rubbing a hand down his face. You hide your face against his shoulder with a groan of humiliation while Frank keeps quietly laughing above you, warm chest rumbling beneath your cheek.

“Don’t make fun of me,” you mutter.

“I ain’t makin’ fun.” Another tiny laugh immediately betrays him. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm.” His hand slides lazily up and down your thigh. “Still alive though, right?” You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his mouth for one absentminded kiss before helping tug your shirt back down properly over your stomach. The tenderness of it nearly kills you more than the sex did. You let him guide you sideways across his lap once you’re dressed again, your legs draped over the couch cushions while he settles back with a long exhale. His fingers trace idle circles against the soft skin just above your knee, grounding and warm. The apartment feels different now.

Quieter. Softer. Like something huge shifted without either of you knowing how to name it yet. You stare at the wall for a long second before mumbling:

“I really thought I was bleeding internally.” That gets another laugh out of him, fuller this time. He drops his head briefly against yours.

“Baby, you work in medicine.”

“Not vagina medicine. And my parents never really taught me this stuff. They assumed Karen would.” Frank barks out an actual laugh at that, shoulders shaking beneath you. You can’t help smiling a little yourself.

“Fair point,” he admits. Silence settles again after that. Comfortable this time. His fingers never stop moving against your leg. Then quieter:

“You okay?” he asks again. Not physically. Everything. The emotion in his voice catches you off guard. You tilt your head enough to look up at him. Frank’s eyes are already on you, darker now without all the urgency from before. There’s still heat there, sure—but underneath it is something almost nervous. Like he’s waiting for you to regret this.

Regret him.

Your chest aches suddenly.

“I’m okay,” you say softly. His whole body loosens at that. Tiny. Almost invisible. But you feel it. Frank swallows once, gaze dropping briefly to where his hand rests on your thigh.

“I know tonight was a lot,” he says carefully. “And I know I probably shoulda slowed down more—”

“You did slow down.” His eyes flick back to yours.

“You were scared.”

“I was nervous,” you correct quietly. “Not scared of you.” That one lands somewhere deep. You see it happen in real time. Frank goes still. Your fingers slide up over the back of his hand, threading through his.

“I trusted you,” you admit. He stares at you like the words physically hurt him. Then he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, eyes closing.

“Christ,” he whispers roughly. One of his arms tightens around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Careful with you in a way nobody ever has been before. “You got no idea what that means to me,” he says softly. Your face falls and you reach up, wincing at the pull in your legs. You reach up, wincing slightly as your body reminds you it’s still catching up to everything that just happened. Frank notices immediately—of course he does.

“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can push yourself too far. “Easy. Don’t go doin’ that.”

“I’m fine,” you insist automatically. Frank gives you a look that says he does not believe a single word of that.

"Sweetheart, you just impaled yourself on my dick for your first time. I have reason to worry."

You freeze.

Then slowly turn your head to look at him.

“…you’re going to make me die of embarrassment after I survived everything else?”

Frank doesn’t even pretend to feel bad.

A faint, crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Seems fair.”

You groan and drop your forehead against his chest, fully intending to disappear into him as a person.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling under you, and his hand immediately comes up to your hair—slower now, soothing instead of teasing.

“Hey,” he says again, softer. “I’m not makin’ fun of you.”

“Yes you are.”

“A little,” he admits.

You make a small, muffled sound of protest. Frank presses a kiss into the top of your head like he’s apologizing anyway.

"Y'know what this means, right baby ?" He asks, his hand trailing up and down your side.

"No. Enlighten me." He squeezes you into him as he leans over and reaches for his beer. He sits back down, groaning as he takes a sip and presses the cold bottle to the back of your neck.

"You're never fuckin' gettin' rid of me. I was your first time." He says. You roll your eyes.

"Oh, shut up, Frank." He laughs.

"No, no, i'm serious. I should get like.. a certificate. Frame it and put it up on the wall where everyone can see when they walk in-"

"Oh my god, Frank."

"—'Certificate of Deflowering: Awarded to Frank Castle for Services Rendered Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.'" You can't help it, a snort of laughter escapes you muffled against his chest. The cold bottle against your neck is a shock, but a pleasant one, grounding you in the ridiculous, wonderful reality of the moment.

"Oh my God," you groan, lifting your head just enough to glare at him. "You are the worst human being I have ever met."

"Yep," he says, popping the 'p' with absolute relish. He takes another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "And the man who just took your virginity on a couch that's probably seen at least three separate gunfights. So, you know. We all have our complexities."

taglist !

And you can’t even remember when it all started. When he claimed you as his, gave you rules, made sure you were fed and well taken care of. His calloused hands lying on your body, making you feel things you’d never felt. And how you felt yourself becoming devoted to him—promising to be good, to always be his.

Yet, you were not his good girl today. You could already hear his stern sighing, see the hands on his hips when he tells you how disappointed he is in you.

You were not allowed to go outside, not without him or without his permission. It was a strict rule, established already on the day you stepped foot in his cabin.

“It’s too dangerous out there,” he whispers, eyes locked on the blood blooming across your ribs. “Look what they did to you.” His finger traces the wound, slow. “Next time, they won’t stop at hurting you. They’ll kill you and feed what’s left of you to their dogs.”

You knew the rules and you knew what would happen if you broke them. Joel didn’t always yell. He didn’t always chase. He didn’t threaten. He punished. Quietly. Deliberately. Sometimes it was his belt, until your skin turned red and started stinging. Sometimes it was his hand.

Sometimes it was even worse—kneeling on small rocks, wrists bound, left alone in silence until your legs gave out. But it wasn’t the pain that made you cry. It was the waiting. The silence. The way he watched you like he was deciding whether you were still worth keeping. And then, if you were lucky—if you took it well—he’d say it.

“You’re learning,” and a “Good girl,” That was all you ever wanted.

Joel is asleep.

You can hear it—the steady rhythm of his breathing, the occasional rasp of a snore that cuts through the silence like a warning bell. It’s loud. It’s disruptive. And a reminder. That he’s still here. That you’re not alone. That you’re very much not supposed to be doing this.

Your heart is pounding and you haven’t even moved yet. Your body already feels like it’s betraying you, like it knows this is wrong. Like it’s preparing itself for when Joel wakes up and catches you before you can even reach the door.

But you want to see. You need to see.

The outside world has been a mystery for far too long. Joel keeps it locked away behind rules and warnings and stories too gruesome to be lies. You know he is right. You’ve listened. You’ve obeyed. You’ve earned points on the chart. You’ve been good.

But today, you’re not.

You zip your backpack slowly, the sound deafening in the quiet room. You pause halfway through, glancing towards the bed. Joel doesn’t stir, another snore escapes him. His arm is draped over the blanket, fingers curled loosely, the same hand that stitched your wounds, held your throat and stroked your hair when you cried.

The winter jacket is heavy in your hands. You slip it on one sleeve at a time, careful not to let the fabric rustle too loudly. The zipper is next—slow, deliberate, teeth sliding together like a secret you’re trying to keep. You tiptoe across the room, the boards creaking beneath your weight. You’re lucky that they are soft and silent. As you take a deep breath and want to lay your hand on the door, your eyes land on it.

The chart.

He put it together just after two weeks. After he took your virginity, touched you in places you’d never discovered, made you learn things you never knew about yourself. It’s just columns, hand-drawn in Joel’s sharp, unforgiving script. The ink is fading in places, smudged in others—like he pressed too hard when he was angry.

“You need structure,” he begins, swaying the paper from left to right in front of you. “This will help.”

You look at it like it might give you answers if you just stare long enough. A soft, breathy chuckle leaves him when your eyes flick to him, confused.

“It’s a chart. Look—here is obedience. If you obey me well, I may decide to add one mark.”

His finger sliding down, pointing at the next thing that’s on the chart.

“And here is punishment taken well. When you take your punishment good, I can add a mark also here.” He explains, his eyes concentrated on your face, voice soft.

You look at the chart, and the other things he listed. You nod, even before he finishes. You want to understand. You want to be good. Not just to avoid punishment—but because he knows better. He sees things you don’t. He survived things you couldn’t.

“And when you have enough lines,” he comes closer. “You can earn some rewards, yea?”

He puts a strand of hair behind your ear and cradles your face. “Like touching yourself. Only once, only when you say my name. Maybe even use the toy I made you.”

You take a deep breath, those memories settling deep in your bones. Knowing that if he finds out, all of the marks—the ones you worked so hard for will all be gone.

It’s going to be quick. It’s going to be easy.

You’ve already marked everything on the map you stole from Joel last week. One path leads to the forest, the other to the river. The excitement of seeing both runs through your veins, and you can’t help but smile to yourself.

If you arrive at the cabin before Joel wakes up—and he wakes up late—there won’t be any problems. As long as you get there in time.

Your fingers tremble as you undo the countless locks Joel made on the door. Three locks. One chain. A wooden beam across the frame. You’ve watched him do it a hundred times, memorized the rhythm of his hands, the way he hums low when he’s satisfied. The metal clicks feel too loud in the quiet. You pause after each one, listening for movement, paying close attention. Nothing.

The final lock sticks. You bite your lip, twist harder. It gives. You open the door just wide enough to slip through, then click it shut silently behind you.

And then you’re outside.

The cold hits you instantly—sharp. You can’t quite believe you’re outside. You suck in a breath, lungs burning, and it feels like freedom. The snow crunches under your boots, soft, smooth, like you’d forgotten how that sounded. You walk slowly, each step pulling you farther away from the man who saved your life. Each one feels like betrayal.

Joel’s voice is looping in your head, low, firm and unforgiving.

“You don’t go out alone.”

“You’re not strong enough.”

“You want to die? That’s how you do it.”

You hear him with every step. But you keep walking. Because for the first time in weeks, maybe months, the air doesn’t smell like him. It smells like pine and frost and something untouched. You breathe it in like it might cleanse you.

You remember the day you found his cabin.

Half-frozen, stumbling through snowdrifts, bleeding from places you didn’t want to name. The raiders had taken everything—your coat, your food, your voice. You were nothing but a shadow when you saw the smoke curling from his chimney.

You remember the way he looked at you. Not with pity. Not with kindness. Just calculation.

You missed this.

The sky. The silence.

What if he already noticed?

You turn halfway, eyes flicking back towards the cabin. It’s hidden now, swallowed by trees and silence. You could go back. You could pretend you never left. You could crawl into bed and whisper apologies into the sheets.

You slowly walk towards the river, the morning sun already starting to show up. As you reach the river you kneel down, and dip your hand into the water. It’s freezing and it stings. But it feels good.

You want to stay longer. Just a few more seconds. Watch the snow land on the water, disappearing from existence—just like you wish you could sometimes.

You turn towards the woods. To the second mark on your map. The place where you ran away from until you stumbled upon Joel’s cabin. It almost feels unnerving—the trees stretch tall, branches bare and reaching. Birds flit between them, their wings sharp against the sky.

Joel is still in the back of your mind as you watch them, making sounds you haven’t heard in a long time. You walk steadily, with the intention of doing it quickly, not getting too deep into the forest. Because you know: you won’t be able to find your way out.

And then as you just walk on a snow flooded path—

CRACK.

The ground gives way beneath you.

And you fall.

Snow and dirt collapse around you, and your body hits the bottom—hard. Your breath leaves in a gasp. You blink, dazed, and realize you’re in a big pit. A trap. Six feet deep. Maybe even more. It was covered and hidden. You didn’t see it. You were looking at the birds, thinking about Joel.

Panic floods you.

“Nonono—no—no—” you mumble over and over to yourself. You can’t even focus on the pain from falling onto your bum, or the sting in your hands from the snow you’re clutching.

You scramble, quick, clawing at the walls, trying to climb. Your boots slip, your fingers sliding up and down the falls until they start to hurt. The pit is too deep, it’s too slippery, too wet and too smooth. You jump, countless times, you try to scream but nothing comes out.

So you start crying.

Your heart pounds so loud it hurts. The walls feel like they’re closing in, like they are trying to suffocate you. You collapse, sobbing into your hands.

This is what Joel said. This is why he told you those gruesome stories. This is why he locked the door, gave you punishments. Why he made the chart. Why he said “You’re not ready.”

You didn’t listen.

And now you’re going to die.

Whoever set this trap will come to check. And they won’t be merciful, not like Joel was when he found you. Not like the man who punishes you but still feeds you. Still wipes your tears. Still calls you sweetheart when you obey.

The hours stretch. It slowly becomes evening.

You stopped sobbing, you stopped caring about escaping. It doesn’t help. You sit in the corner, your knees pulled to your chest, head buried in your arms. Staring at the dirt patch on the ground, thinking about the moments you had with Joel. Just yesterday, he kissed your forehead and tucked you into bed. Warm and safe. The way one time he made soup from scratch, even though food was scarce, and fed it to you spoon by spoon, watching your lips like they were the only thing that mattered. Holding you in his lap, whispering over and over: “I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe with me.”

You start to say that to yourself, in your head, mimicking Joels arms and hugging yourself. You don’t know if you’re ready to die. You just know you’re alone.

And then—

A shadow.

It looms above the pit. Silently. Watching.

You freeze, staring up at the unknown figure. Your heart thuds in your chest—you know this is the end. Whoever this is, they’re going to kill you.

A flashlight clicks on and the beam hits your face.

You blink.

It’s Joel.

He doesn’t speak, he just looks at you, breathing in hard and then out. Disappointment written on his face. He kneels at the edge, eyebrows pinched together—eyes full of anger. Then he reaches down, hand extended.

You don’t move at first. Your body is frozen. Your mind is spinning. Your mouth is gaping open like you want to say something but nothing comes out. You feel yourself relieved but also scared of what comes next.

Then you whisper: “Joel.” Silent, like a prayer.

His voice is rough, angry and it’s spits into your face without warning. “Fuckin’ c’mere.”

You scramble to your feet, shaking and grab his hand, climbing up the pit with his help. Your body aches. Your heart is breaking. When you reach the top, you throw your arms around him, sobbing into his jacket, smelling in his scent.

But he doesn’t hug you back. He pulls you away, grabs your arm—hard. His grip is bruising, a yelp escapes from your mouth.

And then he starts to drag you.

His grip on your arm is relentless, fingers digging into your skin like he’s trying to fuse you into him. You stumble once on the uneven path, your ankle catching on a root, but he doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t even glance back. He just yanks you forward, and the pain shoots up your arm, sharp and hot, but you don’t dare make a sound.

The cabin looms ahead, dark and quiet, the porch light flickering like it’s trying to warn you. Your heart is pounding so hard you think he can hear it. And maybe that’s why his grip tightens. Maybe he wants to feel your fear in his palm.

He throws open the door with one hand and shoves you inside with the other. You stumble over the floor, catching yourself on the wall, breath hitching as you hear the door slam shut behind you. The sound of the locks clicking into place—one after another, echoes through the cabin like gunshots. You turn to look at him, tears already bubbling in your eyes, but he doesn’t meet your gaze.

“Bedroom,” he mutters, voice low and flat, like you’re not even worth the effort.

You nod, even though he’s not looking. It’s not for him—it’s for you. A silent apology. A quiet surrender.

Your legs feel like they’re made of glass as you walk towards the small room at the end of the hall. The bed is messy, the sheets twisted from the night before, and the moonlight spills through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. All you want to do is lay down, and cuddle him to sleep.

You stand there for a moment, unsure if you should sit, lie down, kneel. You don’t know what version of him is coming through that door.

And then he does.

Joel steps into the room slowly, his eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s trying to solve. His eyebrows are pinched, his mouth a hard line, and the disappointment in his face is louder than any scream.

He doesn’t speak. Just walks up to you and grabs your chin—firm, not gentle. His fingers press into your jaw, tilting your face towards the light coming from the window. You flinch, but you don’t pull away.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do.

His eyes scan your face, slow and careful. The bruise blooming on your cheek. The cut on your lip, still raw. The dirt smeared across your jaw like a brand. He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Then his thumb brushes the blood away, and for a second, you think maybe—maybe he’s softening.

“You hurt?” he asks, his eyes locking with yours.

You nod. Barely. The movement is so small it could be mistaken for a tremble.

He scoffs. “Not enough.”

His hands move down, rough and methodical. He checks your wrists, turning them over like he’s inspecting. Then he sees the gash from the fall. He presses near it, and you gasp, the pain sharp and sudden.

Then he presses harder.

“Ow,” you whisper, pulling back instinctively.

He doesn’t let go.

“You crying over this?” he mutters, voice thick with contempt. “Pathetic.”

You bite your lip, trying to hold it in, but the tears are already spilling. You don’t know if it’s the pain, the fear, or the shame. Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you—like you’re not broken enough yet.

He lets go of your wrist and comes closer, towering over you. You feel small. Fragile. Like you could shatter if he raised his voice.

“Didn’t I tell you?” His voice is low at first, almost calm, but there’s a tremor beneath it—like something dangerous is trying to claw its way out. “Didn’t I fucking tell you what would happen if you went out there alone?”

He starts slowly pacing in the room, steps loud and clear on the wooden floor, hands on his hips, eyes burning into you like you’re the source of every wrong thing in his world.

“You think you’re smart? You think you’re strong enough to survive without me?” He chuckles, bitter and sharp. “You couldn’t even make it past the forest.”

“I didn’t want to go past the forest, I just wanted to explore,” you mumble—barely a whisper—and regret it the moment the words leave your mouth.

“That so, huh?” He stops in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath. “What would’ve happened if those traps weren’t mine?” Your eyes land on his, realizing.

“You think the world’s gonna cradle you like I do? You think it cares if you cry, hm? You think the person who would’ve found you would be as forgiven as I am?” His voice still low, unusually calm. He looks at you like he is expecting an answer, but you can’t open your mouth. The room feels small and suffocating as you stand there, listening to his words.

“I feed you. I keep you warm. I keep you alive. And this is how you thank me, baby?” He asks. “By running? By lying?“

He steps back, shaking his head like he can’t believe what you have done. You stand in front of him, tears in your eyes and heart aching like it never done before. You didn‘t want to run, you didn‘t want to lie. You just wanted to explore, but he couldn‘t understand that.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

It slips out before you can stop it—a reflex, a prayer. But you already know: apologies don’t mean much to Joel. They hold no weight in his world. The closest thing to forgiveness is you—shaking, withering beneath him, sobbing until your eyes burn. Then him adding a mark besides ‘punishment taken well.’

Joel’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then he shakes his head, slow and deliberate, coming closer to your face again.

“You ain’t sorry, doll.” His voice is low.

You feel your stomach drop. He is close enough that you can smell the sweat on his skin, the dirt on his jacket, the fury still simmering beneath his calm.

“You’re scared.” A pause. “But you ain’t sorry.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off with one word.

“Strip.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t repeat himself. Just watches. Watches the way your fingers play with the hem of your pullover, the way you’re biting the inside of your mouth. Unsure to move, knowing in what position he is going to put you.

“Not gonna tell you twice.” He says, but you still hesitate. And that’s enough for him. Joel’s jaw tightens.

“You wanna explore, yea?” He takes your hand and places it on the hem of your pullover, pulling upwards. “Then explore what it feels like to be corrected.”

Your hands tremble as you put it over your head. The fabric feels heavier than it should. Like it knows what’s coming. Joel doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink.

“Slower.” His voice is quieter now. “You don’t rush when you’re being taught, baby.”

You nod, even though your throat feels too tight to speak. Next, you unclasp your bra. Then pull down your pants, with your panties. You stand there, bare and shaking, arms crossed over your chest. The cold hitting your skin, goosebumps blooming across it and sudden embarrassment fills you.

Joel grabs your wrists, pulling them down.

“Don’t hide,” His grip is firm. “You don’t get to hide from me.” He takes one of your hand and brings them close to his mouth, giving a kiss.

You just nod again, tears already slipping down your cheeks.

Then he unbuckles his belt—the sharp sound of it makes your heart jump. It’s the punishment he saves for when you’ve really messed up. The one that lingers for days, when sitting becomes a reminder. Joel moves behind you, settling on the edge of the bed with a sigh, legs spread just enough to make space for you. The belt rests in his hand, folded once—heavy, quiet, waiting.

And then, he pats his thigh. “Over.”

You move slowly, heart pounding, limbs trembling. You drape yourself across his lap, stomach pressed against his jeans, arms landing on the bed. You feel his hand settling on your lower back, firm—like he knows you’re going to squirm.

“You count,” His voice is low, steady. “Loud and clear. Or we start over.”

You nod, but it’s barely a movement. Your throat is tight. Your skin prickles with cold, shame and something else—something like what it feels like anticipation but also fear.

The first strike lands.

A sharp crack of leather against skin. It stings, making your whole body move slightly forward, his hand stabilising you. You gasp, loud, the sound escaping before you can even stop it. “One,” Your voice is shaky, thin, trying not to spill the tears again.

Joel doesn’t respond. Just lifts the belt again. And the second hit is harder. It aches deep, blooming across your skin like fire.

“Two.” You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers curling into the sheets, holding onto it like it may save you. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier and the knot in your throat feels like it’s going to unravel just in seconds. “Three.”

Your voice cracks. Tears finally slip one by one down your cheeks, silent and hot.

“Go ahead and sob. Maybe the river will come cradle you since you miss it so damn much.”

You hiccup, the weight of his words settle in your chest, heavy and unrelenting. Joel then shifts slightly beneath you, adjusting your position. His hand presses into your back again, this time rubbing in a big circle—grounding and soothing you, before giving you another spank.

“Four.” You squirm, just a little. The sting against your skin feels unbearable. But Joel’s grip tightens.

“Keep still. You wanted to play brave girl in the woods—now take what comes with it, baby.” He murmurs, his belt grazing over your bum and landing on the fifth hit. You nod, sobbing now. The pain mixed with guilt, with regret, with the memory of the river, the trap and the way he looked at you when he found you. “Five.”

Your legs tremble. Your body aches. But you keep counting.

“Six.”

Joel pauses. His voice is quieter now. “You were doing so well,” he begins. “and then you showed me you’re still just a mess I have to manage.”

Your breath catches, shallow and uneven. The words hit harder than the belt ever did. Not because they were loud and harsh—but because they were true. Or at least, they felt true in that moment for you. Your fingers curl into the sheets. Your shoulders tremble. And you nod. Barely. Like you’re agreeing with him. Like you’re accepting it.

Because what else is there to do?

You were doing well. And now you’re just a mess. Again.

With the ninth hit of the belt, a sob tears through your body. Your face is buried in the sheets, knuckles white from gripping the bed as you try to count for him—but fail miserably. And you think, maybe this time, he won’t just punish you. Maybe he’ll drag you back to the pit with his own damn hands—for misbehaving so, so many times.

But it doesn’t come. Your hiccuping stills as you try to listen what Joel has to say, but nothing comes out of his mouth. Instead, he gives you the tenth spank.

The hardest. The most painful of them all.

Your body recoils, lurching forward as your breath catches in your throat—unable to breathe for just a moment. His hand lands on the stinging, tender flesh, rubbing slow circles.

With the other, he sets the belt aside and begins stroking your hair.

The silence overwhelms the room, saved for the gentle hiccups and whines that still come from your body, just laying on his lap accepting the only softness he ever gives you.

“Look at me, yea?” Your head shoots up from the sheets, slowly turning and looking into his dark eyes. “That’s what this is for, baby. Good girls cry, they take it without begging or fighting.” He nods his head at you.

“This is what obedience looks like. Ugly, but earned, okay?” Joel asks low. You nod, eagerly, wanting to be good for him. And as if he already knows what he is going to expect, he nudges his middle finger between your thighs and then into your folds. The tip of his finger prodding at your hole with a hum falling from his lips. You are wet. And it wouldn’t matter how much pain you would’ve endure from him, you would still start aching.

Because that’s what he taught you. With a “I bet that feels good, baby.” And two fingers in your cunt just three days after he found you, controlling when you are going to let go, telling you “Nuh-uh, not now. Only when I give permission.” And then giving you something you’ve never had before—a release.

His hand slides to your waist—firm, possessive. You barely have time to brace before he shifts you in one smooth motion.

He lifts, turns, and settles you back down—your spine pressing into his thighs now, head tipped back onto the pillow. Your legs tremble as he spreads them wide. Exposing your pussy to him all the while you hold your breath.

“S’okey. Deep breaths, now.” He says, calm. “We ain’t done yet, babygirl.”

And you should’ve seen that coming.

Punishment on top of punishment wasn’t something he usually did—only when you misbehaved so badly he couldn’t see another way to deal with you.

Joel reaches for something, something you can’t see. Only when you hear it, your heart starts to race.

The vibrator.

The vibrator Joel build himself. The one where he found an electric toothbrush motor, a battery pack, leather, and put these together with the intention to control your pleasure. The device was overrun with smooth leather that made it easy for it to clean but also felt comfortable against your pussy. He didn’t need much words for it when he introduced you to it. Just a switch of the thing and holding it against your panties with a smile, praising you when you fell apart on it.

You sit up slightly, holding onto his arm with a pleading look.

“Please—“ knowing the last time he used the vibrator in one of his punishments, he made you come until you couldn’t feel your clit anymore.

“Don’t make me tie you up. Hands to yourself.” He cuts through your pleas with a stern look, making you put your hand away from him and lay down on the bed again.

Your body tenses when Joel spreads your cunt and open you up with two fingers, first inspecting and then when you least expect it, he presses the device down. Just on the tip of your clit, with the vibrations still on the lowest setting. Your breath hitches, a whimper escaping your lips. That alone easily makes you want to move your hips, and moan into the room.

But you needed to stay still—you knew the rules.

“This isn’t about your pleasure,” he starts explaining, lowering the vibrator and pressing it down on your hole. “It’s about control…makin’ sure you ache in all the right places before I decide you’ve earned anything more.”

Fingers curling into the sheets, knuckles white, you try to keep silence. The minutes stretching before Joel decides to press it onto your clit again. His eyes land on you, analysing your face, looking if you’re already trembling, if you’re already on the verge of an orgasm. His hand lifts and brushes against your cheek, you lean into it—wanting the warmth.

Heat coils low in your tummy, and your knees start to tremble. Your hips slightly move against the vibrations and Joel lets you, pressing even harder down on your clit.

And then, when he sees you clenching your tummy, mouth gaping open like a fish out of water while squeezing your eyes shut—he pulls it away. Completely.

“Wha—no, no,” you whimper, desperately bucking into the air.

“You were right there, weren’t you?” He murmurs, gently stroking your tummy.

His hand travels to your tits, cupping and twisting your nipples until they’re hard between his fingertips. You take a deep breath, You take a deep breath. Your cheeks, once dry, grow wet again, while your cunt clenches around nothing and your clit aches in need for that release he just striped away from you.

“I want you to remember who owns your releases,” the vibrator starts to buzz once again. “To remember who owns you.”

He starts pressing onto your clit again, and your body moves with anticipation against the leather.

“You ain’t coming today. That sweet clench of your hole? That twitching of your little clit, baby?” He asks, taking his hand from your tits, grabbing the vibrator so his other hand can sink two fingers into your cunt. “We’re gonna keep that.”

“I’m sorry—please,” you babble out. “I was—was just exploring. I swear! You were always on my mind and ungh—“ you get cut off by Joels fingers in you, now thrusting in and out.

“I hear ya, doll. Loud and clear. I just don’t care.” he says before setting the vibrator to the highest setting. “No begging. Or I’ll keep you like this every night this week…aching and no orgasm.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to even out your breath and concentrating on not coming right on the spot. Joel’s large fingers inside you feel too good to handle. Too big, stroking your walls over and over again. He hums in that familiar rhythm—low, steady, unforgiving. The disappointment from earlier hasn’t faded; it’s simply shifted into control. Now he’s the man who owns your body again. Who makes the decisions.

The buzz of the vibrator is the only sound filling the room—deafening in its own way. Your silent whimpers are so quiet, you’re the only one who hears them.

Joel’s fingers suddenly curl upwards, hitting that spongey spot inside of you, making your body shift suddenly, a moan erupting from your throat.

“Oh, I know.” He coos. “Bet that cunt feels so good right now, huh?” His fingers plunge into your faster now, the vibrator just pressing harder against your little nub.

“S’too damn bad, she can’t get a release.”

“Please—“ and gone. He pulls away completely.

Your legs lock in, just seconds away from having that climax that could relief you. But it fades away slowly as you lay there, breathing hard, tear slipping one by one from your eyes. His fingers still inside of you, enjoying the way your cunt clenches on to them pulse by pulse.

The ache dissolves slowly, your body still unwillingly trying to move against his fingers but Joel quickly pulls them out, a sweet gush of wetness releasing from your hole.

“Mhm, look at that.” He whispers to himself, ignoring your pleas as his eyes are locked on your pussy. “Gushing and twitchin’.”

And when he decides that you calmed down enough, he starts thrusting his fingers in and out again. This time, you don’t react like before. You already know—he won’t stop. Not until he decides you’ve had enough. Not until he’s sure you’ve learned. So you stay quiet. You behave. And maybe, just maybe, he won’t be as cruel as he’s already been.

“I’m not denying you because i’m angry,” he starts talking, low and steady. “I’m denying you because I know what you need more than you do. And right now, baby? You need to break.”

And you know he is right. That’s what terrifies you. The anger he has, you could survive. Anger you could soothe. But this was control. You understand that he is going to break you, not with force but with patience. One by one.

And maybe… maybe you want him to break you.

Just a little.

“I want you to remember this moment every time you think about disobeying me again.” With that, the vibrator in his hand starts buzzing again. And his fingers—they start curling.

You’ve stopped counting.

At some point, maybe the fifth, maybe the sixth—you lost track. The denials blurred together, each one folding into the next like waves crashing against the same stretch of shore. Now, on the eighth, you don’t flinch when he pulls away. You don’t gasp. You don’t beg.

You just breathe in. And then out.

Your body still responds, of course it does. It always does. The ache hasn’t dulled—it has only deepened, settled into your bones like something permanent.

You lie still on him, every muscle tight with restraint. The edge comes again—sharp, familiar, cruel—and you meet it like you’ve been taught: with silence. You let it crest and crash, let it burn through you without a sound. Your thighs tremble. Your breath stutters. But you don’t move. You don’t ask.

You endure.

Joel hasn’t spoken in a while. He doesn’t need to. His silence is a language now—one you’ve learned to read in the tilt of his head, the weight of his gaze, the way his hands move inside of you.

You don’t know how long it’s been. Minutes? Hours? Time doesn’t exist anymore. Only rhythm. Only ache. Only him.

And still, you obey.

You let the waves of your climax slowly disappear again, the tears dried out on your cheeks, lips bitten painful red. And you could feel the relief washing over you when Joel suddenly puts the toy away and slips his fingers away from you. Maybe now, maybe now you’re broken enough for his liking. Maybe now he forgave you.

Suddenly, he wraps his hands around your waist, fingers splayed, thumbs brushing the curve of your hips, squeezing. And with a slow, deliberate pull, he draws you upward, guiding you until you’re seated fully in his lap. With a yelp escaping from your mouth, your thighs settle around his hips, your body aligned with his, and you feel the shift—not just in position, but in power.

You don’t cling to him, you settle. With your limbs numb, and aching.

Joel doesn’t say anything, but he reaches for his crotch and when you hear a zipper opening your heart thuds.

One hand grips your ass, moving you harshly closer to him, upwards, so you can feel his cock between your thighs, grazing against your pussy. The other one jerks himself up and down, and you don’t have to see to know that he is painfully hard. You could already feel it when you were laying on his lap, his pulsing bulge just poking your thighs with need.

“Bite down my shoulder,” he grits out, his calm demeanour now gone. “Bite down my fuckin’ shoulder.” When you don’t listen.

You catch up, biting down on his shoulder with all the strength you got before feeling the tip of his cock entering your slowly.

And this was something that you weren’t used to. Joel took your virginity, yes. He did fuck you one too many times. But you never took him from this position, from his lap, from the place where he can get deeper, deeper than when he fucks you in missionary. Joel was already big. It was already a struggle to take him fully into your cunt.

You feel the sting, your cunt just pulsing from all the orgasms that you were not given.

“Ugh—“ you whimper into his shoulder, biting harder onto the fabric, knowing there is going to be a big, wet spot after. Joel feeds you with his cock, inch by inch, ignoring the whimpers and the biting.

He is too focused on his pleasure now. Because entering you, it feels like heaven. Your pussy is already fucked raw and open, just can’t stop clenching and when Joel finally settles you down, your hole basically starts to milk him.

“That’s it, take me in. Just like that.” He stills your hips, and breathes for a moment, his hand coming to hold you by your hair and making you look at him.

“It’s supposed to hurt,” he murmurs. “This isn’t for you, yea? It’s for me.” And then his hips start snapping into you.

Your hands wrap around his neck, stabilising yourself while Joel fucks you from underneath. The air feels suffocating as you concentrate on the way his tip keeps hitting your cervix. He is deep, deeper than you could’ve ever imagined.

Eyes locked into yours, he nods his head to you, in understanding, in knowing. Knowing it’s too much for you. Knowing he is too deep.

It doesn’t stop him from going faster. His hips, rocking into you in an unforgiving speed.Hips rolling with precision, dragging your pleasure, making you whine. Your body moves up and down, tits swaying from left to right while Joel focuses on your eyes. Claiming you with everything he has.

“My doll. My quiet little thing.” He whispers, his hand sliding up your jaw, fingers firm, thumb brushing your cheek. And before you can brace for it, he takes your mouth—no warning, no softness. Just heat. Just possession.

He kisses you like he’s sealing something. Like he’s locking in every command, every denial, every tremble you gave him.

Your body starts to move against him, and before you know it, you break the kiss, pushing him away and moaning out loud. He stills you on his cock, hands gripping your thighs, squeezing your flesh as a warning.

“Nuh-uh. Not happening” He shakes his head slowly to you, while you try overcome the wave of being close to an orgasm. “Don’t you dare, baby.”

“You’re not here to feel good, you’re here to learn.”

So you bite into his shoulder again, blocking out your whimpers and your climax by simply concentrating on something else. On his smell, on his clothes, on his pretty, long hair that he didn’t cut since he found you. The way Joels voice is firm, but can be soft at the same time.

And—oh, he starts to fuck into you again.

The tension still coils deep in your belly, sharp and relentless, like a string pulled too tight. Every movement of his hips sends sparks up your spine, and you feel like you will slip.

“Can feel you clenching,” He says, out of breath, his own orgasm already close to come through. “Focus, baby.”

Releasing his shoulder you look into his eyes one more time, a pleading look, a ‘please’ behind them. Maybe he will see how much you need it, see how much you’ve done good and how much you deserve it.

“No, focus on me. You ain’t cumming, baby.” He says, final. And all you can do is nod, feeling his hips getting sloppier and sloppier.

“Gonna cum in this pussy,” he whispers into your ear. “Mark it as mine.”

Joel groans into your chest, with big breaths leaving his mouth. You can feel it. The way he is throbbing inside of you, you try to not focus on that feeling. Not the way he keeps hitting that sweet spot over and over inside of you.

A whine leave your throat, “Joel.”

“I’m almost there, hold it.” He tells you. “Be good, baby. Be good for me now.”

And when you squeeze your eyes shut—you feel it. Spurt after spurt of cum filling you up. One by one, while his whole body shakes and grips into you like you’re his only anchor. His dick slowly becoming soft, while you feel his cum dripping out of your hole. You let out a long breath, like you’d been holding it forever.

Joel ruts his hips a few more times into you before stopping.

Your body is still trembling when he finally pulls away.

The absence of him is unusual—like cold air rushing in where heat once lived. You don’t even have the strength to chase it. Your limbs are useless, boneless, stretched thin by denial and obedience and the weight of everything he took from you. Everything you gave.

Joel doesn’t speak. He just moves with that same quiet control, lifting you gently, like you’re something fragile. Something earned. He lays you down on the bed, the sheets cool against your hot skin and pulls the blanket over you.

You blink up at the ceiling, vision blurred. Your chest rises and falls, while somewhere between the ache in your thighs and the throb in your cunt, you feel it—wetness slipping from the corners of your eyes. Not sobs. Not loud. Just tears. Quiet. Desperate. Like your body doesn’t know what to do with itself now that it’s not being commanded.

Joel stands at the edge of the bed, pulling his pants back up, his gaze never leaving you. Then he kneels besides you, one hand reaching to cup your cheek. His thumb brushes the tear away, slow and warm.

“You scared me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You just nod, barely, and lean into his touch like it’s the only thing that keeps you alive.

He presses a kiss to your forehead—soft, grounding—and then stands. You watch him walk out, the sound of his footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the house. You don’t move. You can’t.

When he returns, he’s holding the chart.

He doesn’t say a word as he walks to the foot of the bed, and shows it to you. You watch through heavy lashes, heart thudding slow and deep in your chest.

He lifts the pen. Draws a single line.

‘Punishment taken well.’

You exhale, a soft sound that’s almost a sob, almost a laugh. Your lips twitch into the smallest smile—fragile, but real. Joel sees it. His eyes soften, just a little, and he closes the chart, setting it aside.

Then he climbs into bed besides you.

The mattress dips under his weight, and a moment later, his arms are around you—pulling you in, tucking you against his chest like you’re something precious. His hand finds your hair, fingers threading through it slowly, rhythmically, grounding you in the quiet.

“Everything I’m doing is for you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m keeping you safe.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, eyes still glassy, lips parted. He leans down and kisses your forehead again, lingering there like he’s sealing the words into your skin.

Then, softly: “Maybe from now on we can go on weekly walks outside?”

Your breath catches. Your eyes widen, lighting up with something that feels dangerously close to joy. You nod—once, twice, eager and silent.

Joel chuckles, low and warm.

“Okey,” he says, brushing his thumb along your cheek again. “Only if you behave.”

EEEK I kinda want to write a prequel to them…but I hope you guys liked this one and it did meet your expectations!! Feedback is always welcome as well as corrections because English is not my first language!

If you like to be added to my Taglist, put your username right here!

You rolled your eyes. “Touché.”

“Thought so.”

She went back to her laptop. You sighed and stuffed the spoon back into the jar. “Y’know, for all I’d know you could end up being a serial killer.”

“I told you to stop watching those shitty documentaries.” Sevika said with a shake of her head. “That’s absurd.”

“I mean, why else would someone have a mystery room in their house and not even tell their best friend about it?”

“It’s personal.”

“Oh my god. Don’t tell me you have a shrine dedicated to some random girl in there!” You sat up, kicking your feet almost excitedly.

Sevika’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?” She blinked. “Where the fuck do you keep getting allegations like that?”

You sighed, body deflating like a sad balloon. “Nowhere… I’m just curious. Why can’t you tell me if you’re a psychopath? I promise I won’t tell the police.”

“I’d rather die.” Sevika replied dryly.

“Geez. Now I’m really starting to wonder— ooh! Is it a crush of yours? All chained and shit?”

Sevika leaned over and plucked your phone out of your free hand. “Less time on this.” She shoved a book— one of those motivational thingies— in your hand. “More of this.”

“Ugh, you’re worse than my mom.”

It was afternoon when Sevika left for her business trip. Your head was buzzing with thoughts. What could be behind that door?

Sevika left the house, door clicking shut behind herself as she walked out. You waited by the window and watched her as if you were getting paid to find out your roommate’s weird secret.

Once you saw her drive away, you scurried over to the door again. Hmmm, how should you open it? As if you remembered all the detective movies you’d seen— your hand instantly reached for your bobby pin.

You plucked it out of your hair and knelt by the door. You jabbed it inside— twist and snap!

It broke.

You stared at the part lodged in the lock. Well, fuck.

Then, a beeping sound filled the room— a little sensor light turned red. You swallowed.

Then— buzz. A text.

SEVIKA : step away from the lock.

You stared at it dumbly. Of course someone like Sevika would put a lock this extensive on a secret room door. You gave it a bit.

About an hour.

Then you advanced again— the lock felt looser this time. Your eyes narrowed and then you managed— a satisfying click.

Must’ve been a defect in the lock but it’s a win so you’d take it.

You pushed the door aside and walked in— holy shit, it was a BDSM room. Much like the ones you’d see in porn movies. There was a wooden horse, cuffs and shackles, some dangling from the ceiling, whips and there was a box filled with just various kinds of dildos. Your jaw fell open. This was fucking epic.

You stepped back a little before you reached for your phone.

YOU : oh, my god, guys. Would anyone peg Sevika to be the kind to own a fucking sex room?

KAYLA : what the fuck?

PENNY : oh fuckkkk 😭 😭 😭 😭

FIONA : shit @SEVIKA didn’t expect that at all

SEVIKA : what the actual fuck?

Sevika paced around her hotel room for a while, just wondering how on earth you’d managed to disarm her stupidly extensive security system. She knew she needed to get back. She needed to get back and teach you a fucking lesson to stay out of her business.

Sevika was supposed to return home in about a week but it had only been 4 days since you’d posted that in the group chat. She couldn’t stop thinking about it on her way back home. She just couldn’t. Every time she tried to make herself focus on the deal she was cutting for her company, her mind just somehow drifted back to you. It was like you’d rooted yourself there in her brain and refused to let go. She groaned.

“Gosh, what the fuck did you get yourself into?” She asked herself mentally.

The door flew open— you almost screamed thinking it was an intruder.

“Oh, you’re home early.” You said, voice lazy as your leg dangled off the arm of the couch.

You were laid there in a position that suggested you’d been scrolling for hours at a stretch.

Sevika’s heart warmed over at the sight of you being so cozy, and before she could stop herself, she took quick strides towards you— bent down and kissed you.

You gasped, “Sevika!”

You squeaked softly into the kiss but you didn’t push her away. Your hand grabbed the collar of her top and pulled her closer instead, welcoming her into your mouth.

“Mm, just stay right here,” Sevika whispered.

You pushed up against her torso as the kiss deepened. Her big hand caressed your cheek, travelling down your arm and reached the waist of your pajama pants. You grinned into the kiss.

Sevika parted— just a little.

“Hmm? Dirty girl… gettin’ turned on so fast?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Says the one with the fucking sex room.”

“Speaking of which…” Sevika’s hand parted your legs slowly, “I should be fucking you raw in it for outing me like that.”

“Come at me.”

You grinned devilishly.

Sevika picked you up with ease, carrying you into the room— the door closed behind her dramatically. She laid you on the big bed inside, the mattress dipped under your weight. Her fingers twisted at the hem of your pants, she pulled them down roughly.

“Fuck… you’re wet as fuck.”

“Yeah?”

You reached down and parted your lips to show off your sticky, messy, slicked labia and slit. Sevika sucked in a sharp breath.

“You’re such a fucking tease.” Sevika cupped your pussy with her hand, it was so comically small in comparison to her hand it made her chuckle.

“Come on, Sev, I know you wanna fuck me. Set me right. Tame me…” you ground up against her touch, desperate for more.

“Mmm, well, you’d like that,” Sevika tilted her head. “And we’re not here for that.”

She stripped herself— revealing her perfectly toned abs and biceps underneath. You watched her hungrily, she took her time slowly undoing her belt and letting her pants fall to the ground. You stared at her wild bush for a bit before the strap covered it. You focused on the toy— shit, it was big. Like— not just big, monster big.

You felt the tip nudge your hole.

“Oh, fuck… Sev, I don’t think I can m—”

“We’ll make it fit.”

You whimpered when the first bit of it entered you. It was big. Almost unimaginably so. Your hands wrapped around her, nails digging into her back.

“Aww, are you gon’ cry?” Sevika teased, pushing in a few more inches.

You winced. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Hmm? And you’re not for fucking breaking into a room I told you to fucking ignore?” Sevika slammed the length inside, making you gasp.

You clutched her tighter, eyes squeezing shut as your breath hitched. Sevika’s hand found your back, rubbing slow circles in a soothing motion.

“Aww, my baby, there you go. You’re okay.”

“It’s… it burns.”

“It’s supposed to,” she thrusted further deeper, “just a little stretch. Nothing my girl can’t take.”

“I…” your mouth opened as if you’d deny it, and then closed.

You’d take it. You’d show her you’re her good girl. You couldn’t even control it when you felt the first sting of tears appearing in your eyes.

“Fuck…” you sniffled and hid your face in Sevika’s shoulder, not that it would hide the fact you were crying.

Sevika was quick to take notice of that.

“Aww, look at me,” she grabbed your chin, forcing eye contact, “gonna cry because my cock’s too big for your stupid little slut hole, hmmm?”

“Oh…” you exhaled, shaky, pussy squeezing around the length. “I can’t take more…”

“Y’know what,” Sevika pulled out, “I’m gonna give you an upperhand here.” She got off the bed, standing by it instead. “Come here. Suck.”

You stared at her with blurry eyes for a second before crawling closer and slowly taking the artificial cock in your hands. You ran your hand over the shaft that was slicked with discharge.

Your lips wrapped around it as you slowly took it inside your mouth, tongue favouring the underside. Sevika grabbed your hair, fingers lacing within your locks. She pulled you back— no, yanked you back— you winced.

“Open.” She ordered.

Your mouth fell open, she spat inside. “Good. Now suck, take that thing in your throat.”

You nodded. “Mhm, I want… I want it.”

“Better lube it nice then, sweetheart.”

Once Sevika decided the strap was wet enough, she had you turn around so your ass was facing her. She parted the cheeks and found your winking hole leaky. She chuckled.

“Someone’s turned on.”

Then, without warning or even giving you a generous minute to adjust, she slammed the strap inside. You howled in pain-pleasure, both mixed in, scratching the blanket as she fucked you. Her pace was unmatched, the bed creaked with every slam inside you. You could swear your insides were getting bruised by her speed and intensity.

Sevika just about a second, or how much ever time she took to bend forward and grab a handful of your hair— then she dragged your head back. You winced, cried out even— but it wasn’t for her to stop.

“Fuck! Harder, harder! Please…”

“Oh, honey, you can’t handle harder.”

Your tears glistened on your flushed cheeks as Sevika turned you over on your back. Your body slammed against the mattress— she grabbed your wrists on one hand, strap still inside— click.

Handcuffs.

Cool metal dug into your wrist as you let Sevika use you as she pleased. Your body was wrecked, barely responding to whatever little sense you had left in your brain. Your mouth opened again and the tiniest whimper escaped you.

“Nnghh… can’t…” you blabbered before your pussy convulsed and a stream of squirt left you.

It soaked Sevika’s abs and the sheets. Sevika came too just a little bit after, the base of the strap proving to have been grinding against her swollen clit all this while.

“You’re such a good fuck, baby,” Sevika tugged you closer. “Had I known that I’d have fucked this pussy ages ago.”

“Mm,” you smiled, giddy and tired. “You’re still an asshole for hiding this room from me… now, uncuff me.”

“No.” Sevika straightened. “Let’s go for round two.”

Stepping aside, the blonde mechanic held out an arm in the direction of the room, shepherding you inside. The fella who had been relaying everything to the boss slipped past as you entered, before he shut the door behind you.

And as the tatted-up man behind the desk finally glanced up to look at you, the tone of your voice trembled slightly as you then spoke, “…are you Mr. Barnes?”

Chuckling lightly at your formality, “Mr.–, well, yeah. I’m Bucky,” he eyed you a moment, making you shift timidly under the brashness of his stare, “you wanted to speak to me? No offence, sweetheart, but you don’t look like the type to jump on a bike, but I mean, if that’s why you’re here, I’ve got a few in the back that could be yours for the right price.”

“Oh, that’s not why I’m here,” you shook your head.

“A car then?”

“No, no, this is about–…” you tilted your head, “well… it’s about Thomas.”

Sitting back a bit more in his seat, Bucky puffed out, “well, fuck me. I didn’t know he had a wife.” 

“What? No!” you swiftly screeched, eyes growing huge at his assumption, “I’m his sister.”

“Ah…” the older man breathed as he once again let his eyes wander, “so you’re the famous little sister… I thought you were away at some fancy university.”

“Ever heard of a little thing called summer break?” you scoffed, though instantly regretted the attitude as it surely wouldn’t help your case.

But thankfully, your comment only made the intimidating man chuckle, “okay, uh, so, why the urge to come chat to me instead of going off to the beach with your friends or something?”

After you took a second to gather up the courage, you then stated, “I don’t want him coming around here anymore. You can’t have him.”

Unfazed, the man behind the desk muttered, “and why not, if I might ask?”

“You know why,” you shifted slightly, your eyes narrowing in Bucky’s direction.

“And just what are you implying here?” he leaned forward, planting his inked and burly forearms on the table between you both, “I simply gave him a job as a perfectly respectable mechanic.”

“You know damn well that’s not what you did… I know you’re not just the boss of some auto shop…” you uttered quietly, “…a year ago, he had a bright future ahead of him, a good job lined up, a good head on his shoulders, and then you came into the picture and poisoned him.”

“Poisoned him, huh? That’s cute…” he chuckled chillingly at your accusation, “he’s a free man, sweetheart. He can do whatever he wants to do. If he wants to ride a bike, then he’ll ride a fucking bike.”

“You know damn well that’s not all that you and your kind does,” you snapped, your fist clenching into a fist nearly hard enough for your nails to break the skin.

“And just what were you thinking I was supposed to do about it, huh?”

“I know he’s not a full-fledged member yet of your gang.”

But that phrasing finally made a crack in his charismatic façade, “don’t call it a gang, it’s a motorcycle club.”

“I know he’s not a full-fledged member of your mob yet,” you blindly repeated heatedly, “a prospect, or whatever you call it. You can still kick him out without any fuss,” you stated before your voice then shrunk once more, cracking under the pressure as you went on, “please, just–… I’m scared of what’ll happen, who he will become if he doesn’t quit now. I’ve already lost both of my parents, I can’t lose him too.”

For a moment, Bucky simply sat back in his chair and stared at you. But then, when his eyes finally settled, his mind had cooked up a solution.

“…you know, one of the beauties of living in a small town like this is that everyone’s business spreads like wildfire… you just can’t help what you hear through the grapevine…” he slowly told you, “let’s see… rocky childhood, your brother basically raised you, yet somehow you still managed to walk the straight and narrow, become the valedictorian of your class in high school, get a scholarship to some college that otherwise would have never even looked twice at a girl like you from a shithole of a town like this… history major, right?” you then promptly nodded, utterly stunned by all of the details the criminal knew about you, “yeah… a real good girl, just as I suspected… but just how good are you really?”

“What?” your brows only knit together further, “if you’re trying to make me take his place, I–”

“Jesus fuck, calm down, kid,” Bucky scoffed, “I’m not putting a smoking gun in your hand. I’m just trying to get to know you.”

“I–, uh…” a shiver ran down your spine, “sir, I’m just here to help my brother.”

“And how far would you go to do so?”

“Well–…” you thought about it for a second, “what do you want? Money? I don’t have much, but I could try and scrounge up something–”

“No, I’m not interested in your money,” his eyes then dipped.

“Then what do you want?” you pleaded, trying to ignore his bold gaze, “I’ll do pretty much anything, as long as it’s legal.”

“Are you still a virgin?” he then casually asked you, completely out of the blue.

“Excuse me?” your vision promptly widened.

“I mean, you sure fucking squirm like one,” he smirked, continuing to stare.

“I-I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you crossed your arms, half in an attempt at covering yourself up more.

“So you are, alright,” he concluded from your dismissiveness, “well, then I do think there’s a way here for us to strike a deal.”

“I–…” you blinked hard, “I’m sorry, what does my romantic life have to do with that?”

“Oh, you really are innocent, aren’t you?” he then laughed, “how old did you say you were again?”

“I didn’t,” you shifted before you then told him, “I’m twenty.”

“Twenty…” he echoed, tasting it on his tongue as if he’d just gone down on you, “damn…”

“How old are you?” you shrugged, not understanding how this basic information had anything to do with how you were gonna help your brother.

“Well, over double your age…” he cocked his head and you caught sight of some of the grey that dusted his beard.

“Okay…” you breathed, blinking back at him with furrowed brows, “I’m sorry, I’m a bit lost. Are you gonna help me out or not? Are you gonna kick Thomas out?”

“I am,” he pursed his lips.

“Really?” a relieved gasp swiftly filled your lungs.

“Yeah,” he nodded, averting his gaze before he then filled you in on the rest of the proposition, “that is if you let me pop your cherry.”

Utterly stunned, the glints of celebration promptly vanished from your face, “y-you want to–”

“Be the first person to fuck that sweet pussy of yours,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“I-I–…” you stammered a moment before stating in a firm tone, “no,” glaring back at him as if the biker had just grown a second head.

“You sure?” his tone didn’t waver, as if your apprehension didn’t faze him one bit, “I thought you were desperate to get your dear brother to turn his life back around, but I guess if it’s really not that important to you, then maybe I could move his final initiation test up–”

“No, wait!” you cried out, nearly scurrying over the table right then and there, “don’t! I–…”

Tilting his head, the tinge of repulsion that flickered across your features only egged him on, “yes?”

“Fuck, I can’t believe I’m actually agreeing to this…” you murmured to yourself before huffing, “fine, I’ll do it. If it means you’ll leave my brother alone, then alright.”

“Great,” the corners of his lips twitched into a smirk that made your stomach churn, “swing around Nick’s bar tonight. Have a drink with me.”

“Here,” Bucky handed you a drink, tearing your wide eyes away from the seedy biker bar you now found yourself in.

“Thanks…” you stared down at the amber liquid inside. Raising the stout glass up to your lips, you then naively took a sip that was way too big, causing you to instantly cough as it burned down your throat.

Peering over at you as you lowered the glass again, the biker let out a cruel chuckle, “don’t tell me you’ve never had a drink before either.”

“No, I have,” you shot back defensively, your throat still on fire, “just not one this strong.”

“Hm,” he twisted slightly in his seat to face you more, “well, it’s your choice. It’ll help your nerves, but then again, I don’t mind if you’re shaking so much that I’ll have to wrestle you,” he stated calmly, making you go bug-eyed and swiftly choose to pick up your drink once more.

It didn’t take very long at all for you to get drunk, although it probably helped that each time you finished off your glass, someone would swoop in and refill it before you could protest.

The place was buzzing around you with rough-looking individuals, all of their backs adorned with patches, though you were too scared to meet any of their eyes. A few even tried to walk up and shoot their shot with you, though as you shrivelled up in hopes of turning invisible before them, the bikers would catch Bucky’s eye and hastily turn on their heel again. 

When your wandering eyes eventually spotted the dingy restroom in the corner of the bar, you figured that it might be able to grant you enough of a break to catch your breath and let you muster up the courage for what came next.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” you murmured, spotting out of the corner of your eye as he offered you a slight nod of approval, before you then jumped off the barstool, only to discover on your short trek across the room just how dizzy the alcohol had now rendered you.

The lavatory was grimy and mucked up with layers of old posters and flies on the walls, but it still turned out to be a safe enough space for you to freak out a little bit in.

Though once you’d dried your tears and gathered yourself once more, someone was standing directly on the other side of the door as you began to creak it open.

And before you could even react, Bucky had pushed his way inside, shoving you back in as well before you could slip past, and his inked fingers swiftly locked the door behind him.

“Mr. Barnes, what are you–, mmhpf–,” your words were promptly muffled as the biker suddenly grabbed your face and held it tight as he pressed his lips to your own. A yelp vibrated against his mouth as you willed your trembling hands not to shove him away, “I thought–, you wanted–,” you squeaked in between stolen kisses, “to go–, somewhere–, else–”

“And I thought you wanted to get this over with,” he muttered, tilting back a moment to gaze down into your wide eyes, “don’t you?”

“Well…” you then just bashfully nodded as you couldn’t get yourself to actually say it out loud, “…but I–, I’m sorry… could we maybe just slow down a little bit?” 

“Slow down?” he echoed, as if you’re speaking some alien language.

“Yeah, I just–…” you averted your gaze, “…I don’t really know what to do…”

“Really?” he raised a brow before you offered a nod, “well, alright. Help me out here for a second. Tell me, how much exactly have you done before?”

“I–… nothing…” you timidly shared.

“Nothing? Not even fooled around with a boyfriend?”

“I’ve never had a boyfriend, so no…” you nearly whispered, before then catching his eye and letting out a desperate cry, “I’m sorry, please, I can still do it, you just gotta guide me a bit! Please don’t back out of the deal!”

“Oh, no, honey, I’m not,” his stare traced your helpless expression as a few of his knuckles drifted up to trace the edges of it, “I’m very much not…”

“Oh, good!” you gasped, before swiftly regretting how enthusiastic it had sounded, “I mean, not–, just–, you know what I mean…”

Letting you squirm under his gaze a moment longer, he then uttered in a strange tone, almost as if you’d given him the most wicked of ideas, “you wanna go slow? We can go slow… I think I can live with that arrangement,” a wolfish grin bloomed upon his gruff face, “so why don’t you start by kissing me again?”

Nervously, heart hammering in your chest, you raised yourself up onto your tiptoes and planted a swift peck upon his lips.

“Hmm…” he hummed, before his pointer finger then drifted up into the space between you to do a come-hither motion, “you can do better than that, kiddo…” he lowered himself down a tad to be closer to your height.

When you then kissed him once more, one of his palms slid up to the back of your head just as you were about to break it, keeping you from fleeing as he then deepened the kiss.

As he began to make out with you, his tongue greedily flickering out to taste your own, your body initially locked up, though soon, as he selfishly kept it going, you horrifyingly felt yourself begin to relax into it.

Reminding yourself that it would all be over before you knew it, you tried your best to calm yourself, let go and try to find a way to enjoy it.

As his feet soon shuffled against the dirty floors, you bumped against the sink and squeaked against his devilish tongue.

His hands greedily began to wander down your body, his bold and scorching touch made ripples and waves in the short dress that you wore. At first, the touch made you draw in a sharp breath, but then as his lips strayed from your own and began to dance down the length of your neck, smothering the sensitive skin in sloppy pecks, your brows promptly knitted together in confusion as the way his fingers traced down your frame, grabbing your ass before then sweeping up to grope your tits, actually felt good.

As the older man’s broad hands then harshly coasted down to your bottom once again, he scooped you up to sit on the edge of the sink, making you let out a startled gasp at the sudden and unexpected move, although that only made the biker chuckle in return.

Now that his ravenous lips were no longer glued to your skin, his dark eyes drifted down to ogle the short hem of your dress before he then slowly hiked it further up to reveal your underwear below, which, to your horror, was completely and utterly soaked, making the poor cotton nearly translucent as it clung to your core.

“Fuck…” he let out an exhale as he slowly sank down to crouch before you. Getting a bit too close for your comfort, you tried to shift and close your thighs more, but his rough palms just shot out to catch each of your knees, “a-ah,” he didn’t even raise his gaze as he ordered, “keep them spread.”

“Mhm,” you hesitantly hummed as you blinked down at him between your legs.

“Good girl,” one of his hands then slid all the way up your inner thigh till it met the edge of your panties. Gasping at the contact, you then dared to peep down as he let his fingertips ghost over your covered core and tickle you, “so sensitive…” he noticed your body trembling at his touch and the way your brows knit together above your wild eyes, “what, are you scared, sweetheart? That’s okay, you can be scared… I know, you’ve probably been told all of your life that no one is supposed to touch your pretty princess parts, especially not someone like me, so it’s alright to be scared.”

Leaning in, he then pressed a kiss upon your covered clit, already puffy and throbbing beneath the drenched cotton.

“Oh my god…” he groaned as your scent tempted him even closer, his nose tickling you as he inhaled deeply, “I gotta get these off,” he hazily then grunted before ripping your panties off, down your legs and swiftly tossed them over his broad leather jacket-clad shoulder to the dark corner of the dirty bathroom.

He immediately let his fingers find your folds, first pinching your pussylips teasingly together, before he spread you apart for his marvelling stare.

“Look at that…” he inspected your untouched hole, grinning at the way you already cried out for him, “oh fuck…”

And without any further ado, the biker dove straight in, his calloused grasp holding you steady as he began to eat you out.

When his famished mouth soon sucked down on your clit, an uncontrollable moan tumbled out past your lips, one that you wished and hoped he didn’t notice, though he promptly groaned against your cunt, “yeah, you like that?” he glanced up at you as he smirked against your pussy.

“Y-yeah, it actually feels good…” you hesitantly admitted, forcing yourself to let go and give in to it since it would only be this one time, “…really good…”

Sloppily flicking down to taste your entrance, he soon began to fuck you with his wicked tongue, though only long enough to make you gasp before he then withdrew and licked his way back up your slit, only to sweep back down to plug you up, settling into the teasing pattern till a tingling knot began to form in the pit of your belly.

And even though you cried out at the high that soon crashed into you, your thighs clamping shut around his skull, he still didn’t cease as his mouth kept on devouring you whole, his nose all the while bumping your puffy pearl, “stop, stop!” you tried to push the biker away, “no more, it’s too much!”

“Yeah, I know,” he uttered condescendingly as he rose back up, your juices staining his salt and pepper beard, “stop complaining,” he then undid his trousers, his eyes still glued to your cunt as he got out his cock. As he jerked it slowly a couple of times before you, your lips parted in a silent gasp at his size, although it was when he swiftly inched in closer that your eyes truly grew in horror. Letting a dollop of spit drop from his mouth, first to your inner thighs, before it cascaded down to glisten up your pussy even more, he then tapped the heft weight of himself crudely against your throbbing and tender clit, making you jolt atop the sink, before he then momentarily rested his length down against your pussy, smirking fiendishly at just how deep his cock would burry itself in your body, “this isn’t about you. Your pleasure is frankly irrelevant in our deal,” he grunted as he soon drew your thighs together to envelop his dick and let him fuck them, “all you gotta do is spread your little legs and let me deflower you however the fuck I want.”

Soon the thighjob deteriorated, the leaking tip of him pressing and bumping rudely against your overly sensitive clit each time he thrust his hips forward, so it didn’t take too long before his bruising grip let go of your legs and he instead began to dedicate all of his attention to your cunt. With a few sharp taps of his hard length against the glistening softness of your puffy pussy, your frame jerked so sharply that your thighs couldn’t help but shakily part for him.

Trailing the bulbous tip through your wetness, his pearly precum slicked up your pussy to the dripping degree that mortifying, sloppy sounds echoed through the small bathroom each time he’d callously smear his cock against your quivering entrance and through your folds.

Though when you found the courage to finally glance down and watch as the biker repeatedly parted your petals around his fat girth, you nearly tried to escape from under him as you noticed, “o-oh my god, wait, where’s the condom?”

Although, the older man only rolled his eyes and sighed as if you were an annoying little child, here to spoil all of his fun, “oh my god…”

“B-but I’m not on the pill or anything,” you squirmed as he continued to rub his hardness against your cunt, “y-you can’t–”

“Relax, I’ll just pull out,” he huffed, “this just feels so much better, trust me…”

As he kept on going, rutting against your softness like an animal in heat, you then curiously let your hand wander down your frame till your fingertips brushed against his slick dick, crudely gliding against your pussy, your stare intense as you blinked down at it.

And as you were in uncharted waters, why he hadn’t stuffed it inside yet remained a mystery, as your clenching hole was already winking and making out with his fat tip. Perhaps he was just waiting for you to pop it in yourself, seeing as it was your very first time.

Although, when your touch tried to direct his cock down to sink inside your warmth, Bucky’s palm appeared from out of nowhere and smacked your fingers away, “hey! Behave! Keep your hands to your fucking self! You don’t get to control this, I’m the one who decides how this goes down, and you sure as fuck aren’t allowed to touch anything without my permission, you got that?”

Blinking up at him with wide eyes, your voice quivered, “y-yes, sir.”

“Fucking brat…” he mumbled before his efforts then grew rougher.

Soon he had you cumming once again, your body jerking harshly at the overwhelming high and your eyes squeezing shut, rendering you to nearly miss as he soon shot his load all over your pussy and belly, painting your skin white for you to discover as you woke back up from your haze.

“I–…” your dizzy vision narrowed to a squint as you peered down at the mess he’d made, “…was that it?”

“Oh wow,” he swiftly huffed as he met your confused gaze, “no, please, tell me how you really feel.”

“No, I’m sorry, I just thought you were gonna put it inside…”

“I changed my mind, this isn’t how I wanna do it,” a smirk twitched at his lips as he casually tugged his dick away.

“What?”

“Come again tomorrow,” he met your eye once more, “you can try again.”

“And just how do you know I’ll come again?” you pushed your skirt back down to somewhat cover yourself.

“You will,” he uttered with a level of cockiness you didn’t even think was possible.

“No, I won’t,” you shifted to sit up straight as you continued to balance on the edge of the sink, “I let you touch me, I did my part of the deal, now it’s your turn.”

“The deal was to let me pop your cherry, however, I may wish,” he scoffed, “you, little miss virgin, still haven’t had a cock split that pussy open yet. And don’t fucking come at me with your generation’s ideas about how complex and broad the term of virginity actually is, fuck that shit. You’re fucking mine till I break your hymen,” he growled, sending shivers down your spine, “mine to–, how did you put it? Take it slow with?” his tongue briefly flickered out to wet his lips as it remembered moments earlier, how it had dove inside of you and felt you clamber around it.

“Y-you can’t be serious,” you gasped.

“Do I not fucking look serious?” he let your eyes dart across his stern features, “honey, if you don’t do as I say and let me do this exactly how I wanna do it, then I’ll just keep your brother on, and I won’t fucking hesitate to make the rest of his life short and like hell.”

“I-I’m sorry! How should I have known that?”

“Because I fucking told you,” Bucky’s inked palm came down upon your ass once more. His black leather belt constricted your wrists at the small of your back as he held you balanced over his lap. Your panties hanging down around your ankles, the cotton still stained from your morning activities, “I said you weren’t allowed to touch anything without my permission, that includes this little pussy of yours.”

The people in the mechanic shop still buzzed around on the other side of the office’s thin walls, making you nervous about someone potentially wandering in to see your whole world on display.

Briefly pausing his spanks to inspect your pussy, he swiftly groaned, “fucking slut…” he spread you apart crudely, “you thought you could sneak this past me and I wouldn’t notice?” he then smacked his palm against your core, his fingertips colliding harshly with your throbbing clit and making your hole clench around nothing, “that you could get this little cunt off and just think that I wouldn’t see how soaked your panties still are?” he kept on whacking, “even your fucking fingers still smell of pussy.”

“I’m s-sorry,” a murmured moan slipped through your fog as you felt your toes curl in the inevitable end that crept nearer with every slap he dealt to your aching cunt.

But unfortunately, the biker noticed and swiftly said, “are you really about to fucking cum right now?”

“Mhm,” you hummed back and dug your nails into his thick thigh. However, when he then stopped his hand mid-air, denying you of the bliss, you promptly twisted to glance up at him with your hazy eyes, “w-wait–”

“One crucial lesson that you clearly need to get beaten into that young brain of yours,” he yanked his belt from your bound wrists and then bent it in half as he uttered, “is that bad girls don’t get to fucking cum,” before he began to crack the leather down upon your already sore bottom, truly marking it up with bruises.

“Ah!” you cried out as the sharp stings.

“Let me hear,” he croaked as he kept on whipping your butt.

“B-bad girls–”

“They what?”

“D-don’t get to cum–”

“That’s right,” he emphasised his words with the belt in his hand, “don’t even try and pull that stunt again. That’s two fucking strikes already… the fuck am I gonna do with you…”

Bucky had you balanced on a short tower of wide beer cases in the storage room of Nick’s bar, as he had made you hold back your legs to crack you mortifyingly open for him.

“There we go,” he murmured when, after an entire hour of edging and teasing you, the butt plug in his grasp finally sank into your little hole, “you did it,” his thumb rubbed the flared base of the metal toy.

You still didn’t understand his new obsession with your ass lately, moving entirely away from your virgin pussy to play with your other untouched hole, teasing it and stretching it out at any chance that he got. It was almost like he’d forgotten that it was your cunt that he was supposed to fuck to get this whole ordeal over with.

“C-can I come now?” you trembled as you peered down at him with hooded eyes, his face still lingering near your aching core, “I did it, I let you put that thingy in me, so can I? Please, sir?”

“How sweet of you to ask,” he chuckled lightly, “but no.”

“No?” you pouted as your throbbing cunt continued to drip before his very eyes.

“No, we don’t have time for that shit,” he straightened back up, “we gotta head out.”

“What? Where?”

“Thought it was about time you came riding with us,” you watched as he wiped off his soaked fingers on his jacket.

“Why? I don’t know how to.”

“Well, you don’t need to know in order to sit with me on my bike,” he stated, “come on, we all leave in less than five.”

“What, now?” your eyes grew even wider.

“Yeah, now,” he then grabbed your frame and hauled you over his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Ah! Wait! B-Bucky!” you yelped as he kicked the door to the back room open again, “you didn’t take the toy out!” you tried to reach back to do it yourself, but he promptly smacked your fingers away, “and my underwear–, I don’t–”

“Quit your whining, you’ll survive without your panties for a bit,” he grumbled as he walked out through the bar, making you blush as he past numerous bikers, flashing everyone your parts as your short dress rid up so far that it no longer covered anything, “and the plug stays right there, you got that? Don’t you dare so much as touch it after the work I just put in to finally fit it inside of you,” he smacked your ass, “you got that?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you murmured as he exited the bar and neared the clustered motorbikes all lined up out front. At the very least, you could find a drop of solace in the fact that your brother didn’t seem to be present today.

“Good,” he then sat you down on the ground, directly next to his own shiny bike, “now, hop on.”

Glancing nervously to the intimidating motorcycle, you then uttered, “…what about a helmet?”

But instead, he just repeated more firmly this time, “hop on.”

The gang of bikers, all on their vehicles, were so loud that you nearly couldn’t hear yourself think. It was almost like you were trapped in the centre of a swarm of bees.

Slotted behind the leader on the long leather seat of his motorcycle, your arms were tightly tangled around his waist as you watched the landscape zoom by around you.

The roar of the engine beneath you was so strong that the vibrations ended up teasing you, making your bare and drippy cunt, beneath your tiny dress that flowed in the wind, leak even more and stain the seat below with your desperation. Each agonising hum of the bike even made your little ass clench around the plug, whimpers slipping from your lips when you lost the battle and couldn’t ignore it any longer.

But then, suddenly on the ride, Bucky strayed and took a detour from where the rest of the group was headed, and though you tried to ask him about it, the biker didn’t bother offering you the satisfaction.

When he finally rolled to a stop, you’d reached an outlook point at the top of a hill, without a single other person in sight.

Plucking you off of the bike once he had dismounted as well, he didn’t waver before then manhandling you and bending you over the bike like a ragdoll in his grasp.

“Bucky–, a-ah!” you squealed as he then suddenly took the steely plug out.

“Shh…” he smacked your ass in return before stuffing the slick toy into his pocket.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you watched as he freed his fat cock, “w-what are you doing?”

“What does it fucking look like I’m doing?” he crudely tapped his bulbous tip against your asshole, briefly flicking against both it, as well as straying further south to gather up some one the cream that was leaking out of your cunt, using your juices as lube to slicken up his dick, “finally filling up your little hole,” he pointed out plainly before doing just that.

“Ah!” you cried out as he sank just the tip in, “bu-but, not there!” you then felt as he withdrew once more, only to instantly dip back in and make you gasp, “that’s the wrong–, you’re supposed to–”

“Oh, I know, honey, I know…” he cooed condescendingly, “but why put a stop to our fun already when I can just fuck your ass instead?”

As he buried himself another inch, you cried out at the aching stretch, seeing as even though the biker had teased you profusely, didn’t mean that your ass was ready to be split open in such a manner in order to take his girth.

“Fuck, you’re so tiny…” he groaned from behind you as he gazed down at your trembling frame beneath him, “tight little virgin ass just doesn’t wanna let me in, huh?” his touch drifted down to trace the tight ring of your hole around his cock, struggling to open up for him, “is this princess too high and mighty to take such a big, mean biker dick?”

“P-please–,” you choked on a sob as your nails dug into the motorcycle’s seat below you.

“Please, what? Do you not like it, huh? Does it hurt?” he mocked before you offered him a shaky nod, “how about this, does this hurt?” he then suddenly snapped his hips with such ferocity that his heavy balls tapped against your neglected pussy as he buried himself inside of you completely, “just you wait…” he moaned as your little hole choked his cock, “by the time that I’m done with you, you’ll be the most perfect little anal whore…”

As you felt his palms scoop below you to rip down your neckline and spill out your tits for his touch to play with, your eyes flickered down as well, although it was something other than his rough hands that caused your vision to widen.

As one of his hands crumbled your short dress, gathering the fabric in his calloused grasp, you spotted the prominent bulge that appeared in your lower stomach, the jarring imprint shifting to the rhythm of his ruthless pace.

There was no way you would be able to cum from simply the sensation of him fucking your ass, but it did manage to keep you agonisingly close to the edge, frying your brain completely as you dizzily blinked down at how your pussy defencelessly drooled about it, begging for attention.

“Shit, you feel so good, baby…” his wide palm cracked down against the curve of your ass, “maybe I should just keep fucking you like this and never stretch out that pretty little cunt of yours…” he considered with a fiendishly smirk upon his lip, “keep you pure… only fuck your ass so that I can keep you forever…”

When he soon filled up your poor ass with his hot load and he finally pulled back out, he instead popped the plug back in, before you could even catch your breath, keeping his cum stuffed inside of you.

Sitting next to the leader of the biker gang in a booth at the bar, Bucky didn’t offer you even one single glance as he spoke with his comrades and lit up yet another cigarette.

Although, that wasn’t all he was doing that night, as below the table, his devious hand set some other plans into motion.

With his fingers buried so far up your skirt that all you could do was sit there and concentrate on breathing, all of the bustling voices around you flying over your foggy head, it didn’t take long before the older man just pulled you into his lap.

Bucky simply carried on his conversations as normal, not caring one bit if other folks thought that you were just a pretty girl merely sitting on him, or if they knew what he was actually doing, that he was in fact making you warm his cock, on his selfish detour of a mission to stretch out your ass.

Maybe the dazed look on your face gave it away, or perhaps the way that his palm, that rested on your core to keep you steady and keep you in his lap, how it occasionally offered your wet pussy a slap loud enough to echo out through the entire bar. But even so, no one seemed to care, as it was only your heated cheeks that acknowledged the embarrassment.

But eventually, when he had downed his drink, he dragged your cockdrunk being out of the establishment, through the back and into the alley behind the bar. For a moment, you thought that he was gonna take you home to his own place, somewhere that you had practically begun to live in yourself, but instead of storming towards his bike, he didn’t get further than that passageway as he instead shoved you up against the rough brick wall and kissed you.

Spinning you around so that your front collided with the wall, he then stuffed your ass once again, a strange sensation that you had begun to get used to, though still wasn’t too fond of. But even so, you had still learned by now that complaining was of no use and would only egg the criminal on further, so if you wanted a shot at being able to still walk afterwards, then you’d learned to simply keep your mouth shut.

Smacking your puffy pussy once again, his grunts melted against your ear as you felt two of his fingertips sinking into your cunt, just barely slipping in at all, only hooking them to keep you in place as he railed your butt.

And though you tried not to orgasm, as the biker had repeatedly told you for the entirety of the night that you weren’t allowed such privileges, when the root of his rough palm grinded down against your throbbing clit, you were so edged that you helplessly squirted all over his palm.

Pulling out, he promptly growled, “the fuck did I tell you?” as he slapped your cheek with the hand that was still soaked from your cunt.

“I-I’m sorry, I was trying, I swear–”

“What’ll it take for you to get that this isn’t about you?” he spun you around to face him once more, “you’re not supposed to like it, you’re supposed to be a good little slut and make me feel good, you got it? Focus on me, not what that pussy wants. She’s a dumb little virgin anyways, doesn’t know what she really wants, so just shut up and take it,” your brows knit together at the sensitivity as he then reached down to drag his throbbing cock through your dripping folds, “you begged for it,” gathering your juices on his way to fill your ass back up, “begged for me to let your dear brother go. You got yourself into this mess, so be a good little fuck toy and just do as I say…”

“…been shut down since the sixties, even since people caught wind of all of the nefarious things the headmasters let slide for generations,” Bucky uttered as you walked by his side down one of the long and dusty hallways of the abandoned boarding school that he had wanted to show you.

Though the biker had claimed that the reason for dragging you there was purely because he thought you’d love the local lore, try as he might to make it seem that way, in reality, it was all just a ruse.

“How do you know about all of this?” you asked as you slowed your step to peek inside of other rooms you passed.

“Well,” he tilted his head as he then shared, “believe it or not, once upon a time, I was also a history major.”

“Really?” you whipped your head around to look at the older man, “you went to college?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged as you followed his stride, “or well, for a few months,” he added, “I loved every second of it though…”

“Then why did you drop out?” you blinked back at him.

“I didn’t drop out,” he met your eye, as if the truth was too obvious to even point out, “I was locked up.”

“Oh,” your puzzled expression promptly dropped, “oh…”

Slipping out of the corridor, the pair of you then entered a grand room that a rusty plaque by the door stated was the old headmaster’s office. The glass was cracked in the huge bay window that stood behind the dust-cloaked mahogany desk in the middle of the room.

Your slow steps caused the dirty floorboards below to creak and groan as you let your eyes dance around the spines of the numerous books that still littered the dark bookcases.

Curving around the desk, you then cracked open the large ledger, that lied hidden among the other knick-knacks, and began to skim the list of names, presumably of the children who had lived here.

“This is wild…” you couldn’t help but whisper as you let a finger ghost down the page.

“Yeah…” Bucky’s voice tickled your ear as he crept up behind you, “just imagine if you’d been alive back then… I mean, this is where you’d have ended up…” he stated before letting his lips dip down and kiss your neck as you kept on reading, “and being the troublemaker I know you to be, you’d probably have ended up in here all of the time…” he smirked against your skin before you felt his palm smack your ass, “getting fucking reprimanded, probably getting on everyone’s nerve enough for them to just drop you off at the local whorehouse to get you out of their hair…”

Fingers coasting up your front, the older man then caught your jaw and twisted it enough for him to catch your lips. Turning you around to face him completely, the kiss then swiftly grew sloppy as he drew you closer.

Soon, one of his arms extended behind you to carelessly clear the desk, sweeping every item to the ground, before he then scooped you up to sit on the edge.  

The biker had gotten into a habit at this point of not letting you wear any panties, in addition to preferring things like skirts and dresses that granted him easy access. Today had been one of those days, rendering the mild breeze that seeped through the cracked windows flowed in and kissed your cunt directly, sending shivers down your spine as the older man spread your thighs to slot himself in between them.

“Give me your hands,” he soon murmured against the kiss, though when you then held them out in the sliver of space between you both, Bucky reached into his back pocket and conjured a zip tie, which he then swiftly fastened around your wrists.

His kisses then suddenly ceased before he backed up a few steps, taking a moment to admire as you panted up at him, slightly sloped back on top of the desk, legs trembling to stay parted for him after the loss of contact, and with your bound hands resting against the swell of your tits. Undoing his dark pants, he then freed his cock simply because the sight of you made him throb too hard not to offer himself a few strokes. His consuming stare flickered momentarily in deliberation, before he then finally shifted back into your orbit.

As he tapped his heavy cock against your cunt, you couldn’t help but blink down at how huge he looked pressed up against your softness. Your stare only widened when he then humoured himself and lined his fat length up against your belly to see just how far inside of you that his cock would reach, “look at that… that’s how fucking deep I’ll get…” he groaned as he drew his dick back down, the details of him dragging against your aching clit, “rearrange your guts just to make room for me…”

You naturally assumed that this was all talk, as it usually was, that he would once again ignore your virgin pussy and opt for your well-trained ass instead. But when his pussyjob then grew sloppier and he actually did push against your untouched opening, not simply in a cruel and teasing nudge, but one that persisted till the bulbous tip of him eventually popped inside, just a tad, making you gasp loudly, “oh my god…” all you could focus on was the burning stretch of him splitting you open, before you then blinked down and realised what he was finally doing, “oh my god!”

“That’s right… I’m your fucking god now…” he groaned as you clambered around him, struggling to take him as he had purposely not given your pussy any attention at all up till now, “holy shit… look at that tight little cunt opening up for me…”

Soon, on his slow and bullying journey inside, his hardness was met with some resistance. But instead of fretting, the older man simply dragged his fat cock back out, slowly withdrawing it till he barely remained inside of you at all, before he then thrust forward once more, carving his way back in before he reached it again, only to initiate that pattern and repeat it, knocking on the thin wall again and again with steadily growing harshness till he broke it.

Though an outright scream left your form at the painful sting, the biker let out a moan just as rumbling as he sank in a bit further before then sliding back out to just the tip and grinning down at the crimson now decorating the half of his monstrous length that he had fit inside of you so far.

“Well, would you fucking look at that…” he then reached down, his touch briefly skimming over your clit before his fingers drifted down to part and pull on either side of his thick cock, spreading your pussy open even more to let him see how he broke you open. Smearing some blood on his digits, he then brought them up to his own mouth for a taste. His eyes rolled shut as he sucked them clean, groaning against his fingers as your eyes widened in horror. But when he then reached down for more, he instead uttered, “here, taste your fucking virginity,” and before you could try and twist away, not giving you a choice in the matter, he shoved his crimson digits into your mouth.

It tasted like iron and sin.

Crudely fucking his fingers in and out of your mouth, he didn’t let you breathe again before he’d reached far enough down your throat to make you gag on them.

Briefly dipping down, he dragged his tongue against the corner of your lips, licking up the little bit of blood that had smeared against your skin, “so, how does it fucking feel to finally have a cock all up in this little cunnie of yours, huh?” his deep voice vibrated against your hot cheek.

“F-feels–,” you panted, “weird–,” your eyes squeezed shut tightly as you tried to comprehend the staggering sensation, “nghh…h-hurts.”

“Oh, that’s so good, baby,” he only grinned before he placed a peck upon your brow, “that’s just perfect…”

Snapping into your cunt with more force, his pace increased as he attempted to stuff the remainder of his length inside of you.  

“Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh…” your gasps bubbled out of you to the rhythm of his harsh hips.

“I want you to cum on my cock,” you then heard him growl.

“I-I don’t know if I can–,” you swiftly shook your head as it felt as if he was splitting you in two, “it’s too much–”

“I don’t fucking care, you will do it,” he reached down and began to rub your poor clit, making you choke on a strangled moan, “come on, let me feel it,” he begged as his tight circles pressed down harder, “just let go, you can do it. Cream all over my cock, kiddo…”

Tears were streaming down your face by the time that a dangerous sense of warmth formed in the pit of your belly, and your entire body soon contracted painfully as he forced the agonising orgasm out of you.

“Fuck, that’s it, goddamn… that’s what I’m fucking talking about,” he grunted as your cunt clambered so tightly around him that his selfishness became even more agonising, “uh, do that again and you’ll make me nut so hard inside of you,” he muttered, though you barely heard his voice through your haze.

“Y-you, what–, ah!” you cried out as he then ignored your blubbering and suddenly buried himself completely, finally cramming the last few inches inside of your warmth, “t-too deep!” you struggled to suck in a breath as the tip of him nudged against your cervix as if it was threatening to burst through and fuck directly into your womb.

“No, I’m not too deep, this is exactly how it’s supposed to be. Your little fuckhole is supposed to take every single inch of me,” he chuckled down at the imprint of himself that bulged through your belly, “look at that… you see me right there, baby?” he pressed his palm down against it, making you squirm, “you see me all up in your guts?”

“Holy fuck…” you blinked down at it, mouth agape as it was so much more jarringly prominent when it was your pussy that he was wrecking and not just your poor ass.

“Oh, babygirl…” he kept his strokes long and rough, repeatedly withdrawing to the tip before slamming back in till his heavy sack smacked against the mess that had soaked your skin, “that’s right… that’s my fucking hole…” his eyes stayed glued between your trembling legs, “fucking split open and crying all over me… christ…”

Your strangled moans soon withered away as his inked fingers found your throat and didn’t stop squeezing till black dots began to dance around your dizzy vision.

The desk rattled beneath you when he eventually groaned, “fuck, I’m gonna cum…”

“P-pull–, o-out–,” you panicked in a squeak that he swiftly silenced completely when his grip only tightened, cutting off your air supply even more as he continued to brutally fuck you.

Even after he had pumped your pussy full of his load, the biker still didn’t stop completely, as his pace only slowed as he continued to rut his sensitive cock inside of you in a possessive attempt at fucking his load even deeper, although all his fat girth truly did was to force the sticky mess to gush back out.

“O-oh my god,” you blinked down his cum gradually leaking out around him, “did you just–”

“Doll, if I haven’t knocked you up already,” he panted, making you remember the countless of things he had done. From the times that he had filled up your ass with his load and droplets had dripped down to your needy pussy, or when he’d cum in your panties and forced you to wear them for the remainder of the day, or even the few times when the biker had cum on your cunt and rubbed the mess against your skin before stuffing as much of it inside of your hole as he could manage, “then I just gotta make sure that I do it now…” he continued to roll his hips, “this way you’re stuck with me…” he caught your eye just as his painfully slow pace began to bloom horrifying tingles deep within your belly once more, “this way you get to be mine forever…”

you flip the file open. a photograph stares back at you, black and white, grainy like it’s been copied too many times. a man—or something close enough to pass at a glance. tall, broad, a slouch to his stance that suggests irritation rather than weakness. dark hair falls across his face, his expression caught mid-scowl. even in monochrome, he radiates a kind of contempt for the camera, for whoever thought they could capture him.

“your role is straightforward,” the woman continues, folding her hands neatly atop the table. “you’ll house him until we find a suitable mate. his… reproductive potential is too valuable to risk. he must be kept safe, observed, kept in good health.”

your throat feels dry. you glance down again at the picture. the file lists other details—height, weight, dietary needs—but your eyes keep catching on the warning line stamped bold at the bottom: reluctant to comply. highly territorial. requires discipline.

“why me?” you hear yourself ask. your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to.

the officer doesn’t hesitate. “your background makes you uniquely qualified. young enough to adapt, educated enough to document, unencumbered by family obligations. we believe he may… respond better to someone like you.”

someone like you.

the words sit heavy, and for a fleeting, absurd moment, you picture yourself leading a dog on a leash. except this one is six-plus feet of muscle and teeth, and nothing about him looks leash-trained.

you close the file, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. “and if he doesn’t… respond?”

the officer’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “then you’ll learn to make him.”

they don’t give you much warning. three days, a checklist of things to “prepare” (nutrient-dense food, reinforced locks, a private bedroom), and then they show up on your doorstep like you’re adopting a rescue animal instead of harboring the government’s prized demihuman.

two black vans idle at the curb, engines thrumming low, tinted windows reflecting the weak sunlight. neighbors peek from their windows, curtain slats shifting like nervous eyes. you can almost hear their speculation—drug bust, maybe. raid. certainly nothing that could possibly involve you.

until they unload him.

he steps out of the back like he owns the pavement. shackles bite into his wrists, chains clinking with each deliberate move. it should look degrading, humiliating, but somehow it doesn’t—because that man doesn’t carry humiliation. he carries menace. broad shoulders, head tilted slightly down like he’s watching the world from under his lashes.

the officers on either side grip his arms too tightly, but you can see it in the tension in their bodies, the stiffness in their spines—they’re afraid of him. and he knows it.

“subject is in your custody,” one announces, though his voice cracks near the end.

subject.

but he doesn’t look like a subject when his eyes catch yours. green, needle-pointed, more animal than human in their focus, and suddenly your little house feels far too small to contain something like him.

“you?” his voice is low, gruff, almost mocking, as though the word itself is a joke he’s relishing. his gaze sweeps over you once, deliberate, from your nervous hands clutching the paperwork to the uncertain set of your shoulders. “they’re dumping me with you?”

you swallow, force your chin up even though your stomach twists with dread. “i’m your caretaker.”

he lets out a harsh bark of laughter, far from any humor. “caretaker,” he repeats, like he’s testing the taste of it. his shit-eating grin stretches wider, showing his sharp canines. “what are you gonna do, feed me kibbles? take me on walks?”

the officers don’t laugh. no one does.

you’re aware, acutely, that your neighbors are still watching from behind their curtains. that the government expects you to handle him. that you can’t show hesitation, even as your palms gets slick with sweat.

“i’ll do what i have to,” you say at last, voice steadier than how you you feel.

toji tilts his head, and for the briefest moment you think he might lunge—might snap the chain taut just to see you flinch from him. but instead, he huffs, amused, and lets the officers push him toward your door.

they unclip his cuffs at your doorway like it’s a bomb disposal, quick and careful, one officer bracing his weight just in case he decides to bolt. he doesn’t. he just shakes out his wrists, the chain hitting your hardwood floor with a dull clang, then stretches like an overgrown mutt finally off-leash. you can hear the quiet rip of his joints rolling back into comfort, the subtle crack of his knuckles flexing.

inside, the air feels too quiet, too thin, and his presence fills it instantly. he doesn’t move like a man dropped into someone else’s home; he moves like he’s already staking claim. his broad shoulders brush against the narrow hallway walls, his boots thudding heavy against the floor. the faint sway of his chains punctuates each step, though he doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just doesn’t care.

you try to remind yourself that this is temporary. that you’re just a stopgap, a holding pen until the higher-ups find him a mate. that he’s not yours.

but when his eyes flick lazily over your space, landing again on you, that fucking smirk curling deeper, the thought creeps in anyway.

it already feels like you’re the one being caged.

“home sweet home,” he drawls, like the words taste sour.

you don’t answer. maybe you’re afraid that if you open your mouth he’ll smell the nerves on your breath.

your house isn’t much. a boxy living room with a couch too soft for someone his size, a kitchen visible from the doorway, the faint smell of coffee still clinging to the air. neat, modest, painfully human. but with him inside, it feels different. smaller. tighter. like the walls have contracted around him, forced to contain someone they were never built for.

he drops onto your couch without asking, the whole thing dipping under his weight until it groans like it might split. he sprawls wide, legs apart, one arm thrown across the back like he owns the place. his boots are still on, scuffing the fabric, leaving dark streaks against the beige.

you want to tell him to take them off. but you don’t.

instead, you stand awkwardly at the edge of the room, clutching the stack of papers the officers left you—feeding schedule, behavioral guidelines, medical notes printed sterile and clinical. none of it prepares you for the sight of him stretching out like a smug bastard in your living room, a scar curling down his jaw, teeth flashing when he smirks up at you.

“so this is where i live now,” he says, almost to himself, but his eyes never leave your face.

you manage a shaky nod. “until they find you a mate.”

there’s a flicker of something keen in his gaze but then it’s gone, smothered under the slow curve of his grin.

“a mate, huh.” he leans back further, head tipping against the couch cushion. his shirt rides up with the movement, exposing a strip of skin above the waistband of his pants. cut muscle, a trail of dark hair. the kind of view you’d get scrolling porn, not standing in your own home. “guess that makes you my babysitter.”

the word babysitter hangs in the air, sticky and humiliating.

he chuckles low, scratching the side of his jaw with one thick finger like a street dog “gonna feed me, bathe me, tuck me in?”

you look away, throat tight with tensity “i’ll do what needs to be done.”

that earns you another laugh, louder this time. he slaps a hand against his thigh like you just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard.

“you’re serious, huh?” his teeth flash again, a canine glint that matches the too-green gleam of his eyes. “fuck, this is gonna be fun.”

you try to ignore the way he says it. try to ignore the prickle crawling down your spine, the silent dare in his voice.

he will eventually leave, right? you can be a little patient—of course you can.

no.

ten minutes in, and he’s already testing you.

he kicks the coffee table with the heel of his boot, sending the stack of coasters you’d set there clattering to the floor, just to see if you’ll bend to pick them up. when you don’t, when you stand your ground, he hums low, amused.

he opens your fridge without asking, drinks from the milk carton straight from the spout, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. you want to tell him not to. you don’t.

instead, you watch the muscles in his throat shift with each swallow, the flex of his jaw as he drinks, the thick line of his scar catching the kitchen light.

when he’s finished, he sets the carton back half-empty, meeting your eyes purposely as he slams the fridge door shut.

“thanks, caretaker.”

instead of snapping at him, you try to read through the stack of government paperwork like it’s going to protect you. care instructions, feeding portions, health checks. sterile black ink printed on cheap white paper—rules that mean nothing when you glance up and see him sprawled out on your couch, his dark, fluffy tail flicking up lightly.

toji watches you pretend to focus, head tilted against the cushion, lips curled in something between boredom and amusement. a dog with a bone he hasn’t decided if he wants to chew or bury.

“what, no lecture?” he says finally, scratching his jaw with blunt nails. “thought you’d be all over me by now. ‘wipe your feet, don’t touch this, don’t touch that.’” his voice goes sing-song on the last bit, a mockery of how he imagines you sound.

you don’t rise to the bait. maybe you’re scared of what happens if you do. maybe you’re already too aware of the weight of his eyes dragging over you like claws.

but he notices. he notices everything.

when you finally stand, collecting the empty milk carton and muttering about garbage, he follows. no sound, no warning—just a shift in the air behind you, heat radiating from his body before you even turn. his chest brushes your shoulder, deliberate, testing.

“small kitchen,” he says, his voice low, like he’s measuring how you’ll react to his closeness.

“you’re too big,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself.

his grin is jagged as be he hums, “that’s what they tell me.”

you shove the carton into the trash harder than necessary, hoping the sound covers the way your pulse spikes.

by the time you turn back, he’s already leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, watching you like he’s settling in for a show.

toji doesn’t act like a man adjusting to a caretaker. he acts like a mutt testing boundaries, pawing at invisible fences just to see if they’ll hold. and when they don’t? he pushes harder.

he flicks the fridge magnets off with a lazy swipe of his hand, watches them clatter to the floor. smirks when you don’t move to pick them up.

he grabs the remote on his way back to the couch, flips through channels with impatient clicks, pausing only when something loud flashes across the screen. his boots are still on, still grinding into your fabric, like he knows it’ll make your skin crawl.

“you’re quiet,” he says, not looking away from the TV this time. “don’t like talkin’?”

you don’t answer, not right away.

he turns his head finally, green eyes bright in the glow of the television. “or don’t like talkin’ to me?”

you tell yourself you’re not going to rise to it. not the magnets on the floor, not the boots on the couch, not the way he keeps humming under his breath like he owns the place already. it’s been hours, not even a full day, and somehow the house feels like the walls are bending around his size, shrinking until every room is just him and the heat that rolls off his breathe.

he doesn’t look at you when he asks, “got a boyfriend?”

the question is thrown out casually, like he’s commenting on the weather, but his gaze flicks sideways just fast enough to let you know it’s not a throwaway line.

“no.”

he hums, low in his throat, and shifts against the couch, thighs spreading wider. “figured. don’t smell one.”

you blink, sure you misheard. “...excuse me?”

toji’s smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth pulling up as his tongue flicks across his teeth. “dog nose,” he says, tapping the side of it. “you don’t smell like anyone else. no other man’s sweat on you. no sex.” he shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “just you.”

heat climbs the back of your neck, humiliation and something close enough to lust twining together. he says it so bluntly, like reading a chart, like you’re just another piece of data.

you try to retreat—to the kitchen, to the bathroom, anywhere—but he’s faster. you don’t even hear him rise, just the weight of him at your back again, looming close enough you feel the brush of his chest against your shoulder.

“thought so,” he murmurs, low and smug. “you smell… clean.” his nose brushes your hair, just barely, and your stomach flips like you’ve been yanked too close to the edge of something.

you force yourself to move, to break the moment, but he doesn’t let you get far.

later, when you grab a blanket from the closet and toss it toward him with clipped words—“use this, couch is yours”—he catches it one-handed and doesn’t unfold it. just tosses it aside.

“nah,” he says, voice lilting with the same grin you’re starting to hate. “i don’t do couches.”

the implication hangs heavy, even when he doesn’t clarify. he doesn’t need to.

you lock your bedroom door that night.

but you still hear him. the pad of heavy footsteps as he prowls your house. the click of the TV shutting off. the soft scratch of claws—no, nails—on the wall outside your room as he lingers, listening.

like a dog testing the limits of his leash.

like he’s waiting for you to let him in.

you lie awake for too long. sheets pulled tight under your chin, every muscle stiff, listening. it’s pathetic how alert you are, ears straining for every sound, every breath.

and he makes sure you hear him.

the first time it’s the fridge door opening, the hollow suction pop of rubber seals giving way. then the clink of bottles, the scrape of glass against glass, and the breathy sound he makes after—thirst quenched, satisfied.

the second time it’s the couch springs groaning under his weight, then a beat later, the distinct thud of boots hitting the floor. he wants you to know he’s there, sprawling, stretching, taking up space.

then—closer.

a drag of nails along the drywall. deliberate, slow, right outside your door. you see the faintest shadow slip past the gap under the frame, broad and moving lazy, like he’s pacing.

your breath sticks in your throat.

“you asleep in there?” his voice is low, playful, muffled by the door but still somehow inside the room.

you don’t answer. can't? don't want to?

silence stretches—then the soft, deliberate creak of wood as he leans in, shoulder against the frame. you imagine him tilting his head, listening to your breath, his grin widening when he catches the quickened rhythm.

“figured not,” he drawls. “i can hear your little heartbeat.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. you don’t move, don’t even twitch, but the way your thighs press together under the sheets betrays you to yourself.

he doesn’t knock. doesn’t try the knob. just drags those nails one last time down the door before he shifts away, heavy steps receding down the hall.

the next day, the morning feels too bright, too ordinary, like nothing happened at all. sunlight slices through the blinds, dust floating in the beam, kitchen humming with the low buzz of the fridge. for a second you let yourself believe it—that he’s still asleep, that you imagined the scrape of nails, the weight of unseen breath hovering over you in the dark.

then you walk into the living room, your gaze landing on him. he’s on the couch, sprawled, shirtless.

just that. shirtless. like it’s nothing. like he doesn’t know what he looks like, all scarred muscle stretched out in the daylight, broad chest rising slow as he takes a lazy drag from the glass of water he swiped from your kitchen. his sweatpants ride too low on his hips, a waistband straining against something half-hard already.

“mornin’,” he says, voice rough with sleep. his eyes flick up at you, amused, like he can see the way your gaze stalls against the sharp cut of his collarbone.

you swallow, pretend to busy yourself with the kettle. you can feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement, the way your hand trembles just slightly on the handle.

when you crouch to grab a mug from the bottom shelf, he moves. stands. suddenly he’s behind you, close—too close.

“need help with that?” his voice is right at your ear, low and casual, but the way his breath hits your neck makes you freeze.

you shake your head, force yourself to straighten up, mug clutched like a shield. but he doesn’t step back. no—he lingers, towering over you, his shadow swallowing you up. you don’t have to look down to know what’s pressing at the front of his sweats now, thick and obvious.

he stretches, arms above his head, the movement obscene—showing off every ripple of muscle, the scars cutting across his torso. his cock shifts with it, straining the fabric, and his smirk says he knows you noticed.

he pads past you then, deliberately brushing against your shoulder, a smug little rumble low in his throat.

“cozy place you got here,” he says, sinking back onto the couch, legs spread wide. his hand rests casually on his thigh, too close to the tent in his pants.

you take a sip of your tea just to keep your hands steady.

he laughs under his breath, eyes gleaming. “what? you nervous already?”

you clench you teeth, just to avoid losing control "shut up..."

the smug bastard doesn’t stop testing you after breakfast—if anything, he doubles down.

you’re wiping the counter when you feel it again: that giant behind your back, the shadow that’s just too close. you spin, dish towel clenched in your fist.

“seriously? do you have to hover?”

he grins, unbothered, leaning his hip against the counter like he owns it. “what? ‘m just standin’ here.” his voice has that lazy drawl, tail twitching slow behind him. “can’t help it if you keep bendin’ over in front of me.”

“you’re impossible,” you mutter, pushing past him. his shoulder brushes yours on purpose—hard enough to remind you how solid he is.

later, when you try to put some distance between you, he stretches out like a human sized dog on the couch, legs wide, veiny hand lazily resting way too close to the bulge in his sweatpants. his eyes flick to you every time you pass through the room, arrogant as sin.

“you keep starin’ down there,” he teases.

you snap your head toward him, glaring sharp enough to cut glasss. “i’m not staring. i’m making sure you’re not wrecking my furniture.”

a slow, chilling smile splits his face. “sure. whatever helps you sleep at night.”

you throw the remote at him. he catches it one-handed, laughing.

by the time the afternoon rolls in, you’ve had enough. you dig out the little vial the higher-ups pressed into your hand yesterday, the one rattling with pale blue capsules. you hold it out to him.

“what’s that?” he asks, though his nose twitches like he already knows.

“heat suppressants,” you say firmly. “you take one a day. non-negotiable.”

his smirk collapses into a wolfish grin. he leans forward, plucks the vial from your palm with thick fingers, his knuckles brushing deliberately over your skin. “so bossy.” he shakes the vial, rattling it like candy. “these are supposed to keep me from mountin’ you, huh?”

you exhale sharply, jaw tight. “from mounting anyone. you don’t get a choice. take one.”

he tilts his head, eyes dragging slow down your body before flicking back up. “yeah, yeah. i’ll take ‘em.”

you don’t miss the way he doesn’t pop one out, doesn’t swallow it down in front of you. he just pockets the vial, lazy and careless, like he’s humoring you.

“toji,” you warn.

“relax, sweetheart.” he taps the pocket with two fingers. “got it right here. see? i’ll be good.”

but the smirk doesn’t fade, and you know—you know—he’s lying through his teeth.

he doesn’t give you peace for the rest of the day. if anything, toji seems energized by the fact you handed him those suppressants, like he’s won some invisible game. you catch him watching you from the couch, from the kitchen doorway, even from the goddamn hallway mirror, and it’s enough to grind your teeth raw.

days turn into weeks like that—him circling closer, you pushing back, a rhythm neither of you asked for but somehow fell into anyway.

the phone is hot against your ear, your voice sharper than you mean it to be.

“months. months, and you’re telling me you still haven’t found a match?” you pace the kitchen, one hand pressed hard to your forehead. “what do you even do over there? shuffle paperwork until it disappears? he’s not some file you can misplace—he’s a living, breathing person!”

the higher-up on the other end drones through the same excuses: rarity of his kind, complex genetics, compatibility screening takes time. excuses you’ve heard a hundred times before.

you cut them off, jaw clenched, hissing the words out. “so until then, what? i’m supposed to just keep him here? like a stray you dumped on my porch?”

silence. then, a clipped, “your cooperation is crucial.”

you hang up before you say something that gets you blacklisted—or worse.

when you turn, he’s there. of course he fucking is. leaning in the doorway, arms folded, ears twitching like he caught every word. he doesn’t even pretend to give you privacy anymore.

“they piss you off again?” his voice is rough from sleep, but there’s a pride under it, like he’s proud you’re mad on his behalf.

“don’t start,” you mutter, brushing past him, but he doesn’t let you. his enormous hand closes around your wrist, not hard, but insistent. “hey. i’m not complainin’. i like it here.” his tail flicks once, sharp, before curling lazy. “like bein’ with you.”

that’s the thing—you believe him. at first, he treated you like an inconvenience, another leash clipped to his collar. but somewhere between broken mugs, pawing at your laundry, and sprawling across your couch like he paid rent, he got comfortable. way too comfortable.

now, he follows you everywhere. bathroom, kitchen, even the tiny laundry room—looming behind you. when delivery guys drop packages, he hovers in the hall, eyeing them like they’re intruding. one time a neighbor waved at you on the sidewalk, and toji’s hand tightened on your shoulder so possessively you thought the guy might bolt.

he watches you like you’re his.

and the worst part? sometimes it feels like you’ve let him be.

you pinch the bridge of your nose, pulse still racing from the phone call. “you don’t get it, toji. taking care of a huge demihuman isn’t exactly easy. you break shit without even noticing. you eat like three people combined. you—”

“tch.” he cuts you off with a low rumble, stepping closer until your back nearly brushes the counter. “so? i never asked to go anywhere else.”

“that’s not the point.” you sigh, pushing at his chest, though he doesn’t budge. “i’m not your babysitter, not your—”

“ya kinda are,” he interrupts, head tilting just enough to show the unhurried ease of his smile. “my caretaker, right? means i get to stick with you.”

before you can argue, he bends, arms scooping around your waist like it’s nothing, dragging you into him. his face tucks into the crook of your neck, hot breath against your skin, tail swishing slow.

“toji,” you warn, voice tight, but his hold only tightens.

“don’t wanna go,” he mutters, muffled against your collar. “don’t care what they say. i like it here. like you.”

it’s ridiculous—he’s massive, warm, muscles coiled under your palms like a predator, but he’s clinging like some overgrown cat who decided the couch is his throne and you’re part of the cushion.

“you make it sound so simple,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

​he offers a deep, rumbling sound in his chest, a soft agreement, and nuzzles his face deeper against you. “’cause it is.”

​you give a frustrated squirm, but his grip only tightens, refusing to give ground. “toji, I mean it. let go.”

he only tilts his head, mouth dragging lazy against your neck like he’s trying to scent you. “mm, nah. feels too good.” his voice is smug, but there’s something heavier under it—like if he lets go, he really will lose you.

“you’re impossible.” you shove harder at his chest, but he doesn’t move an inch. “I can’t get anything done if you’re attached to me like this.”

“then don’t do anything.” he leans back just enough to see you, that familiar crooked grin tugging at his lips. “stay here. with me. not like you got anywhere better to be.”

your stomach does a little flip—part anger, part frustration, and maybe a bit of something you’d rather not think about. “you can’t just—cling to me every second of the day. I need space.”

he lets out a low, knowing chuckle at that, the sound rough and deep in his chest. “space? you’ve got plenty. look how small you are next to me.” his hand settles across your back with heavy familiarity like he’s proving the point, effortlessly dwarfing you. “bet I could carry you ‘round all day if I wanted.”

“toji—”

“what?” he cuts in, the corner of his mouth drawing up as his grin widens. “you’ll yell at me again? make me take those stupid pills?”

the way he says it—mocking, but also daring—makes your chest go cold. you’d handed him the little blue capsules just this morning, watched him toss them back with a swig of water.

or at least, you thought he did.

"toji, i'm serious! get away from me already!”

the look on his face when you snap finally lands like a slap. his posture freezes mid-sentence, shoulders stiffen, and for the first time since he came under your roof, he actually drops his hand without a word of protest.

he doesn’t talk back. doesn’t smirk this time. his eyes, which had been locked onto yours a second before, cut away as if burned, and he steps back like you shoved a knife into him, his arms dropping awkward and heavy at his sides. “fine,” he mutters, voice low, flat in a way that truly unsettles you. “you want space? you got it.”

and then he’s gone—pads down the hall with that big frame hunched, like a dog that’s been kicked, and disappears into his room.

the silence after is almost worse than his clinginess. no heavy footsteps dragging or shadowing yours, no lazy drawl every time you so much as slide open the fridge. you catch yourself listening for him while you work, only to be met with the dull, persistent hum of the refrigerator.

the house feels bigger without him taking up the space—emptier, and somehow colder, too.

you almost go to knock on his door around dinner, but pride keeps you locked in place. if he wants to sulk, fine. you’ll give him all the space in the world.

except when night falls, and the house settles, you hear it—the floorboards creak soft outside your door. the hesitant pause. the faint, held breath.

you don’t move. don’t say anything. your own breath feels shallow and loud. and after a long moment, the knob turns just slightly, a whisper of brass against wood, as if he’s testing whether you locked it.

you’re half-asleep when the bed dips. a familiar weight. not unusual—not anymore. he’s been sneaking in for weeks now, the ritual perfected, always with some shitty excuse: couldn’t sleep. too cold. “house smells funny without you.” you stopped arguing the fourth time it happened; easier to just let him curl against your back like a massive, possessive cat and steal your pillow.

but tonight the weight and the quiet feels different.

it’s the way he moves—hesitant at first, then urgent, almost desperate. his breath is hot against the crook of your neck, ragged, a hitching sound close to a sob, like he’s been holding it in all day. you stir, blink through the dark.

“toji?” your voice is rough with sleep. “what are you—”

the question vaporizes when you feel it. the thick, desperate stab of his hard-on grinding against your ass, contained only by thin cotton shorts that do nothing to hide the sopping wet heat seeping through. he fucks into you with a muffled groan, his hips stuttering like he’s beyond control.

your drowsy brain finally cuts through the fog, connecting the dots. the heat suppressants. the pills you’ve been handing him, watching him tip back with water like some rebellious little shit.

“wait—” you twist to look at him, see his pupils blown wide, eyes glazed over with fever. “toji. did you even take those pills?”

his forehead slams into your shoulder. he shakes his head once, hard, like a child confessing too late. a shiver violently tears through him as his hips snap forward again, mashing his cock against the curve of your ass.

“fuck—couldn’t,” he mutters, voice slurred, fever-drunk. “don’t want ’em. don’t want anyone else. just—fucking you.”

and it hits you then: he’s been holding it back. weeks of fake swallows and spit pills, of smug grins that never reached his eyes. and now, the dam’s cracking. his body’s on fire, rutting against you like instinct’s dragged him past reason.

you can feel the full, throbbing outline of him through your shorts—thick, heavy, pissing enough to dampen the fabric. each frenzied roll of his hips leaves you gasping, caught between shock and filthy heat pooling low in your stomach.

“toji—” you hiss, half a warning, half a plea. he only groans, teeth grazing your shoulder as he keeps grinding, his hard-on dragging against you like he’s trying to blast you through layers of clothes. “please,” he pants, desperate. “lemme—just a little. can’t stop.”

he’s rutting like he’s lost his goddamn mind—hips dragging against you in rough, needy jerks that make the mattress creak. every roll of his cock smears more slick, wet heat over your ass, fabric clinging damp to your skin. his mouth is on you everywhere—panting into your hair, teeth catching at your shoulder, whining like a desperate dog in a way that’s raw, unfiltered, not the smug bastard you’ve been dealing with for months but something older, more primal.

“toji—stop—” you catch his wrist, try to shove him back, but he’s too heavy, too desperate. “you can’t—fuck, you can’t do this. you’re my assignment. i'm your caretaker. it’s not—” you bite down on the word—“it’s not allowed.”

he groans against your throat, thrusting harder, cock grinding against you like he’s trying to prove a point. “don’t care. don’t fuckin’ care.” his voice cracks halfway through, breaks into a moan as his hips stutter. “those old geezers are too fuckin' late to find me a mate.”

your pulse kicks hard in your throat. you can feel how bad it is now, the girthy shape of him through both your clothes—thick, leaking, the blunt, swollen head catching against the curve of your ass with every frantic thrust.

“they’ll find you someone suitable,” you push out, the words thin, shaking. “they’re working on it—”

“don’t want anyone.” his teeth scrape the shell of your ear, words a hot, ragged growl. “want you. only you. been holdin’ it back—fuck—too long. can’t—” his hips slam forward, his cock dragging over your soaked shorts like he’s trying to fuck the fabric itself. “can’t stop now. don’t even want to.”

your fingers fist in the sheets, torn between shoving him off and arching your hips into the heat of his body. every brutal thrust makes your breath hitch, every low, broken sound he lets out cracks something filthy in your chest.

“toji—”

“please,” he cuts in, desperate, breath shuddering as he pounds harder against you. “lemme fuck you. lemme breed you. don’t need anyone else. don’t even fuckin’ want anyone else.”

“stop fighting me,” he pants, forehead pressing to yours, sweat dampening his hair. “you feel it too, don’t you?—fuck—you’re wet already. soaked through, and i didn’t even get it in yet.”

“i’m not—” the protest dies halfway out of your throat when he grinds just right, the thick outline of him dragging where you’re most sensitive. heat fucks you up, lancing sharp and humiliating through your belly, and your body betrays you with a hitching gasp.

he smirks, mean and shaky, mouth brushing your jaw. “knew it. knew your cunt wanted me.” his voice drops low, hot against your ear. “you think i can’t smell it? been wantin’ me since the start.”

you shake your head, but it’s weak, pathetic compared to the way your hips tilt right into him without meaning to. “you’re—my assignment—”

“fuck your assignment,” he snaps, then moans, grinding harder, rutting in delirious little jerks that leave both of you breathless. “fuck the higher-ups. they don’t matter. only you. only this.”

his hand slams between your thighs before you can stop him, palm pressing hard against your cunt through thin cotton. he groans like it’s killing him, like just feeling the fire of you is enough to break him open.

“feel that?” his breath is hot against your temple, words slipping between teeth gritted against restraint. “all for me. not for some mate they’ll find months from now. for me.”

you try to say his name like a warning, but it comes out more like a whine, trembling and weak. your grip on his wrist falters.

he catches it instantly—always so damn sharp when it comes to you. his mouth drags to your throat, tongue wet against the pulse hammering there, and his hips slow, grinding deep instead of fast. deliberate. coaxing.

“just say it,” he murmurs, low and rough. “say you’ll let me. i’ll make you feel so good, sweetheart. stretch you open nice and full—fuck, i’ll keep you stuffed till you can’t think of anything else. just me. only me.”

your chest heaves, caught between the sharp edge of fear and the dizzy pull of heat. his cock throbs against you, heavy and insistent, his breath ragged in your ear. your lips part, words tumbling out in a whisper that trembles at the edges but still lands, clear enough for him to hear: “...okay. just—fuck, just do it.” it isn’t steady, isn’t confident, but it’s not a no.

toji doesn’t move at first. he freezes like he thinks you’re tricking him, like the second he touches you, you’ll shove him away and tell him it was all a mistake. his ears twitch, breath stuttering against your thigh, and then he lets out a sound that’s half-moan, half-growl.

the blanket is ripped off in an instant. your shorts, panties—gone, peeled off with clumsy urgency until you’re bare to the air. and then his mouth is on you. no foreplay, no teasing, just hot tongue dragging over you in a messy, frantic lap that makes your whole body jerk.

it isn’t gentle. it isn’t careful. he moans against you like he’s been denied this for years, lapping broad and sloppy from your clit to your hole, sucking at whatever he can get his mouth on. drool’s already slicking his chin, stringing between his lips and your cunt, shining in the dim light.

you grab his hair, try to tug him back enough to breathe, but he growls low in his throat, a warning, and shoves his face in deeper. his nose grinds against your clit while his tongue pushes inside, thick and wet, working at you in unpracticed thrusts that leaves you gasping.

then he pulls back, just enough to spit—a thick, wet glob landing right on your folds. you jolt, shocked, but he doesn’t give you time to complain. he dives back in, licking it up greedily, spreading it with his tongue in messy circles that make your hips buck helplessly.

“fuck—” the sound rips out of you, half a raw gasp, half a desperate beg.

he smirks against your cunt, fangs grazing your skin as he sucks your clit into his mouth, careful not to bite but still sharp enough to leave you shivering. and then his fingers—fuck, his fingers—finally join in.

thick, rough digits press against your entrance, a little too hard, testing, then clumsily nudging, before one shoves in. It’s too blunt, too sudden, but the stretch is so deep it makes your insides jump. he lets out a choked groan at the feel, like your body closing around him is the filthiest, most unearned thing he’s ever gotten, and his tongue doesn't slow down, orbiting your clit while he fucks you with that single, heavy finger

“more,” he pants against you, pulling back just enough for his words to hit your slick skin. “gotta give me more—” another finger shoves in beside the first, and your back arches, a strangled sound breaking out of you.

he watches it, watches the way you fall apart on his hand and mouth, and his cock twitches against the mattress where he’s rutting mindlessly, precum soaking into the sheets.

“ngh—” a small sound tears free, your voice cracking before you can even catch it. his fingers curl in too fast, too deep, catching on your wet walls without any rhythm yet, but it doesn't matter, not really—not when his mouth is clamped down on your clit, his tongue flattening and dragging in sloppy, frantic circles, and it’s too much, too sudden. “toji—wait, wait—mmhp, s-slow down—”

​he groans into you, loud and desperate, like you’re the one feeding him instead of the other way around. the vibration rattles straight through your nerves, making your thighs twitch against his ears.

he pulls back just enough to whine, lips wet and glistening, chin glossy with spit and slick. “can’t—fuckin’ can’t slow down. you taste—hnnh—taste too good.”

your head falls back against the soft pillow, a helpless gasp tearing out of your throat when he shoves yet another finger into your cunt. three of them, thick, clumsy, stretching you open with every thrust. his knuckles grind against your entrance, and the thick, wet slap of it fills the air each time he bottoms out.

“oh my god, toji—ahh, f-fuck, you’re—” your breath stutters, thighs trembling as he spits again, thick and wet, letting it drip down his fingers where they’re buried inside you. the sensation is filthy, obscene, makes you clamp around him hard. ​he groans, high and broken, fucking his fingers into you faster like he’s chasing your reactions. “tight—so fuckin’ tight. won’t let me go, huh?” his voice is a ragged pant against your folds, half-drowned by the way he sucks your clit back into his mouth and moans around it.

​“mmhp—n-no, stop saying shit like that—” your hands fist his hair, half trying to shove him away, half yanking him closer. his fangs only just graze your thigh this time, just enough to sting, and the pinprick sharpness makes your whole body buck.

​he pulls back with a gasp, licking the faint red mark his teeth left like he wants to erase it, then immediately noses back into your heat. “lemme, just lemme—fuck—lemme stay here.” his words break up into whines like he can’t breathe without your taste.

​“toji, please—nghh, slow down—i-i can’t—” ​but he’s gone, ears pinned flat, hips jerking into the mattress in time with his fingers working your cunt. every sloppy lap of his tongue is matched with the grind of his cock into the sheets, and the wet sounds from both of you blur together until you can’t tell which is your own, which is his, or which is more humiliating.

​he drags his mouth up to your clit again, sucking hard, and when you cry out, your hips lifting off the bed, he moans right into you, shameless. “gimme—fuck—wanna feel you cum.”

​your eyes squeeze shut, thighs trembling as you gasp out, “i-i can’t—ahh, nghhh, t-too much—”

​his ears twitch against your thighs, velvet-soft but trembling like he’s as close to breaking as you are. every whimper that slips out of him rattles right into your skin, half-muffled by the way his mouth stays glued to you.

when he pulls back for just a second to breathe, you see his fangs glint wet in the low light—sharp and gleaming. ​and then he’s sinking them against your inner thigh, not hard enough to pierce, just grazing, teasing. the sting of it makes your hips buck, a sharp whimper leaving your lips. “ngh—toji—stop, i c-can’t—”

​he growls low in his chest, more animal than man. “don’t stop me,” he pants, pressing sloppy kisses to the spot his teeth just marked. “been starving—fuck—starving for you.”

​your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, his knuckles slick with your arousal. he notices instantly, groaning into your skin, his hips grinding helplessly against the mattress. his cock must be slicking the sheets, but he doesn’t care—too drunk on you, too consumed.

​“mmhp—ahh—” you choke on your own moan when his tongue pushes lower, flattening and licking between his fingers where they split you open. it’s obscene, the way he spits right after, drool and slick dripping down his hand before he slurps it back up, swallowing loud.

​his ears twitch again, catching every sound you make. when your breath stutters, he pulls back just enough to smirk, lips shiny and swollen. “you’re close,” he says, voice husky, proud even as he’s panting. “can smell it, right here—” his nose nudges into your mound, inhaling deeply like it’s instinct, like he’s memorizing your scent. ​

“d-don’t say shit like that,” you whine, shoving at his head, but your legs betray you, locking tighter around his shoulders. ​his tail betrays him even more than his ears—it thrashes behind him like it’s got a mind of its own, smacking the mattress, curling tight in the sheets each time he groans into you. the moment you whimper his name, it coils up around your ankle like a shackle, tugging your leg wider so his mouth can sink in deeper.

​“so sweet,” he mutters, more to himself than you, tongue diving back in, quick and greedy. every lap feels sharper with his fangs grazing just close enough to scare you, keep you on edge.

​your body shakes, your nails dig into his scalp, and your voice breaks around the words: “t-toji—ahhh, nghh—i’m gonna—” ​your warning falls apart into pure noise, a half-scream, half-sob that punches out of your chest when it finally hits. your whole body locks tight—then it shakes, trembling hard enough to rattle the bedframe as release tears through you.

​“ahhh—f-fuck—nghh, toji—”

​it’s messy, too messy, slick gushing over his tongue in thick waves, dripping down his chin, soaking his hand where he’s still working you through it. you feel it, feel yourself spilling over, humiliated and bliss-struck all at once. ​

he doesn’t back off. not even for a second. toji groans like a man dying and being reborn at the same time, nose shoved into your mound as he swallows you down—loud, greedy gulps that make your ears burn. his tail thrashes behind him like he’s lost control, ears twitching madly with every sound you make.

​“mmhp—god, you taste—” he chokes, then latches back onto your clit, tongue flattening and dragging, sucking every last drop like he’s been parched for centuries. ​your thighs twitch around his head, trying to close, but his hands are iron on your hips, forcing you open, making you ride it out while he drinks. you sob again, overstimulated, the sharp scrape of his fangs just enough to make your nerves scream even higher.

​“t-toji—hahhh, please—s-slow down—” you beg, but your hips are rolling against his mouth anyway, desperate and helpless. ​

his mouth finally leaves you, slick and spit cooling on your thighs, his chin dripping with the mess he made out of you. he breathes like he just fought a war, chest heaving, his pupils blown wide and dark, sweat darkening the hair that’s fallen over his face. his tongue flicks out one last time, catching a string of wet that glues itself from his lip to your cunt, and then he groans low in his chest, shifting higher.

​“fuck,” toji pants, voice hoarse, like he’s been crying instead of moaning into your pussy for the past hour. “you came so much, sweetheart. so much for me.” his hand is on your belly now, pressing you down, keeping you flat. “still twitchin’—look at that. you’re beggin’ for cock already.”

​“n-no,” you whimper, voice breaking on the word, head rolling against the pillow. “we can’t—nghh, toji—we’re not supposed to.”

​he grins, crooked and sharp, canines catching in the weak lamp light. “supposed to?” he echoes, leaning down until his nose brushes yours. his ears flick once, tail dragging heavy across the sheets like it can’t sit still. “you think i give a fuck what those assholes in suits want? they can shove their rules up their asses. i’m hard for you. only you.”

​you gasp when his hands catch your knees, shoving them up, folding you without effort. the position’s obscene—your thighs pressed back against your chest, belly bending, cunt bared wide open and pulsing from his tongue. your breath hitches, panicked. “t-toji—don’t—this is—”

​“a mating press,” he finishes for you, smug, watching your face as you squirm. “yeah. ‘cause i’m not lettin’ you go.”

​his hand drops, tugging at the band of his sweats, shoving them low enough for his cock to spring free. and fuck—it’s a beast.

​heavy, thick, flushed dark at the tip, veins bulging up the shaft like ridges meant to ruin you. a piercing gleams at the crown, metal catching the light when he spits into his palm and drags it down over the length. his fist works slow, deliberate, smearing spit along with the precum that’s already dripping out of him, down to his balls

your throat bobs hard. “oh my god—”

he laughs under his breath, eyes locked to yours, hand still stroking himself lazily like he has all the time in the world. “nah, not god. just me.” another stroke, heavier this time, and his pierced tip leaks more for it, sliding slick over his fist. “you’re starin’,” he teases, dragging the blunt head up your slit just to watch you jolt.

you moan, try to push his hand away, but it’s weak, shaky. “t-toji, please—it won’t fit, it’s huge—”

“shhh,” he interrupts, pressing the blunt head against your clit and grinding until you sob. “s’gonna fit. it’s what you were made for. i can smell it on you. smell how bad you want it. dog nose, y'know.”

his cock twitches, fat and needy in his hand, and he hisses through his teeth like even the thought of pushing in is almost enough to make him cum. “fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it before i’m even inside.”

toji leans down, lips brushing your ear, and you feel the scrape of his fangs when he growls, “too late for that. far too late. i’ve been holding back since the day i met you. you think a few little pills could stop this? don't make me laugh.”

​he spits again, thick and wet, letting it drip down onto your pussy before grinding the head of his cock through it, coating himself in your mess. the fat tip drags cruelly over your clit, nudging your entrance, and for a merciless moment, he doesn’t push deeper. he just presses the blunt crown against your soaked hole, rocking it there, making you stretch around the swollen girth of the head alone until you’re whimpering, thighs trembling from the pressure.

​the moment he shifts, you feel it before you see it—his claws anchor along your ribs as he presses you fully into the mattress, weight heavy and unrelenting, a hot, muscled animal pressed onto your chest. his ears flick constantly, twitching toward every breath, every shudder, every little whine that slips out of you as he lines himself with your dripping slit.

​“ten inches left,” he groans, dragging the tip inside slowly, your walls fluttering tight and trembling over him. the burn is sharp, exquisite, impossible, stretching you wide in a way that makes your head tilt back, fingers clutching at the sheets.

“nine…” another deliberate push, inch by inch, his muscular waist shifting, fingers bracing on your hips, forcing them down as your thighs tremor around him. you can feel every roped ridge of his veins, the subtle scrape of metal against your slick walls, and it’s obscene, impossibly hot.

​“eight. hold on a lil' more,” he pants, grinding once before pulling back slightly, letting you protest with a weak, “nngh—too much, too—” but he ignores you, leaning in to bite along your shoulder, leaving a line of teeth, fangs grazing your skin, leaving heat and sting in their wake.

his spit coats your belly as he drags the tip all the way to the hilt, then slides back, counting down each inch with a groan. “seven… six…” his claws dig into the mattress near your hands, tail whipping, ears flicking nervously, mouth open in a panting snarl, hips driving forward again.

​he presses so fully, so deep, that your walls squeeze around him like they want to claim him as much as he’s taking you, the tip of his pierced cock scraping perfectly, dragging slick along your most vulnerable spots. “five… four…” he snarls low, breath hot against your ear, “s’been holding back long enough. not gonna stop.”

​you try to protest, words broken by moans and gasps, “t-toji… mhfm—too big—” but he presses harder, fingers pushing your thighs wider, grinding you into him like he’s marking his territory. “three… two…” his voice rough, fangs grazing your inner thigh again, metallic glint in his piercing catching light every time he hovers, teasing you mercilessly.

​and then—one. finally seated fully, eleven inches of him consuming every inch of your cunt. your breath hitchs uncontrollably, slick dripping down both of you, walls clenching, mouth agape, eyes watering from overstimulation. ​“fuck…” he rasps, chest heaving, nose brushing yours, ears flattened with intensity, tail curling tight around your leg. “you feel… so good. so tight… perfect…”

he hammers forward, slow and deliberate, then sloppy and wild, dragging the piercing against your slick walls, every grind making you shiver violently. his saliva coats your stomach, trailing down, and when he groans, it’s the sound of a demihuman completely undone by the one person he’s claimed. ​your fingers clutch his shoulders, nails digging into the thick muscle, “mpfnn—fucking s-slow down—” ​

your legs are folded so hard against your chest it hurts, thighs trembling, knees pressing into your own ribs as he cages you there. his claws dig crescent moons into the back of your thighs, keeping them pinned wide in the mating press, and every brutal thrust makes your vision burst white. ​the stretch is obscene.

it’s not just his size—though eleven thick inches is more than enough—it’s the way he uses it. deep, grinding strokes that hurt in the best, filthiest way, leaving you with nothing but a whimpering sob each time his hips slam down.

“look at you,” he rasps, sweat dripping from his temple, his ears twitching erratically with every throb of your cunt. his voice is smug, mocking, even as his chest heaves like a beast in rut. “cryin’ already? and we’re not even halfway through. c’mon, thought you were tougher than this, babysitter.”

your cheeks are wet, tears spilling, not even sure when you started crying, only that you can’t stop. every lewd thrust forces a sob from your throat, your chest heaving against the weight of his hand when he suddenly presses his palm flat over your tummy, keeping you pinned to the mattress.

“toji—nghh, p-please—” your words fall apart on a hiss as he shoves deeper, the blunt head catching at your cervix, his piercing scraping so cruelly you clench down without wanting to.

“p-please what?” he pants, tail lashing hard against the mattress, the whip-crack sound matching the quick pace of his hips. his free hand snakes up, wraps tight around your throat—not cutting off all air, just enough to make every breath sound like a whimper. “say it. say you like it. say you like bein’ split open like this.”

your lips part around a broken sob, spit shining at the corner of your mouth. “i—it’s too much, can't take it all—”

he pulls out almost to the tip, then slams back in, the skin of the base of his cock wrinkling up as he bottoms out. “eleven, “ten—fuck, you’re takin’ all of it, aren’t you?” his piercing grinds along your walls with every count, making you choke on another sob.

you shake your head weakly at his words, but the sound that comes out through your lips is a whine, high and broken, your nails almost drawing blood from his shoulders.

“don’t shake your head at me,” he snarls, tightening his hand on your throat, squeezing until your eyes blur with tears. “you wanted this the second you let me stay in your bed. the second you let a beast under your roof. you knew what would happen.”

your cunt stretchs into a wide O shape to accommodate his girth helplessly, betrayal written all over your tear-streaked face as your body gives him away.

he feels it, groans ragged against your jaw, voice a harsh whisper, “knew you’d break. knew you’d let me wreck you. higher-ups can choke on their rules—nobody’s gonna stuff you this full but me.”

he tugs you close, folding you in half. uour knees are driven back, right next to your shoulders, his claws now digging painfully deep into your thighs. the angle is agony—a brute-force open that makes your cunt scream at the sheer stretch. even as the walls clench, desperate and tight around all twelve inches of him, he bullies his way in.

“look at this fuckin’ pussy,” he growls, voice rough, eyes blurry with heat. sweat drips from his temple down onto your chest. “takin’ me like it was made for it. you feel that? right up in your womb.” he grinds in circles, piercing scraping against the tenderest part of you, making your tummy bulge.

you cry out, a raw sound that hurts your throat, your nails clawing at his back. “s-stop, toji, it’s—oh fuck—” your voice breaks, tears streaking down your cheeks.

he snarls into your throat, pressing you further into the mattress until you can’t do anything but sob and take it. “don’t tell me stop when you’re gushin’ like this,” he hisses, his tongue dragging across your cheek, tasting salt and tears. “this greedy little hole won’t let me go even if i wanted to. it’s swallowin’ me whole.”

you choke on your own spit, eyes rolling back, thighs trembling violently as he pounds into you harder, every piston harder than last.

“gonna knock you up,” he rasps, eyes wide and staring down at you, voice breaking with a purr. “gonna fill you until you’re leaking with me. don’t care what those assholes say—only one makin’ puppies outta you is me.”

“n-no—” your words cuts off with a wail when he shifts, pumping deeper, crushing your knees harder into your chest until all you feel is pain and stretch and the raw slide of his cock tearing you open.

“yeah,” he spits down at you, saliva dripping onto your tongue when you gasp for breath. “open. swallow it. you’ll fuckin’ take everything.”

your chest is heaving, tits bouncing with every slam of his hips, and toji can’t take it anymore. his head dips, tongue lolling like some feral mutt, drool sliding hot and messy over your skin. he sucks at your nipple hard, teeth grazing just shy of breaking skin, and groans so loud it rattles in your chest.

“fuck, these—” he squeezes, kneading your tits together with his big calloused hands, spit dripping from his mouth as he latches again, harder, rough. “always wanted ‘em. every time you bent over in that tight shit—fuck—thought about stuffing my face right here, sucking on ‘em till you cried.”

you’re sobbing, writhing under the iron weight of him. “t-toji, i c-can’t—”

he ignores you, rutting harder, balls slapping against your ass, tail thudding madly against the sheets like he’s in heat and too far gone. ears twitch every time you cry out, like he’s tuned to your sounds, using them as fuel.

“don’t lie,” he growls around your nipple, spit slicking it raw as his fangs graze the bud. “you love it. tits bouncin’, cunt clenching down like it’s beggin’ for my knot.”

you choke on air, vision blurring with tears. “i-it hurts—”

“yeah? good.” he pulls off your chest with a wet pop, smirking through his own panting, sweat-slick hair plastered to his temples. “s’posed to hurt. you think eleven inches of cock and a fat knot’s ever gonna be gentle?”

your walls convulse around him and he snarls, hips stuttering. “knew it. dirty little cunt squeezin’ me tighter soon as i said it. i fantasized this for months, y’know. every fuckin’ night, watchin’ you walk around like you ain’t mine. dreamt about pinning you down just like this, stuffing you full till you couldn’t take another drop.”

his hand slaps your throat again, pressing you flat into the mattress as he jackhammers deeper, cock piercing grinding cruelly into your walls. you’re choking, tears spilling hot, drool leaking from your open mouth as you sob through the overwhelming stretch.

“come on, baby,” he pants, ears flat against his head. “don’t make me wait—i’ll fuck you all night if i gotta. thought about this too long to let you off easy. gonna milk a mess outta this pussy.”

he dives back down, slobbering over your tits again. his hips are desperate, cockhead bullying your insides again and again until your legs are shaking and your stomach cramps with every thrust.

“cum for me,” he purrs, biting at your nipple hard enough for you to wince. “cum on my cock like a good babysitter, or i’ll keep poundin’ you till you do.”

it creeps up on you like a fever, the kind that makes your skin too hot, your stomach tight and sour-sweet with anticipation. his cock drags so deep, piercing right up against your womb, that you can’t tell if the ache in your gut is pleasure or pain anymore—it’s both, tangled and knotted until you’re dizzy with it.

“nghh—fuck, s-stop, it’s too much—” your voice cracks, but your body doesn’t—won't obey. your hips buck up into him, chasing friction like you’re starving for it.

your clit throbs, the pressure building unbearable. you try to hold back, biting your lip so hard you taste blood, but he notices—the smug curl of his lips pressed to your neck.

“don’t you dare fight it,” he rasps, rutting harder, dark veins on his cock grinding against your walls. “come on. break for me. let me feel it.”

and then it rips out of you.

your whole body seizes, back arching so violently the sheets crumple under your fists. your cunt clamps down viciously around him, spasming like it’s trying to suck him in deeper, to keep him locked inside forever. hot gush after hot gush floods out of you, squirting around his length, dripping messily down your ass.

you scream—raw, nothing like words—just a strangled cry that fractures into whimpers as your thighs shake uncontrollably. your vision blurs with tears, drool slicks your chin, and every nerve ending feels on fire.

“holy fuck—look at that,” he groans, pupils blown wide as he stares down where your cunt gushes over him, milking his cock. his tail thrashes against the sheets, ears twitching like he’s overstimulated just watching you fall apart. “she’s squirtin’ all over me—nghh, fuck, good girl—squeezin’ so tight i can’t even move.”

your orgasm doesn’t end—it crashes again, another pulse, then another, until your whole lower body trembles in aftershocks, every squeeze of your cunt wringing his cock like a fist.

“hahhh—there it is. that’s the one i wanted,” he snarls, pressing you even deeper into the mating press as his cock throbs inside your spasming cunt. “pussy’s cryin’ for me. can feel it beggin’ for my cum...”

your orgasm barely fades when he suddenly goes still—hips grinding in tight, cock buried balls-deep, fat tip smashed against your cervix. you feel the pulse before you hear the sound—his guttural groan ripping out of his throat, animalistic, broken.

then it hits.

hot, thick cum spurts out in brutal waves, flooding your cunt so fast it bubbles back out around his cock. the sheer volume makes you choke, squirming under his weight as he holds you down, forcing every sticky drop inside.

“fuck—oh fuck, take it,” he snarls, sweat dripping from his temple to your face. “been holdin’ this shit back for months—” his ears flatten, tail smacking hard against the sheets with every pump of his cock. “look at you—fuckin’ stuffed like a breeder, takin’ every drop. nghhh—fuck!”

you’re crying again, hiccuping, because it won’t stop. hot gush after hot gush pours out of him, his knot swelling at the base, locking him inside you.

“t-toji—s’too much, i c-can’t—”

“shut up,” he growls, voice cracking as he ruts weakly, grinding to milk himself deeper. “c-can’t waste it. every drop’s for you. you’re carryin’ my pups, you hear me? they’ll split you open fatter than my cock.”

he leans down, mouth sloppy over your throat, fangs grazing your skin as he moans into you, almost whining. “nghhh—fuck, it’s so good. better than i thought. every time i looked at you, i imagined this—cumming inside, fillin’ you up, makin’ you whimper under me. hahh—”

his knot swells harder, locking him tight, and another gush of seed bursts out, forcing your womb to ache with the weight of it. slick leaks down your ass in a messy puddle, the smell of him pungent, feral, clinging to your skin.

your hands weakly push at his chest, but he only growls, thrusting shallow, cockhead grinding messy against your soaked walls.

“no use fightin’ it now,” he pants, eyes hazy, pupils blown wide. “too late. you’re already full. you’re mine for real now—gonna keep you knotted till it takes.”

your vision swims, tears and sweat dripping as his moans turn higher, needier, until he’s whining against your tits again, rutting like he’s still desperate even while his cock paints you full of filth.

“more,” he pants. “fuck—more. can’t stop. not till you’re pregnant with my pups. nghhh—look at that belly swellin’—s’my cum sittin’ inside.”

the bed is a wreck, sheets torn halfway off, your thighs trembling around his waist while he still grinds weak, messy little thrusts against the swollen knot locking him inside. his cock twitches, another lazy spurt of cum leaking deep, and you feel your stomach ache with the weight of it all.

“hahh… fuck, it won’t stop,” he moans, delirious, hips rolling like a dog stuck in instinct. his tail thumps against the mattress, ears pinned back, body hot and heavy over yours. “not done. not even close.”

you whimper, nails digging into his slick skin. “toji—no, y-you already came—”

“can’t stop,” he pants, rutting against your cervix, voice breaking with another high groan. “gonna fuck you till it takes. all night. you’ll see.”

and the starving look in his eyes tells you he means it.

your legs barely work. every muscle aches, your core throbs with a soreness that makes you dizzy just standing upright. the floor is cold under your bare feet as you point a finger at him, voice shaking more with outrage than weakness.

“what the fuck were you thinking?”

toji sits slouched against the wall, on the floor like some scolded mutt, shirtless, hair a mess. his ears twitch when you raise your voice, tail limp behind him. he doesn’t even talk back—just frowns at the floor, jaw tight, muscles still damp with the sweat of last night.

“you— you came inside me,” you snap, voice shaking with fury. “multiple times. like—like I was some fucking—breeding bitch. do you know how fucked up that is?!”

his eyes flicker up at you, then away again. silent.

“what do you think’s gonna happen if the higher-ups find out?” your voice cracks on the edge of hysteria. “you weren’t supposed to touch me, let alone—let alone fill me up like that!”

still, he doesn’t argue. doesn’t grin like he usually does. he just sits there, broad shoulders hunched, as if you really did kick him.

your throat tightens, and you blurt the fear before you can swallow it down. “what if I get pregnant, toji? what then? what the hell happens if I’m carrying your… your kids?”

his ears flick again, and for a second, you see it—the smug spark he usually hides behind. but it fades. instead, he just exhales, heavy, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“…then it’d mean you’re mine,” he says quietly, but the pout on his lips, the way he won’t meet your eyes—it makes him look less like the predator from last night and more like a dog left out in the rain.

your arms cross tight against your chest, pacing the length of the room because you can’t stand still—not when your body’s still aching, not when you can feel his cum leaking down your thighs with every step.

“you didn’t even ask me, toji.” your voice is sharper now, less shaky, simmering with anger that’s had hours to steep. “not once. you never asked if I wanted that. if I wanted you to—” your words tangle in your throat, bile and heat rising all at once, “—to put your kids in me.”

he flinches at that. actually flinches, ears twitching down flat against his head like you just swatted him. his tail gives a miserable little flick, then drops heavy to the floor.

“…don’t want my kids?” his voice is lower, not rough or cocky like last night—quiet, almost small.

you whip around to glare at him, finding him still sitting slumped against the wall, knees bent, arms resting loose on them. his big frame looks smaller somehow when he won’t look at you, when his mouth is pulled into a pout so obvious it would be laughable if you weren’t so furious.

“that’s not the point!” you snap. “the point is you didn’t even give me a choice. you just—just did whatever the hell you wanted, like my body’s some cage for you to breed in!”

his brows pinch, and finally he looks up. pout deepens. “but you’re my caretaker,” he says, and it comes out petulant, like a child defending stolen candy. “you always take care of me. feed me. keep me warm. why wouldn’t you want… y’know.”

“why wouldn’t I want what?”

“puppies,” he mutters, almost sulky enough to sound embarrassed, but not quite. “my puppies. with you.”

you stare, stunned into silence for a moment, and he takes that as his cue to keep sulking deeper, dropping his chin onto his forearms.

“s’cause it’s me, huh? you don’t wanna have kids with me.”

“toji,” your voice breaks sharper this time, but not with anger—with sheer disbelief. “you don’t get to pout about this. you never even gave me the chance to decide if I wanted any kids at all, let alone—” you stop, throat thickening again, “—let alone yours.”

his ears twitch, shoulders hunch tighter, and he looks away with that same pathetic pout pulling at his mouth. he mutters something under his breath you almost miss.

“…wouldn’t be so bad.”

you blink. “what?”

his gaze darts up to you again, just for a second, then skitters away. “if they were yours. ours. wouldn’t be so bad.”

and goddamn it—you hate the way your chest clenches at the sight of this mountain of a demihuman pouting on your floor, looking like he’s been told 'no' for the first time in his life.

he’s quiet for a while, just sitting there, tail heavy and ears drooping. you think maybe the silence means he’s letting it sink in—that maybe he understands how serious this is.

then you feel a tug.

you look down to find his big hand wrapped around the hem of your sweatpants, tugging it lightly, insistently, like a child trying to get attention.

“toji.” your voice sharpens.

he doesn’t look up. just gives another little tug. “…don’t mean it.”

“what?”

“you don’t mean it,” he repeats, this time finally tilting his head up, ears still low but his eyes huge, bright and wet in a way you’re not used to seeing. “you do want them. my kids.”

you take a step back, but his hand doesn’t let go. his tail flicks once, slow, cautious.

“toji, stop.” you try to peel his fingers away, but he only clings tighter, holding on to fabric with a stubbornness that makes your stomach twist.

“don’t wanna stop,” he mutters, finally pushing up from the floor to kneel at your feet. god, he’s too big like this, too much—towering even on his knees, his breath warm against your stomach as he tips his head back to look at you. “don’t wanna mate with anyone else. don’t wanna pups with anyone else. just you.”

your throat closes, a sharp ache clawing at the back of it. “you don’t—don’t even understand what you’re saying.”

he presses his forehead against your belly, arms winding around your thighs now, clinging like you might vanish if he loosens his grip. his pout is gone, replaced with something rawer, needier.

“understand enough,” he says, voice muffled against the thin fabric of your clothes. “been thinkin’ about it since the first night. you smell too good. too warm. always takin’ care of me. s’posed to be you. always was.”

his nose bumps clumsily against your stomach, then lower, dragging side to side like he’s scent-marking you. when you reach down to push him off, he only buries in deeper—muffling a sound that’s too close to a whine for someone his size.

“toji,” you sigh, torn between exasperation and the tug in your chest. “you can’t just—”

he cuts you off with a low rumble in his chest, not quite words, more like a growl pitched soft. his ears twitch against your body, brushing your shirt. his tail curls around the back of your legs like he’s trying to wrap you up completely.

you stand frozen, one hand hovering over the crown of his head, torn between shoving him away and giving in. and when he nuzzles again, nose skimming your hip this time, you feel your resolve fraying thread by thread.

“…you’re impossible,” you murmur, finally dropping your hand to his hair. he tilts into it immediately, ears flicking forward, eyes closing like you’ve handed him the world.

his arms cinch tighter, almost crushing, and something in you gives out. the words slip free before you can stop them, soft but heavy in the air between you:

“i do want them.”

he goes very still.

your pulse stutters, a frantic little rhythm against your ribs, but you don't stop. you can't. your fingers, almost of their own volition, curl tighter into the softness of his hair, a silent anchor as you pull him closer, until the warmth of him is all you can feel. and the truth, once dammed up, now tumbles out. “i do want a family,” you say, and the words feel like a key turning in a lock deep inside you. “with you. i want you.”

the admission hangs there, simple and immense. but then your voice hardens, just at the edges, like cooling metal. “just... don't ever try to fuck me like that again.”

you let the silence stretch, let the warning settle in the space.

“otherwise, i won't be responsible for what will happen.”

that’s all it takes. he lets out a choked noise—half laugh, half groan—and nuzzles harder, rubbing his cheek along your belly like he can already feel it swelling. his tail thumps once against the floor, eager and heavy. “yeah yeah, got it. so bossy”

and you knew with a heavy, certain feeling that settled deep in your chest: he wasn't going to let go. not ever.

All that you knew? 'Annoying' didn't even scratch the surface when it came to pretty bitch boy and his beloved competitive asshole.

But now? You could finally focus on guys that weren't the bane of your existence. Like a certain red-head chatting you up at the drink table. Tall, really tall, big, with the kind of stoicism that made the slight smirk on his sharp face all the more exciting.

"Ah, you're not from around here. Thought as much," the guy, 'Kuna' ( as some drunk girl previously hanging on his arm giggled ), peered over his red cup at you. "Wouldn't forget such a pretty face."

"Mhhm, and how many girls do you pull that on?" It's your turn to smile into your cup as you propped yourself back on the counter. Like a prize to be won. With your mini skirt squeezing around your thighs and confidence in each inch of your stiletto heels.

Oh, you were greedy for it.

"Only the ones that catch my attention." He mused. His head curved and his eyes did little to hide their predatory swipe. "And it seems like someone likes attention."

Brought up in a conservative home where your mother measured your skirt to knee ratio with two fingers? Maybe freedom was also in his eyes. It swirled in the scarlet of them. A threat and a promise all the same. It never tasted sweeter.

Alas, your wings were clipped with a familiar weight strung over your shoulders. Sandalwood engulfed your senses and strangled freedom's breeze. Your gaze froze.

"Fancy seeing you here."

Bitch boy alert. Suguru Geto; the image of rebellion itself. With his ripped black trousers, heavy boots, silvers piercings and chains galore— he smudged your freedom like his eyeliner.

"Kinda late to be out isn't it?" His arm's weight was a feather compared to his stare.

You spluttered. "Geto," as if last names could save you. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Could be asking you the same thing. What're you doing on my campus?"

Shit. Had your excitement to run wild blinded your common sense? This was Suguru's college. You know. The one he and the other brat attend with your brother?

"And who's this guy?" He barely blinked. 'Kuna' did several.

"Thought you'd remember me, Sug—"

"I wasn't talking to you." Suguru's gaze sliced with his words. Sharp, concise, like that damned serene smile on his pierced lips. "And it's Geto, to you. Don't you know who this girl is?"

His fingers curled on your shoulder. There's that cage again. You ignored the flutters his touch pooled in your stomach. A golden cage was still a cage. Who gave him the right to play protective? He wasn't Nanami. And he sure as hell wasn't your friend.

Your shoulders jutted back and you writhed from the heaviness of his preformative protection. "Could you get lost? I didn't ask for your—"

Embarrassment's heat turned wet. All over your blouse. Soaking your skin with the bitter taste you specifically avoided tonight. The cheap booze curled your nose more than the anger.

"Whoops! Sorry there," and in comes the arrogant asshole. With a knock to your shoulder and half his cup across your shirt. His shades hung infuriatingly low on his nose. What the hell does he need glasses for at night?

"What's your problem!?" You jerked around to Satoru who caught your irritation with his signature grin. One that ticked off the gods.

Eyes deeper than the ocean and with all its roaring confidence batted at you almost innocently. "Woah— what're you doing here?"He swiped across the room, no so discreetly glared at Sukuna, then gaped at you again.

"If Kenny sees ya he's gonna freak."

Were you sure it was water in your cup? Suddenly the world's spinning and you're getting auditory illusions. Did Satoru just say that Kento would be here? Nanami Kento. Your stuck-up, straight-spined, strict-stared brother, here, at a college party? You laughed despite yourself.

"Ken? Here?" You pointed an irritated grin his way to hide the nervous twitch in your eye. "Tell me another joke."

"You're right, that blonde hair poking out like a sore thumb looks like quite the joke," Suguru jabbed a finger back and you followed in haste. Sure enough, your brother sat poised across the room. Bored and tight-lipped as an overly smiley woman beside him brushed her hand over his shoulder.

You subconsciously scampered behind Satoru's figure. Tall fucker would hide you like a tree away from your brother's death stare— but not from the bastard's smug one. "Aww, scared?" He crooned.

Embarrassment stained your face and you swivelled to make sure Sukuna wasn't watching. No dice. That red head of hair was already halfway across the floor and chatting up the next sweet thing he could find. Damnit. So much for a fun night.

Instead you're stuck with two grinning jerks, a squeeze of rejection and a dash of paranoia. Great, you love your freedom served with a side of cold nostalgia.

"I hate you both." You murmured. Clipped but thinner than you intended. All you're flashed was teeth.

"Sure you should hate the guys getting you out of this mess?" Satoru spun around. "Our dorm's not too far. Sure I have something to get you out of this," he pinched on damp fabric and you swatted his hand away.

Going back to their dorm? Thing one and thing two? Suicide really. But with one last worried glance at Kento, you chose the lesser evil. Rather doom by your own hand than by his. Last thing you needed was a call to your parents.

"Didn't I say keep your mouth shut?"

"Fine," you hissed, jerking away from the two. "Just get me out of here and keep your mouths shut."

ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ

"Oh, you're so much cuter in my shirt."

Their dorm was infuriatingly spotless. Not a hair nor nook out of place. Perfectly divided into serenity and chaos with a dash of mischief on both. Suguru's records lined a wall while Satoru's books and comics painted another. Satoru's bed hosted a rug on the foot while Suguru's sported more comfy-looking pillows. White and black, darkness and light, dancing in a harmony of clean desks ( apart from Satoru's that scattered with a few silly sticky notes ) and furbished walls. The only thing you could curl your nose at was the ash tray on the windowsill. But even that was relatively clean.

With nothing to shame them on and the irritatingly comfortable, oversized dark shirt pooling around your skirt, you turned your chastising to the blue-eyed creep grinning ear-to-ear as you plopped on the edge of his bed. Damnit, it's comfortable. Probably courtesy of Satoru's daddy's money.

"Don't you two know how to mind your own business? I was having fun."

"Last time we checked, our best friend's little sister is our business."

The bed sank to your left and you restrained your glare from Suguru. You couldn't handle his pretty face being beside you right now. His audacity, however, had you swivelling. "What were you thinking? That party was full of seniors."

What did it matter? It wasn't like you were a highschooler. That's what you hated about systems. It was always a rank of age and experience. The truth was that the bumbling rejection from preschool never truly fades as you go through the years, just gains a different name. Here you were, over eighteen and in a skirt clearly for a college girl— and you were still regarded with incompetence.

His pretty face wouldn't save him from your scowl. "I can handle myself. I don't need two assholes to do it for me."

Satoru scoffed from the side and propped himself against the wall with a lazy drawl. "Oh yeah, cause you're sooo grown up huh? Grinding against any man that spares you some attention."

At this rate you'd get vertigo with your pivoting glare between the two. Or maybe your eyes would tumble out first. Maybe then you wouldn't have to deal with their slap-awaiting, vogue-worthy faces.

"Damn right I am. I'm an adult. And you know what Satoru? It's not of your business."

He grinned. The fucker grinned. Hands stuffed into his pockets. You wished it was to search for some decency. Instead he fished out a condescending glint over the rims of his shades. "Do you even have any idea what Sukuna does to young and pretty girls like you?"

You skipped over the part where he called you pretty and clawed your palms to reel in your snap. Too late. "And what if I did, huh? What if that's exactly why I was talking to him?"

Shame diminished your filter, but rushed back to your face once their silence weighed heavy. Of course you knew what Sukuna was all about. Your brother wouldn't stop ranting about people like him. But did you really just admit that? To these two bastards, no less?

Suguru cleared his throat and you deluded yourself with the possibility of his decency. "Oh."

That chuckle was anything but decent.

"Were you hoping to go home with him, then? And what would you do say— once he got you on his couch?"

You'd take the blue-eyed judgement carving into your very being over the shift from the grinning demon at your side. Suguru never said anything without a double meaning. Conniving devil indeed. You stubbornly pressed your lips together. His implication forced you to swallow your shame.

"I'm— not a virgin," you spluttered. Sure. That's exactly what a virgin would say. Satoru's snicker agreed with the sentiment.

Another snap towards him, then back to those devilish teeth and now an arched, pierced brow that looped your tummy. "That's also, not any of your business."

But you made it their business. Prattling on about wanting to be taken home? You sealed your own fate.

"Aren't you?" The weight of your decision came in an arm slumped around your shoulders. You stiffened. But that didn't stop the press of cool metal against the tease of your thigh. Magnetically, your gaze fell to those silver rings that looked like sin against your skin.

Suguru's hand. On your thigh. Dwarfing, veiny, promising. It looked more than just sin. It looked good.

"Because the way you're acting, the way you're dressing," dark nails pinch on your skirt's hem, testing it. Was it as flimsy as your confidence? His lips ran a similar test on the shell of your ear. "—looks just like all the pretty virgin girls I've had fun with."

Your cheeks burned with your failure. A buzzer blared through your head.

Lost. You lost.

And now? You're blushing, trembling, in the hold of a man's hand you swore you'd break the fingers of back when he dared to use your hairbrush. If only you could muster that same hateful stare you mastered back as teens.

Instead, you shot him a trembled glare, tapered at the edges like your crumbling bravado. All it took was a smirk, a predatory head tilt, his damn thumb brushing on your thigh— and your glass house shattered.

"Lookie there."

He leaned in, dangerously so. "You're proving my point, princess."

Princess. You'd heard him use that before on other girls. But it felt better on you. Felt right. And the way his hand slipped to your inner thigh told you he thought the same.

"Inexperienced," condescending. "Do you even know how to touch yourself?" Crude.

You caught his hand that made itself comfortable in your thigh's warmth. Yur stare locked, then darted. Anywhere but him, then nowhere except him. Frazzled. Flustered. Fingers fumbled.

Not for long. His far larger, guiding digits meshed with yours. Stilling their storm and festering a new one in your tummy as he slid them further. "Well, do you?"

Through the winds you chased your pride. "I— do," and whispered your lies. Your salvaged confidence took another hit with his lips traced on your lobe.

"Prove it."

Guiding, taunting, he flushed your fingertips to the damp spot on your panties, as if he had a sixth sense for it. As if he already knew your body better than you did. With your stuttering rub at the spot and your surprised gasp, you wouldn't be too surprised.

One stroke. Two. You rebuilt your pride like building blocks. Even if you laid each one with a trembling ring and middle finger.

There was no time to question the absurdity of this. Nor how embarrassingly quickly you played into his hand and melted to his touch. Maybe he was a demon after all. He pulled on your strings with ease— your hateful spats became soft splutters in a matter of seconds.

"Now," there's that devilish drawl. "You can't forget here too. Dual stimulation is important." His left hand, like a cruel teacher, guided yours to your tit that felt too good rubbing on the material of Satoru's shirt. And you? An eager student, as you pinched on the peak and rubbed on the stiffening nipple.

When one hand worked, the other stumbled. Your pussy throbbed into your panties as if begging for more friction. Listening to it only swapped the falter on your tit. If your test was on dual stimulation, you failed. Miserably.

And as if eager to circle all your faults in red ink, Suguru smiled. "Is this how you touch yourself? No wonder you're so needy."

Revision time. You're yanked into his lap with an effortless pull on your thighs. His touch was natural on your skin. His hands belonged on yours. Large, eager, clamped yet caressed. His palm was large enough to cup your cunt, and your breast nestled humbly in the other.

His fingers nudged yours into place and led them in a practised choreography. Pressing down just right on the damp spot and turning it into a wet one as he guided your fingers into a crook on your quivered slit. The hand on your tit ushered your lax one into a slow swirl on your nipple.

You whimpered. He was right. Dual stimulation was important.

"There we go, princess." That damp spot wasn't just wet after that one, it was soaking.

"Can you keep that hand moving just like that? Good girl." He withdrew below to pat atop your cunt, then bunched your skirt around your tummy to expose your drenched panties.

"Satoru, look."

Wait, that's right, Satoru's still in the room. Oddly quiet for the brazen loudmouth, you thought, and fluttered your glossy gaze over to where he stood.

What awaited was hunger so vast, you saw it clinging to his ribs. Eyes so dark, yet unobstructed by the glasses now haphazardly shoved into his messy hair. But what really stuttered your hand— was his. Shamelessly down his pants. Palming himself.

Fuck.

"She's so clumsy," Satoru rumbled in a voice you hardly recognised. Where's that annoying pitch? You slicked your fingers further.

"I think she just wants me to do all the work."

It sounded like a complaint, but Suguru nudged your hand out of the way eagerly and stroked his index and middle over your slit. Slotting into the fabric and dragging the friction all the way to your throbbing clit. Then circled, drawing out a whimper. In the midst of stimulation you hardly noticed the creeping beneath your shirt. Until you were arching into both fingers rubbing your panties and another set pinching your perky tit.

"Mngh, Suguru," you whined. It earned you a second pinch, this time to your clit. His circles found better favour in abusing the nub. Slow, steady, with a flick every now and then for good measure.

You squeaked and squirmed. He braced you with a tempered squeeze on your breast and a laugh fanned into your neck. "You wouldn't have lasted a minute with Sukuna. Look at how wet you are."

A third pinch, this time to the fabric. He withdrew the wet cotton then snapped it back to your twitching cunt with a shlick! Your whine had him biting his smile.

"Oh poor, poor pretty girl." There's that condensation again, crooned to your ear as the pads of his fingers flushed on the hood of your clit. Those slow circles turned fervent and vicious.

Pleasure pricked on your spine. Your thighs squirmed and squeezed, subjecting you to more pressure— and his hand? Not one stutter, not one stumble, he even had the focus to lave kisses up your neck and thumb your nipple

"There we go— oh? That's a pretty sound," he grinned at your whimper and sped when you arched. Gyrating the fabric so perfectly on your twitching, trembling clit.

"Gonna-"

"Hmm? Gonna what? Say it for me."

"G-Gonna—!"

He'd settle with your broken whine for now. It was too cute not to. A few minutes on your little nub was all it took?

Stars burst behind your eyelids and your head limped back on his shoulder. Pathetic grinds became needy hip bucks. Not that you needed it. Not when his fingers barely stopped through your orgasm. Feverish, fluid,

And free.

True. Unwavering freedom. Right there. In the palms of this smug bastard's hands.

If your mind wasn't amuck, you might have cussed him out. But how could you when he crooned to your ear so sweetly? When he tendered kisses down your jaw and squeezed your breast in what you could only coin as assurance?

Poor you. So lost in his, "Atta girl. That's how you touch yourself." —that you barely processed the cool air hitting your slick cunt. In fact, only when soft tuffs tickled your thighs did you snap your gaze down.

Pantieless, with pretty, blue eyes gleaming up at you. If Suguru's hands looked good on your thighs? Satoru's face belonged between them.

"Suguru's right, y'know? You'd barely last a second with Sukuna. That's okay though," his lips caressed your inner thigh, and before you could think of clenching, he wrenched them open. His hands were softer, but dare you say deadlier?

"We could always break you in."

He winked. You stuttered.

Freedom might have been a red solo cup at the beginning of the night. But now? It was a head of white hair and glossy lips kissing up your jittery slit together with a glint of silver rings and calloused fingerpads still swirling on your clit.

You throbbed into Satoru's mouth and limped your head into Suguru's, he kissed atop your head instinctively. "Mngh," another stutter, another throb, Satoru vibrated a chuckle.

"So cute."

Cute, wasn't what it felt like when his tongue dipped in. Together with a firm pinch from Suguru. You gushed around the pink muscle. With a gasp, a whine, something in-between. It was Sastoru's turn to stumble.

"Fuck, so sweet," he groaned into your pussy. How eagerly she accepted his praise. Pulsing into his thumbs that split your folds and the flat of his tongue dragging on your opened slit. "Can't believe you were gonna whore out such a sweet pussy."

His mouth carried out the frustration with sloppy kisses. Suguru shared the sentiment with a tug on your tit and nip on your neck.

But it was Satoru's tightened grip that sealed the deal. Suddenly, smugness wasn't the only thing radiating off of the two. The pair of bastards that you shamed your brother for befriending, the twins of chaos that drove you up the wall—

It was more than suddenly. It was painfully. How did you miss the signs?

Smug? Arrogant? All underlined. But the true factor that drove their haughty hands and heated mouths?

"If you wanna act like a whore, we'll treat you like one."

Jealousy.

After the growl, Satoru fisted your thighs so wide, you wouldn't even think of clenching them. Not that you'd have any string of coherent thought as his face dove into the wetness of your pussy and feasted on it like a man starved. Or perhaps a college boy running on two cups of coffee and even lesser sleep. Which was worse?

You jolted. His kisses became licks, and his licks became sucks. Sloppy yet skilful over your slit. From the hilt, then to the top when his lips brushed on Suguru's knuckle, then back to the middle where his tongue made quick work on spilling out more of your sweet slick.

The latter. The latter was most definitely worse.

Wet shlicks meshed with whimpered shudders. You arched into his face and bucked your hips as best you could. Suguru's fingers barely let up. Three now flat on your clit, with his circling turned to flicks over the poor, overly-stimulated nub.

"W-Wait— oh god, wait," you quivered. Bleary eyes darted to their ceiling. Your thighs clenched into Satoru's hold and tits twitched in Suguru's clutches.

You'd barely been fingered before. Let alone gone dumb on someone's tongue. And four sets of hands? It was too much for your body that only experienced one.

Your grip delved into white locks and another latched on black leather. With the leverage, you bucked and stammered as your body limped back into warmth, all while a cool tongue wrecked your sopping heat.

Filthy. The sounds were filthy. From your webbed lips, from Satoru's slick ones, from Suguru's filthy, ratched ones.

"Wait? Want us to wait? Just showing you what college life's all about, princess." Two more pinches, Satoru doubled down with a loud shlurp, and you cried into the stimulation.

White blinded your vision. Heavy and hot as you pulsed into Satoru's awaiting mouth and twitched into Suguru's cruel fingers. Once, twice, then burst. Slick and messy, all over a chin that ground on you with the rest of his face.

Your orgasm rode out into the endless prickles of pleasure. Held tight on the line of delirious and dumb. But those hands? That mouth? Not one stutter. They weren't you. Inexperienced, clumsy little you who can't even touch herself.

They were cruel. Maybe more than you thought with the way their efforts doubled. Suguru's flicking turned to quick, sharp tapping and Satoru's tongue shoved in and fucked you in a way even your fingers couldn't.

You tensed. That knot in your stomach barely loosened. It burst into a heat that jolted your thighs and squirmed your upper half. "I— I-I can't—" you cried.

Shame. Seemed they liked that. Satoru's eyes rolled, Suguru's narrowed.

"Can't?" Another slap, you jolted with your clit. "Course you can. You're a needy little slut after all? Hmm? Toru, what's that pussy telling ya?"

"Mhhm," Satoru slurred in response. Muffled, wet, messy, as his pointed nose nudged your hood. "Sluttiest— mnghh, fuckin' girl."

If you thought that murmur was greedy, you weren't ready for his lip lock around your clit. Sealed tight on the nub and sucking down in a mix of spit and slick. Suguru clicked his tongue. Satoru always stole his spot.

No matter, he found a better one. With two fingers slick in your cum and shoved into your cunt. They take up a speed that matches the tempered sucking. Quick, punishing, greedy.

You sobbed into the air and pitifully squirmed in Suguru's lap. A pathetic mix of their names drooled from your stuttering mouth. The hand in Satoru's hair turned desperate, he mimicked with his sealed lips and vibrating groans.

You weren't sure what to focus on. The blinding tingles on your crying clit or thick fingers fucking you open and expertly finding that spot you could only dream of.

Was focus even in your dictionary? Not when your pussy clenched in warning and pleasure shot so far up your spine, it knocked the breath from your lungs. The only thing you were good at in this moment was cumming around Suguru's fingers and throbbing into Satoru's lips.

"Toru, Suguuu—wait, please, hngh please-" freedom, capture, the lines blurred as you limped into trapping arms but soared with bucking hips and slutty moans.

"Fuck, what would your brother think?" Suguru bit on your lobe and ground his hips into the cleft of your ass. Your limping weight added just the right friction.

From below, Satoru showed his greed knew no bounds as he released your clit with a lewd pop! only to rush kisses down to your oozing cunt and suck around Suguru's fingers. "He'd hate us. Keeps tellin' us to stay away from you." He heaved.

The audacity. He made you see stars, knocked your breath that you're still trying to catch, and he's breathless? You'd mock him for his pussy-drunkness if it weren't for your mess of glazed eyes and glossy lips.

Besides, he recovered quicker than you. Satoru stood and braced his buckle with an eagerness to get to his zipper. Halted only by Suguru's hum.

"Now, shouldn't we settle this fairly? See who gets this sweet cunt first?"

Their stare locked over your shoulder, and you just so happened to roll your slumped head onto Suguru's and crack an eye open to see Satoru's balled fist. Suguru's followed.

What in the. . .

"Fine, let's settle this reasonably." Satoru huffed. Reasonable seemed to come in a silent chant of three.

Rock.

Paper.

Scissors.

Seriously? You're quickly reminded that you grew up with these two idiots. If you weren't quivering with your cunt on full display and leaking all over the bed, you would have scoffed. Instead your brow arched.

Satoru's fingers jutted in a pair, Suguru's remained balled. Rock beats paper, Suguru grinned— Satoru groaned. "Fuck." He slumped back into his desk chair with the theatrics of an art major.

You went to roll your eyes and chastise. But your gaze gaped and mouth ran dry when a small click and zip revealed that you had bigger problems to worry about. Much bigger problems.

Suguru's dick sprung from his briefs and slapped back onto your cunt. You'd heard a thing or two about cock before. They were either girthy, or long, but Suguru's? Thick. With enough length to consider him monstrous. And right on the underside, like a bow on a behemoth, a silver glint caught your eye— a frenum piercing just below his pronounced tip.

"It's. . ." You gulped.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Satoru grinned.

"We're not beating the allegations when you say shit like that, Satoru." Suguru grumbled.

His tip smooched your entrance in a lewd hello, then glided through your slick. As if coaxing your poor, trembling slit to calm down. Much like his caressing hands that stroked your inner thighs and spread you wide. Like his cooing voice on your ear.

"Sshh, pretty girl. I've got you. Treat my poor little virgin girls so good, I promise."

A small pop! followed your whimper and your thighs locked— but rough, tender hands guided them apart. "Breathe for me baby. Stay nice and open." Tender strokes on your hip loosened your muscles. As if your body wanted to be good for him.

It did. Wanted to be his good girl. The pretty thing on his lap as you took him in. Inch by agonising inch.

If your fingers were nothing compared to his? They were laughable when compared to his cock. Slick walls gushed and contracted, throbbed and tightened. Each pulse another beg that his girth happily obliged to: stuffing you further.

"Sugu," you broke, and he swore, it was what angels were made of.

Those calloused hands knew nothing but caresses. Over your hips, your sides, cupping your breasts with an encouraging squeeze. His kiss calmed the drumming in your ear. "Easy does it. Taking it so well. Righ, Satoru?"

"So well," Satoru agreed, so soft you barely heard. And for a moment, a devastating moment, you considered a world where that 'performative protectiveness' truly was care.

Another push to your gummy resistance as your cunt clamped tight. The fullness bubbled hiccups in your throat as your hand scrambled for Suguru's wrist while his hands palmed your thighs.

Don't look down, don't you down.

You looked down.

Met with not only a bulge you've only heard about in fiction— but the hilt of his cock. Throbbing, thick, and oh so slicked in your pouring wetness. Like a gift that keeps on giving. To say he stretched you out was an understatement. No, he devoured you. Veins thrumming into your nerves, tip smooched heatedly into a withering spot that sent your toes curling, and filling up every crevice to the point where you weren't sure which part was you and which was Geto fucking Suguru.

The sight had you clenching, gripping around his dick in a vice that begged him not to leave. He hissed into your shoulder. "Fuck, she's tighter than we thought."

Any questioned died on your tongue as he withdrew. Leaving you empty only halfway, but still a few inches too much for your whining, slippery pussy— only to scold her impatience with a quick, easy pump. You scrambled.

"Wh-What do you—" air was a luxury. Like his hands palming your breasts, like his lips laving your neck. "What do you— you mean? Thought?"

Suguru fell into a leisure rhythm. Slow, testing. He eased you through the sting and loosened your needy walls with a swirling thumb to your clit.

Through your shaky breaths and fluttering eyes, you blearily watched as Satoru slanted back into the chair with a hand matching the pace of Suguru's thrusts. If you weren't so occupied with the dick dragging through your folds and that filthy piercing grazing on a perfect sweetspot, you'd have taken a moment to familiarise his cock, too.

"Isn't it obvious?" Suguru grunted, his hands squeezed on your thighs and wrenched them to strain over his lap. Two grinds into your cervix made you whimper from fullness— only to pitifully whine as he retracted to the tip. "Wanted this pussy since forever. Then you had the audacity to put it on advertisement."

Every whine, every whimper, knocked from your chest with air as his hips slammed back. A nasty squelch paired with a sharp slap reverberated. He caught your squirming by the waist and shoved you onto him. Squeezing in the last inches of his cock until the head gyrated on your cervix like a warning.

"So c'mon now." He laughed, breathless, feral, as his strength effortlessly bounced you on his dick that thrust up in a ruinous rhythm. Faster, with purpose, splattering your slick all over your thighs and his.

A lewd beat of balls slapping your folds, your ass clapping down on him and your sweet cries sung into the air heavy with the smell of sex. Like a lewd symphony building into a slutty crescendo.

"Show me what a slut you can be, huh? Fuck me back, yeah— fuck, that's it princess." How pathetic a princess can be. Sloppy and clumsy as your hips take up a stuttering fumble. Just barely mimicking his guiding hands ragdolling you on his dick. "This is how you ride cock. Just like that. Doing so well."

You just barely managed to catch another groan. Deeper, breathier. Through wet and weak eyes you see Satoru, neck crooked and stained fingers squeezing round his girth. Your mouth waters at the drips of precum— but your eyes cringed at a flash.

Only then did you notice his other hand gripping around his phone as if he couldn't focus on which palm actually held his dick. He nursed on his pink lip with sharp teeth, hazy eyes flickering between the screen and the real thing. There, all wet, and wide, and whimpering on Suguru's lap.

"She's messin' all over, Suguru." Satoru rasped.

"Sure you love that. 's your bed." Suguru chuckled.

And since he was such a good best friend, he leaned back, spread you wider as he fisted on the fat of your thighs. He wrung you open on full display so the camera caught every inch of your glistening, sopping pussy. Every clench around his dick, every bit of that ring of filthy cream you left around his base. And most importantly? How you splattered and spilled every time he emptied to the tip, grazed his piercing on the hilt of your slit— then rammed back in.

You're a mess of whimpering sobs and a crying pussy as you limped back into Suguru, splaying yourself further into the heat of finally, finally getting fucked open. And by your brother's best friend no less.

"Awww baby," Satoru crooned. "Listen to those whimpers. Really think you'll survive the real world like this? So fucked-out and you haven't even cum yet. Filthy girl."

Filthy, they called you filthy while their tongues were capable of sins. As if Satoru wasn't fisting his leaking dick and documenting this moment. As if Suguru wasn't sucking hickies all over your neck, pinching on a tit while two fingers messily swirled on your clit.

If you were filthy? They were disgusting. Disgusting for wanting you like this, for taking you like this. And you? All the same for clenching around a guy's cock you swore to hate for the rest of your life, and soaking the other's sheets.

"This," a thrust rammed into your cervix as clamping hands ground you into the bursts of heat arching your spine. "This is what it is to be fucked. Feels good, doesn't it?" Your clit stung into a wet slap then throbbed into the mean pinch of his thumb.

You nodded, brokenly, deliriously, "yes, yes, feels so good— hngh sugu, feels so good—" tears stained your hot face. Your mouth fell open in a web of saliva and he chased the trail with eager lips down your jaw.

"'m gonna— ah - gonna— please!" Your nerves flared, tummy taut. That devasting knot reformed with a pool of blistering heat. You bucked down rapidly, pitifully, as if you had any control of how his cock bullied your squelching walls.

Suguru caught your high with a breathless laugh and cruel swipes on your clit. Sending you from cloud nine into an endless void of spasms and stars splitting before your rolling eyes.

You didn't just clench— you squeezed the life out of him. Milking every vein and squeezing around his cockhead smooching your cervix until his maw slacked and fell into your shoulder. Brows furrowed, teeth biting, he bucked into the curve of your ass and suffocating pussy while gripping onto the last shreds of his sanity. Not now, not—

"Suguru, ohgod suguuuu,"

Shattered. He humped into your heat with a grunting whine and met your flood with his spill. Shooting ropes, upon robes of thick, creamy heat into your pulsing pussy.

"Fuck." His hand abandoned your tit for your jaw, swiveling your head and shoving your lips to his. So that teeth clattered, tongues twisted, and his barbell piercing took your breath away.

You're lost. Ears full of cotton, lungs crying for air, face smudged with streaming mascara and smeared lipstick. But to Suguru dizzy on your saliva and the now panting Satoru? You were beautiful.

While he parted his mouth, his cock remained buried. Eagerly grinding into your prickling bundle of nerves that shook you with more sobs. "Already crying?" He grinned. There's the devil again.

"Baby, you haven't even taken toru."

The world tilted. You're whining from emptiness. The taste of cotton pillows and the feel of wrinkled sheets smoothed on your tummy comforted your now vacant, raw pussy. The weight below shifted into something heavier above you. Flushed into your ass and the curve of your spine with white stands tickling your cheek.

Your oozing cunt wasn't lonely for long. Another plush tip shoved between her messy folds and twitched at the glaze smearing all over. You choked on the hand curling round your throat to cradle you— or yank you back. You didn't know, you didn't care.

Not when your eyes were rolling and pussy was splitting for a second girth. Shoved careless, and zealous with the eagerness of a man starved. And while your sweetspot missed the piercing, your cervix loved how this one shoved into it head-on. Not a smooch, but a smack.

"She's gushing so much," a low groan melted into your whine as a sharp nose dug into your cheek. Shaper teeth grazed on your ear and his long fingers squeezed on your throat. "Feels so good to be a slut, huh sweet girl?" Satoru rumbled. His body was smoother than Suguru's, but a bit bigger, deliciously so.

When you answered with babbles, a small drawback and wet snap! morphed it into a crying confession. "Yes, yes, fuck— Satoru, feels s'good."

He chuckled at your slurs, a rough sound grinding into your ear the same way his cock grated into that sweltering bundle of nerves. "Might wanna hold on tight, sweet girl." His fingers released your throat for your scalp, delving in almost gently as his pace faltered with.

"Not gonna be as gentle as Suguru."

Your eyes widened into the sheets. If what Suguru did to you was considered gentle then—

"Hngh!"

Your cry muffled into cotton as his fingers clenched in your hair and shoved your face into the mattress. But nothing compared to the tempered piston that were his hips. Hot, heavy and haughty as they pounded ripples into your soft ass.

Wetness squeezed and spluttered from your dripping pussy. Smearing Satoru's cock all over and showing him what he was missing. Now that he had it? He was feral and filthy in your ear, in his pace. Trapping you into the sheets with nowhere to run. Nowhere to the hide. Just to be his.

His whore. Their little slut. Until you were spurting out whimpers like the stringy mess pouring from your quivered slit.

"I can't— S'toru- I can't take iitttt."

Overstimulation bled into your tears, and despite your pitiful whines of heat and desperation, your ass still attempted to hump back into him. He huffed a laugh into your hair.

"That right baby?" A nasty hump on your cervix pitched your sobs. "That why you're— fuck, clenching like that? Slutty pussy's tellin' on you, y'know."

A second chuckle joined, one more graceful. Mirroring the hand that cupped your face and brought your head into black leather. Suguru crooned above you as he nudged your bobbing head into his lap. "Oh, can't you? Thought you could handle yourself."

So cruel, yet so comforting. While Satoru's balls barraged against your folds and he chased bruises on your ass, hell— your cervix too— Suguru stroked a thumb on your wet cheekbone and smeared your mascara against his nail polish.

He clicked his tongue, something between condescending and considerate as his thumb swiped over your drooling lips. From your eyes rolled back, you couldn't witness his heated stare. Instead, you spluttered over his hand with whorish moans.

Blurred, incomprehensible, but spiked in a pitch when a sharp spank vibrates your ass. Only to grip and shove it straight back into the mattress. Open and raw against punishing thrusts that made your cries turn into squeals. "This," Satoru hissed, squeezing on fat so it bulged through his finger gaps.

"This is what you gotta expect from guys." He sneered. But his tone quickly shifted as his warm palm cupped below your jaw and yanked your head back to face him. So that your looping eyes, drooling mouth and cute little whines were right below him. He corrected himself with a chuckle.

"Nah, this is what you should expect from us. Know damn well this pussy is ours now, huh?"

He punctuated with a cruel pinch and rub on your clit paired with an angle that knocked the breath from you. Still, you spluttered yieldingly. "M-Mhhm! Mhhm! All— all youurrss hngh."

He twitched. Deep, devastating, and you clenched just in time to send his eyes fluttering too. "Say my name," he gasped. Something rough, something desperate.

"Satoru," you whined, babbling into his fingers that shook around your cheeks, squishing them so your saliva strung. "S-Satoru, Satoru— toru- torutoruuu." You shattered.

Another tug, this time to your hair. Sugur's fingers joined the mix as your strands meshed with silver rings. "Hey now," he breathed. "Don't leave me out. Say mine prettily like that too, princess."

How could you deny him? "Suguuuu," you whimpered. "Suguuruu- sugu, angh, I can't—" Your fingers curled into the sheets, and he quickly snatched your hand. Satoru grabbed the other, yanking it back to where he held you down by the hip.

"Can't?" He mocked.

"Cannn'tt, 'm— fuck, please, s'too much."

While you keened from overstimulation, your pussy drooled and strung all over. Spurting that delicious, addictive cream that scratched at Satoru's sweet tooth. You clamped round his cock. Eager to milk him like you did Suguru. And he whimpered, then grunted.

"Don't think so, sweetheart." He slipped his hand to squeeze tight on your throat and withdrew to the tip, only to piston forward. Bottoming out so your squelching walls were stuffed to the brim and he could abuse your cervix with brutal hammers.

"In fact, I think you're gonna cum," he laughed. Loud, and boisterous, and arrogant. All in the same way he pounded sobs from both your lips and pussy. "Right? Cum for me. Cream my dick baby."

Oh you did more than cream. As your eyes squeezed and your body spasmed, the clench of your wall didn't come with a warm bubble— but a hot stream. A loud, lewd squirt pulsing from your cunt and spraying both of your thighs.

You cramped up, he tensed, but never faltered. Riding out your high while chasing his with stuttered moans and a rambling tongue. "Fuuckk, a squirter," he heaved, voice breaking as the knot within him snapped and he repaid your gift tenfold. Pumping you full for the second time that night. Until your poor pussy was squelching the combination of fluids from your slit and officially ruining Satoru's bed.

Fuck.

"Can tell ya, no guy's gonna be able to do that to you." He groaned, damp hair tickling your cheek when his face fell into your shoulder and his body collapsed onto you. You choked a whine from the pressure, and finally managed to catch your breath as the pistoning pounds became small rocks. Until nothing more but a throbbing, softening dick.

Satoru slipped from your wetness with a whimper you barely heard. Soon the sheets were replaced by a warm chest and you panted into the scent of sandalwood wrapped around you. Deft fingers rubbed on the back of your scalp.

"No guy's gonna do this for you either," Suguru mumbled as his arms held you against him. Satoru joined behind you, his still, somehow cold arms, hooking around your waist and squeezing your thighs that he's evidently obsessed with.

His kisses pressed into the heat of your neck. Each one of them weaving out the intensity of being not only fucked, but overstimulated and stuffed. At last, you relaxed into them. Nothing but panting breaths, quivered thighs and soft whimpers.

The silence blanketed you in silk. And for yet another moment, you forgot whose arms you trembled in. Better yet, whose cocks you let ruin you. Realisation dawned when you caught that satisfied smirk tugged on Suguru's mouth.

"You're both so annoying." You managed, but the way your lips fell to Suguru's shoulder and your fingers laced with Satoru's told another story.

"But you love us, hmm?" Satoru mumbled into your neck with a boyish grin and you wished you pores would secrete poison to kill him in that moment.

Anger's heat melted into an embarrassed simmer, however, and you spluttered a fluster of barely strung together 'what's' and 'how's'. You're shushed by Suguru's thumb on your lips.

He smiled. "You're very obvious."

But his kiss to your ears and Satoru's to your scalp told you there was nothing to fear. If your past self could see you now, she'd scoff and spit at you. But you didn't care. Happiness seeped beneath your ribs and you bit back a smile as they snuggled into you. Trapping you between them, but it was the furthest thing from a cage.

This? This was freedom.

"We've got you." Suguru whispered. "We'll take care of you."

"Later, though." Satoru winked.

You stiffened when Suguru didn't seem to correct him. Suddenly, their smiles looked more sinister than sweet.

Pretty bitch boy slipped his hand down to squeeze on your ass. And his beloved, competitive asshole? He murmured to your ear with a husked rumble.

"What? You thought we're done?"

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/dollywons. art cred: sakimichanmale (twt)

Your apartment had never felt so suffocatingly quiet.

The TV buzzed in the other room, some rerun you weren’t watching, the laugh track tinny and hollow. Your phone screen was a loop of nothing. Music didn’t stick either. It was one of those nights where no distraction landed, every second dragged, and your body thrummed with restless heat you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You only meant to make the night move faster.

That was the logic when you opened the drawer and found the cuffs, a forgotten gag gift from a friend who thought your dry spell was a personality trait. Cold, heavier than you remembered, they chimed against each other with that bright, guilty sound metal makes.

You told yourself it would be quick. One wrist, not both. You even did a safety check like a responsible menace: key on the nightstand, within easy reach. You shook the cuff once, twice; the headboard held. Fine. Fun.

Your sheets were cool. Your body wasn’t. You stretched out, spine lengthening, shoulder blades meeting the pillow. One cuff clicked shut around your right wrist, and the small tug of resistance traveled through your arm, your chest, down the center of you like the first sip of something strong.

You told yourself it wasn’t pathetic. You weren’t desperate, just… curious. It had been months since you’d hooked up with anyone, longer since you’d let anyone touch you the way you wanted. That gnawing edge of loneliness had only gotten sharper lately.

You lay back, eyes slipping shut. The fantasy bloomed as easily as muscle memory: a weight pressing you down, someone else’s breath hot against your cheek, a voice rasping low in your ear—

And embarrassingly, humiliatingly, it was his voice.

Adrian Chase.

The man who once earnestly explained to you that killing people was “like popping bubble wrap, but messier.” The man who ate mozzarella sticks in full costume. The man you shouldn’t want but always found yourself staring at too long.

Your thighs pressed together. Your free hand slid lower, slow, teasing, testing. The cuff rattled, biting your wrist when you tugged against it, and your whole body sparked.

You pictured Adrian grinning above you, curls sticking to his forehead, too many words spilling out of him while his weight held you down.

Heat flooded through you. You pulled harder against the cuff, breath stuttering.

The second cuff wasn’t supposed to happen.

You sat up for half a second, bad angle, shoulder twinge, to fix the pillow and reached to brace your free hand against the headboard. The loose cuff, jaws gaping, swung on its chain and kissed your left wrist. Reflex made you flinch; reflex made you grab it; reflex made your fingers tighten.

A clean, decisive click.

You blinked.

“No. Oh my god, no.”

You yanked hard, steel biting into both wrists. The headboard groaned and rattled, unforgiving. The cuffs mocked you with every clink of the chain. You twisted your hands, flattened your thumbs, tried to pull bone under steel. Nothing.

Okay. The key. It was right there sitting on the nightstand… which now seemed the length of a football field away. You scooted up until your shoulders bumped the headboard, rolled to one side to shorten the reach, stretched until something in your right shoulder whispered a warning. Your foot grazed wood.

You tried again, smarter this time. Heel on the mattress to push your hips closer, shoulder rolling to buy an inch, knee extended as your wrist burned against the cuffs. Your heel found the key chain and—because the universe has a sense of humor—flipped it neatly off the table. It fell, hit the floor, and skittered under the dresser with a cheerful metallic ting you felt in your molars.

You sagged back against the pillow, panting.

The ache settled quickly. Wrists throbbed in a dull, insistent rhythm. Your shoulders protested the angle. Sweat collected under your shirt. And worse, humiliation curled hot in your gut—not enough to kill the heat in your body, but enough to make it unbearable.

Your phone glared at you from the edge of the bed. Close enough to taunt you, too far for your hands. You wormed down the bed, hooked the blanket with your foot, dragged it until you could flip the phone with your toe.

“Hey, Siri,” you hissed. “Call Chris.”

It rang. Rang. Voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me. Call me back?”

“Call Leota.”

Voicemail.

“Harcourt.”

Straight to voicemail.

“Economos.”

Nothing.

Each unanswered call dug the humiliation deeper. You tried again, dialing through your contacts one by one, and each one went to voicemail or rang out into silence.

The cuffs bit into your wrists. The key was gone. Your body still ached with restless, humiliating heat.

There was only one option left.

The worst one. You swallowed, tasting coppery nerves.

“Hey, Siri,” you whispered. “Call Adrian.”

The line rang twice.

“Hello?” His voice was bright, chipper, already halfway through a joke.

“Adrian,” you said, aiming for calm, hitting strangled. “I need help.”

“Like—oh! Is this, like, ‘someone’s trying to kill me’ help, or ‘I dropped my burrito’ help? Because I’m amazing at both, but, like, one of them requires bleach.”

“Just—come over.” You shut your eyes. “Please.”

There was a pause. Then the muffled sound of shifting fabric. “On my way.”

The waiting was its own small hell. Without the problem of who to call, there was nothing left to do but be in your body. Everything registered twice: how your t-shirt stuck to the small of your back; the night air cooling the sweat at your hairline; the way your heart sprinted every time you imagined your front door opening. The stubborn warmth between your legs refused to leave because your nervous system had zero respect for your dignity.

Your wrists pulsed. The dull ache spread through your arms, settling in your shoulders. The cuffs rattled every time you shifted, metallic and merciless.

Time stretched. Each minute felt like ten. You closed your eyes, tried to breathe evenly, and nearly jumped out of your skin when the door creaked open.

⸻

His boots hit your hallway in a rhythm you recognized from nights he’d walked you home after patrol: purposeful, a hair too fast. Your stomach tried to execute a backflip. You stared at the ceiling hoping it could grant you invisibility.

“Yo?” Adrian’s voice sang from the hall. “You sounded super weird on the phone. Like, not ‘I’m bleeding out’ weird, more like ‘I dropped my hot pocket’ weird. Which, honestly, still counts as an emergency—because hot pockets are lava and betrayal wrapped in bread—but anyway—”

He stepped into your room in full suit: plates matte in the dim, straps snug. He opened his mouth—to smile, to quip, you never knew what would fall out of him first—and then he saw you.

“Oh. My. God.”

The helmet tilted as if his whole brain short-circuited. Then, with theatrical slowness, he peeled it off. Curls sprang free, damp from the night air. His eyes widened behind his glasses.

“You’re—” His voice cracked, broke into a laugh. “You’re handcuffed. To your bed. Oh my god. This is the single greatest moment of my life.”

He leaned on the doorframe and just… looked. Not gross, not leering—wide-eyed, bright, like someone told him his birthday got extended by three months. He set the helmet down on your dresser with a hollow thunk and peeled off one glove with his teeth, because of course he did.

“Shut up and just get me out of these,” you snapped, mortified.

“No, no, don’t ruin this for me.” He stepped closer, manic grin spreading. “Do you have any idea what this looks like? It’s like—like porn, but written for me.”

“You’re disgusting—”

“Wait. Waitwaitwait.” His eyes went wide. “Were you—oh my god. You were totally jerking off. This is—it’s like—fuck, I don’t even have words. I do! Jackpot. Yeah. Jackpot.”

Your face burned hot enough to melt the cuffs. “Shut. Up.”

He crossed to the bed in three steps and crouched near your right wrist. His presence changed the temperature of the room. Up close he smelled like night air and soap and the faintest ghost of machine oil. Your breath chose that moment to forget how to regulate itself. His bare hand brushed your wrist as he twisted the cuff, and you shivered despite yourself.

“Wow. Look at those marks,” he said, awe creeping into his tone. “You’ve been struggling. That’s—oh my god, that’s so hot. I mean—bad! Unsafe. Super dangerous. But also—like, incredibly hot.”

“Just get me out!”

He squinted up at you, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What exactly happened to the key? Did it run away? Like, ‘oh no, not this freaky shit again, I’m out’? Because if so, I respect it.”

You ground your teeth. “It slipped under the dresser.”

Adrian ducked his head, trying to peer under the dresser from where he crouched. His curls fell into his face; his glasses slid down his nose.

“Okay, so, fun news,” he announced, voice muffled. “I can see the key. Bad news—it’s, like, way back there. Like, mouse-apartment back there. Also there’s a dust bunny with a knife. We’re negotiating.”

“Adrian.” Your voice was a sharp whisper.

He straightened, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting between the cuffs and the dresser. “Yeah, uh. Okay. Plan B.” He said it like it was his catchphrase. “Plan B is…we pick the lock.”

“You can’t pick locks.”

He gasped, mock-offended. “Excuse me. I can totally pick locks. I’m like the MacGyver of breaking and entering. I have, like, a 78% success rate.” He patted his suit pockets with an exaggerated flourish, producing a paperclip, a bobby pin, and—because it was Adrian—a neon plastic sword from a cocktail. “See? Tools. Professional.”

You groaned and tipped your head back against the headboard. “You’re going to make it worse.”

“Noooo,” he crooned, already bending the paperclip into a thin line. “I’m going to make it better. It’s going to be so romantic, you’ll tell people about this at our wedding. ‘Adrian Chase saved me from my own cuffs with a paperclip.’”

He knelt at your side again, his knee bumping the mattress, close enough that his shoulder brushed your thigh. The scent of his soap mixed with the faint leather of his suit. You watched his hands, bare now, long-fingered and quick work at the cuff’s lock. The paperclip clicked faintly against the steel.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said cheerfully. “You’re like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm. Which is adorable, by the way.”

“Just pick the lock…” you hissed, somewhere between mortification and a laugh.

He twisted the clip; the cuff jiggled but held. He leaned closer, bracing one arm on the headboard for leverage. The movement pulled him over you, his curls falling near your face. His breath hit your cheek—warm, minty—and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“Hold still,” he said, softer now, like the noise between his jokes had finally thinned. His glasses slid even lower; his lashes flickered as he glanced up at you. “This angle’s tricky.”

You shifted to give him more room, but the chain tugged you back. The sudden pull yanked your hair where it had caught under the cuff. You gasped, a small startled sound that came out too much like a moan.

Adrian froze.

“Ohhh…” His voice curled upward like a cat stretching. “Oh my god. Did you just—”

“No.” Your face burned.

“Yes. Yes you did.” His grin was slow, predatory but still boyish. “You’re into this. You’re, like, so into this.”

“Adrian, shut up and get me out!”

He made a small thoughtful noise, eyes flicking down your body before snapping back to the lock. For a rare second, he was silent—no quip, no joke—just a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze as it caught on the edge of your lacy panties. His pupils widened behind the glasses.

You felt it as much as saw it: the air shifting, the joking tone faltering. The cuff rattled faintly with every twist of his wrist. His bare hand slid just under your forearm to steady you, thumb brushing your skin in an absent, almost reverent stroke.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice rougher but still trying for breezy. “One more try. Then I might have to…uh… improvise.”

“Improvise?”

He gave you a bright, unconvincing smile, paperclip poised at the lock. “Trust me. I’ve totally done this before.”

The tip of the clip sank into the mechanism. The cuff clicked once, twice. Adrian’s tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated, his body leaning over yours, muscles shifting under the Kevlar. The whole world shrank to the faint metallic scrape, the warmth of his chest inches from yours, and the thunderous sound of your own heartbeat.

You weren’t sure which would break first—the lock, your restraint, or whatever precarious line existed between you and Adrian Chase.

Adrian’s paperclip scraped again inside the cuff, metallic and stubborn. He muttered under his breath, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth, curls falling into his glasses.

Click. Nothing. Click. Still nothing.

“Okay,” he huffed, puffing his cheeks out, “this lock is, like, super judgmental. It knows I don’t have formal training.” He jiggled the clip again, wrists brushing against your skin.

The graze of his knuckles along your arm sent a shiver darting down your spine. You clenched your teeth, hoping he hadn’t noticed, but he cocked his head at you with a crooked grin.

“You’re all twitchy. Is that—like—because I’m close? Or because you’re, like, allergic to steel?”

“Just—focus, Adrian.” Your voice came out thinner than you intended.

He leaned in closer, trying for a better angle, his arm sliding against your side, his thigh pressing near your hip. Every small graze of his hand against your wrist sent another involuntary tremor racing through you. You felt restless under him, the cuffs rattling each time you shifted.

“Hold still,” he mumbled, adjusting again. He braced one hand against the mattress to steady himself—and that was when you felt it.

Solid. Heavy. Unmistakable.

Through the suit’s fabric, his arousal pressed against your thigh, a heat that had nothing to do with Kevlar.

Your breath hitched. Blood rushed to your face so fast you thought you might combust. You didn’t dare say a word, didn’t dare look at him. The room swam with heat, your pulse thudding at your wrists where the cuffs bit into your skin.

Adrian kept fiddling with the lock, oblivious in his own way, muttering, “Okay, okay, almost got it, just gotta—uh, nope, nope, that’s wrong,” every time the clip scraped uselessly. But his movements only made things worse, the press against your thigh shifting, dragging just enough that you went weak in your stomach.

You swallowed hard, twisting under the cuffs, restless. Your legs tensed, thighs shifting. The bed creaked.

Adrian finally sighed, tilting his head back to look at you, curls falling over his glasses. His grin was sheepish, boyish. “Sooo…funny story. I can’t get it open.”

The cuffs rattled again as you tugged, flushed and squirming, heat curling low in your stomach while you avoided his eyes.

And all the while, you could still feel him pressed against you, steady and unyielding, as if the night itself was in on the joke.

The cuffs rattled again as you twisted your wrists, frustration bubbling up hotter than your embarrassment.

“Adrian,” you hissed, tugging hard enough that the metal bit deep into your skin. “I need out of these. Now.”

He leaned back on his heels, paperclip dangling uselessly from his fingers, his grin spreading like wildfire. “You sound desperate.”

“I am desperate,” you snapped, chest heaving, face burning. “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” he countered immediately, adjusting his glasses. “You, handcuffed to your bed, all flushed and squirmy, calling me of all people to come save you? That’s comedy gold. I’m gonna be thinking about this on patrol for, like, the next six months.”

You groaned and tugged again, the chain clinking traitorously. “Adrian, seriously—”

“Seriously what?” He tilted his head, curls falling into his face. “Seriously please? Seriously help me? Or—” His grin sharpened. “Seriously don’t stop?”

“I-”

His hand slid back to steady the cuff, thumb brushing over the red mark on your wrist. Another shiver shot through you, involuntary and obvious. He caught it instantly, eyes flicking up, dark behind his glasses.

“Ohhh,” he said, voice low, delighted. “You like this.”

You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper. “I don’t.”

“You do,” he said, sing-song, leaning in closer. His weight pressed against your thigh again, and the heat of his body bled through the suit. “You’re, like, practically vibrating. It’s insane. I’m over here thinking, ‘wow, my friend’s in distress, I should be a hero,’ but no—you’re making those little… noises.”

Your whole body burned. “Shut up.”

“Nooo,” he drawled, “don’t shut up. Do it again.” His grin widened as he pushed the paperclip back into the lock, wrist brushing yours. His knuckles grazed you and another tremor ran through you. He laughed, soft and breathless, like he’d discovered the cheat code to a video game.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stuck,” he reminded you, his voice suddenly pitched softer, like it had weight now. He leaned over, his curls brushing your temple, his mouth close enough that you felt the warmth of each word. “You realize how easy it would be for me to just…leave you like this?”

The thought made your stomach twist and your thighs clench, heat curling low. You didn’t answer, couldn’t.

Adrian hummed like he’d won something. “God, look at you. Red as a tomato. You’d kill me if I said it out loud, but…” His free hand skimmed down your arm, fingers feather-light against your skin, then paused just above your elbow. “…you’re so hot like this.”

The cuffs rattled again when you shifted under him, restless, desperate. You could feel him against you—hard, steady, unavoidable. Neither of you said a word about it, but the air between you thickened with every second.

Adrian licked his lips, eyes darting between your wrists, your mouth, your body squirming under him.

“Adrian,” you managed, breathless, tugging against the cuffs again. “Just—please. Keep working on the lock.”

“Uh-huh.” He said it automatically, eyes definitely not on the cuffs anymore. His gaze had slid lower, caught on the strip of lace peeking where your shirt had ridden up. The edge of your panties—black, delicate, a little too revealing under his scrutiny—held his attention like a spotlight.

You shifted, trying to angle away, but the cuffs pinned you flat, useless. Heat flared in your chest.

“Adrian.”

“What?” He blinked up at you with the most unconvincing expression of innocence you’d ever seen. His glasses had slid halfway down his nose, curls wild around his face, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am working on it. Multitasking.”

“You’re staring,” you muttered, cheeks blazing.

“Of course I’m staring,” he shot back instantly, voice bright and too casual to hide the rasp underneath. “You’re, like, wearing the fanciest underwear I’ve ever seen outside of a Victoria’s Secret ad. Which, by the way, thank you for that—this is, like, the greatest rescue mission of my life.”

Your whole body went hot. You tugged the chain, wrists aching. “The lock.”

“Mhm.” But instead of twisting the paperclip, his free hand hovered over your hip, hesitating just long enough that you felt every second of the anticipation. Then—light as a whisper—his fingertips brushed the lace hem, tracing a slow line along the edge.

A strangled sound left your throat before you could stop it.

He froze, eyes wide, then his grin snapped back, feral. “Oh my god. You whined. You literally just whined.”

“No I didn’t—”

“Nope, nope, don’t even try to deny it.” His voice was giddy, but his touch didn’t move away. If anything, he grew bolder, dragging his fingertip just barely under the lace before letting it flick back. Your thighs clenched instinctively. You turned your face into the pillow, muffling a noise that was definitely not dignified.

He leaned in closer, curls tickling your cheek, his voice dropping to something lower, teasing but shaky at the edges. “Say the word, and I’ll stop. I’ll go back to the boring lock. But if you don’t…” His fingertip skimmed the lace again, lazy, maddening. “…I might keep…exploring.”

You pulled at the cuffs again, helpless, restless, your whole body thrumming with heat. “Adrian,” you whispered, voice cracking, “the lock…”

But it sounded weak. Unconvincing. And his grin told you he knew it.

Adrian’s fingertip traced the lace again, featherlight, maddening. He wasn’t even touching you—just ghosting over the fabric, dipping under the hem and pulling back like he wanted to drive you insane.

“Adrian,” you whimpered, shame and need tangled in your voice.

“Oh my god,” he said, like he’d just solved a murder case. “You’re actually whining. This is… this is insane. You’re always so—like—normal, and now you’re…this. Tied up, flushed, making those little noises. It’s like Christmas, my birthday, and Taco Tuesday all at once.”

“Adrian, please—”

“Please what?” He leaned in, curls falling into his glasses, grin splitting wide. “Please keep trying with the lock? Or please keep touching you? Because your mouth says the first one, but your body…” He let his knuckle glide under the lace, brushing your skin so lightly it made your breath stutter. “…your body’s screaming the second.”

You tugged helplessly at the cuffs, the chain rattling above your head, thighs pressing together to chase friction you couldn’t find.

Adrian’s voice softened, raspier now, his usual endless chatter breaking into something darker. “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed about this. You—spread out, begging, looking at me like I’m the only guy in the room. Do you even know how hot you are? I’ve thought about it for so long I thought I was gonna lose my mind.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast, heat flooding your face, your body, everything. “You’re just—saying that.”

“Nope.” He drew out the word, teasing. “You think I don’t notice the way your shirt rides up when you stretch? The way you lick your lips when you’re concentrating? You think I haven’t jacked off imagining you in those little skirts you wear?”

Your stomach twisted with embarrassment, arousal spiking higher. “You what—”

“Were you-” His grin faltered just enough to show something hungry underneath. He pressed his palm fully against your hip, thumb stroking over the lace, achingly close. His glasses slid down his nose as he bent closer, voice low and hot against your ear. “Were you thinking about me when you cuffed yourself up like this? Is that why you’re dripping and squirming? Because it was me you wanted?”

You bit your lip so hard it hurt, a desperate sound breaking loose despite yourself.

He groaned, shaky, delighted. “Oh fuck, you were. Weren’t you? You were laying here, helpless, thinking about me bending you in half, about my cock filling you up, about how I’d talk the entire time just to make you crazy—”

You twisted against the cuffs, flushed and restless, every nerve in your body lit up. “No I wasn’t—”

“Say it,” he whispered, grin wild and hungry now, thumb brushing right at the edge of where you needed him. “Tell me you were thinking about me. Tell me, and maybe I’ll stop teasing.”

Adrian’s thumb toyed with the lace again, hovering so close you thought your skin might catch fire. The cuffs rattled when you arched up, but the chain held fast, biting your wrists. You couldn’t push him away, couldn’t pull him closer. All you could do was squirm under the slow torture of his featherlight touch.

“Adrian…” Your voice cracked, needy.

He laughed, low and breathless, eyes gleaming behind his crooked glasses. “God, you sound wrecked already. And I’ve barely touched you.” His hand flattened against your hip, fingers tracing the delicate fabric with unbearable care. “You’re usually all smart-mouth and rolled eyes at me, but right now? You’re just—” He leaned in closer, curls brushing your cheek, his voice hot against your ear. “…a whining little mess.”

Your thighs pressed together, heat building between them, every nerve begging for more.

He chuckled, shifting his weight. That shift dragged the unmistakable press of his cock against your thigh again—hard, thick, restrained by his suit. This time you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t noticed. You gasped, and his grin widened.

“Yeah,” he whispered, smug. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me. Every time you walk into a room, I’ve gotta bite my tongue not to ruin myself just looking at you. And now…now you’re tied up, spread out, begging for me. I swear, this is like a dream.”

“Adrian…” you whined, twisting under him, wrists aching against the cuffs. “Please…”

“Please what?” His knuckle skimmed under the lace again, maddeningly light. “Please touch you? Please fuck you? Or…” He smirked, glasses sliding low on his nose. “…please stop talking?”

You shivered, frustrated tears prickling your eyes. “Please stop teasing.”

“Ohhhh.” He practically sang the word, delighted. “There it is. The magic sentence. Took you long enough.”

And then his hand finally slipped beneath the lace, fingertips dragging slow and deliberate over soaked fabric. You jerked, a choked cry ripping out of you before you could stop it. The sound made his breath catch, his grin faltering into something hungrier, darker.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, fingers pressing firmer. “You’re soaked. And you were lying here, all alone, cuffed up, thinking about me.”

“Yes,” you gasped, shame and relief hitting at once.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like it knocked the air out of him. “I’ve wanted this forever. Wanted you forever.” His lips brushed your cheek as he bent lower, words spilling fast and rough. “I’d jerk off after patrol just imagining what you’d sound like. What faces you’d make. How tight you’d be. And now I don’t even have to imagine.”

The cuffs rattled violently when you tried to arch up against him, desperate for more. He laughed, shaky, pushing his fingers harder against you. “You’re gonna break your wrists at this rate. Relax, baby. I’ve got you.”

“Adrian—”

“God, you saying my name like that?” He groaned, rocking his hips once against your thigh so you could feel just how hard he was. “I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

Two fingers dragged beneath the lace, finally finding slick heat. He pushed just barely inside, enough to make you moan, to make your whole body writhe against the cuffs.

“That’s it,” he whispered, frantic now, his constant chatter tumbling into filthy worship. “So tight around my fingers. Can’t wait to stretch you around my cock. You’ll take me, won’t you? Let me ruin you? You’ve wanted it just as bad, I know you have.”

You sobbed out something between his name and a plea, legs shaking.

Adrian laughed again, but this time it was breathless, desperate, his voice breaking. “God, you’re perfect. Fuck the lock. You’re mine like this. All mine.”

Adrian’s fingers worked inside you, shallow and relentless, every curl of his wrist making the cuffs bite into your wrists as you arched and squirmed. His other hand held your hip steady, thumb tracing lazy circles against the lace hem he’d become obsessed with.

“God,” he rasped, forehead nearly touching yours now, curls damp against your cheek. “You’re clenching on me already. And you’re not even really getting what you want, are you?”

You whined, tugging uselessly at the cuffs, thighs trembling.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his grin slipping into something hungry, reverent. “You’re so fucking gorgeous like this—squirming, begging. I could keep you like this all night, just to watch you break.”

The words hit harder than his touch. Your whole body shook. “Adrian…please…”

“Please what?” His mouth brushed your ear, his hips shifting just enough to grind the thick press of his cock against your thigh through the suit. You gasped, heat shooting up your spine. His laugh was rough, close to a groan. “Yeah, you feel that? That’s how long I’ve wanted you. I swear I could come just from this—just from you tied up and whining my name.”

Your legs squeezed around his hand, your whole body begging for more. “Adrian, please.”

The cuffs rattled again as you pulled against them, desperate. His glasses had slipped nearly to the tip of his nose, his curls a wild mess, and still he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world.

“You’re killing me,” he whispered. Then his hand left your hip, fumbling at the front of his suit with impatient, clumsy movements. A zipper rasped, buckles tugged loose. His breathing came faster, shakier, his grin faltering into something raw. “I’ve thought about this a thousand times, and none of it comes close. Not even close.”

Your heart sprinted as the fabric shifted, as the blunt, hot weight of him pressed against your bare skin now instead of through Kevlar. You were trembling all over, every nerve lit, wrists sore in the cuffs but the ache feeding the hunger building inside you.

He braced one arm beside your head, the other holding himself at your entrance, teasing just barely, enough to make your breath hitch and your body beg without words. His eyes were wide, wild, his glasses fogging at the edges.

A groan tore out of him, broken and disbelieving. “Fuck, I love you like this.”

He pushed forward, slow, stretching, filling—

And the cuffs rattled above your head, metal biting deep as your back arched, your whole body trembling with the overwhelming shock of finally getting what you’d been aching for.

Adrian’s mouth fell open, his laugh a ragged, desperate sound. “Oh my god. You’re perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.”

Adrian’s thrusts started slow, shallow—just enough to make your back bow and the cuffs bite into your wrists. His forehead was nearly pressed to yours now, curls damp against your cheek, his glasses sliding crooked down his nose. He was watching you with a grin that flickered between wild glee and raw hunger.

Then, suddenly, he stilled.

You gasped at the denial, pulling against the cuffs, your body clenching around him in protest. “Move please—”

“Nope.” His voice cracked on the word, desperate but smug. “Not until you tell me.” He leaned back just far enough that you could see the flush high on his cheekbones, his lips parted, his chest heaving inside the half-unzipped suit. His hand tightened on your hip. “Tell me what you were thinking about. Before I got here. Tell me what you were doing.”

Your face burned hot enough to melt the cuffs. “I can’t—”

“You can.” His grin sharpened, but his voice went rough, urgent. “You were jerking off, weren’t you? Cuffed up, writhing, thinking about someone. Was it me? You don’t get more until you say it.” He rocked his hips just the tiniest bit, enough to make you whine. Then he froze again. “Say it.”

The cuffs rattled when you writhed helplessly, your whole body trembling. “Adrian I wasn’t—”

“Say it,” he groaned, his own voice fraying, his cock twitching inside you. “God, I need to hear it. I need to know what exactly you were thinking about. Did you imagine me pinning you down? My hands on your wrists? My mouth on your neck? Did you think about how I’d talk the entire time, just to make you crazy?”

Your stomach flipped, every nerve on fire. Shame and heat tangled in your chest, making your voice crack. “I was—” You swallowed, the words trembling out of you. “I was touching myself, and I pictured you—on top of me, holding me down, still talking—always talking. And I—” Your breath caught, your wrists aching in the cuffs. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you filling me up. About how it would feel. About how I wanted it so bad I couldn’t breathe.”

Adrian made a strangled noise, half laugh, half groan, his grin breaking open into something raw. “Oh my god.” He laughed again, shaky, reverent, like the universe had just handed him proof of divinity. “That’s it, baby. That’s all I needed. Fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

And then he started moving again, harder this time, relentless, his mouth at your ear, his voice a rush of dirty, breathless worship. “Been dreaming of this for so long—thinking about you spread out like this, dripping for me, begging for me.”

The cuffs rattled in time with every thrust, your body arching, surrendering, as he finally gave you everything you’d been aching for.

Adrian’s rhythm became an almost cruel dance of stop and start. Every time you thought you’d finally get what you needed, he slowed, drew out, pressed in just enough to make your body clench and your wrists strain against the cuffs. His curls stuck to his forehead now, his glasses completely fogged, his grin gone feral.

“You sound so fucking good,” he murmured, voice breaking, his breath hot against your ear. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me. Been thinking about this for years, baby—how you’d look under me, how you’d sound when you begged. And now it’s real.”

You writhed under him, the cuffs rattling like a drumbeat, your thighs trembling around his hips. Every time he slid almost all the way out and pressed back in slowly, you made a sound you didn’t recognize, half-plea, half-sob.

Adrian groaned, low and ragged. “That noise. Fuck. I’ve thought about that noise.” His thumb stroked your cheek, his glasses finally falling off and clattering somewhere on the floor. His eyes without them were wide, dark, unguarded. “You’re even prettier than I pictured. You’re killing me.”

He shifted, angling his hips so every slow push rubbed exactly where you needed him most. The effect was devastating. You gasped, pulling at the cuffs until the metal bit deep, back arching, breasts pressing against his chest.

“God,” he hissed, his own composure fraying. “Look at you. Wrists tied, hips rolling up to meet me like you’d crawl inside me if you could. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”

“Adrian—” you sobbed, hips jerking up, lost to the ache of it.

“Yeah,” he groaned, speeding up just a little, voice tumbling out of him in ragged rushes now, each thrust punctuated by words. “Say my name. Say it again. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’ve wanted this. I need to hear you.”

“I—wanted this,” you gasped, voice breaking. “I’ve wanted you.”

He made a sound that was almost a growl, dropping his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck. That’s it. That’s all I needed.”

His thrusts grew deeper, harder, still slow enough to keep you on the edge, still just shy of breaking you completely. He shifted his free hand to the back of your thigh, pushing your knee up, opening you more, the new angle hitting deeper. You cried out, the sound raw, your whole body trembling in the cuffs.

Adrian’s mouth found your neck, teeth grazing skin, his voice against your pulse low and desperate. “Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name. Gonna make you remember mine every time you touch yourself after this. Gonna make you fall apart just for me.”

Every word was a drag of heat down your spine, every thrust a slow build toward the inevitable, his hand gripping your thigh as though he was anchoring himself as much as you.

“Tell me you’re close,” he panted, moving faster now, the headboard creaking with each push. “Tell me what you need.”

“Don’t stop please,” you moaned, eyes squeezing shut. “Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he growled, kissing your jaw, your mouth, whispering filth between every kiss. “Never gonna stop till you’re shaking. Come for me. Need you to come on my cock like you dreamed about.”

Adrian’s hips kept rolling, each thrust a long, dragging pull that had you arching off the bed, wrists straining, your whole body trembling against the cuffs. Every sound you made seemed to light him up more, his breath coming faster, his curls damp and sticking to his forehead.

He was muttering against your throat now, his voice a low rush of filth and wonder, words tripping over each other between ragged breaths:

“God…wanted this forever…you’re so warm…so fucking perfect…I’m gonna think about this all the time.”

He changed the angle again, hips rocking deeper, his thumb circling over your clit at the same time. It was devastating. You choked on a sob, your body tightening around him, thighs shaking as the cuffs rattled above your head.

“Yeah,” he groaned, his voice cracking into a laugh, half-wild. “Right there. I can feel you. Come for me. I’m gonna burn what you look like when you come around me into my memory forever.”

You tried to hold on, but there was no holding on—his weight, his voice, his fingers, his cock, all of it a tidal wave. You came hard, crying out his name, body jerking against the cuffs as your orgasm rolled through you in a helpless, clenching rush.

Adrian’s groan broke into a string of curses. He kept moving, slower now, pushing you through it, his forehead pressed to yours. “Oh my god…oh my god…” he whispered, like he was praying.

“Where..” he panted, sweat was pooling at his brow. “Where can I cum?” He whined desperately as his hips stuttered.

“Inside-“ you cried out, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm. Pulsing around him with every thrust. “Please..please..please inside.”

He didn’t last much longer. The sight of you coming apart under him, cuffed and begging, broke him completely. He pushed deep one last time, shuddering, a strangled laugh tearing out of him as he spilled into you. “Holy shit,” he gasped, voice high and disbelieving. “Holy. Shit.”

For a few moments he just stayed there, shaking, chest pressed to yours, breath hot and uneven against your neck.

Then, with a groan that was half-sated and half-sheepish, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, hair a complete mess, his glasses nowhere to be found. He looked down at you—flushed, cuffed, wrecked—and the grin started creeping back onto his face.

“You…” He snorted, giddy. “You’re, like, the most incredible person on earth. And also…” He leaned closer, his nose brushing yours. “…I have to confess something.”

You blinked at him, still dazed. “What?”

He bit his lip, eyes dancing. “I, uh…unlocked the cuffs about twenty minutes ago.”

Your head jerked up, the chain clinking. “What?”

“Yeah,” he said, beaming now, reaching up to tap the cuff with one finger. “I totally picked the lock on the first try. You were just…you know…so into it that I figured I’d, uh, let you stay that way a little longer.”

You gaped at him, mortification and disbelief warring with the aftershocks still trembling through you. “Adrian what the fuck—”

He wiggled his eyebrows, impossibly pleased with himself. “What? You looked hot. And hey, you could’ve pulled your hands free at any time. It was unlocked. You just…didn’t.”

You made a strangled noise, and he laughed, leaning down to kiss your jaw, still giggling. “God, you’re hot when you’re mad. Or embarrassed. Or tied up. Especially tied up.”

He reached up, unthreaded the cuffs from the headboard, and slipped them easily off your wrists. The metal clicked softly as it opened, leaving behind faint red marks on your skin. He rubbed your wrists gently with his thumbs, suddenly tender.

“Sorry, baby,” he murmured, his voice going warm again. “Got a little carried away. But you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”

You swatted weakly at his chest, and he caught your hand, kissing your knuckles with a dorky little flourish. “See? Professional hero and lock-picking genius. You’re welcome.”

Let Me Show You the Light* (dark content)

Lab Rats* (dark content)

Shades of Red*

Frauds* (dark content) (Jackson Rippner) Compliance* (Raymond Leon)

And it's not just out in the open either. It's a constant hair-stands-on-end. It's on your way to work, to the coffee shop, to the store, back home. It's in your kitchen, in your living room, in your bedroom, in your bathroom.

You feel…unclean. Everything you do in the comfort and privacy of your own home is being watched by this strange ghost haunting your every move. And you stop as you look behind yourself again because you feel it.

Someone's watching you.

You startle as the crowd of the Gotham city streets scurries around you and eventually delivers you a victim to run into. "I'm so sorry!" you say quickly as you are shoved back slightly, steadying yourself as you reach bend down to pick up the briefcase that had been knocked from the man's hand.

"It's quite alright. It seems I wasn't paying attention," he offers, bending down to pick it up instead.

Your hands touch as you both grab the handle at the same time. You quickly pull it away. You look up for the first time at the person you'd run into and recognize him almost immediately. You've never really met him in person, but you've learned a lot about him through the happenings at the precinct.

"Dr. Crane," you say as you pick up the suitcase and straighten your posture. You quickly hand it over to him.

"That's me," he says, nodding. He looks over you for just a split second, as if he's admiring you as he takes you. There's something cold about his gaze that makes you want to shudder, but you refrain. "May I ask your name?"

You give it, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. He holds his hand out and you hesitantly take it. He shakes it, holding your hand a moment too long and making your skin crawl as he tilts his chin to the side. "Very nice to meet you," he smiles. "May I ask where you're headed? I would love to walk with you if you wouldn't mind."

You clear your throat, "Actually, I think we were headed opposite ways. I'm headed to the precinct for work."

"Ah. A secretary? Assistant?" he wonders.

You shake your head, fighting the urge to check the time. You really shouldn't be seen talking to someone like Jonathan Crane, not with the rumors and bad dealings floating about his name. This city was bent enough, you couldn't be lost to something like this. But showing disrespect to a potential threat wouldn't be a grand idea either…

"Um, no," you smile tightly. "I'm a crime analyst."

His brows raise as he nods, though the new information doesn't reach his eyes. "Well, then. Until we meet again. Safe travels."

You nod shortly and he brushes past you on his way. You look over your shoulder as he disappears into the crowd.

As you turn and begin your walk again, the feeling sticks to your skin like a cold sweat on a winter's day. Someone's watching you.

~

You meet Jonathan Crane for the second time at a bookshop.

With the lingering feeling looming over you like a shadow, things are beginning to feel like they're getting out of hand. You search the aisles slowly, almost absently, as your finger grazes the spines of different published authors in the nonfiction section. You pick a book from its place on the shelf and flinch when you turn and find someone standing behind you.

You clutch your hand to your chest as you steady your beating heart. "You scared me," you chuckle nervously.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

You look up and nearly freeze at the sight of a smiling Jonathan Crane standing before you once more, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as he looks at you almost apologetically.

You swallow thickly, taking a tiny step back. "Dr. Crane."

He seems to recognize you then as he nods gently. "We meet again." You hum. "What brings you to this side of the bookshop? I didn't take you for a nonfiction kind of girl."

You tilt your head. "No? What did you take me for?"

He shrugs, "Paranormal? A little bit of romance here and there?"

You maintain your tight smile, shifting between your feet as you nod gently. He's not right, but he's not wrong. However, the most unsettling thing about it isn't even that he's a little right… it is the fact that you've met this one time and it was a conversation that lasted less than a minute. Either he took one hell of a guess or there was something going on there that wouldn't be very pleasant for you. Given the heat burning on your skin from your constant paranoid surveillance, you'd guess the latter.

"Good guess," is all you say.

He glances down at the book tucked underneath your arm and hums. "What's that you've got?"

You look down at it and take it into your hands again. You look over the cover and hand it over. He takes it, and his fingers brush over yours. You shudder uncomfortably, pulling your hand away and hoping he doesn't notice the way you rub your hand on your side. He does, but you don't know that as he spends too much time reading the title.

"The Art of Intuition," he reads. "Sounds like an interesting read."

You nod, "I'm hoping. It's for…work, so…"

He furrows his brows, "You said you worked as an intelligence analyst?"

You nod again, more firmly this time as you take the book back. "Yes… Well, intuition is important for everything, isn't it?"

He nods along and hums. "That, it is."

You clear your throat, "What about you? What are you reading?"

He looks at his own book, as though he'd just realized it was there. He passes it on to you as you had done.

The Power of Fear and How to Conquer It

You stare at the title a moment longer than you should, feeling clammy and warm and very unsafe as you hand the book back. "Sounds like it'll keep you busy."

He nods. "It will."

The way he says it washes you in a cold feeling. The hairs along your arms stand on end and you nearly shudder. You should leave.

You smile as kindly as you can manage, taking a step away from him and nodding. "I should probably get going."

You turn to leave. He grabs your arm. Though he wasn't harsh, you still turn quickly with an almost startled look to you as you wonder what he'll do. You're safe, right? In the middle of this store? You look around you, but there is nothing around but books that would become the readers to the story unfolding before them.

"Wait," he laughs gently.

You speak almost immediately, the words blurting out of your mouth. "Please let go of me."

He does, much to your relief, as he fixes his glasses. "Forgive me." You hum and look away from his face. "I've actually been thinking about you."

You don't like the way it sounds when he says it. It gives a foreboding feeling that just makes you squirm. "I wanted to say this before but I didn't want to be…strange."

Too late.

"You told me your name. I couldn't help but recognize it." Oh, no. "Your father is Boucher, isn't he?"

How did he know that?

"How do you know that?" you ask, taking another step back. "I changed my last name so no one would know that."

"Well," he begins, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "That shows up on file, and he's one of my patients, so I've seen your name in said files before. Both of them."

You clasp your hands together in front of you as you bow your head, not looking up at him and hating the way he feels so intimidating as he watches you. "Yes," you clear your throat. He notices the way your voice drops, the disdain almost betrayed in your tone. "My father is Boucher. My birth name is Boucher."

He smiles. "Interesting."

You look up, snappy. "Why?"

"I work in psychology. It's my job to find everything interesting," he says lightly, noticing your defense and seeming…amused by it.

You don't like it.

"Yeah, well, that bastard killed my mother, and I am no longer associated with him. So, if you don't mind, I'm not Boucher and I would like to be going now. Thank you." You turn to leave, and he grabs your arm again. You spin around, and you snap again.

"Stop touching me," you blurt. Your skin crawls with the feeling, like bugs on your skin where his hand touches your arm. When he still doesn't let go of you, you look at him again and yank your arm away to no avail. Suddenly, you startle as you look him straight in the eye and almost shrink. He can see the switch, the way your anger dissolves into that of apprehension, almost fear. You can see the switch in his eyes, too. His amusement has worsened.

Your heart drops to your gut and pounds in your throat. "Please stop touching me." You've gotten almost desperate in the past second and Crane's cold eyes watch every little emotion pass through you like he's watching you under a microscope.

After a moment, he lets go of you. For a second, you think he looks pleased. Like he was conducting an experiment, and he proved his theory true. You put distance between the both of you as soon as you're able and grab your arm. He didn't hurt you, but you've officially been spooked. You don't meet his gaze.

"Forgive me again," he says. You don't feel like he's genuine, but you could be biased. "I seem to have offended you. That wasn't my intention." Was he lying? You feel like he's lying, but you refuse to look at him as he watches you. "Do you live far? How about I take you home?"

You do live a little far from here. You took a cab to get to the bookshop, but you don't feel comfortable getting in a car with him.

"Please," he says, putting more effort into removing the lack of emotion from his voice as he steps closer. You take a step back but catch the way he places his hands behind his back. No touching. An olive branch. He watches as you visibly relax a little. "Let me make it up to you."

You finally look up at his face again. There's a little bit of warmth in his eyes, and you can't tell if it's real or not. Still, he doesn't try to touch you again and he's offering you a smile. Part of you feels like you're being tricked, the book still tucked under your arm burning a hole there. But the other part of you feels like it's just your trust issues getting the better of you—as they often do. You take a moment to think.

And then you sigh as you let go of your arm and speak again. "One condition."

"Of course," he nods.

"Please don't touch me again."

His arms flex at his sides like he's re-establishing his hands being behind his back. "As you wish."

You sigh again and nod. "Okay."

He smiles, and you have to look away before you give into your trust issues again and forfeit his offer. His smile isn't pleased in the way it's meant to be. It feels like he's caught a fish on his hook, and he's reeling it in for dinner. You check out your books.

Dr. Crane leads you to his car, a black Buick LeSabre that looks like it has seen a couple of years, a couple dents here and scratches there giving character to the otherwise sleek thing.

He opens the passenger's door and lets you in. It's your last chance to say no but you get in anyway. You're in too deep, you already accepted.

He smiles, pleased. He takes his seat and starts driving. For the first few minutes, it's deadly quiet. Neither of you say anything—you're still pissy from before. Crane glances at you and decides to break the silence.

"Are you still upset?" he wonders unintelligently.

You glare at him out of the corner of your eye and then look away. Choosing to be a little kinder than you feel, you contain the sarcasm you can feel biting at your teeth. "Yes."

He sighs. "I apologize for my behavior. I didn't mean to frighten you."

You scoff, shaking your head as you look out of the window to see the world of Gotham pass by you. "Yes, you did."

He hums. "How do you know?"

I could see it in your eyes. It feels offensive to say, like you are accusing him of being insane. As you glance at him, you decide to reword your sentence.

"Just felt like it," you dismiss. You rub a hand along your arm, uncomfortable at the idea of being so vulnerable as to displaying fear to this man, this man who seemed to inspire so much distrust and unsafety in you. "And, anyway, I wasn't scared."

You miss the way his hands clench around the steering wheel. "No?"

"No," you shake your head. "Just…disturbed. You were being strange."

He clears his throat. "Like I said, it wasn't my intention." His voice has shifted, but you feel like he's finally telling you the truth. Disturbing you wasn't his intention.

You hum, and that's the last thing said between the two of you for the remaining few minutes of the car ride.

Your home comes into view and you sigh. This whole ordeal would be over in just a few seconds. He drives up to your house, and you make quick work of removing your seat belt and reaching for the door.

But the door is locked.

You look at him tentatively, trying not to let on how desperate you've become to leave his presence as quickly as possible. "Could you unlock the door?" you ask, your voice surprisingly level.

He turns to you to look at you. His smile comes after. "Of course."

The lock clicks, and you open the door immediately. You get out and stand at the door, relief floods you to be safely out of reach. "Thanks for the ride," you mutter half-heartedly.

"Of course," he repeats. "Until we meet again." He speaks your name, and you hate the way it makes you feel. Unclean. Impure.

You close the door.

As you watch his car disappear down the street, your blood runs cold with the icy burn of horror and you feel sick to your stomach.

You never gave him your address.

~

Someone's watching you.

All day, even within the safety of the precinct, you felt someone's eyes on you at every moment. You were constantly looking over your shoulder, constantly searching for a spector you could not find. But no one was looking at you. No one's eyes met yours unless you were in the middle of an interaction with another person.

You weren't safe. Something was going to happen. You could feel it–

You return to the present at the sight of another human being in front of you. You give a tight smile to the person perched at the edge of your desk and nod. "Gordon."

He greets you the same, glancing over your desk to see what you're working on. He has files in his hands, and you watch him set them on your desk in a place vacant of work.

"I need you to analyze these for me," he says.

You nod, "That's my job."

"Yeah," he says, looking you up and down and noticing the way you glance around a little. "You okay? You look a little jumpy."

You look at him quickly and nod, another tight smile covering your lips. "Oh, yeah. Felt a little off today, but I'm okay."

"Anything I need to help with?" he tries.

You shake your head. "No," you say. "No, I'm okay. Thanks."

He hums before he just nods along with you. "Okay. Be careful out there, Bou–"

You look at him, and he looks away.

"Sorry." He quickly corrects himself and walks away.

Gordon means well. Your father was arrested when he was first starting out, so he was here when it was still a huge deal. He knew all about you and the case. Everyone did.

Your name change came as soon as you started your job at the precinct. Everyone was so used to calling you Boucher's kid, some—like Gordon—are still adjusting.

But it doesn't matter. It's passing, and the whole ordeal will be behind you soon. Buried in the past forever.

You stay at the precinct for a while. It isn't safe anywhere, but at least you were surrounded by people who knew how to operate a gun better than you.

When those people finally begin going home, so do you. You pack your things and take a breath as you clock out and leave.

It's late as you're headed home, and you suddenly regret deciding to stay so long. It's dark out, and the only lights are the ugly orange street lamps shining on the damp ground and the blaring ones from a few passing cars. You clutch your purse and walk faster.

The feeling gets worse the longer it takes to get home. It's hot on the back of your head, it's cold along your arms, it has your heart dropping to your stomach and burning there as it pounds. Somebody's watching you. Somebody's watching you. Somebody is watching you.

You finally make it home. Fishing your keys from your purse, you manage to unlock the door without fumbling with them and dropping them to the ground like you see in those stupid horror movies that make your paranoia worse.

You unlock your door and step inside.

You're forced into a coughing fit as a heavy smoke envelopes you. You hold your arm up to your face as you swipe at the air in an attempt to clear it.

Your eyes and lungs burn as you fight to breathe, trying to see through the haze as your heart races in your chest so hard, you feel like it'll tear its way through your ribcage and fall to the ground with a sickening splat.

You close your door after stumbling fully inside, turning around to lock it and struggling to do even that. You turn and catch yourself on the stand next to the door, overestimating the reach and knocking the glass bowl that held your keys to the ground. It shatters, and you nearly scream at the startling sound.

You look up into your dark home and see a million eyes staring back at you. Shadows leap out at you from the corners, light from outside glints off huge, sharp butcher knives flying toward you. Sickly crows sprout from pictures in the walls and scream, a cacophony of "Boucher" and "butcher" filling the room with the shrill shrieks of a dying woman.

It takes a long time to separate from the front door. You stand on shaking legs, carrying yourself through the house and falling to the floor on more than one occasion, startling each time as you find yourself covered in more and more blood, the color so dark it appears black in your vision.

You don't know if you're crying when you feel the hot tears streaming down your cheeks or if you've managed to get blood on your face as well. You smear it over your cheeks just to see. With red already covering your hands, you're still not sure.

You get to your bedroom and flip on the light, but the bright flash blinds you as you shield your eyes and turn it off again. Eyes ooze out of the walls like millions of ogres watching you hold your weak body up against the wall.

"We meet again."

A dark, distorted voice echoes off the walls and fills your soul like a demon from hell possessing your body.

Your first instinct is the beg. For safety, for relief, for help, anything. You just want it to stop.

"Please," you cry. "Please, please, please."

You look up at the figure watching you, dressed in a slightly damaged suit and his face…his face is covered with a burlap sack remnant of that of a scarecrow. He tilts his head as he stands and makes his way toward you with a taunting pace.

"Am I scaring you now?"

"Please, please," is all you could muster as you look away from him.

"Look at me!" he roars.

You slowly bring your gaze back up as his shoes come into view. You look up at the man before you, one you are beginning to suspect is very real and the source of your fear as you stare at the sack over his face. Black ooze comes pouring from the tears that make up his mouth and fifty eyes are blinking back at you like a heavily rooted potato.

A hand finds the top of your head and you wince at the heavy, clammy feeling of it as you find your voice and beg a little louder. "Please! Please, no, please."

"Aww…you don't like when I touch you?" His hand smooths down your cheek and you try to swat it away from no avail. His sing-songy voice continues to echo in your ears with the groaning sound of a broken down animatronic. "What did Daddy do to you?"

You try to catch your breath as you lean down, pressing your forehead to the floor to try and ground yourself.

He raises a finger. “I can answer that question. Would you like me to?” You shake your head meekly. He ignores you.

You watch hazily as he backs away from you, finally taking his hand off your cheek and giving you air, even if you are still heaving for breath. He turns his back on you to stand by your bedside table, picking a file up from it and turning back to you. The burlap sack continues to blink at you as he speaks, and you feel sick to your stomach just looking at it.

The ground is sinking away, and the walls are breathing. You’re sitting on a stretch of darkness and void, and you’re going to start falling at any second.

“Please,” you whisper uselessly again. “He…lp. Please hel…help.”

“Hush,” he whispers, not in an upset way. It’s almost sassy. Then he lets out a dramatic sigh as he tilts his sacked head. “You know what? I’m going to have to take this off. It’s quite hard to read in this mask.”

He pulls the mask over his head and takes in a breath, looking back down at you with a face that runs your blood cold and stops your heart in your chest. “Much better,” he says, the distortion gone but the horror still present.

Jonathan Crane looks down at you, watching you struggle to clear your mind of the terrifying images flashing behind your eyes like a million million nightmares plaguing your thoughts. “I can see you better now. Isn’t that just perfect?”

He picks his glasses from the table beside him and readjusts the files in his hands after putting them on. “Let’s see,” he says, licking the tip of his finger to open the manilla folder and reveal its mysterious contents. “Yada, yada, yada…and bingo.”

He points to something on the papers in the folder and looks at you, his lips spreading in a grin that doesn’t stop widening, like his mouth is going to slip off his face. You blink away from him. He starts reading something off—a name, a patient number, and a date… Your therapist’s name, your patient number, and one of the date’s marked from a past appointment…

“‘Ms. Boucher’—this was before the name change, I suppose—‘finally chooses to open up about aversion to physical touch. She references instances from childhood memories with her father, times of hardship or general dismay when he provided her comfort. All comfort is described as physical, rather than verbal—holding a hand, sharing a hug, rubbing a back. Mr. Boucher never did well with verbal communication.’”

Crane glances at you, curled up on the ground as your head spins still, reeling with the revelation of everything you’re hearing as personal information that was never meant to get out. “Interesting stuff.” He keeps reading.

“Ms. Boucher recounts the night of her mother’s incident and the aftermath when her father came to her. Once again gives vague memories of a hug and a rubbed back, but no further detail was given due to distorted memories of the incident. Patient’s aversion is likely associated with distrust and suspicion because of the father’s behavior with physical affection. Patient experiences physical contact as a trick of virtue.”

He looks at you and smiles with teeth, rows and rows of sharp teeth that gleam in the light. He snaps his jaw at you in a teasing bite but you’re not sure if you imagined it or not.

“Aw,” he fawns mockingly. “Are you traumatized, sweetheart? Did watching your father slaughter your mother with a butcher knife fuck up that little brain of yours?” He looks at the file again and scans it, muttering to himself as he goes along. “Other symptoms include irritability, trust issues, PTSD—obviously—sensitivity to sound, blah, blah, blah.”

You hadn’t realized you were crying. The sound only reaches your ears now, out of place with the rest of the sounds around you—the droning, the taunting, the screaming, the blinking of a million eyes in the walls, the brandishing of a million knives in the kitchen.

Again, you beg him. You don’t know what you’re begging for anymore.

“What?” Crane asks, looking down at you and raising a brow. “Was I just getting to the good part? Was that a please…keep reading?” When you gave no response, other than a startle flinch and cry at a deformed crow flapping around your head and disappearing.

“I’ll keep going then,” he nods, pleased. He keeps glancing back and forth between you and the file and he seems almost giddy. “Oh, I’m so excited now. I haven’t read this far yet, I wanted to do it with you.” He flips the page and hums. “Hm…let’s see…”

He scans the pages uninterestedly, gliding his finger along it and flicking the pages as he wanders back and forth between one end of the room and the other. “Oh, here’s a good part,” he says, sinking on the floor next to you as you clutch your head. He taps the top of your head to grab your attention, making you look up so he can see your exhausted face still stricken with copious amounts of fear, “Hey, pay attention. I don't want to repeat myself.”

He opens the file wide and begins reading. “Patient admits to having issues with intimacy. Her aversion to physical touch conflicting with her desperate need for it creates complications within both her romantic and sexual lives. She explains the issue is so ‘pathetic’, she remains…” He stops reading and looks at you again, his lips parted and his eyes wide with shock and interest. “...’she remains a virgin to this day’.”

In all honesty…you are not paying much attention to him. You’re staring wide-eyed at the floor, which has become a black void that stresses on for miles and miles. You swear you can see the eyes and teeth of angry leviathans glinting up from the bottom, ready to swallow you whole at a moment’s notice.

He takes your chin in the palm of his hand and tilts your head up to look at him. The sound that comes out of you out of the pure horror of it makes you sound like you’ve just been gutted. “Oh, sweetheart… If you wanted me to fuck you, all you had to do was ask.”

He takes hold of you and lifts you to your feet. He has to hoist you, as your whole body feels limp, and you don’t know how to make it move without fully believing you’ll fall into the abyss below you. You gasp and stare wide eyed at Crane as one of his hands wraps around your throat and under your chin and the other holds the top of your head. You grab at his wrist and claw at his hand, trying desperately to remove his touch from you and failing horribly. He isn’t hurting you, but fuck if it doesn’t feel like it.

“I wonder how I didn’t pick up on it sooner…” he hums. “I’ve been watching you for months, and not once did you ever meet with a potential date of any kind. I kind of just assumed you weren’t looking for a relationship.”

Your heart leaps out of your mouth. You swear, you saw it fall to the ground like you’d thought before when whatever mist had begun all of this first started. Your blood freezes in your veins. You could swear your skin has turned blue.

He’s been watching you for months. His were the eyes that watched your every move, that followed you to work, to your bedroom, to your shower. His were the eyes that kept you company in the early of the morning and the late of the night. His were the eyes that haunted your waking hours, inspiring each glance over your shoulder, each extra click of your locks. He’s been watching you.

“Y-you,” you whimper. “You…you’re…you’re the one. You…”

“Shh,” he says, silencing you as you tremble in his hands. “I thought it was cute when you bought that book. The Art of Intuition… You could feel me, couldn’t you? You could feel my eyes on you at every moment of the day… Well, not every moment. I’ve got cameras in your house, I was able to hack into the ones at the precinct. I had to keep up with my little Boucher. I wanted to see if she could turn into her father, if she needed a little nudge like he did to go over the edge… I thought my fear toxin might do that but…no… I got something much more enticing.”

He brings you close to his face, his glasses melding with his skin as his eyes stare back at you like black pits surrounded by pure white. He’s staring at your face, so drenched with pure terror that you can’t do anything but stare. He smiles wide, his expression crazed.

“Look at you,” he says, nearly moaning out the words as he shakes his head. “You look so gorgeous like this. You’re so…delicious.” He nearly growls when he says that, actually leaning closer to your face and taking your lip between his teeth gingerly. You cry out, though he doesn’t actually bite you. “I could just eat you up. Oh, you should see yourself.”

You’re crying without tears now, though your face is soaked with them. You haven’t blinked in hours (it’s been a couple minutes), and the sounds are leaving your throat like a rough sob. His eyes have disappeared and his glasses are only giving aid to pits of skin where his eyes should be. His mouth is sewn shut with ugly, black cross-stitchings, and his nose is gone, giving him a dip in his face like a skeleton.

He begins walking you toward the mirror that you definitely had not placed there. He must have taken it from inside your closet and hung it up prior to your arrival. You take a good, long look at yourself, and you’ve never felt like you’ve wanted to sink into the pit so strongly before.

You’ve never seen this woman before in your entire life. Her face is monstrous, though you don’t know why. She was an echo of you, except she looks nothing like you and she’s covered in blood. You know nothing and everything about her, and you just know she knows everything about you. You’re so terrified of this strange woman, the knives still brandishing themselves with their shrill shrieks in the kitchen are sounding quite useful now as the sudden urge to defend yourself fills you.

You feel the need to scream rise in your throat, and this is an urge you can’t contain as a sharp cry leaves your throat at the sight of this person being held by Crane in the mirror. She screams back at you, blood gushing from her mouth like a river of tar. He laughs as he covers your mouth with his hand, silencing you with such amusement. “Oh, my! I should not have given you such a high dosage. You must be going out of your little mind right now…”

He lets go of your mouth and you can see him rustle around in his suit, but you’re still staring at the woman, unable to look away. It takes everything you have not to scream at her again. He pulls a vial out of a pocket on the inside of his suit and pulls the cork from it. He encourages your lips around it, making you take half the vial into your mouth and forcing you to swallow it down.

The antidote works quickly, but it doesn’t solve the issue in its entirety. You watch as the woman in the mirror slowly becomes more and more familiar until you can look at her and see that it’s just a reflection of you. You sigh heavily, your chest heaving as you feel your heart back in its proper place behind your ribcage. The brandishing has disappeared, the birds have flown away, the shrieking and screaming and sinking and blinking are gone.

But your heart is still very much pounding and you still very much cannot catch your breath to calm yourself. The terror is still there as you stare upon Jonathan Crane’s face and feel the first bursts of necessary fear.

You are in danger. Real danger. Crane is in your house, he has your medical files, and he seems to think you want him in your bed.

“Please,” you whisper once you can find your voice, hoarse with all the crying. At least the blood is gone. “Please, let me go. Don’t hurt me…”

“Oh…” he says. “I know…it’s just your ‘aversion of physical contact’. It’s too much for you right? Well, lucky for you, I dabble in exposure therapy myself. We should be able to solve your issue right here, right now.”

New tears find your eyes, and you shake your head. He’s still holding you, and your skin is crawling. You feel sick. “Don’t… Please don’t. I can’t—I don’t—please.”

He shushes you as he drags you to the bed. You have little to no strength to fight him. You’d exerted yourself so much when that toxin had poisoned your brain. It’s still poisoning your brain now as the situation Jonathan was putting you through paralyzed you with fear. You couldn’t think, you could hardly form a full sentence. His hands are still on you, and it burns your skin. You can’t breathe.

He places you on the bed, positioning you how he wants you so you stand on your knees and face him. He takes a step back and looks at you, takes in the sight of you thoughtfully as he brushes his bottom lip with his thumb. “Look at you,” he mutters. “I liked you more with more of my fear toxin in your system, but we can bring out more fear in you without. We don’t want your little heart exploding in the middle of our session, now do we?”

If you were still so heavily infected with his toxin, you would have seen the splatters of blood and meat and matter bursting and covering you and the walls after seeing your own beating heart fall out of your mouth. But you aren’t as heavily infected, so you only imagined it vividly and shuddered.

Jonathan steps forward and takes your neck in his hand again. You squeeze your eyes shut and huff, “Please, stop. Stop, stop touching me, please. Please.”

He doesn’t listen. He’s too giddy at the way you beg him, the way your hands shake at your sides. You could try to fight him. You could swing your arms and hit and kick and scream but you just…won’t. You can’t. You’re too scared. The toxin affects you so much you can do nothing but sit there. You’re otherwise paralyzed.

So, no, he doesn’t let go of you. He holds your neck and brings you in close, his other hands smooths along your waist as you just shudder as a terrible sob leaves your chest once more. “I’m going to eat you up,” he emphasizes each word. “You and I are gonna work together. We’re going to work you through your little aversion, your fears. You and I…” He brings his hand up and brushes his knuckles over your clothed nipple.

You shake with fear and disgust. “No, please…”

He takes off his glasses, his hand continuing to graze your chest as you sit there, staying as still as you can as his hand threatens to tighten around your throat if you move too much when he doesn’t want you to.

"...are going to make art." You stare at him with your watery eyes, whimpering lightly as he just shushes you again.

His lips crash down upon yours and your seal them shut as you feel his tongue licking insistently at the seam of your mouth. His teeth clash against yours, making the kiss rough and cutting and you think you'll die.

All too quickly, you can't breathe. Your lungs are closing in, and the world is spinning. His hand finds your hair, carding through it and tugging harshly to expose your throat. He attacks you, lips and teeth and tongue devouring your throat like a starving beast.

You're burning. There are so many hands on you, so much touch all over your body driving you insane with sensitivity. You feel like someone has coated you in molten lava and condemned you to death.

You sigh shakily. "Jon—Jonathan. Please… stop."

"Shhh," he drags out the sound as he places a finger over his lips. He leans in close to your face as he speaks. "Please…the doctor is in."

He kisses you again and you gasp when he grabs your throat once more, baring his teeth and staring down at you shaking with fear. His voice is low and fast as he speaks to you, crazed and craven. "I am going to rip you apart. I'll make you scream until mine is the only name you know–"

He raises his hand to touch your face. A sudden burst of adrenaline courses through your veins, and you reach out to shove it away. You grab his hand by the wrist in a vice grip, but you hadn't realized there was something hiding beneath the cuff of his sleeve.

The mist from before—his toxin—sprays through the air and right into Jonathan's face as he inhales it with a terrible gasp. His mouth falls open, his eyes roll back. His grip on you loosens, and you stumble to your feet to get away from him.

You get to the door before he grabs you from behind and growls in your ear, his voice straining. "You didn't think you'd get away that easily, did you?" He's breathing loudly, roughly, his vision plagued by nightmares and horrible images haunting his mind.

He lets out a monstrous breath, picking you up and dragging you right back to the bed as you kick and scream and cry. He set you on the bed, still holding you, back-to-chest. "You're an angel," he grunts. "You're glowing, sweetheart."

Based on your experience with the toxin, he could be being literal. Either way, he isn't letting you go. You're trapped as his wandering hands pull at your clothes and rip your shirt from your body. He lets the rags fall around you, breathing in deeply and letting out a sound akin to a moan as the hallucinations get the better of him.

He just starts tearing, stripping you clothing by clothing. He yanks your slacks from your legs, but you don't let him do it easily as you continue to kick your feet out and cry.

After a while, your fight begins to wane at his nerves as he wraps his arms around you and holds you still. "There's plenty of toxin left if you want me to dose you again."

You still, holding your breath and feeling the anxiety and dread rise within you with each passing second. "I didn't think so," he whispers. His hands grab at your waist, pulling and palming at your sides like you've still got clothes he needs to remove. But you're completely bare, carved open for the world to see.

"Fuck," he curses, blinking quickly as he stares at you. "You have no idea how much I need you. This perfect body and these…beautiful nightmares make for the perfect combination." It sounds like it takes his whole body to breathe in. He sighs heavily, "I guess I should thank you, hm? For giving me this."

His hand grasps your inner thigh and his nails dig into the flesh. A shout forces its way out of your throat at the feeling of his claw-like fingers scratching all of your terribly exposed skin. He moans loudly at the sound of it, his other hand joining to paint you in red. Jonathan pushes your naked body down on the bed, and you shout when his hand cracks down on your ass in a loud smack. His—still fully clothed—body is pressed against yours once again in no time. He reaches a hand up and cards it through your hair, gripping it to pull you back up with a harsh tug.

"Look at yourself, sweetheart," he breathes. When you don't listen, he becomes angry and erratic. "Look! Look at it!"

You jump at his outburst, turning your shaky head to look at your reflection in the mirror. He'd placed it so specifically. He was always going to make you watch…

He pulls your hair tighter and smiles evilly. "Look at you," he sighs. Looking in the mirror and watching him, you have no idea what he's seeing in that fucked up mind of his, but you know it would break you.

You feel him grind his hips into you and close your eyes, opening them quickly again as not to irritate him further. "Do you feel how hard I am for you? Oh, baby, I'm going to split you in half."

"Please, doctor," you beg again.

His evil grin becomes all the worse, and you hear the sound of his belt clinking. "No, no, no, no, no," you mutter under your breath, shaking your head as you bury your face in the sheets of your bed, soaking it with your tears.

"Beg me to fuck you, sweetheart. Beg me to ruin you," he groans. You continue shaking your head and muttering your protests under your breath. "Do it."

You feel like your heart is going to explode in your chest. You can't breathe. You can't see. You just want an end to the madness, to the torture.

"Please," you sob. "Please, please, please, please, please, please."

It doesn't sound like a word anymore. It sounds like gibberish in your brain as he smiles and sighs, so pleased and so happy with you. The insanity clouds your head.

"Music to my ears," he hums. "Well…since you asked so nicely."

He reaches down and you shake when his middle finger presses against your folds, slick with arousal that had begun wetting your panties since the toxin first sent you into your craze.

"Oh, you're so desperate for me, aren't you?" He shakes his head and chuckles. "Must be why you begged me so much."

You don't have the will to fight his claim. You feel dirty at the making of it anyway.

Jonathan takes his cock into his hand and strokes himself twice. You feel the head of his cock poke at your pussy, working its way between your folds until he's perfectly positioned. He pushes his hips into yours slowly, and you want to sob, but there's so few tears left in you to make more than the sound as he does, in fact, split you open on his cock.

He's so big, so thick as he thrusts inside of you and fills you to the brim. You cry out at the feeling, the pressure so great it's painful, the intrusion much bigger than what your fingers have to offer.

"Ah," you keen. "D-Doctor, please."

He moans roughly as he bottoms out inside of you, his mouth hanging ajar as his hips jerk slightly at the way you tighten around him. "Yeah, does that feel good? You want more? Want me to fuck you?"

You bury your face in the sheets. "H-Hurts. Please, stop, it hurts."

His cock twitches inside you, and you think you'll die. "I love it when you beg me to fuck you, sweetheart. You look so pathetic under me like this. Just see for yourself…"

He yanks your hair back again to make you look. He doesn't let you go either, his hand stays firmly in your hair as he holds you up to keep looking, to keep watching, to keep your eyes on your bodies as he slowly begins to fuck you. He gives you no preparation, he gives you no time to adjust. Once he's fully inside of your tight cunt and you've started tightening around the thickness he fills you with, he just starts rutting into you.

His hips snap into yours, dragging harshly inside of you as you scream and shout and squirm. He's tearing you apart, piece by piece. And he keeps fucking you as more and more slick begins to ease the cruelty.

You don't know how long you're there gripping the sheets and whining and clenching your eyes shut before the pain begins to twist and turn in your belly into an uncomfortable and unwelcome kind of pleasure.

And when Jonathan hears the telltale sign of your cries turning into moans, he completely loses his mind.

If he hadn't been fucking you hard before, he certainly is now. He wraps his arms around your body and pulls you to stand on your knees as he straightens your backs and begins to thrust up into you while he makes you watch. He spreads your legs wide and plays with your nipples, pulling your body down to meet each thrust of his hips as he completely wrecks you. All the sounds mixing in the air—the moans, the grunts, the slick skin, the heavy breathing, the sobbing—it's a filthy symphony of terror in your ears and beauty in his.

One of his hands, trying to find purchase on something, finds your hair and just starts petting you, carding his fingers through it and occasionally deciding to yank your head back in the process. "Listen to you," he huffs. "You're loving it. I can tell."

All you can do in response is cry and hope it doesn't come out as a moan (it does).

"Doesn't it feel so good? Feeling me touch you, feeling me hold you, feeling me fuck you hard and raw?"

His hand finds your clit and he starts rubbing it, his pace rough and fast and much too hard for you to think it would work. But it does, because you immediately shudder as he begins his brutal work. His finger flicks it so fast, your whole body is already shaking as he builds you up until you're crashing down.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck," he groans as you flutter around him. You gasp, going blind as your orgasm crashes down on you like nothing you've ever felt. He grabs your throat and turns your head to face the mirror so you continue watching as he fucks you through it, both your mouths open and gasping for air as your pleasure consumes you, devours you, swallow you whole.

You won't say you did it on purpose. If you could go back and change it, you should…but you could not promise you would as you take hold of Jonathan's wrist and release his toxin in your own face once more.

You gasp and you roll your eyes back and you find your body numb for a moment as all the nightmares from before come back. Your little heart can't take it as the walls start literally jumping out at you like the corpses of a million souls long past. Bats and birds and bugs fly around the room. Hands are reaching up from the sheets in the bed and grasping your arms and legs and holding you down.

Jonathan's faltering thrusts remind you he's there as you find the mirror and his monstrous form watches you. He looks impressed, even through the hundred fangs and black eyes. "Poor girl's so fucked out, she wants more," he coos, his voice returning back to the demonic groaning you'd been met with when you first stumbled into your room to find him there. "Do you like it? Do you like my nightmare? Are you in love with the horrors in your mind?"

You've stopped crying. Your face is open and wide as you stare out, silent terror gluing your frantic gaze to the mirror. He groans at the sight of you, clamping his teeth down on your shoulder before pushing you forward to stand on your hands and knees as he takes your hips and starts slamming his own into you.

All you can do is moan as you watch him fuck you, taking you from behind with an animalistic kind of frenzy. Your mouth hangs open, you look drunk as he plows you from the back. You grip the sheets, but you watch as a pair of hands sprouting from the bed reach up and hold your own to keep you planted there.

A rough thrust drags through your pussy and makes you moan, a rough and deep thing that scratches your throat as you clench the hands. Your cunt tightens around him, sucking him into you with each shove of his cock inside of you.

"Fuck," he huffs. "This little cunt is so tight. You've been needing me, haven't you?" His hips snap harshly into you suddenly. "I'm gonna watch this over and over again."

You forgot about that, his confession to setting up cameras all over your house. You wonder briefly where the one in your room is stored, at which angle he's going to watch himself fuck you into the bed over and over again. You wonder how many times he's watched you touch yourself in this bed over and over again. Because he's been watching you.

You gasp and moan and shake and let him use you like a doll. You watch yourself in the mirror as your face melts off. You watch Jonathan as his long talons dig into your hips like blades. You hold onto the hands still gripping yours and hang your head as he fucks you. You groan, letting yourself feel the pleasure and hating yourself for it.

You're so conflicted. Your heart is pounding and your body is shaking and you feel like you're going to die, but the pleasure clinging to your body like blood to cotton is so mind-numbing that you've become one with the corpses in the walls.

"It's like this little cunt was made for me," he huffs. "I think I'll keep you. Your mind is broken enough." You whimper. "I'll have you thrown in Arkham with your father, and I'll fuck your brains out so you never get too lonely. How does that sound?"

When you don't reply, he pulls on your hair again and brings his lips to whisper beside your ear. "Do you want that? Hm?"

You make a ramble of incoherent sounds, murmuring something entirely unintelligible as you whimper and mewl.

"Yeah," he sighs. "I know… That would make your little heart soar, wouldn't it? You can tell me."

You give the same response.

He rewards you with a smile with a rough thrust that has the bats on the ceiling fluttering back down to you. They swarm your heart and Jonathan watches you look at every single one of them as they fly past.

"Fuck, I'm keeping you."

You're going to cum again, you can feel it. You're on the verge as his fast, rough thrusts drag inside of you with the squelching of your cunt. But it seems you're not the only one as you feel Jonathan's hands tighten around your hips as his pace stutters.

His grunts and groans are becoming more desperate, melting into moans as his plump lips hang open. He laughs at something, something jumping out at him in his own mind as you stare at the wall, each inch covered in butcher knives hanging on hooks. They glint and gleam in the moonlight and you can hear them rattling, ready to fly off the walls and impale themselves in you.

Your voice is small and pitchy and weak as you mumble. "B-Bu… Butch… B—ch… Ahh…"

"What?" he hums. "What's got you so distracted?"

You continue to stare at the wall, trying and failing to speak properly as blood seeps out of the metal and stains the hundred blades. "Bu…"

For once, you think he can see what you're seeing as he looks up at the wall you're staring at. His face lights up and he stares in awe, his lips parting as he does. "Your butcher." He whispers in your ear. "Isn't it beautiful?"

You continue to stare, even after Jonathan lets out a growl and pushes you forward again as he shoves your face into the covers. The hands let go of yours to grab your face, wrapping around your head and holding you down as a clammy palm covers your mouth. You stare at the knives, staining your floors with crimson red.

Your words and your whimpers are muffled by the hand as he thrusts harshly into you. Jonathan stares, wildly fascinated by the way your hallucinations control you on such a physical level. He can see that you're being muffled but he finds no hand. He can see that your body is being pinned down to the bed, but he sees no fingers wrapping around your arms and legs and keeping you there.

He takes hold of your hands, placing them over your head and holding them down as he fucks into you with a new angle. His cock fucks into your tight cunt in shorter, faster, rougher thrusts that has the birds swarming around you again.

You can't think straight, and you're sure your heart has stopped. You've been through so much in the past…you don't know how long. You came home to be poisoned by his fear toxin, assaulted by living nightmares, given half an antidote to the toxin, fucked by your stalker, poisoned again, and now you're still being fucked dumb with promises doing it again.

And you're going to cum. You hadn't realized he began rubbing your clit again, all the pleasure has run together into one big conglomeration of filthy ecstasy. His cock is pounding into a specific part of you that's making you sob again and you think for a moment you might be drooling, but you're too far away from your body to know for sure until he says: "Look at you, sweetheart. So fucking dumb, you're drooling all over the sheets. Am I making you feel that good?"

You mutter incoherently again, and he just laughs at you. The sound melts into a rough groan on a deep thrust. "Fuck, you keep sucking my cock in. I'm gonna cum in this perfect little cunt, and I'm going to keep you forever… I'm never fucking letting go of you, little Boucher."

Boucher. Boucher. Boucher. Boucher. You're surrounded by Boucher. The knives on the wall, the hands holding you down, this man abusing your cunt and calling you that cursed name. Driving you insane. Making you crazy. Just like him.

How easy it would be to lose yourself in it, in the insanity. How easy it would be to give in. To become Boucher… To succumb to the madness…

You squeeze him as he fucks you as hard as he can, and you feel his cock swell inside of you as he grinds his hips roughly into you.

"Oh, fuck!" he gasps, moaning as he snaps. His release hits him like a freight train, the world closing in on him as he loses all grip on reality and fucks his cum into you like a crazed beast. The feeling of it makes you gasp, the hot lava filling the pit of your belly and warming you up.

He keeps grinding into you as he flicks his wrist and rubs wildly at your clit. You burst. Your heart in your chest, your brain in your head, the knot in your belly—it all snaps at once and you cry out against the hand over your mouth. Your mind is gone and your body is shaking, accepting the madness and the pleasure and the filth and becoming one with it like you should have from the start.

The nightmares devour you, the horror sinks into your skin. You shake and cry and moan. He grabs you by the base of your skull, weaves his fingers through your hair, and pulls as he rides out the rest of his release and he swears he hears a muffled laugh bubble out of you from under your breath.

He watches as your body trembles, your moans continuing on even longer than he thought they would as the aftershocks of your release rise within you. You're still fluttering around him as you lie on the bed and mumble under your breath.

When Jonathan's pleasure has waned enough to think, he lets out a deep sigh and pulls out of you with a regretful one. You whine, laying there heavily. He scoops you up with his arms wrapped around your body and speaks into your ear.

"What's on your mind, Boucher?"

His breath is steady in your ear, providing a solid ground for you to stand on as he pulls you away from the hands reaching up to embrace you once more. You watch the knives shine on the wall and blink lazily at them as the smallest ghost of a smile graces your lips.

"Bou…" the word falls short, and he just watches in awe.

"What?" he whispers. "What is it?"

You grab one of his hands and pull it around your body, leaning into his.

"Beautiful."

~

Bright, sterile surfaces are all you see as you stare at the room around you. You lean your head against a white, padded wall as the jacket tying your arms to your body keeps you safe and warm. It's so monotonous, so quiet and droning as you glare at the blank walls around you with a frustrated sigh. It’s just all too mindless.

You tilt your head toward the door when you hear the locks click heavily. When Jonathan steps inside with a pleased grin and a briefcase held tight in one hand, you can't help the smile that begins to spread over your lips.

"Hello, Ms. Boucher," he greets you warmly. "Are you ready for our appointment?"

He opens his case, and his burlap mask falls out.

You look down at it, your expression almost giddy as your eyes—which have been open wide since the moment his fear toxins had first blessed your senses—gaze back at him. "Dr. Crane…" you lift your head. "I've been waiting."

Cillian Murphy taglist: @lyarr24​ @runnning-outof-time​ @goblinjnr @kmc1989 @shelbyism @weepingwitchofthewest @cl-0-vr @thoticious @sinarainbows Tag yourself here...

He's above you, body slotted between your legs as your chest rises and falls with breaths faster than usual. He's pink all over—his cheeks, his ears, his chest, his pretty cock bobbing heavily against your thigh.

God, you think you're going to pass out just looking at him. You try to imagine how big he's going to feel inside of you, and the anticipated pleasure is driving you to madness.

Meanwhile, Clark's looking down at you like he's about to drop down to his knees and apologize. The man is as pathetic as he is huge.

He's got one hand at the side of your head and the other at your hip. He looks so apologetic that you wonder if maybe he will actually split you apart like a fucking watermelon. You're definitely wet enough now—he made sure of that with a mixture of arousal, spit, and lube. If he can't fit, you honestly don't know if he ever will.

“I need you to tell me if it's too much,” he murmurs, though his words are so insistent. He leaves no room for uncertainty as he looks down at you with pleading eyes. “You have to tell me if I'm hurting you. Please. Or, so help me God, we won't do this again.”

His threat has you nodding quickly. When he gives you a sideways look, you amend. “Okay, Clark.” You raise a hand to his cheek, and he melts into your touch like the pathetically-in-love man he is. “I trust you.”

His breath stutters like he's already inside of you. He dips down, captures your lips as a precursor and an apology in advance. “Thank you,” he says.

He peels his hand from your hip and takes his cock in his hand, pumps the length of himself a couple of times when a hesitant groan. He lines himself up with you, but before he does anything else, his eyes find you one more time. It's like he's trying to ask “Are you sure?” You just nod, arms flopped around his neck. “I trust you,” you say again.

He lets out a long breath, pressing the head of his cock against you and already biting back a moan at how wet you are at first contact. He has to drag himself along the seam of you a bit, just some extra slick in case the copious amounts already sticking to you wasn't enough.

With all the control he can muster, he steels his nerves as he focuses on slowly pushing inside of you. Your eyes are already shutting, head tilted up and lips parted at the feeling of the tip of him slowly spreading you open for him. It's such a tight squeeze already he hasn't even managed to get the head of his cock fully inside of you, past that point where you'll suck him in like a greedy thing.

And when you do, he loses his mind. You're so tight, and he's so big, and you don't realize you're already tearing up until you feel the wetness of them rolling down your cheeks.

When he sees them, he stops immediately—not pulling out, just pausing. “Are you okay? Am I hurting you? Do you need a break?” He already sounds devastated, like you're sobbing beneath him in an unintelligible mess. Sure, you are an unintelligible mess but you're not sobbing (yet).

“I'm okay.” You're quick to reassure him, your voice a few pitches higher and your fingers tightening around the hair at the back of his neck. You peel your eyes open to look at him, glassy but so full of love that he thinks he'll explode right there. “I'm okay, I s-swear. Keep going.” The last bit comes out in a breathless sigh.

He raises a hand to your cheek, strokes you like you're so fragile—and to him you are. Compared to Clark, you're a doll made of glass, held together by hopes and dreams and needing the gentlest touch, lest you shatter in his hands.

“Okay,” he breathes, stroking the apple of your cheek with his thumb. Slowly, slowly, he starts to push again. It's a slow splitting that has your fingers grasping and your sounds catching in your throat. You swear you can feel every ridge of the veins decorating him pulsing inside of you. You think you can feel him every time he breathes.

It's a big stretch. It's a little warm, the way it feels to be opened up by him. You focus on looking at him—which might be a mistake because he already looks absolutely wrecked—and match your breathing to his.

“Clark,” you whine as you start to come up on the swell of him. It doesn't hurt necessarily, but it has your thighs shaking as you struggle to accommodate him.

“I know, honey, I know,” he says, his voice as shaky as yours. He dips his head and puffs out a breath of air against your neck, lifting up once more to kiss you quickly. “You're doing so, so good for me, sweetheart. We're almost halfway.”

“Almost?” you whine, looking and sounding every bit as bewildered as you feel.

He pauses again, looking at you with wide, almost scared eyes. “Do you want to stop?” He breathes into the space between you, pushing past the ache and the squeeze and the way he's fucking straining to control himself just to keep from bursting inside you already—or worse, pushing too deep before you're ready.

But you know he would never do that. Clark would fly directly into the sun before he ever hurt you.

You shake your head quickly. Although the corners of your eyes are wet with tears and your breath is so heavy that you think you'll pass out, you slide your hand to his cheek and kiss the corner of his lips. “No, no. Please, keep going.” You take a moment to catch your breath, he lets you. When you look at him again, it's with a smile that makes him dizzy. “I can take it, handsome. I promise, I can take it.”

And he thinks that maybe he's in the wrong here because there is no earthly way that he could ever deserve someone like you. He thinks, briefly, that he has stolen you from someone who deserves you more, swept you away to hoard for his own like a dragon to its treasure (he's definitely the size of one).

“Okay, okay.” He's breathless, glancing down between your bodies where you're joined. Fuck, he can see himself beginning to show through your tummy, and he has to tear his eyes away or he won't last. That would be embarrassing.

You don't think so.

“Doin’ so good,” he whispers against your skin, dipping down to press kisses all over your face as he continues to ease inside of you.

Yeah, he has to be splitting you open. You wouldn't be surprised to look down and see a tear running right through the middle of you. You're so lucky he's yours and you're his forever because, after this, you wouldn't be able to take anyone else (not that you'd ever dream of doing so).

“Takin’ it so well,” he huffs. “Squeezin’ me so tight. Gosh, you're s-so perfect, pretty.”

You're whining beneath him, trying so hard not to wrap your legs around his waist. He needs you open, as open as you can get. You're squirming, though you try hard not to. “So good, honey,” you gasp. “‘S so good, ‘m gonna…”

You don't know what you're going to do. Cum? Cry? Spontaneously combust? Perchance, even, keel over and die?

“Yeah?” he breathes, dropping a hand to your thigh to spread you a little wider. He goes an inch deeper, faster than before just from the shift alone. Your head tilts back, your jaw slack. “Sorry. I'm sorry. Didn't mean to do that, sorry.”

You're shaking your head, bringing it forward again to press against his temple in an effort to ease his worries. “S’okay. Feels good, so good.”

His breath shudders in a small moan. “Promise?”

Your head is full of air, you think. You can't get a single thought in there, other than Clark and his big cock and his big hands and his big heart. “Fuck—promise. I promise, baby. I promise.”

His response is a strangled sound in his throat. He drops his head down briefly into the crook of his neck before quickly raising it again to see your face. He wants to be able to watch you as he fills you, needs to know if it hurts, if it's good, if you're still with him.

He's saying “okay” again, repeating it under his breath as he continues on. “Almost there, honey. So close, doin’ so freaking perfect for me.”

The fact that there's more is making you crazy dizzy. How is there more? You may have to take back what you said early about him not being a freak because this is freakish activity.

He has to ease the last couple inches of himself into you with tiny thrusts. It takes everything he has not to give into the pull of you and just shove the rest of him in—especially when you're squeezing around him like you and damn near sucking him into you like a vacuum.

You don't even realize he's in until his whole body sighs, until you feel his hips perfectly flush against yours as he relaxes just the slightest amount. His body presses lightly into yours, still hovering but needing to be close. Clark groans when he feels the rise of him in your belly against his.

“Fits,” he huffs. “Holy crap, it fits. I'm in, sweetie.” He's losing his mind over it, too. He presses his hand against your tummy, he whines when he feels your abdominal pulse against the pulse of his cock. He can't think straight, vision bleary and hands grabby and head fallen into the curve of your neck.

You're barely able to keep your eyes open, so you're happy when he dips into your neck so you can close your eyes and bask in him.

He's stretching you so wide. It's achy and tight but so, so good inside of you. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, and he lets you, breathing in the scent of you as he tries not to cry into your shoulder at how good he feels.

“Takin’ all o’ me, honey,” he mewls, sounding as pathetic as he feels. “Dunno how you're doin’ it. You're perfect.”

You're whining like you've been hurt, but he knows you haven't—he knows the difference. You're panting into the air, into his chest, into the crook of his neck. He's just so thick and warm and deep. You pull your legs around him to try and get more of him inside of you, even as he's fully bottoming out where there is no end or beginning of either of you.

“Clark,” you whimper, savoring the stretch and leaning your hips up for more of it.

“I know, I know,” he says. “I know, honey. Just—gimme a sec, okay?”

Because if he doesn't take a moment to breathe, he's going to cum inside of you right here and now.

It's a long time before he moves. You're squirming and whining and begging him to move, to fuck you senseless (despite the fact that you're already senseless).

He takes a breath before slowly beginning to pull out of you. The drag of your gummy walls around him is hot, and—if you're being completely honest—it hurts a little.

You tighten your fingers in the curls at the base of his neck, and he takes it as a sign with how tight you've pulled as he pauses. “You okay? You still with me, honey?”

You nod, the movement choppy. “Yeah, jus’...” A deep line is etched between your furrowed brows, concentration and something vulnerable centered there. “Jus’ a little slower? I—hah—it’s a lot.”

He's stroking your cheek, wiping at sweat and tears and the tiniest bit of wetness left behind by many of his kisses. “Too much?”

“N-no,” you insist. “Not too much, just a lot.”

The fact that he's able to be this put together as you're squeezing his cock like you're trying to flatten it to a straw is beyond him. He lowers his body to press flat against yours, his elbows supporting himself as he cradles your head in his large hands. His thumbs stroke your cheeks lovingly. “Tell me when.”

You take a moment to really think about that. You do need a second to get your head together. Between the pleasure and slight pain of the stretch, you have to catch your breath. You nod gently. “When.”

Clark doesn't continue pulling out. Instead he thrusts himself so slowly back into you until he's just as deep as before.

You whimper, feeling the head of his cock pressing into a spot in you that has warmth coiling in every inch of your body, dominating your belly and your thighs and the heart in your chest (should you see a doctor?—it doesn't matter).

“Deeper.” You don't even realize you've said it until he's following your command, the blunt mushroom tip of his cock, already pressing against that spot deep within you, pushing just a bit harder. He isn't rough, he isn't fast, his hands on you aren't even just a miniscule too tight.

When he presses into you, you think your vision goes white, but you're not sure because the only thing in your fuzzy brain right now is the fact that he feels so good in that spot.

“Clark, right there,” you gasp shallowly. “Please, I—fuck!”

Clark rolls his hips into you. He doesn't pull out more than an inch, breathing loudly in your ear as he focuses his deep, shallow thrusts against a part of you that has your jaw dropped and your eyes shut and your tongue feeling too big in your mouth.

Open-mouthed breaths leave your chest, and you wrap your legs tighter around him just to keep him that much closer.

He's a goner, he thinks. And how is he supposed to not be when you're whimpering and moaning and crying for him like he's holding your heart in his hand, stroking it gently and telling it that it's the prettiest thing he's ever seen in his entire life?

This feeling blossoms all over your body. It starts from deep inside you, spreads through your thighs and your chest, goes out to your legs and arms and tingles in your fingers, your toes, the very tips of your tongue and ears. If you could live in this feeling forever, you would be perfectly content to never do anything else in your life.

“More. Please, baby, I need more. More, more, please.” You're rambling, and Clark thinks maybe you might actually kill him.

“I got you,” he puffs. “You're doin’ so perfect for me. Y’feel so nice and—and tight.” He drops one hand down between your bodies and lays it flat against your belly. You can both feel the bulge of him showing through, and it makes you both audibly gasp. “Feel that? That's me.” He whines, presses his fingers gently into the curve at the very top of him. “Right there, that's how deep I am.”

You move your hand to join his, and he grabs it gently to guide it right where he wants it. You curse at the feeling, a prominent rise in your tummy that makes your head spin. “That's me. That's me, honey. So deep, so good.”

He's the one who's rambling now. He doesn't bother with pulling out of you in any way. When he thrusts into you, it's just to press himself deeper into that spot until your whines sounds less pleasurable and erring on the side of uncomfortable. He makes a note of it in his head, kissing an apology into your shoulder before he's finding a steady rhythm that has you gasping and moaning and wriggling beneath him.

He's not even fucking you—not really. It's nowhere close to being able to be described as fucking. He's rocking his hips, he's rolling them deep within, he's coaxing the pleasure out of you like he would with his fingers against the spongey part that makes your eyes cross.

He's cooing at you: “so good for me” and “my perfect girl” and “doing so well” and more praise than your heart can physically handle. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, bring him down close. You don't let him move even an inch away, and he doesn't try. He tucks his arms under your back, hugs you to him as he continues to thrust inside of you.

It feels so good, you can't even begin to wrap your head around the pleasure. He's deep, he's big, he's stretching you out like one of his condoms that don't fit—the only difference being that those actually broke and you didn't (at least, not physically) (your brain is teetering on the edge of broken).

You feel your need tugging inside of you, building earnestly as he continues to moan and gasp into your neck like you're the one fucking him. “Cl-ark. I needa cum so bad—please, I wanna cum for you.”

He sounds like he's in pain when he groans. Wordlessly, he snakes one hand between your bodies once more and rubs at your clit, still a little achy from before just damnit, does it feel good. You're starting to sound like you are sobbing in his ear now, and he pulls back to check that it's still out of pleasure and not pain under the guise of simply wanting to kiss the tip of your nose.

Your foreheads are pressed together, damp with sweat. Your noses brush against one another as you breathe into each other, weak and pathetic and so fucking perfect for each other.

You're not making any sense—or, at least, your words aren't. You're pretty sure you're speaking gibberish, and you don't care to stop as you continue to babble about how good he's making you feel. He understands every word and responds in kind.

“Y’feel so good, sweetheart. I'm not gonna last,” he whines. A particularly deep roll has you seeing stars almost brighter than the ones in his eyes.  He's still speaking to you, but it's white noise as the ebb of your upcoming release fills every ounce of bone and muscle and tendon you have.

Your moans sound more like yelps in his ears, these high-pitched noises that go straight to his dick and have him throbbing inside of you. He's still pressed firmly against your body, and he's not sure if he's imagining it when he feels the way the bulge of him moves in your belly and against his.

“I'm—ohh, I'm gonna cum,” you moan, legs and arms tightening.

He's rutting into you now, and the slight, dull pain of it feels so good right now. You think you're going to pass out. The way he's making you feel doesn't seem like something a human should even be able to take.

You're chanting his name like a prayer, and he's so in love that all he can do in response is praise your name right back to you. “Come on, honey. Let go, let me feel you.”

The sound you make is inhuman. It's this high-pitched mewl in the back of your throat that you weren't sure you could even make. It rings in the air, it vibrates in his ears and makes it so, so hard for him to keep his head on straight.

When you cum, your pussy flutters around him like butterfly wings—warm, wet, tight wings that suck him in like they never want to let him go. Your hips roll against his like he's just not deep enough, even as he's already pressing against your cervix. You grasp at him and shudder and whine and cry and beg for him as he's making you feel good.

And Clark. Oh, Clark. He really hasn't meant to do it.

It takes him completely by surprise when you clamp down on him so tightly that it knocks him off the edge like he's been hit by a freight car (a freight car strong enough to knock him off balance). Instead of pulling out as he intended, he'd pressed in deeper.

He thrusts deep like he's trying to be inside of you. He lifts your hips just a bit and tries to crawl his way into you with knees that slip slightly against the sheets beneath you. He chokes on a moan and then whines in your ear like he's going to cry, too.

And when you feel this strange pop! deep inside of you as the head of him presses past something you didn't realize could even be breached, you stop mewling all together as you suck in a deep gasp and stare wide-eyed at the ceiling like you've been enlightened.

The warmth of him spills inside of you, the two of you grasping onto each other for dear life at the overwhelming pleasure. You think you can actually feel the way he fills you to the brim, your tight pussy milking him for all he's worth. Even when his hips stutter and threaten to pull back, you swallow the sob that tries to escape and fix your heels into his back so he's forced to stay inside. He's not complaining.

The haze that clouds your minds is thick and heavy (like his cock) and takes a while to sift through. You catch your breaths, you hold onto each other like you'll fall over a never-ending cliff if you loosen your grasps for even a single second. He mouths at your neck, you scratch his scalp, and you both let the last sparks of pleasure lick at your bones like a settling fire before you even think about allowing your minds to return to some semblance of normal.

Clark is the first to come to, but only because he realizes that he's still inside of you. And he already came. Inside of you.

“Shoot!”

You whine like you're going to start sobbing (this time out of pure sorrow) as you feel him peeling his sweaty body from yours. He shushes you gently, using one hand to stroke through your hair as he looks down to where you're still connected. There's a white ring around the base of his cock where your arousal had chosen to gather. Looking past skin and blood, he can see himself so fucking deep. He's so deep, the tip of him has actually pushed past your womb where the majority of his cum has filled you up.

He shudders—then feels a little guilty for it because he still hasn't pulled out—before placing a hand to your belly and ignoring the way it has his dick throbbing from how he can still feel that fucking bulge.

“N-no…” you protest meekly as you feel him beginning to pull out of you. You feel that pop! again as he retreats and want to cry. “Clark, please.”

He just keeps shushing you, watching with way too much pleasure as his cock slowly drags out of you. It takes a while (though nowhere even nearly as long as it had to get it in) to pull out. He nearly curses at the sight, the ones on the inside and the outside.

You wrap your legs tighter, digging your heels even harder. But he's entirely unfazed—it's like he doesn't even register you trying to keep him in.

(He feels it. Oh, he feels it. The greedy way you keep trying to suck him back in, even as he's drawing out, is making it so hard to keep his resolve. He gnashes his teeth so hard, he's surprised they don't crack under the pressure.)

“Clark, please, please.”

“I know, honey,” he says, sounding completely and thoroughly wrecked. “I know, but I gotta.”

When he's fully out of you, he's absolutely gutted when he sees the way your pussy refuses to fully close. There's still a gap where he once was, wanting him back, begging for him to come back. His teeth grind harder.

He shuffles down to his elbows, kissing you all the way down until he can properly take a look at you. “Oh, baby.” His thumb so lightly traces the lip of your pussy, and that tiny movement is enough to make you jolt. “She's still open for me.” His voice is strangled. “Took me so well, and she still wants me inside her.”

He's talking about your pussy like it's a person, and it's making your dizziness a thousand times worse. “Needs you,” you correct (pathetically).

Clark makes this face like he's been punched in the gut. “She needs me inside her,” he reaffirms. He leans in and presses the softest kisses along your inner thighs, against your fluttering lips, against your clit (though only once because you're visibly shaking, and your entire body jumps when he does it).

You feel so perfect (you'd feel even better if he'd get back inside you, but alas). Clark moves up to rejoin you. He scoops you up in his arms and rolls over onto his back, your body placed right on top of his furnace-like chest.

“Didn't mean to…” he licks his lips, drawing lazy circles between your shoulder blades so you're shuddering on top of him like a leaf in the wind, “...to do it inside. Was an accident.”

It takes a long time to find your voice, mostly because you're half asleep and drifting deeper. “S’okay,” you whisper, your voice a bit raspy with overuse. “Feels so good.” (It comes out more as “fissoguh”, but he knows what you meant.)

He chuckles so softly, and the sound hums against your body and makes it harder to stay awake, especially with the way he holds you. Like you're everything.

“I know, but I shouldn't have.” His fingers card through your hair.

You would have responded, said something along the lines of, “If you didn't, I would’ve cried so you felt bad about it after,” but your tongue currently isn't working. And even if it was, you would have failed to speak anyway. Instead, you just hum your disagreement.

“Yeah, yeah,” he lightly teases, pinching your side to make you squirm. He continues to soothe you, trying to quiet the nerves in his head telling him that maybe he overdid it and maybe he hurt you. The idea makes him cold with fear.

You hear it in his silence. Even in the fog of your fatigue, you can hear the worries eating away at him. He's prone to worrying himself silly, especially about you, and you'd promised him you would be there to kiss it away.

So you turn your head through the haze, tucking yourself into the space of his neck. You press a kiss to his throat, gentle and hardly there but long and loving.

Clark smiles, tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He kisses your hairline, lingering for a long time, his thanks to you for caring so much.

“Love you,” you murmur, and it's the truest sound on Earth.

He breathes through his nose, still stroking. “I love you, too, pretty.” And you believe him because why on Earth would you not?

Clark Kent taglist: @the-nerdy-goddess @disillusioniary Tag yourself here...

You stuff a blanket in the trunk of the car and listen to your best friend talk about her new boyfriend. 

You love her to death, but since you arrived in Alexandria, she barely talks about anything but Spencer. Spencer this. Spencer that.

Somehow the two of them found each other and actually got together. That has changed your topics of conversation. 

So you grit your teeth and listen to the oh-so-awesome Spencer bring her a bouquet of flowers yesterday.

It's not that you're jealous or anything. 

No, you don't even feel like getting involved with a guy, but you just don't like Spencer and you let him feel that every time.

Now, though, you're a good friend and smile at her, "Sweetie, I gotta go."

Several times she blinks at you, as if she's forgotten why you packed some things in the car behind you, before sighing, "Oh yeah. How long is the run scheduled for?"

You shrug and lean your butt against the car, "I don't know. Rick wasn't sure how long we'd be on the road, so I packed a few things for several days and nights."

She nods slowly and you take a deep breath, "I don't even know where we are going."

You notice her glance sideways past you and know she's looking at Rick, who's a few feet away discussing something with Michonne.

Without looking at you, she says, "I'd really like to go with you."

Surprised, your eyebrows go up. Your best friend is not a person who likes to be out in the outside world. She likes the safety of Alexandria, and that's probably why she fell in love with Spencer.

When she looks at you again, she notices your gaze and shrugs, "Not that I necessarily want to fight walkers. I'm happy to leave that up to you. But I'd just like to see you in a little car with Rick, trying not to go for each other's throats."

You roll your eyes, but can't hold back a grin.

The fact is, you already like Rick just fine, it's just that your kind of 'friendship' is driving each other crazy. 

Much to the sake of everyone else. That's why it's better that it's just the two of you and you can pick each other apart in peace.

You're about to say something back when you hear Rick call out, "Are you done, sweetheart?"

Again you roll your eyes and smile at him sugary sweet, "Whenever you are, sugar bum."

The nickname Rick gave you at the very beginning gets on your nerves and he knows it very well, that's why he calls you by your real name extremely rarely and always teases you with his stupid 'sweetheart'.

The way he pronounces the word with his broad southern accent sometimes makes you blush unintentionally and to cover that you started to give him the strangest nicknames in between. 

As always, he doesn't seem to care and nods goodbye to Michonne, which is your sign to say goodbye to your friend as well.

She frowns, "Sugar bum?"

You bite your lower lip, "I couldn't think of anything else."

She doesn't respond for a moment, until she bursts out laughing, "Oh my God..."

Smiling, you pull her into your arms and murmur, "Take care of yourself" in her ear.

"You take care of yourself, too."

Before you let her go, she whispers softly, "You blushed again, honey. Watch out you don't start drooling if he calls you that again."

Gently, you punch her in the arm and hiss, "I won't."

As she looks you in the face, it feels like she knows more than you do and you have to avert your eyes.

Slowly, you walk around the car and climb into the passenger seat.

You'll have another quick glance at your friend as Rick opens the door to the driver's seat and drops into it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him push the sleeves of his blue shirt further up and then pull the door shut.

Without a word to you, he shifts into first gear and drives through the open gate.

You suppress a soft sigh and lean your head against the window beside you. 

For a long time you don't speak a word to each other and you think that Rick doesn't want to start a fight as long as you depend on each other beyond all measure.

After a few hours, you exchange positions and he calmly instructs you to follow the road until you come to the next intersection. When you ask him approximately how long that will take, he just mutters, "Long enough, sweetheart."

You stifle a comment that his answer is vague and start up.

Again and again you look over at him out of the corner of your eye and at some point his soft snoring enters your ear.

Unwillingly, you have to smile and now look at him properly.

His head is leaning against the window pane, like yours before, and his arms are crossed in front of his chest.

Although you can't see his eyes, you know they're exactly the same color as his shirt, and because he has those beautiful dark curls, his eyes always seem much brighter in the daylight.

You catch yourself thinking about him way too hard and jerk your head back around to look at the street. 

Again and again you repeat in your head: I don't care how beautiful his eyes are.

For some time you force yourself to look at the road, but eventually you weaken again and look back at the sleeping leader next to you.

He wrinkles his nose slightly in his sleep and you can't help but notice how soft and almost innocent he looks in his sleep. You could easily forget how many people he has already killed with his hands, looking at his soft features now.

Even with the grayish beard, he looks much younger in his sleep and as you catch yourself staring at his pink slightly parted lips, you mutter, "Holy shit."

It's not supposed to be that loud, but immediately Rick slams his eyes open growling, "What's wrong?"

Sleepily, he looks at you and frowns. All softness is gone from his features and you don't even realize you're still staring at him until he grumbles, "Look at the road and not at me."

The fact that he caught you staring at him by your own stupidity, makes you blush and you immediately look back at the road, "Sorry."

Now it's you who feels his gaze on you, praying that he'll just let it go, but hope is in vain, "What happened?"

"Nothing," your voice is a little too high and you hear Rick sigh softly, "Then why were you staring at me like that?"

His snotty question, makes you snap, "I wasn't staring at you, you dumbass."

"So did you strain your neck or what?" he teases. 

He knows for a fact that you were staring at him and now he's going to use it to drive you up the wall, which unfortunately works out just fine, "You were snoring so loud I wanted to make sure you weren't going to use it to attract walkers."

He snorts and you mentally pat yourself on the back.

You can finally get back to focusing on the track ahead of you.

You drive for what seems like an eternity on the road Rick told you about, then ask him, "Are you sure this is the right place? It doesn't look like there's anything here."

You've long since left the housing complexes and now there's nothing here but woods. Not even a small field where you could find crops is visible and you frown, "Rick?"

By the time you look to him, he's pulled out a map too and seeing his lost look, you groan, "You have no idea where we are."

His jaw tenses before he growls, "I know exactly where we are."

You spot a narrow path at the edge of the woods and pull off to stop, then turn in your seat to Rick, "Where are we, Sheriff?"

Vaguely he points to a spot on the map and you lean over to take a look at it too, "You don't think we're anywhere near Atlanta yourself, do you? We should have seen the skyline by now, Rick."

The forest he points to is close to the big city, and when you left Alexandria, you were going in the opposite direction.

But of course Rick wouldn't admit he has no idea which forest you're parked in, "The trees are just so tall we can't see the skyline."

You lean forward some more and your chest brushes his arm, "Why don't you just admit you have no idea where we are and let us out of this damn forest?"

He stiffens a little and then grumbles, "I know where we are."

You groan in annoyance, "Oh Rick." If your breasts weren't touching his upper arm, you wouldn't have even noticed, but he flinches as the words leave your mouth and immediately you blush.

You know what he must be thinking about and then you quickly say, "Swallow your pride and admit that you got us in deep shit."

Rick snorts and turns his head in your direction. 

Because you're still leaning so close to him, his face is suddenly way too close and you slide back into your seat as he growls, "Maybe it's your fault if I couldn't tell you 100% where we are right now."

You laugh out loud because he phrases it as if it's just a possibility and not a fact that he doesn't know what shitty forest you're hanging out in, "My fault? How so? YOU told me to take the road."

He throws the map in the back seat and looks at you with bright eyes, "I told you to go all the way to the intersection. It's not my fault you stared at me for half the drive and probably passed the intersection when you needed to catch your drool."

Staring at him in disbelief, you almost shriek, "You miserable asshole."

You yank open the car door and get out, because if you didn't, you'd rip Rick's head off. 

But instead of leaving you alone, he gets out too and you throw your arms up in the air, "How could I have ever gotten involved in going on a run with you?"

You go back and forth, "If we croak, it's your fault. Only your fault. You got that?"

Rick thrusts his hands on his hips and growls, "Sure, if it makes you happy."

Jerking, you look him in those ridiculously beautiful eyes, "Happy? You know what would make me happy?"

Your voice becomes shrill, "If I wasn't standing in the middle of nowhere with you."

You can see him struggling for self-control and clenching his hands into fists, "We. Are. Not. Lost." Every word is a growl and you turn your back on him, "I'll check the road for a sign so I know where we are if you're too proud for that."

You take a step and he demands, "You stay here."

Laughing in disbelief, you look at him over your shoulder, "Oh yeah? I'm certainly not taking orders from you now."

He takes a step toward you, "Stay here."

At his full height, he towers over you significantly and if he were to reach out, he could touch you. Challengingly you look at him, "Or what, Rick? What are you going to do if I just leave now and let you sit here, huh?"

Something you can't place flashes in his eyes and your eyes lock onto his Adam's apple as he swallows hard.

Suddenly your throat goes dry and instead of just going and leaving like you cockily announced, you stop in front of him and wait for his reaction.

You blame it on the adrenaline in your veins that you suddenly feel the need to reach out and put your hand on his chest. 

To feel his heartbeat beneath your palm.

Your body leans towards him, that's when you hear a crack in the bushes and before you can even react, Rick has already drawn his gun and is aiming at whatever should come out from between the trees.

Groaning, a lone walker emerges from the trees and when Rick doesn't lower his gun, you put your hand on the cold barrel of the gun and press it down a bit: "We can take him."

He doesn't quite lower the gun and looks down at you, breathing heavily.

You give him a weak smile, "Let me do that."

Gently you push the gun down even further and when he finally lowers it, you disengage from him and pull the knife on your thigh.

This one walker gives you no trouble and as he lies dead at your feet, you turn back to Rick who is watching you.

Still holding the gun, he looks to you and you clear your throat quietly, "What, you need to get something off your chest?"

The silence is cutting until he harshly demands, "Come here."

You raise your eyebrows in disbelief, "Haven't we been through this? I don't take orders from you."

His eyes don't leave you for a second as he lifts his chin slightly and hisses, "You come here now, or I'll come to you, and you don't want that. Trust me."

Your whole body screams to move toward him to find out what he wants, but your stubbornness is not so easily put out of action, "Rick-"

The knuckles around his gun turn white, "Now."

The tone in his voice actually makes you walk toward him, and as soon as you're within his reach, he grabs you by the arm and tugs you toward the hood.

His grip is so tight that you struggle against him, suddenly feeling something like panic as you realize you don't stand a chance against Rick.

He pushes you in front of him like a doll and presses your upper body onto the hood.

Panicked, you try to push yourself up with your hands, but his hand is heavy on your back and you flounder helplessly on the hood, "What are you doing? Let go of me!"

Your breathing becomes frantic and you can hardly believe it, but you're actually afraid of Rick.

When you think about how innocently he was sleeping next to you in the car earlier and now he's forcing you to bend over the hood, you feel sick.

You try to take a deep breath and relax as best you can as you murmur as softly as you can, "Let go of me, please."

Never having thought about how strong Rick actually is, you force yourself not to fidget as he takes a step closer behind you and you feel his leg against your thigh.

You barely recognize his voice as he whispers, "Stop talking, sweetheart."

Your heart stops for a moment at your nickname and you have to suppress a soft whimper as you feel his hand on your neck.

He's so...close to you. 

You can barely think straight through fear and what feels like arousal.

Rick can feel your resistance slowly weakening and he dares to loosen his grip on your neck a little. 

When you don't move an inch, he whispers softly, "Good girl."

Shit, he totally digs it when you push up against him. He loves the games you always play when you're teasing each other. He enjoys every minute of it, but after all that shit today, he's had enough.

In fact, he has no idea where you guys are and you having to rub it in his face all the time is driving him nuts.

He sees himself as a pretty controlled man, but as he watched you take out the walker, he couldn't suppress the feeling of finally breaking you for him.

How much he wants you to submit to him is almost laughable.

Quietly, you lie on the hood in front of him and he can't help but look at your pretty ass, which is maddening in those tight jeans.

Rick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as his cock presses uncomfortably against his pants.

He doesn't really think about it as he rests his gun-holding hand on your soft ass and the cold barrel of the gun slides between your thighs. Roughly you groan and push yourself against him a bit, which surprises you so much yourself that you wince and hope that he hasn't noticed.

The hope quickly disappears as he pulls the barrel a little higher again and you take a loud breath.

Watching your body react is mesmerizing and he stares at your ass, which keeps trying to push against him, "Sweetheart?"

Mortified, you close your eyes and murmur, "Yes, Rick?"

He releases his hand from your neck and briefly you think about straightening up to get away from him, but as his hand reaches around you to grab your pants, your body resists the thought of getting away from Rick's hand and you remain still on the hood, waiting to see what Rick is trying to do.

He turns a little in your direction and instead of his leg, his cock is now pressing against your thigh and he murmurs softly, "Spread your legs."

Your stomach tightens and you do as he says, which makes him laugh harshly, "Oh, when it comes to me touching your pussy, you suddenly do as I say."

It's so incredibly humiliating and you could cry as he pulls your underpants, including panties, down so far that the fabric stretches around your thighs and the cool air hits the embarrassing wetness between your legs.

Almost as if driven by self-preservation, you do try to straighten up, but he quickly pushes you back onto the hood, "Stay down."

These little moments when you seem to be struggling after all turns him on incredibly and he slides a hand between your thighs.

A jolt goes through your body as Rick's fingers brush over your most intimate spot and you hear him moan harshly.

You bite your lower lip as you feel the cool barrel of his gun contrast with his warm fingers on your skin.

He slowly slides the gun in the direction where his fingers linger and immediately you tense, "What are you doing?" You barely recognize your own voice, but you don't care and croak again, "Rick?"

He can literally feel the panic you're feeling, and it's probably completely wrong that that's exactly what's making him harder.

Rick slides the barrel of his gun between your butt cheeks, enjoying the way you flinch as the metal of the gun digs into your soft skin.

He pulls his fingers from your wetness and instead slides his gun between your already swollen labia, "You take what I give you, sweetheart."

You whimper, "You can't be serious."

Firmly he pushes the barrel of the gun an inch inside you, "Does this feel like I'm not serious?"

The barrel is wide and you so damn tight that you feel like he's tearing you apart inch by inch as he slowly pushes it inside you. As he does so, the legitimate thought that the gun is loaded fades completely into the background and all you can feel is the cold thickness penetrating deeper and deeper into you.

Groaning, you squirm and gasp, "It's too big. It hurts."

Your pussy clenches around the barrel and Rick pushes it in a little deeper again, "Does it?"

Whimpering, you nod and look up at him for the first time since he forced you over the hood.

As you look at him with eyes veiled in arousal, his cock twitches and he tilts his head a little, "Why don't you beg me to stop then?"

He pushes the barrel a little deeper into you again and you moan, "Rick..."

It feels so incredibly dirty to be at his mercy like this, and yet you want more.

Pathetically, you try not to tighten around the barrel of the gun again, taking in as much as you can, which doesn't escape Rick's notice, and he grumbles, "Then stop lying and take it like a good girl. All of it."

Trembling, you yip, "Turn me over. I want to look at you while I do it."

He pulls the gun back a little and immediately you miss how deep it was inside you.

"What was that?" 

You can tell by his voice what he wants. 

What he's always wanted. 

For you to beg him.

"Please, turn me around. I'll take anything you give me, but please...I want to look at you while I do it-" Briefly you take a breath "Sir."

Growling, he grabs your waist and reaches around you so he can spin you around so you're sitting on the hood and he can keep the barrel of the gun inside you.

With your lips slightly parted, you watch Rick pull your pants down to your calves and then climb over them so he can stand between the fabric and your body like he's trapped. 

But only you feel like you can barely breathe because he's so close to you and your pussy is still being stretched.

Finally he looks you in the face again and the pure lust in his eyes makes you lean forward and put your lips firmly on his.

Rick grabs your chin with his free hand, pushing the barrel of the gun deeper into you again.

The feeling is so intense that you break the kiss and bite his lower lip to stifle a loud groan.

With his hand on your chin, he forces you to open your mouth and release himself so he can lean in and murmur into your ear as he thrusts into you again, "Do you like that, sweetheart? Do you like me fucking you like a whore with my gun?"

The thought of what he keeps thrusting into you makes you go crazy and you bury your face in the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck to muffle your moans, "Yes, oh god yes..."

You could never tell anyone what you let him do to you and that makes it all that much more wicked.

Your moans vibrate against Rick's hold and he takes his second hand to touch your clit.

It's only a small touch, but your hands tangle in his hair and he continues to tease, "So pathetic."

He knows exactly what he's doing and what he's denying you as you start to move on his hand to get more, but the circles he draws around your clit are too slow and he knows it.

Whimpering, you cry, "Please, Rick...please, sir."

You're so pathetic in his arms that he can't suppress a laugh, "Stop whining."

He's pushed you to the point where you'll do anything for him. 

Anything just so he wouldn't stop.

Trembling, you spread your legs as wide as you can and push your hips closer to him, but his touch remains frustratingly light and gentle, making you cry, "I'm begging you...please...what do you want me to do...I'll do anything..."

He presses a little harder on your clit and your pussy tightens around the gun inside you, "Anything then?"

You jerk your head back to look him pleadingly in the eyes as you whimper, "Anything."

He loves seeing that addiction in your eyes and he tilts his head as he pulls the gun out of your dripping pussy and you moan in protest, "No..."

Rick raises his eyebrows, "First you don't want to and now you do?"

Normally you're eye-to-eye with Rick, but his cocky demeanor makes you shrink into yourself and you whisper, "Please."

His eyes slide over your soft features and flushed cheeks, and he holds the gun shiny from your wetness in front of your face, "Lick it clean."

You hesitate for a second before looking him in the beautiful blue eyes and leaning forward to put the gun in your mouth. At the taste of your own, you roll your eyes and let out a muffled moan before looking back up at him. 

Slowly, you let the gun slide out of your mouth and lick it with your tongue.

Rick can't take his eyes off you even if he wanted to.

The way you lick the gun that took so many lives, as if it were his cock and the most beautiful gift in the world, makes even the last rational thought fizzle out and he hisses, "Unzip my pants."

He sets the gun down next to you on the hood and leans back a bit as you reach for his pants with shaky hands.

His cock pressing against the fabric is hard to miss, and your mouth waters as you think of him replacing the gun that was inside you earlier with his cock now.

You undo his holster, which immediately falls to the floor, and then his belt, which holds his pants low on his hips.

Your heart hammers in your chest and you feel your wetness dripping onto the hood below you.

He watches you undo his pants and then reach for the waistband to pull them down over his ass.

His cock immediately pops out and a low moan escapes you.

Your eyes are fixed firmly on the twitching cock in front of you and your pussy clenches at the sight.

The way you sit there and can't look away is the best thing he's seen in a long time. 

The fact that a few minutes ago you were still resisting and trembling with fear, while now you are begging to be fucked by him is all he can think about.

You are still staring at his cock, when Rick grabs you by the waist and pulls you to the edge of the hood so that his tip presses against your pussy and you look him breathlessly in the eyes, "Please."

You wiggle your ass to somehow get him inside you, but his hands on your hips are firm and unyielding, "Please what, sweetheart?"

He lifts his hips a little and slides his shaft over your wetness, making you moan hoarsely, "Please, sir. Please, please, please."

You've never begged before and never intended to, but right now all you want is for him to have mercy on you and let you wrap your wet walls around him.

He leans in and his lips graze your ear, "Will you do whatever I want you to do?" His accent is wider than usual with arousal and you gasp, "Yes, sir."

Rick presses an inch into you as a reward and growls, "Always?"

Completely will-less, you press your torso against his and whimper, "Yes, sir."

Another inch, "Good girl."

His tongue licks over your neck, "Do you want my cock?"

Moaning, you close your eyes and breathe, "Yes, sir." 

Your voice breaks on the last word and as a reward Rick thrusts his hips forward replacing what was previously the barrel of the gun inside you.

The metal from his gun was cool inside you, whereas his cock twitches hot and heavy inside you, making you almost pass out.

Your hands tighten in the fabric of his shirt to find purchase as he pulls back slightly and then thrusts slowly and deeply into you again.

Gasping, you bury your face against his neck as your pussy clenches around him again and again.

The feel of your wet walls around his cock, makes his heart stop for a moment and a low growl escapes his throat.

You feel so good around his hard cock and every time your pussy tightens around him, it feels like you're just pulling him deeper inside you.

He releases one hand from your hip and uses it to push your hair to the side so he can spread wet kisses on your neck, and you willingly tilt your head to the side to give him more room.

Slowly his thrusts get firmer and faster, causing a smacking sound between your legs that you don't even have to be ashamed of as Rick gasps against your neck, "Fuck, you're so wet for me."

He fucks you so hard you feel like he's rearranging your guts, and you dig your teeth into his neck to stifle a loud moan as he slides his hand between you to press on your clit.

You're already so incredibly sensitive there that you whimper, "I'm about to cum."

His circles around your clit speed up and your whole body is on fire, but he hisses, "No."

You tug at his shirt, "I can't take it anymore."

To torture you, his circles tighten and your legs start to shake. 

You force yourself to work against the orgasm as he thrusts firmly into you, "You'll cum when I tell you to, sweetheart."

Him calling you 'sweetheart' only makes it worse and you try to slide away from him so you can comply with his request and not cum on his cock yet.

But his grip is tight and you're too weak to pull away, "Rick...you have to stop...I can't...oh god..."

Your whole body tenses and tears come to your eyes as you actively fight against your release. 

It's almost sad that you want to make him proud by suppressing your orgasm and he just hisses, "You take what I give you and I swear I'll spank you if you cum without my permission."

Tears roll down your cheeks and you sob, "I can't take it anymore."

His fingers on your clit and his cock in your pussy feels too good and as he growls harshly, "Now." It tears you apart from the inside.

Never in your life have you come so hard and desperate as when pressed against Rick's body.

Your pussy pulses around his hardness and the feel of your tears leaving wet trails down his neck only turns him on more and he can't help but lay claim on you, "Whose pussy is that, sweetheart?"

Your whole body trembles under his grip and you give a long drawn out moan, "Yours, sir."

He rewards you by pulling his head back a little and kissing you hard on the lips and then gasps, "When I've come in your pussy, it's not just mine. Then you're mine."

Your foggy brain only hears that he's going to come inside you and you panic, "Rick...no...not inside me."

He grabs your chin and looks at you questioningly as he keeps fucking you and you whimper, "Please don't."

You look up at him pleading and trembling and his cock twitches inside your pussy wet with cum, making him grumble harshly, "You're shaking from cumming all over my cock and begging me to stop? You don't really want me to stop doing this...you like when I make your little pussy all wet and sticky, huh?"

Your last resistance breaks and you bring a soft "yes" to your lips before he presses his mouth over yours again and his beard scrapes across your chin.

His fingers dig into your hips and you know you'll be carrying away marks tomorrow as he stiffens and moans harshly into your mouth as he comes jerking inside you.

You've never had a man come inside you before and at the warm feeling spreading through your belly as he thrusts his warm cum into you, you whimper against his swollen lips.

You feel him softening inside you and you pull away from the kiss, blinking.

The adrenaline rush slowly wears off and you stare at Rick in disbelief. 

Not only because he did this to you, no, but also because you can't believe yourself that you let him do this to you.

He pulls his cock out of your pussy and you feel his cum mixed with yours dripping onto the hood.

Speechless, you stare at his pretty face as he looks between your legs and slides his hand between them.

He gathers up what's dripping out of you and pushes his fingers, saying, "You are supposed to say 'thank you'." Into your overused pussy.

As if in a trance, you say, "Thank you, sir." And he nods in satisfaction.

Rick surprisingly gently pulls you off the hood and pulls your pants back up over your ass.

You find your own thoughts, "Why did you do that?"

You look so utterly confused that this amuses him deeply and he raises an eyebrow, "What do you mean? That I fucked you or that I put your pants back on?"

He sees you swallow, "The fucking."

Unimpressed, he shrugs, "I wanted you, so I took you. Get used to it."

Speechless, your mouth drops open and he adjusts his own pants as he reaches for his gun on the hood, "We should spend the night here and see where we are in the morning."

You don't even realize he just admitted he doesn't know where you are and can't suppress a whimper as he pulls away from you and walks around the car to the driver's door.

Shit, you're dependent on him. 

Something you never wanted, but you already miss his hands on your body and run after him like a lonely puppy begging him to sit on his lap.

@hail-yourselves  @bean-is-reading  @chanlvr2  @criminalwalkingsupernatural  @sunshinevirus  @toxic-ink  @kingtwhiddleston  @bloodycherry22  @vane28282  @bamslover  @revesephemeres  @emo-potato-virgil  @tropodyn  @mrsashleybarnes18-blog  @igotbasicdrag @starsaroundmyscxrss @moonshine147 @1-800-isabellapotter @starkstiless

You had been fading in and out of consciousness for the last hour, your head aching from the blunt blow to your skull and your throat burning. You didn’t even know what happened or who did, all you remembered was being out on a patrol for Negan and suddenly getting smacked in the back of your head.

Ever since then, you’ve woken up maybe three times, each time a different place, but the same two people.

A curled haired man with a southern accent that always echoed in your ears, the ringing making you hiss. The other was a dark haired man who’s hair almost covered his face, with a low raspy voice you could barely hear because of the high pitched annoyance.

First time you woke up in the back of a car, hands tied behind you with some song playing on the radio. They were chatting casually, the southern man driving and glancing at the other one in the passenger seat. They both seemed laidback, as if they didn’t have a whole girl in their backseat tied up and gagged.

You managers to make a drowsy little noise from behind your gag before you passed out again, the southern man glancing at you in the rear view the last thing you remember seeing before everything went black.

You woke up again maybe another hour later, your body all sore. You were so confused. Who were these people and what did they want with you?

This time you were being carried, by the quiet one. He stared down at you as you stirred in his arms. He was carrying you bridal style in a town— what in the world? What were you doing in Alexandria? Negan was so gonna kill your ass for this.

The rumbling of your tummy broke the silence as he scoffed lowly, walking in the direction of houses.

“Yer’ hungry? Don’t worry, I’ll get ya sum’ food.” He snorts, before going silent again. You eventually passed out again. Damn, how hard did he hit you?

The final time you awoke was on a worn down mattress in a dark room, your eyes opening slowly. This time you didn’t feel the gag, your shoulders relaxing just slightly.

“H-Hello?” You choked out, looking around the room with a confused expression. Your feet were still tied together at the ankles, so you really couldn’t go anywhere if you wanted to, but the disappearance of the gag and rope around your wrists calmed you. Slightly.

You looked down in front of you and spotted a plate with some sandwich and an apple. Your eyes brightened. Surely they couldn’t be too bad if they fed you! Immediately, you dived down and began nibbling on the apple and gulping down bites of the sandwich. Turkey, you recognized. One of your favorites.

In the middle of your eating session the door creaked open, making you flinch and remember where exactly you were— the yummy sandwich had distracted you. You stiffened and sat up, tucking your knees into your chest and holding the half-eaten apple to your chest, ready to throw it if needed.

One of the men from earlier walked in, making you stiffen even more and try to lean back against the wall. You blinked up at him, scanning him closely. He was tall, older then you by a good decade, with short curly hair and dirty clothes covered in dirt and blood stains. Creepy.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” You said immediately, tightening your hold on your apple.

He only scoffed, his dark eyes gazing at you with an amused look.

“Gonna throw that apple at me if I do something you don’t like?” He shakes his head and walks up to you, making you flinch at his sudden close proximity. He kneels down to your height, scanning you with his eyes intensely.

“So what if I am?” You say back with attitude, making him snicker and shake his head in amusement. You felt so judged under his gaze. It was dark and intimidating.

“You’re with Negan, am I correct?” He asks.

You press your lips together as you give him a nod. He shamelessly eyes you, his pupils gazing down at you like you were nothing but prey.

“You’re cute for a savior, might keep you.” He says bluntly. Your body stiffens as you squirm in your restraints, your hand tightening your hold around the apple.

“I’m not some slut, you psycho!” You gasp, attempting to throw the apple at him. He growls and grabs the apple from you, his other hand going to your shoulder to push you down onto the floor. He quickly straddles you, holding you down as you attempted every little thing to overpower him.

Poor thing, he thought, trying so hard. You have no way out of this.

“Quit, fuckin, fighting—“ He growls, his hands slamming you back onto the floor as you managed to sit up slightly. Every harsh shove he gave you knocked the air out of you, he was stronger then you thought.

Realization slowly dawned on you that you really couldn’t fight this, and he was destined to win this fight no matter what you did.

Right as you were about to give up— the door slammed open, revealing the other man from earlier. The one with the black hair that covered some of his face, wearing a sleeveless vest with dark cargo pants. He was an archer, you noticed by the weapon on his back. You stiffened as he stood there momentarily in shock at the sight of you and the southern man all tangled up on the floor.

“The hell’s goin’ on?” He drawled, his accent a lazy southern with a raspy tone. His voice sent a shiver down your spine. The man on top of you rolled his eyes and crawled off you, but not before giving you one last shove into the ground and a look that you could tell meant ‘Don’t move’.

“Stupid chick was fighting back.” He grumbles, standing up and walking towards him. They both whisper aggressively in the corner, giving you dirty looks every other sentence. You laid awkwardly on the floor, too scared to move.

“I thought we agreed to break her first?”

“Yeah— but look at her!”

They both slowly turned to look at you before turning back towards each other, continuing their hushed whispers.

“She’s cute, yeah, I understand what you meant now. She’s prettier when she’s conscious, I guess.” The dark haired man grumbles, crossing his arms.

The mean one looks back at you and sighs, scratching his temple. He stares for a moment before walking towards you, making you flinch once again.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. Only if you misbehave, I will.” He says lowly, kneeling down to your height once again.

“I’m Rick, and that guy back there,” He points to the Archer walking towards the both of you, “Is Daryl. He’s a little quiet.”

Rick stares at you with a blank expression, trying to read yours.

You sat there silently for a moment, watching as Rick sat infront of you, kneeling over you, while Daryl walked behind you. You could feel Daryl’s breath on the back of your neck as he kneeled down behind you. If the two of them got any closer you’d be sandwiched, you realized with a small exhale.

You hesitantly told them your name, making Rick smirk. “Cute,” He hums, his finger coming up to gently tuck one of your loose strands behind your ear. His touch made you shiver. Fear? Attraction? You couldn’t tell.

“Fuck off.” You grumble shakily, squirming once again. Daryl behind you places his hands on your forearms, holding you in place with a small chuckle. You shiver, on the verge of trembling as the two large men trap you inbetween their bodies.

“We don’t wanna hurt ya, sweetie. You’re a cute little thing, it’d be a shame to see your cute face all bruised up.” Rick says with a mockingly sweet smile, leaning closer until one of his thighs brushed against yours, his body towering over you even when he was kneeling.

A soft kiss is planted onto your neck from behind, making you flinch in shock and turn to look at Daryl— only for Rick to grab your chin and force you to maintain eye contact.

Your lips quiver as you felt the man behind you pamper your neck in soft little kisses and rubs.

“S-Stop, ah, what are you guys doing?” You hissed lowly, trying not to give into the gentle touch of the large man behind you. You hated them both, but Daryl was probably higher on your list inbetween them two. He was more gentle and quiet, and was also the one currently kissing your neck.

Rick takes ahold of your ankles and straightens your legs infront of you so your back is leaning against Daryl’s chest, and your sitting on your butt on the floor.

“You think we can convince her to stay with us?” Rick smirks to Daryl, who hums an incoherent word into your neck. You shiver as Ricks large hands rub your thighs. He positions himself between your legs and gently parts them, on his knees and lowering his head until his breath brushed against the small midriff your top showed.

“What the hell are you—“

“Shush, and just enjoy.” Daryl interrupts you, shushing you as his hand wrap around you and start to tug your top up, bunching it over your bra. Your face goes red in embarrassment as you squirm, your hands attempting to weakly pull his fingers off your bra.

Rick gives one of your hands a little swat, clicking his tongue like you were a misbehaving child. It felt patronizing, being treated so small and childishly.

“I’ll kill you both..” You grumble, your hands slowly setting themselves on Daryl’s thighs which were seated on each side of you, your fingers rubbing in circles subconsciously.

“Mhm, sure you will. Can’t even pull away from our kisses and touches, how are you gonna get the courage to end us?” Daryl mocks, laughing softly into your ear. His hands start to slip under your bra, making you gasp quietly into the air.

Why weren’t you fighting back? These were two men you’ve barely seen before, their hands touching you everywhere. But it wasn’t your fault it felt so good, and the fact they were both very talented with their mouths and hands.

Oh well.

Rick hums and starts to tug at your pants, pulling them down until they were around your ankles, your boots not letting them slip off completely. He rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Annoying little brat,” He unzips your boots and pulls them off, before pulling your pants off fully. He smiles at the sight of you leaning back against Daryl with your shirt bunched up and your breasts being fondled, your legs spread infront of him.

“You wanna bet wether she’s wet or not?”

“Lil’ girls definitely soaked, and if I’m right yuh have to take over my patrol tomorrow.” Daryl hums.

Rick chuckles and scoops up your thighs and parts them some more, bending them at the knee to prop them up on each side of you.

He places his hand on top of your clothed cunt and starts rubbing, giggling as your panties quickly became soaked under the pressure of being pressed against your wet folds.

“Would you look at that,” He hums, his thumb rubbing over your clit gently, making you gasp. Your body squirms at the feeling, your hips shifting and your lips pressing together in hopes of muffling your noises.

“Looks like I have an extra shift tomorrow.” He pouts, rubbing more intensely now over your clit. Your breath hitched as you try to whimper out little protests, but all you could muster was moans and incoherent whines.

You didn’t have the energy to fight back. Their touch felt too good. Ricks hand on your pussy, Daryl massaging your breasts and pinching your nipples, you’re surprised you haven’t came in your panties yet.

“Rick.. Daryl..” You moan softly, leaning your head back against Daryl’s chest as his rough palms continue gliding over your breasts. A small hum leaves his mouth as he gently nuzzled his head into your neck, kissing and sucking gently. His fingers didn’t let up on his teasing, not stopping for even a second.

You barely had a chance to breathe with the double stimulation. Ricks hands were talented, rubbing eight figure onto your clit and succeeding in making you clench down on air.

“Please, please.” You let you a desperate little whine.

Rick snickers and shifts himself closer to you, more situated between your thighs, his face a couple of inches from yours now. His messy curls tickle your face as he leans down to apply more attention to your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Think she deserves to get her pussy open’d up?” Rick hums as he starts to pull your panties to the side, letting cold air brush against your sensitive cunt. You let out a shaky exhale at the feeling, feeling so wet and desperate for anything inside you.

The sight of Ricks bulge in his pants had you yearning for more, especially with the second bulge pressing against your lower back.

“She’s been a good girl so far, yeh.”

The southern man nods and looks at you with a grin. “How many fingers can you take?”

You blink slowly, not even sure how to answer that. You slowly looked down at his fingers, eyes narrowing. His fingers were thick, making you clench down on air.

“U-Uh, two? Three?” You say hesitantly. The question itself was embarrassing, how were you supposed to answer that?!

He hums in response, bringing his fingers closer and starting to slowly slide them inside you. He didn’t stop until they were fully inside, two of his thick fingers making you feel out of breath already.

”Deep breaths, sweetheart.” Daryl coo’s, giving your nipple a little tug.

“That hurts.” You pout as he gives another pinch and tug, making the two men chuckle.

Your pouting was replaced by a soft moan as Ricks fingers started thrusting in and out, as well as doing a scissoring motion that had your lips forming an ‘O’ shape.

His fingers were thrusting deeply, not giving you as break as they kept moving in and out of your wet pussy, dirty squelching noises filling the air as well as the smell of sex.

“That’s feels really good, please— wanna cum.” You gasped out, curling back into Daryl’s chest, craving both their touches on your body.

“Should we let her?” Rick tilts his head, delivering an extra sharp thrust that had you clenching down and crying out his name in a tone that his both their cocks stirring.

“She’s been’ pretty good, hasn’t she?” Daryl coo’s. His hands start to fondle your breasts more aggressively, one of his hands sliding down to focus on your clit as Rick keeps fingering you open.

You let out a happy sigh as Rick speeds up, his hand tightening it’s hold on your thigh that was holding you open. Daryl’s rubbing on your clit had you seeing starts, eyes rolling back and lips falling apart.

“Oh, please, yes— right there—!” You let out a soft gasp as a third finger joins your pussy, the small stretch sending you over the edge. You tighten down, a loud whine leaving you as you go slump and cum all over his thick fingers, your hands going to shakily grasp onto Daryl behind you.

You would’ve collapsed onto the floor if Daryl wasn’t holding you from behind, his large hand still gently rubbing your clit to let you ride through your high and get as much as a release as possible.

More cum came out, but after a moment you were laying back against him, your shaky legs in Ricks lap now being massaged tenderly. Their touch on you was delicate, almost as if they were afraid to hurt you. But you knew better, they were just waiting for the moment you are vulnerable and needy to use your body.

“Mmmmmh.” Your noises were muffled and incoherent as they both started to help you up, Rick helping you slide your clothes back on while Daryl gently kissed you and patted your messy hair. They were both gentle with their touches even after fingering the shit out of you.

“How you feel, sweetheart?” Rick whispers, straightening up and pulling you in by the waist, stealing your from Daryl. Daryl roll his eyes and huffs, watching from a distance as Rick slides his hands all over your body.

“Like I just got kidnapped and then fingered by two men.” You grumble, hesitantly curling into his chest. They had grown on you in the last ten minutes. Who knew having two large men put their hands inside you and fondle your breasts would have you warming up to their presence.

“..Good, cuz that’s what just happened to ya’.” Daryl retorts from behind you, giving your butt an extra squeeze. You flinch.

“Hey—“

Rick interrupts you with a kiss, not wanting a moment away from his pretty sluts body. His hand go back to wandering and find their way back into your breasts.

“Give her a break, moron.” Daryl’s huffs, tugging you back towards him. They were both literally fighting over you.

Rick rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically, his hands on his hips as he leans forward.

“Whatever,” He mutters before tapping your chin, alerting you. He maintains strong eye contact as he gives you a stern look, scowling.

“You’re staying with us, you hear me? You try to escape and we’ll tie you down in some shitty basement, you’re lucky you’re getting princess treatment from us.”

You shrink at his words, not knowing what to say in return. They had pretty much forced you into submission and were now.. kidnapping you?

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” You sigh, curling away from his touch with a pout. He scoffs and pulls you back in, snickering at your defeated time as he ruffles your hair, as if you were a kid.

“Good girl.” With a simple kiss to your forehead, he’s gone and you’re left alone in the dark room with Daryl behind you.

“Let’s get you tucked in.” He hums, turning you around so he can also give you a sweet kiss. The princess and rough treatment they both gave you was confusing. One second they were degrading and being bullies, the next, sweet forehead kisses and snuggles.

“Okay.” You say lamely.

Looks like this was your new home for the time being, being a little toy for these two men. I mean— at least they were considerate.