𐔌 ᛝ siouxxx .ᐟ 𐂯

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♡ Call of Duty, Rainbow Six, Valorant, Resident Evil

♡ History, Occultism, Esotericism & Mysticism

♡ Ethel Cain

♡ and whatever else has taken over my brain this week!

I have a ridiculous amount of OCs and will probably make a dedicated post for them later.

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Thx for stopping by. Grab a seat in the haunted waiting room and stay awhile.

The air at six in the evening was a thick, suffocating wall of exhaust fumes, blaring horns, and hundreds of vehicles locked in a brutal, bumper-to-bumper gridlock.

You had selected the cheapest ride tier on the app, resigning yourself to whatever miserable luck the algorithm threw your way. You just wanted out of the fluorescent purgatory of your office building.

Instead, grace purred up to the curb.

Caught dead in the middle of the torrential rush hour gridlock is a gleaming, obsidian Yamaha NMax. To anyone else, it's just a maxi-scooter navigating the chaos. But to you—whose feet are aching from a twelve-hour shift, and teetering on the absolute edge of a mental breakdown—that stepped dual-seat with its immaculate, glossy black cowl feels less like a commuter bike and more like a high-altitude chariot sent from the heavens.

And looming over the handlebars like a bored, lethal deity is your driver for the night.

His skull print balaclava covered everything except his brown eyes, a dark full-face helmet matched the deep gloss of his bike, and skeleton-hand-printed riding gloves gripped the heavy handlebars. Over his massive, imposing frame, he wore the regulation bright green Grab jacket—zipped halfway up, straining across broad shoulders like high-vis hazard tape draped over a granite wall.

You double-checked the license plate against your app. Simon.

​"You [name]?" he asks, his voice a low, resonant rumble cutting clean through the surrounding roar of traffic.

​Without waiting for an answer, he extends his arm, offering a clean, dark helmet your way.

Your fingers curl instinctively into the heavy cotton of his jacket as you swing your leg over the stepped seat, the solid bulk of him shifting just enough to balance the machine beneath you. Even through the dense layers of fabric, you can feel the rigid, unyielding line of his shoulder, hard muscle packed tight like granite, entirely unfazed by the weight of the city bearing down on them.

The engine purred—a deep, powerful vibration—and within seconds, the heavy NMax was swallowed by the chaotic, unyielding gridlock of rush hour.

For the first fifteen minutes, the ride was completely silent. Simon drove with a terrifying, effortless precision, weaving the heavy bike through millimeter gaps that made your stomach lurch. You sat stiffly behind him, your hands resting on the grab rails, trapped in the stifling heat and the lingering fury of your workday.

As the traffic ground to an absolute, unmoving standstill at a major intersection, Simon braced a heavy, booted foot on the asphalt. He reached up, adjusting his side mirror slightly, before his deep, gravelly voice cut through the noise of the street.

"How's your day?"

It was a standard customer service line. The polite, mandatory check-in of a driver trying to preserve a five-star rating. But there was a low, resonant rumble to his voice that made the back of your neck prickle.

You let out a heavy, defeated breath, dropping your forehead against the back of his neon jacket for just a second before catching yourself. "You have no idea. I feel like my brain is leaking out of my ears."

Simon didn't turn around, but you felt the faint shift of his chest as he huffed a quiet breath. "That bad, then.”

"It’s just... the sheer, unadulterated uselessness of it all," you started, your voice entirely neutral at first, just testing the waters. "Endless spreadsheets that nobody reads. Meetings to plan other meetings. And the passive-aggression. God, the passive-aggression is going to be my villain origin story..”

"...and I’m telling you, Simon—or whatever your name is on the app, I didn't check because I was too busy weeping into a lukewarm, overpriced latte and contemplating the structural integrity of my sanity—if Linda asks me one more time to circle back on deliverables for a project that doesn't even exist, I'm going to steal Linda's stapler off her desk and hurl the damn thing straight into a river!”

Simon doesn't turn his head. He shifts his weight slightly, his thigh muscle flexing under your knee as he effortlessly keeps the heavy scooter balanced in the gridlock without putting a foot down on the oily asphalt. A low, gravelly vibration rumbles straight through his chest and into your palms.

"Mmh," he grunts, his deep voice carrying easily over the din of a frustrated-looking delivery driver shouting at a taxi. "Fascinating, love. Watch the clutch on that scooter to our left, though. Bastard's trying to clip my mirror.”

“I don't give a flying fuck about his mirror! Are you even listening to me?! We haven't moved three inches in twenty minutes! We are stationary! We are part of the pavement now!"

It's been ten minutes of continuous, high-speed corporate venting, and something in Simon’s stoic armor starts to fracture.

He’d spent the last eight hours dealing with belligerent customers, missing drop-offs, and heat that felt like a physical weight, tuning out the world behind a wall of calculated silence. But your absolute, unfiltered descent into madness has slowly wormed its way past his defenses.

Instead of just grunting, he actually answers.

"Next time, don't just go feral on ‘em, love," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, slipping right under your skin. "Just smile real sweet, make 'em feel stupid, and let them hang themselves. Works every time."

"God, you're cynical," you huff, though a small, helpless laugh slips out against his spine.

"Pragmatic," he corrects, his eyes darting to the side-mirror.

A small, helpless laugh slipped past your lips. "You give deeply unhinged advice for a rideshare driver, Simon."

"Survival, darling," he murmured over his shoulder, the pet name dropping so effortlessly into the space between you that it took a second to register. "The system's rigged. You either adapt or you get ground down into dust. Looks like you're halfway to dust."

He was right. The crushing weight of the last twelve hours had hollowed you out, leaving you raw and exposed against the broad, unyielding shield of his back. Without realizing you were doing it, your hands slid off the rigid plastic grab rails and curled back into the thick, heavy cotton of his jacket, anchoring yourself to the only solid thing for miles.

Ahead of you, the red sea of brake lights stretched on toward the horizon, a glowing, stagnant grid of metal and misery.

The conversation flowed instantly after that. You complained about the suffocating bureaucracy, the impossible deadlines, the sheer weight of the daily grind. And every time, Simon countered with the most unhinged, intensely hyper competent advice you had ever heard. The invisible wall between driver and passenger completely dissolved. You were entirely focused on the banter, the hypnotic rumble of his chest, and the heat radiating off his broad back.

But as the clock ticked on, the traffic only worsened.

Eventually, the entire avenue locked up. Nothing moved. The air was thick and stagnant, the heat pressing down like a physical weight.

Simon let out a slow, heavy breath, shifting his weight on the bike. He reached up, rubbing the back of his thick neck before dropping his hand back to the throttle. He was tense. The easy banter had faded into a heavy, charged silence.

Simon watched you in the mirror for a long, quiet moment. The chaotic noise of the city seemed to dull down, leaving only the steady thrum of the engine vibrating beneath you.

"Tell you what," he murmured, his voice suddenly rougher, carrying a dark, dangerous undercurrent. 

"I've been gripping these handlebars for nine bloody hours. My shoulders are shot, I'm sick to death of looking at brake lights, and you’re wound so tight you've been vibrating against my spine for the last three miles."

He turned his head just slightly, his profile sharp against the glow of the streetlamps.

"I know a dead-end alley just off this next turn. Utterly empty. Complete privacy," Simon said, the offer hanging heavy and electric in the humid air. 

"We can sit here and let our brains melt out our ears... or we can pull over, kill the engine, and actually do something about all this pent-up tension. Both of us."

Your breath hitched. You looked up, catching his eyes in the mirror. They were completely blown out,, waiting for your answer. He wasn't joking. He was offering a mutual, desperate release from the suffocating pressure of the day.

Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "Take the turn.”

He flicked the indicator, wrenched the heavy handlebars to the left, and expertly squeezed the bike through a narrow gap between two stalled cars. The roar of the main road instantly faded as he navigated down a narrow, sun-baked alleyway, flanked by towering, windowless concrete walls.

It was completely swallowed in heavy twilight shadows. Isolated. Silent.

Simon hit the brakes, the bike coming to a smooth halt. He didn't hesitate. He cut the engine, the sudden absence of the mechanical hum making the quiet feel deafening. He stayed right where he was for a moment, wedged intimately between the front controls and your knees.

He swung his long leg over the front console, cutting a broad arc through the air, and kicked the center stand down with a heavy, definitive clack.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up. He pulled his dark helmet off, hooking it securely over the handlebar mirror, and you do the same.

His gloved hands caught the edge of his skull balaclava, stripping it off entirely and tossing it onto the console.

He was strikingly handsome, in a harsh, battered kind of way. Sharp jawline, stubble, eyes that missed absolutely nothing, and blonde hair stuck up in every direction from being under fabric all day.

"Right," Simon breathed out, turning fully to face you. He stepped in, his thick thighs pressing flush against the front of your knees, caging you in against the luxury stepped seat. He unzipped the bright green jacket halfway, revealing a tight black shirt underneath that clung to every ridge of muscle. "No more talk about Linda or work, darling."

"No more talk," you agreed breathlessly, your hands instinctively rising to grip the heavy lapels of his jacket.

Simon’s large, bare hands came up to cup your face, his calloused thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "I need this just as badly as you do," he murmured, his hot breath ghosting over your lips. "Been wanting to get my hands on you since you first pressed your chest against my back.”

You stared up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Are you... usually this accommodating to your passengers?"

His voice was low as he gazed down to your lips, "Only the ones who make it impossible to keep my eyes on the road." Then he leaned in and captured your mouth, the kiss urgent, deep, and deeply consuming.

It instantly short-circuited whatever remaining thoughts you had about your job. You moaned into his mouth, and he took absolute control, his tongue sweeping past your teeth, tasting faintly of mint and dark coffee. His large hands slid down from your face, one gripping the back of your neck to hold you in place, the other dropping to your waist, his fingers digging into your hip with a possessive, grounding strength.

"Fuck, you've got so much noise in you, don't you?" he rasps against your mouth, pulling back just an inch to look down at you, his chest heaving. His thumb presses hard into your hip, anchoring you to the leather. "All that yapping, all that stress... Let's see how long that mouth stays running when I give you a better distraction."

You cling to his shoulders, your legs parting instinctively as he steps directly between them, pressing his heavy weight forward. The stark contrast between the freezing air-conditioned office you'd fled and the electric heat radiating off his body makes your head spin.

"Simon—wait! What if someone walks by—" you breathe out, your warning turning into a sharp hitch of breath as his large hand sweeps down your thigh, sliding under the hem of your skirt to grip your ass. His calloused palm scorches against your skin, fingers digging into the supple flesh.

"Nobody's coming down this alley, darling. And if they do, let 'em look," he taunts, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that shakes right through your bones.

He hooks his arm under your knee, hiking your leg up around his hip so you're flush against him. The sudden friction makes you let out a breathless, broken sound, your fingers digging hard into the padded shoulders of his jacket.

"There it is," he murmurs, a dark, pleased edge to his smirk as he pushes into you, heavy and searing hot. "That's the sound I wanted to hear instead of that office bullshit."

You mewl as you feel his erection press against you, you could feel how hard and huge he was, even through the layers of fabric. Without breaking contact, his large hands dropped lower, hooking into the thick waistband of his heavy denim. The low rasp of metal teeth sliding down cut sharply through the heavy silence of the alley. With a slow, deliberate shift of his weight, he shrugged the heavy fabric down until it pooled around his legs.

Holy fuck—He was big. Really big. Years of heavy labor and genetics made him thick everywhere, including there.

A thumb tugs your panties to the side, strands of your arousal sticking to the fabric before it breaks and pools under you on the leather of his bike’s seat. “Christ, you’re dripping already.” No shit, Sherlock!

He wraps a hand around the base of his cock, jerking it a few times, coating it with his pre before shifting closer, positioning himself between your thighs.

You let out an embarrassingly filthy moan as he runs the tip along your folds, your cunt clenching over cold air. The only sounds were of your heavy breaths, the still so aggressive traffic outside the alley—and the occasional rat skittering by.

Simon slid into you deep, slow and unyielding, stretching you open with an effortless weight that stole whatever breath you had left. The wet, slick sound of it echoed off the damp brick walls around you, entirely exposed in the quiet dark of the alley.

“Tha’s it, baby..” He cooed, settling deep inside you.

He sets a slow, punishing rhythm right there in the shadows of the alley, his bike rocking slightly under the weight of you both. Every measured, driving thrust pushes you deeper back against the seat, knocking the wind straight out of your lungs and washing away every last stray, anxious thought about spreadsheets, deadlines, and meetings until nothing exists except the friction of his body and the low, rough cadence of his voice in your ear.

"Look at you, taking it all like a good girl," he murmurs, his hot breath ghosting over your earlobe as he grips your hip tighter, bruising your skin in the best possible way. "So tight around me, love.. Fuckin’ soaking cause a bloke on a bike gave you ten minutes of his time, eh?"

"Shut up—fuck, Simon—" you pant, your vision blurring at the edges as the frantic, dizzying heat builds behind your ribs, rising up from your toes and pooling in a tight, unbearable knot.

"Keep your eyes on me," he demands, his gaze locking onto yours with absolute command. "Don't you dare look away now."

He didn't bother with anything slow or gentle. The alleyway was practically radiating with the frantic, pent-up energy of two exhausted people at their absolute breaking point. And then his hands were under your hips, lifting you slightly off the stepped leather seat.

"Wrap your legs around me."

You obeyed instantly, hooking your calves around the thick muscle of his waist. The moment you were secure, Simon pushed into you, a long, heavy, driving thrust that seated him impossibly deep, his tip knocking against your cervix.

"Simon– fuck—" you choked out, your hands gripping onto him like a lifeline.

"I've got you," he breathed against you, his grip on your hips turning punishingly tight. "I've got you, baby."

He set a brutal, punishing pace, the heavy bike rocking on its center stand beneath you. Every deep, measured thrust completely washing away the stress from your head. There was nothing left in the world but the smell of his cologne, the rough scrape of his stubble against your neck, and the desperate, heavy rhythm he was setting.

He was completely relentless, entirely focused on driving every single ounce of tension out of your body.

"Taking it so fuckin’ good.. Still worrying about your inbox? Or is your head finally empty?"

"It is, it is, don't stop—" you begged, completely coming undone under his hands, the frantic heat building behind your ribs until it felt like physical pressure.

"Wasn't planning on it," he burred.

The heat in your tummy began to build up until it felt unbearable, your legs and thighs locking up–pulling him impossibly closer as you near your impending release.

“Si- Si! ‘m gonna cum!” You squealed against him, tears prickling the corner of your eyes.

A few more deep strokes, and your climax hits you like an electric shock. You cried out, your body going completely rigid against him, milking every last inch of him as your orgasm ripped through you in tight, shuddering pulses.

Simon’s thrusts grew erratic, and he bit back a curse as his massive frame shuddered violently, pulling out and spending himself over your thighs. He held you tight against his chest for a moment, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his breathing turned harsh against your skin.

For a long, suspended eternity, the only sound in the dead-end alley was the distant, muffled hum of traffic and the heavy, synchronized sync of your gasping breaths.

Slowly, the world reassembled itself. The brutal heat in your blood began to recede, leaving you completely boneless and trembling against the leather seat, your legs still locked loosely around his waist.

"Better?" he asked, his voice nothing more than a rough, exhausted whisper, cutting off your trance.

You let out a weak, breathy laugh, resting your cheek against his heavy shoulder. "Much better."

Simon moved with an unhurried, methodical calm, pulling the denim up his thighs and securing the metal snap and heavy zip with practiced ease. 

Simon turned back to the bike's console, pulling his balaclava back over his head and settling his dark helmet securely into place. He swung his leg back over the seat, his massive frame settling in front of you once more as he kicked the center stand up.

"Get your skirt straight," he says quietly as he swings his leg back over the bike and turns the key in the ignition. "We still got to get you home."

He didn't turn around, but he caught your eyes in the rearview mirror, a distinct, satisfied curve crinkling the corners of his eyes behind the visor as he watched you pull out your phone with shaking fingers, tapped a five-star rating onto the app screen, and added a heavy, well-deserved tip for exceptional service.

The midday heat was a physical weight, pressing down on the roof and turning the inside of the house into a stifling, breathless kiln. Above, the ceiling fan clicked in a slow, rhythmic rotation, doing absolutely nothing but lazily stirring the humid air. You were already sweating through your clothes when the water dispenser let out a pathetic, hollow gurgle, signaling the absolute end of its supply.

Then came the salvation: the sputtering idle of a heavy motorbike engine cutting through the heavy afternoon lethargy, followed by the metallic scrape of a kickstand hitting the pavement and the distinct, hollow thud of heavy plastic jugs colliding in their metal racks.

Footsteps approached the gate, heavy and purposeful.

"Delivery, hen."

The voice was a low, gravelly rumble, the thick Scottish burr a jarring, hypnotic contrast to the tropical swelter of the afternoon.

John MacTavish pushed the gate open. A man built like a brick house, looking entirely out of place yet utterly devastating as your local tukang galon. The punishing sun had bitten into his skin, painting his shoulders and arms a warm, golden bronze. He wore a faded, dark t-shirt that had long since surrendered to the heat, clinging tenaciously to the broad, carved planes of his chest and the heavy dip of his collarbones. The sleeves were pushed up, putting the heavy, carved lines of his arms on full display, the scattered, faded silver of old scars glistening with a sheer layer of sweat.

He didn't even look strained. With a terrifying, effortless grace, John hoisted the massive nineteen-liter blue jug onto his shoulder. The muscles in his neck and jaw flexed, drawing your eyes to the damp strands of his mohawk sticking to his forehead.

"Straight to the kitchen, then?" he asked, a knowing, wicked little smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he caught you staring.

"Y-Yeah," you managed to say, your throat completely dry. "Kitchen is good."

He stepped past you, bringing with him the scent of hot pavement, clean sweat, and something inherently, dangerously masculine. You watched the flex of his back as he carried the heavy jug across the cool ceramic tiles, setting it down next to the empty dispenser with a heavy thud that seemed to rattle the floorboards.

"Right," you muttered, shaking yourself out of the haze. "Let me just grab my wallet."

You turned to the counter, popping open the clasp of your purse. You dug your fingers into the main compartment, expecting the familiar crisp edge of a banknote. Nothing. You rummaged deeper, pulling open the side zipper. A few useless coins clinked against each other. Panic began to prickle at the back of your neck. You grabbed your phone, opening your banking app with frantic thumbs, only to be met with a brightly colored screen informing you of a painfully insufficient balance.

The silence in the kitchen suddenly felt incredibly loud.

You turned around slowly. John was leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his massive chest, watching you. The amusement in his striking blue eyes was palpable.

"Everything alright over there?" he drawled, his head tilting just a fraction.

"Uh, I..." You swallowed hard, the oppressive heat of the room suddenly feeling a lot more suffocating. "I'm so sorry. I thought I had cash, and my account is—I can't pay you today. Can I transfer it to you tomorrow? Or next week?"

He didn't sigh. He didn't look annoyed, or frustrated, or put out. John thought for a moment, until eventually, a wicked idea seemed to cross his mind.

He uncrossed his arms and pushed off the counter. The heavy tread of his boots closed the distance between you in two agonizingly slow strides. He didn't stop until he was standing right in front of you, trapping you between the counter at your back and the solid, towering wall of his chest.

The heat radiating off his body was entirely different from the stifling weather outside. It was electric, pulling the air straight from your lungs.

"Dinna fash yerself," John murmured, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into a rough, breathy register that sent a shiver straight down your spine despite the heat. He braced one large, calloused hand on the counter right beside your hip, caging you in. He leaned down, his face so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck. "Times are tough. I'm a reasonable man."

He lifted his other hand, a single, rough knuckle brushing away a bead of sweat from your collarbone. The touch was agonizingly light, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

"I'm sure," he whispered, his blue eyes dropping to your lips, dark and completely blown out with intent, "we can come up with some... alternative method of payment."

The air in the kitchen felt thick enough to choke on, but you couldn't draw a breath anyway. Not with John looking at you like that.

Before you could formulate a response, his hand shifted from the counter, his large, calloused palm wrapping firmly around your waist. His grip was an anchoring weight, pulling you flush against him. The shock of it—the hard, unyielding wall of his torso, the damp cotton of his shirt against your skin, the radiating furnace of his body heat—made a quiet gasp slip past your lips.

John took it as an invitation.

He didn't hesitate. His mouth came down on yours, stealing whatever air was left in your lungs. It wasn't a gentle, exploring kiss; it was hungry, demanding, and immediate, matching the oppressive, heavy heat of the afternoon. You tasted salt, sweat, and something dark and intoxicatingly sweet.

Your hands came up instinctively, fingers tangling in the damp material of his t-shirt before sliding up to grip his broad shoulders. His muscles shifted beneath your touch, corded and tense as he crowded you back completely against the edge of the kitchen counter. His other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his thick fingers tangling in your hair to tilt you exactly where he wanted you, deepening the kiss until your head spun.

The contrast of his skin was dizzying. The hand holding the back of your neck was still slightly cool from carrying the chilled water jug, sending a shiver down your spine, but his mouth was a brand, hot and insistent. He groaned, a low, vibrating sound deep in his chest that you felt all the way down to your toes.

Suddenly, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. With a singular, effortless motion, he hoisted you up, setting you down on the cool ceramic tiles of the kitchen counter. The sudden elevation brought you eye-level with him, and he didn't waste a second stepping right into the space between your knees, caging you in completely.

"Christ," he breathed roughly against your lips, his Scottish burr thick and heavy with raw desire. "You're killing me in this heat."

You didn't wait for him to ask. Your hands gripped the hem of his damp t-shirt, pulling it upward. John broke the kiss just long enough to oblige, crossing his arms and ripping the fabric over his head in one swift motion before tossing it blindly over his shoulder. It hit the floor with a soft, heavy thud. God, he was fucking huge.

Without the shirt, the sheer scale of him was overwhelming. His chest was broad and sculpted, slick with a sheen of sweat that caught the dim light filtering through the kitchen window. Thick, prominent veins branched across his heavy biceps and crawled over his broad shoulders, stark against his sun-bronzed skin, breaking only for a scattering of faded, jagged scars that told stories of a completely different life.

He stepped back in close, the bare skin of his stomach and chest brushing against you. His hands slid from your hips, his rough palms dragging a agonizingly slow path up your sides. He leaned in, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline before dropping to the sensitive crook of your neck. Every scrape of his teeth, every brush of his rough stubble against your skin sent a shockwave of static electricity through your veins.

He nipped at the spot right above your pulse point, making you arch into him with a helpless sound. John chuckled against your skin, the sound dark, victorious, and completely ragged as his hands moved exactly where he wanted them next. Then it was your turn for your shirt to be shrugged right off your head, you didn't wear anything else underneath due to the heat, and the Scot let out a whistle at the sight of you. "Look at you..." he breathed out, his voice dropping an octave into a rough, low growl. His blue eyes dragged slowly up and down your bare skin, burning with a hunger that completely swallowed the stifling heat of the room. His hand immediately found it's way to cup your breast, kneading the soft flesh and earning a breathy whine from you. He leaned in to leave more open mouthed kisses down the valley of your breaths, nipping with his teeth and soothing each spots right after with his tongue. And eventually, his mouth found it's way to your nipple. The contact sends shivers right down your spine, making your cunt ache. His other hand kept kneading and playing with your other breast, making sure they received equal attention. The hand on your hip made its way to tug at your shorts, and you lifted your hips so he could yank it off of you along with your soaked panties. The damp skin of your bare ass made a thwack as it hit the cool tiles of the counter.

"Fuck, yer soaked through. And it's no' just the weather doin' that to ye, is it?" He says, taking a sharp inhale and running a thumb through your wet folds, fuck, that felt good. It had you instinctively spreading apart your thighs for him. His finger circled your clit for a second, testing for a reaction. Your greedy pussy was already desperate and clenching around nothing. "Patience, hen. Let me have ye properly first." He cooed, his mouth finding it's way back to your neck, and his fingers finally sank into your warmth—thick, and stretching you apart even better than you could ever do when touching yourself. You let out a mewl, his body pressing up against yours, a little humiliated at the compromising position (and the fact you couldn't pay for a stupid jug of water). He groans against your slick, sweat-drenched skin, feeling the frantic, desperate hitch of your breath and the tight swallow of your throat right beneath his lips as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, curling it in the right places. You whine as he pulls out his fingers, dragging you on the counter by your thighs with little effort and holding them apart. "Fuck, I need a taste of ye.. Open up for me, darlin'." He licks a long stripe up your sobbing pussy, your thighs lock tight around his head with a sharp shiver, and a breathless, high cry breaks past your lips. "Aah! F- Fuck- Johnny~!" You mewled, lost entirely against the hot, heavy air of the kitchen. Your hands come down to grab blindly at his head, fingers clawing for anything to anchor to, only to slide uselessly off the shaved sides of his scalp until you finally fist your hands in the stubborn strip of his mohawk, tugging hard enough to draw a harsh, approving groan straight from his chest. He devours you filthily, tongue prodding and reaching all the right spots it made you see stars behind your eyelids. And his fucking stubble, it poked your ass everytime he went deeper, causing your hips to jump. John finally pulls away after a while, your slick coating his lips and chin until he wipes it off with the back of his hand. "Alright then.. Time to settle the tab."

His hands dropped from your thighs, moving down between you with a deliberate, unhurried slowness that made your breath catch. With one sharp yank, he pulled the heavy leather belt free from his loops, letting the metal buckle clink loudly against the counter before he tossed it aside.

He didn't look away from your face, even for a single second, his gaze dark and unblinking as he let the belt hit the floor with a dull, weighted thud. In the same fluid motion, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his jeans. With a slow, deliberate downward pull that made the heavy fabric drag heavily over the stark lines of his hips and thighs, he stripped them away, kicking them unceremoniously aside. "Look at what yer doin' to me. Yer drivin' me mental." He drawls, taking your hand to palm him through his boxers. He was hard, and huge, precum stained the fabric where his tip was angrily pressing up against. He tugged his boxers off, his cock springing free from it's restraints—angry and leaking. You could barely wrap your hands around it as you lazily stroked him, a groan leaving his mouth. "Wan' you, Johnny… Please…" You pleaded, the words slipping out in a choked, desperate whisper as the heat completely burned away whatever pride you had left. This wasn't even about the payment anymore; the debt, the delivery, the stifling kitchen—it all melted away into nothing, leaving only the frantic need to bridge the distance between you. A rough sound rumbled deep in his chest—half a laugh, entirely a growl. "Aye? Is that right, hen?"

He caught your jaw in his calloused hand, tilting your face up so you had nowhere to hide, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unapologetic possession.

"Dinna worry, pet. I wasna goin' anywhere without givin' ye every last bit o' what ye're askin' for."

His thumb dragged across your lower lip, wiping away the hitch of your breath before he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tasted like pure danger and heavy, suffocating heat. His weight settled fully against you, driving the remaining air from your lungs as he hooked a heavy arm under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly to lock you tighter against him. The stretch felt agonizingly good, you felt full even when not even half of him was in you! Your sopping cunt immediately clenched tightly around him, as if you were trying to pull him in closer. "A'right? Yer doin' so damn well for me, darlin'. Keep breathin' for me." He cooed, running his fingers through your damp hair. His voice and his hands grounded you, reminding you that everything is very much real and not just a dream. "Christ, yer so tight.. Fuck, so bonnie like this." You let out a long moan as he buried himself fully into you, he stilled for a moment, trying to keep himself from cumming fast because of how tight you were. Then he's just fucking rough, unforgiving. Your teeth knock against each other with the first thrust, hands coming up to claw at his sweat slicked skin. He knocks the air right out of your lungs, filthy moans leaving your lips with every time his dick bumps against that one spot inside of your warm, gummy walls. "Hah- Ah! Please, please- Hngh~!" You pleaded, tears prickling hot at the corners of your eyes and a shameful, heavy drop of drool slipping unheeded to wet the corner of your lips. "Look at you, begging like a good wee pet. Forgot all about the debt, didn't you? So eager to pay me back with your body." You couldn't say anything, just nodding frantically as all pride is completely stripped off of you. Maybe, just maybe, you've been dreaming of this moment—him fucking you dumb against the kitchen counter or the couch of your living room—Touching yourself while you imagined it, playing innocent whenever he came to drop off water. "Well, look at that. You’ve been plottin' on me this whole time, haven't ye, hmm? And here I thought ye were just in a rush." The rough movements of his hips hitting your ass—damp with sweat from the heat of the weather and the sex—made a repeating sound of plap, plap, plap ring across the kitchen, your pussy wet and dripping onto the counter. "Look at the state of you.. Fuckin' wet, hell, you're shakin'.. And all for a bloke you couldn't even afford to pay. Fuck, you're pathetic, and you're gorgeous." He chuckled, tilting his head in amusement at you. The knot in your stomach tightens and burns at your impending release, incoherent babbles leaving your mouth, fucked stupid on his thick cock. "Fuck... you're squeezing me so damn tight, gunna make a mess of us both. Hah- you're close aren't ya? Cum for me darlin'.. Show me how good I make you feel." His thrusts grow more frantic and sloppy, trying to chase his own climax. He grabs you closer by the hip and holds one of your knees up against your chest, and your body decides it's all you can take—Squeezing so tight around him as you orgasm—as if you wanted to suck the soul out of him. "Oh, I'm right behind ye, darlin'. Good fuckin' girl.. Feel good doesn't it, eh?" He groans out, thrusting a few more times before pulling out, spilling his load all over your stomach and thighs, the sudden empty ache making your lower belly clench reflexively. The sudden, ringing quiet in the room felt heavier than anything that came before it, the brutal heat rushing back into your skin in a dizzy, overexposed wave.

You lay completely boneless against on the counter, your chest heaving with shallow, shuddering gasps as your pulse hammered a frantic, deafening rhythm behind your ears. The sweat coating your skin felt instantly cold as the air hit it, making you shiver despite the lingering fever in your blood. Every nerve ending felt raw, hyper-sensitive, and humming with a lingering, static shock that made the edges of your vision blur at the corners.

Above you, Johnny was a heavy, comforting dead-weight, his breath coming in hot, ragged puffs. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you spoke—just letting the world tilt back into focus as the room slowly stopped spinning and the sharp, dizzy edge of the peak faded into a deep, heavy ache in your bones.

Slowly, Johnny shifted his weight, his heavy palms pushing off the cold, cluttered surface of the counter right beside your hips. The sudden loss of his heat made you shiver, a gooseflesh ripple chasing over your sweat-slicked skin as he braced himself. He lingered there for a beat, wedged right between your splayed knees, his chest still heaving as he looked down at the absolute wreckage he’d made of you against your own kitchen counter.

He stepped back just an inch, his ice-blue eyes sweeping down over your flushed, trembling body—draped over the edge of the counter, completely undone—before he reached down and scooped up his discarded jeans and heavy belt from the floor where they'd been kicked aside in the rush.

With practiced, unhurried movements, he stepped back into his trousers, the metal snap of his button and the rasp of his zipper cutting sharply through the quiet. He didn't bother tucking in his shirt, letting the hem hang loose over his waist.

"Well," he muttered, his voice still thick and rough with the aftershocks of it. He reached out with one calloused thumb, giving your chin a brief, rough nudge upward so you had to meet his gaze, forcing you to look at the man who had just completely dismantled you.

He let his thumb trail down your jawline before dropping his hand. " Don't go losin' sleep over the ledger, hen. The tab's cleared… and honestly? Think we can call future installments cancelled, too. At least till ye learn how to play fair."

You blinked up at him, chest still rising and falling in shallow hitches, too boneless and wrecked to even muster a sarcastic reply.

A slow, crooked smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth at your silence. He reached behind him, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugging it on as he started toward the front.

"Get some rest, pet," he called back over his shoulder, his boots clicking against the floorboards before the heavy front door swung shut behind him, leaving you lying right there on the cooling counter in the quiet dark.

Author's Note:

I honestly didn't mean for this to spiral quite this far out of control, but here we are! What started as a quick little concept ended up taking ages to claw its way out of my brain, and it came out way longer than I ever originally planned. It's a bit messy but I hope you still like it :))

This whole thing was specifically requested by one of my absolute most loyal followers (you know who you are) thank you for sticking by me through every single delay and brainrot spiral, and it was directly inspired by THIS video we stumbled across that immediately hijacked my thoughts until I had no choice but to write Johnny with this idea.