𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 || det. jimmy baxter x reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || you figured a detective didn't get much joy out of talking to a streetwalker, even if it was a necessary evil to get information; and while you weren't jumping at the chance to be a snitch, you at least found your dynamic with the stoic detective somewhat... entertaining.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 6.7k
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || HEAVY DUBCON SMUT (18+ only), coercion (hence the heavy dubcon), oral m receiving, overstimulation, some hair pulling, very inappropriate use of handcuffs, prostitution (duh), infidelity + wedding ring kink (yeahhh I'm going to hell), wee bit of misogyny ('bitch' specifically), arguably a dark version of the grumpy x sunshine trope, generally dark themes even outside of the sexual element
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 || back by absolutely no demand, another rami character fic - you don't need to know anything about this movie or character to read the fic, he's just a cop who is not this corrupt canonically but def questionable and most importantly very very hot with anger issues <3
You smirked to yourself when you saw the familiar car slow down, sending waves through the inky-black puddles of rain by the pavement. You approached it perhaps a bit too eagerly, your heels making a click-clack on the ground with each step.
The light coming from the barred windows of businesses nearby, nearly all closed by now, was harsh and cold yet still somehow not bright enough: they cast a heavy shadow inside the car, leaving only the hand on the wheel visible, but you knew who was driving.
He rolled the window down, and you leaned down to look in with a tilted grin. “Good evening, handsome,” you greeted.
“Just get in,” he responded flatly.
“Now, that’s no way to woo a young lady,” you scolded playfully; you still couldn’t really see his face in the dark, but you could see his jaw tighten as he turned his head towards the road ahead, and you could all but hear him roll his eyes.
“Do you always have to make this difficult?” he grumbled.
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m easy,” you joked as you opened the door and hopped in. As he pulled the car away, the light shifted up his face to give you a better look at him— not that he looked any different from last time. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Detective?”
“I don’t know about pleasure,” he began, taking the car around a turn.
“I do,” you assured, but he brushed off the joke.
He did answer your question, though. “Just need to know if you’ve seen somebody.”
“Who?”
“Somebody I’m looking for,” he answered cryptically, entirely unbothered by your curiosity.
Jimmy Baxter wasn’t a very laidback person, to put it incredibly lightly. He always exuded this stressed energy when you were around him… whether or not it was because you were around him you couldn’t really be sure, it’s not like you ever saw him in any other context. And he had a sort of paranoid edginess: for starters, he usually didn’t want to start talking until he’d found a quiet spot, even though the car provided just as much privacy whether it was moving or not. But even if it was a bit illogical of him, the silence didn’t bother you— so with a shrug, you looked ahead and let yourself get comfortable. You leaned back a bit in the passenger seat, crossing your legs at the ankle as you slid them up on the dashboard.
“Hey, shoes off the dash,” he corrected instantly. You frowned but obeyed, crossing your arms instead, letting your head fall to the side to watch the city roll by. It wasn’t much to look at, of course, especially with this horrible weather: not actually raining but constantly threatening to, the muggy air and damp pavement certainly not doing the smell of the neighborhood any favors. It was just like LA, though, to hardly get any rain yet taunt us all with it from time to time.
After a few minutes, he turned into an alleyway; it was dark and narrow, but at the other end you could see an empty lot, a fenced-in field that seemed to stretch out all the way to the highway.
Once he’d parked the car and turned it off, he turned slightly in his seat to face towards you, though he still didn’t look at you directly. “Heard anything about a corner girl, Elizabeth Glasgal?” he asked. He made everything sound so formal, like you were being interrogated— not aggressively, just his tone always put you on the spot.
“Believe it or not, Detective, we don't really introduce ourselves with government names in this industry,” you answered.
He reached into his jacket, taking a photo out of the inner pocket; passing it to you, you held it at the corners. A redheaded girl posed with a proud smile on her face and a medal around her neck; your limited knowledge of sports uniforms left you about 80% sure this was some kind of volleyball tournament she’d earned that medal for. “She went by Betty,” he added.
“I was expecting a mugshot,” you admitted.
“She never got arrested… the corner girl thing, it’s just a rumor,” he replied, turning away again to look out the window, though there was nothing of interest to see.
“You picked me up for a rumor?”
“A very strong rumor.”
You sighed a little, looking out your window as well. You could hear distant voices echoing, the kind where you couldn’t tell if the yells and screeches were from laughter or a fight. A few men walked together down the street ahead, parallel to the car, and they looked in your direction. Even though they surely couldn’t see anything at this distance, you felt a nervous kind of twist in your chest. Maybe you couldn’t make fun of him for being a bit paranoid now…
“She had a tattoo,” he continued, bringing your mind back to the conversation. “Bradley, on her ankle.”
You looked lower on the photo at where Betty’s socks covered her ankle, not that you knew if she already had the tattoo when the picture was taken; she looked a bit too milquetoast for something like that anyway. “Bradley, huh? Boyfriend?” you assumed. “You should be talking to him, shouldn’t you?”
“Bradley was her younger brother, he died when he was four,” Baxter corrected flatly.
You swallowed, losing a bit of your attitude. Even if you didn’t know what these rumors were that had him so confident this girl was turning tricks, you would be a little less surprised to see such a sweet-looking girl on the streets after going through something like that. It’s not like grief turns you into a hooker overnight, but most people you knew had a name like that— someone they lost. Even if it wasn’t literally tattooed onto them. “Runaway?” you guessed.
He just nodded.
“This isn’t really a good picture,” you announced, and he looked at you with his brows pushed together. “I mean, it’s a nice picture, I just mean this probably isn’t how she looked when she was working.”
“Yeah, no shit,” he rolled his eyes as he snatched the photo away, tucking it into his jacket pocket again.
Up ahead, a man and woman walked around the corner, coming towards the car. Your heart started to beat a bit faster, and you shifted in closer to the console between you and the detective, trying to avoid the yellow light spilling in your window.
“I don’t have a lot to give you, but if you know anything…” he began, but you weren’t listening; you watched the man and woman walk by, turning your head to keep looking at them as they passed. They never looked in the car, but you couldn’t shake the anxiousness.
“Can we go somewhere else?” you asked quickly.
“No, just tell me,” he pressed, “did you see her? Or hear about her, at all?”
“Hear what about her?”
“So you did know she was working around here,” he assumed, sounding a bit proud of himself.
“Maybe,” you responded, as non-committal as possible; your focus had been pulled away as a door in the alley opened to let out some faint music and a stream of, if you had to guess, drunks looking for their next stop on a barhop. You swallowed as you watched them come closer.
“You hear about something happening to her?” he pushed again.
“No, but if you're asking me about her, I don't expect anything good happened to Miss Betty,” you noticed with a frown.
“I don't know yet. Just missing,” he sighed slightly. Your mind was totally elsewhere by now, your eyes darting around the crowd as it spread out into the street.
“There’s too many people here,” you announced.
“Don’t worry about them,” he soothed— not that it was particularly soothing.
“Seriously, somebody sees me talking to a cop, they'll fucking beat the shit out of me,” you hissed, looking back at him for the first time in a while.
“And how will they know I’m a cop?” he challenged.
“Uh, by looking at you?” you scoffed, glancing up and down over him.
“It’s not like I’m in uniform!” he argued.
But the suit, the haircut, the tight shave, even just the look on his face; to you, it seemed so obvious. Then again, your profession sometimes relied on being able to spot them more easily than most. “You might as well be,” you decided.
He exhaled quickly through his nose, but he sat up and turned the key in the ignition, making you smile a bit. “I can go a couple more blocks East—” he began to offer.
“No, I know a place,” you insisted.
“I don't have time to chat with you all night.”
“It's close, just take a left and go a few minutes down the road,” you pleaded.
He relented with a sigh as he put the car back in gear.
You directed him as he drove, and you kept your promise that it was barely a two-minute drive away; “Here,” you pointed to it as you came up on the entrance, though the trees blocked your view until he was already mostly turned in.
He was quite unimpressed when he saw the motel. “Oh, you've got to be kidding,” he groaned, watching with disgust as working girls wandered around the parking lot, some of them leading men into rooms.
“Park by number eight,” you instructed, and he leaned down to get a better look at the numbers on the doors while noticeably trying not to watch the people entering them.
“Somebody sees me here, we have a problem,” he complained.
“Nobody sees anybody here, trust me,” you assured with a wink before you got out of the car.
He reluctantly followed you, looking down, apparently trying to be inconspicuous. You decided not to remind him how his suit made him stick out like a sore thumb, just unlocking the door with the key from your back pocket and letting him in first.
You sat on the bed and watched him look around the room for a moment— of course it was hideous and reeked of cigarettes, but it served its purpose— waiting for him to start the conversation again. He didn’t, actually, or at least not as fast as you thought he would… he just looked at you for a little while.
“I don't want you out there,” he broke the silence suddenly. “Not right now.”
“Because of Betty?” you scoffed. “She might still turn up, you know. And you need me out there,” you reminded him, “or I wouldn't have any good information.”
“Just lay low for a while,” he suggested. “Take a break.”
“I already used up all my vacation time this year,” you replied sarcastically.
“I'm serious.”
You watched his face and yes, he was serious, you could tell. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him not serious, but this still felt different. As you stood up and stepped a little closer, he refused to meet your gaze. “You're worried about me?” you noticed.
His arms were crossed tight and his jaw was clenched, his eyes staring so intently at the lamp on the bedside table just to run away from your gaze; you laughed a little, coming up closer to him again. You were so used to talking to him in the car, it felt different to not have something between you.
“We've known each other a long time,” you reminded him, “you know I can handle myself.”
“Yes, I was the one who had to get you out of battery charges when you broke a john's finger,” he remembered, sounding just as irritated by the situation now as he had when it actually happened months ago. He actually looked back at you then, with slightly narrowed eyes.
“And dislocated his kneecap,” you added proudly.
“Look, this guy— if this is who I think it is,” he returned to his original point, “he’s not just some creep. He’s extremely violent, he’s sneaky, creative. And you’re his type.”
You raised your eyebrows and tilted your head. “And what type is that?”
“Pretty face,” he answered plainly.
Detective Baxter was an interesting guy— he surprised you sometimes, certainly— but he’d never totally caught you off-guard before like that. He was looking right at you so he probably noticed that your eyes widened a bit, but you swallowed and tried to shake it off.
“Tell me what you heard about her,” he insisted with a short nod.
“All I heard about was a redhead,” you countered. “Runaway from the suburbs, bad habits.”
“Drugs?” he assumed.
“I mean with the work,” you clarified. “Unsafe habits. Going with johns to unknown locations, hanging out in rougher parts of town…”
“So you heard about her going missing?” he continued, struggling to hide his eagerness.
Instead of answering, you smiled. It’s not that you didn’t care about his case, but you couldn’t ignore the opportunity revealing itself to you. “I know that look,” you cooed, taking one step closer to him again. “I know it's getting to you. Don't tell me you already promised her family.”
His face didn’t change at all, it was his silence that gave it away.
“Rookie move,” you tutted, shaking your head. “Now you’re attached. Now it’s emotional for you.”
“So?” he shot back defensively.
“So, as everyone in my industry knows,” you purred, “once emotions get involved, no price is too high.”
Though he was still trying not to react, his lip twitched, just a ghost of a sneer that came and went in a moment.
You crossed your arms, studying him before you really started your negotiation. “You want to know about that girl, you'll have to pay up. Big.”
He shook his head. “That’s not how this works,” he informed you firmly. “Information I can use, flat rate, no bonuses.”
“Not even if I know she had a regular?” you wagered.
“Useless if I can’t find him,” he dismissed.
“You can find him,” you promised, “if I tell you the model and color of his car.”
He startled you by grabbing you by the neck, pulling you in even closer and staring wildly at your eyes— trying to guess, apparently, if you were lying or not. You laughed a bit, realizing he was even more desperate than you realized; that is to say, he was even more vulnerable.
He couldn’t seem to tell so easily if you were making it up. “Don’t play with me,” he warned you, but his growing frustration only egged you on.
“Oh, Detective, I wouldn’t do that to you,” you smirked, before adding: “for free, anyway.”
His hand dropped from your neck, leaving you inexplicably disappointed. “What do you want?” he finally asked, though he looked no less than furious that he even let himself ask that.
“Double,” you answered.
“Not a fucking chance,” he responded instantly. You leaned in closer, noticing that his eyes darted to your lips before you even started properly taunting him.
“Then maybe I didn't see anything,” you whispered sharply.
Not even a second later, he grabbed and spun you around, slamming you against the wall so hard you grunted and winced. “Do you always have to make this difficult?” he asked you; the same words he’d said when he picked you up before, yet they sounded completely different with his voice just by your ear.
You took a second to catch your breath after he knocked the wind out of you, but you still smiled despite the dull soreness in your temple where it was pressed to the faded wallpaper. “What’s got you so worked up, Detective?” you teased.
“Didn't think you could string me along without consequences, did you?” he growled. “Give me what I want, or I'm doing what I should've done with you from the beginning… bringing you in.”
Technically, he had brought you in the first time. Cuffs, fingerprints, interrogation room, the whole thing. Of course he was only a local cop then, just a lieutenant, not with the sheriff's department. He still acted plenty smug back then, though, and made it seem like you barely had much choice in this deal at all. Not that he was wrong about that: you would've told on anyone to get yourself out of charges, and he must have sensed it. You could tell it bothered him to let you go knowing you'd go back to the same crimes he'd been trying to stop— not just knowing but relying on it, in fact— but you also kind of got the impression that he pitied you.
You could barely believe it had already been a year, give or take, since then. And while your relationship had always been tense, almost exclusively on his part (the man had enough tension for both of you, and then some), you never expected him to actually threaten to arrest you.
He wasn’t just threatening, actually: you heard the handcuffs coming out already. “Wait, I'm sorry,” you blurted out right away, all that cocky upper-handedness you’d had completely gone. “I'm sorry, I want to help, but I don't—”
You whimpered a little, unwillingly, as the cuffs came down around your wrists. “I only have so much patience,” he warned through his teeth.
“Please, I'm serious, take me out of these,” you whined. “I can’t go to jail, I—”
“Then make yourself useful,” he instructed. He leaned in closer then, speaking beside your ear, pressing himself right up to you. “One way or another,” he added coldly.
He was so close that you could feel his chest rising and falling against your back, but he gave you a little space… just enough space for you to turn around face him. The way his body caged you in was infinitely more noticeable when he didn’t move his head back at all and your face was barely an inch from his own. “I can be useful,” you assured him, your voice coming out even quieter than you meant it to, as you slowly slid your back down the wall until you hit the floor.
You glanced up at him, just for a second, as you shifted forward onto your knees. He watched you closely yet without much reaction, stoic and stern as ever.
Eye-level with his belt, you could just see his gun in the shadow of his jacket; you weren’t really threatened by that, he obviously wasn’t going to shoot you, but it was a solemn reminder how delusional you’d been to think you actually had control in this situation.
If he wasn’t going to take the cuffs off, you obviously weren’t going to be able to get past this step on your own— but you could at least do one thing for yourself now.
Leaning forward into the fly of his trousers, you pushed the fabric to the side with your tongue before searching for his zipper with it. You caught it between your teeth, tilting your head down to unzip it completely. You leaned back to let him do the rest, looking up at his face (not look as impressed as you might’ve hoped) as he opened his belt. “Aren’t you talented,” he praised sarcastically.
“You have no idea,” you promised just before he pulled his cock out of his boxers. It wasn’t hard yet, at least not much, but it was already a bit more than you’d bargained for (even if it wasn’t actually this you were trying to bargain for in the first place). Not that you couldn’t handle the challenge: you quickly went in and wrapped your mouth around the end of it.
He took off his jacket as he let you work, tossing it onto the nearby chair, then unclipped his gun and badge from his belt and set them aside as well. The practicality of what he was doing made it seem like he wasn’t reacting much to you as you took more and more of him into your mouth— but he was, if only biologically, getting harder and thicker against your tongue.
You just barely heard him hum as you started to suck harder, and his hand rested on the back of your hand a moment later. It didn’t push you, not yet, so it was all your own ambition that brought you all the way forward— you could just barely take him to the end, but it did require a lot of focus not to gag.
You could only hold yourself there for a few seconds before you pulled back to breathe through your nose, and the hand on your head gathered some of your hair to hold. Still, you kept your own pace, listening closely for the sounds of his labored breathing and small groans.
Sometimes it felt like the poor detective was in a permanent state of frustration— or maybe it was just you that brought it out in him, somewhat intentionally— but the way he sounded now was surely the most relaxed you’d ever heard him. That didn’t mean he was exactly calm, though… no, he was still, in a different way, desperate.
He made that clear when he started to shamelessly fuck your face. With a handful of hair in his hand and the wall right behind you, he barely gave you a chance to move at all— he just forced you to take it as he thrusted forward.
He groaned loudly as he held you down until your throat flexed helplessly. He kept you there just a bit too long, and when he finally pulled back, you coughed and gasped loudly; he tilted your head back and you looked up at him with red, watering eyes.
“Oh please, don't be dramatic,” he rolled his eyes, “like you don't know how to suck cock.”
That said, he was a bit gentler the next time, giving you a chance to ease into it before he shoved himself into your throat again; he thrusted a few times, deeper each time, and moaned openly when you applied a little pressure with the end of your tongue.
He held you down one more time, a second hand wrapping around the back of your neck, as if one wasn’t more than enough to keep you where he wanted you. As your eyes rolled back involuntarily, your throat again tightening as you instinctively tried to push back against his grip for air, he let you go and sighed as you sputtered but ultimately recovered quickly.
“Get up,” he ordered; it was a bit of a feat of balance to get up from your knees while still cuffed— especially while still wearing your heels— but your shaking legs had barely kept you upright for a second before he threw you over the edge of the bed face down.
You shivered when he roughly hooked his fingers into your shorts and pulled them to your knees. “You need to wear a condom,” you insisted quickly, instinctively. “I always use condoms.”
“Not with me, you don't,” he informed you frankly.
“Fuck you,” you spat back with a sneer over your shoulder, but it was a weak insult given that the reverse was seconds from happening with or without your approval.
Although, if how wet you had become was anything to go by, you clearly approved; he noticed and chuckled briefly. “You fucking want it,” he observed before leaning forward and pushing himself into you. You gasped, a sharp jolt running up your spine but… yes, you did want it, in a certain sense of the word. He probably knew he didn’t have to threaten you with arrest if this was all he’d wanted, since you’d always acted sort of flirtatious with him— but you’d always done that for entertainment, not honestly expecting him to reciprocate.
To be fair, though, you couldn’t really tell now if he’d actually been interested in you before, or if this was just… something he needed. The way he roughly fucked you, bent over the bed, both of you half-dressed, his hands pinning you down at the shoulders; it all made you suspect he’d been needing this for a long time, but you couldn’t tell how much that really had to do with you.
“Didn't think you'd be so tight,” he admitted with a bit of a sigh. “What, slow night?”
“You're f-fucking disgusting,” you panted.
“I’m disgusting? That's rich,” he scoffed.
He started to move then— just one slower thrust before he started to go faster already. It still wasn't too fast, not at first, but you wouldn't call it a careful pace either; he breathed heavier as he leaned over you, once again going just a bit faster (and rougher) until he had you exactly how he wanted you.
You could feel the end of his tie brushing against your back— he still hadn’t taken it off. Ironically, for such a formal piece of clothing, its presence now just made the whole interaction feel even less classy.
He put a knee up on the bed beside you, making the whole thing creak and rock with each thrust, and you groaned louder. Your back arched, totally involuntarily, and your nails dug into your palms as your restrained hands clenched into fists. “Fuck,” you heard him pant above you, his hands clutching a bit harder at your shoulders until his grip was painfully tight.
But, for whatever reason, that pain just seemed to enhance everything else; the thick stretch of him inside you, the way he reached something deep in you that made your toes curl inside the plastic heels…
When you turned your face to the side, glancing up at him in your peripheral for a moment, caught the silver sparkle of the ring on his left hand. Even now you couldn’t resist the urge to purposefully irritate him, presumably because it was the only power you still had over him.
“Why don’t you just go home and fuck Mrs. Baxter like this?” you asked with a grin.
“Shut the fuck up about my wife,” he warned, grabbing you by the hair at your scalp and yanking it back until you yelped… only to shove you face-down into the bed a second later. “Fucking bitch,” he grunted under his breath. He only fucked you harder and faster then as punishment, and you hated the desperate moans you made as they absorbed into the polyester bedspread.
He didn’t have to answer your question, of course, and his response basically confirmed what you’d already assumed: he respected his wife too much to fuck her like he was fucking you now.
You were more than prepared, with that in mind, for him to just finish quickly enough and be done with you, but when he slowed down to a stop a few minutes later, he was far from done with you.
Pulling out and sitting on the bed, he grabbed you by the shoulders and helped you sit up; “Come on,” he mumbled as he helped bring you into his lap, both of you sighing as you sank down onto his cock again. “Ride it,” he ordered simply.
You struggled to keep your balance or lift yourself up without your hands in front of you; as you bounced on his lap the best you could, you whimpered a bit from the exertion and dropped your head forward.
“C’mon, work for it,” he encouraged. “You need to earn my trust back.”
“Is that what this is about?” you asked, trying to turn your head enough to look back at him with confusion, but you couldn’t quite turn enough to see him behind you. “Trust?”
“Isn’t everything?”
You shook your head in annoyance but begrudgingly continued, trying to ignore how quickly the muscles of your thighs tired from lifting you each time. He leaned back slightly, and you rested your hands on his abdomen, cuffed hands clutching at his shirt. It made it a little easier, but after a few minutes, you began to whine much louder than you wanted to from just how much you were struggling to keep yourself up.
Apparently taking pity on you, he sat up again until his chest was right up on your back, and his hands suddenly held onto your hips. He guided them differently, moving you back and forth on his lap instead of up and down, and you couldn't quite believe yourself— the way you moaned lowly and dropped your head back on his shoulder. You felt his face beside yours, his mouth open beside your temple, his breath on your skin. “That's it, baby,” he spoke much too softly, too kindly. “Like that, right?”
How could it feel so completely different like this? Not just physically, though that felt different too; but you were more shocked by how it felt to be held by him, by his lips on your neck, by something unexpectedly sensual about it all. He’d been so brutal before, and now you could hear him whispering praises to you… it didn’t make much sense to you, although the pleasure was making it harder to think anyway.
His hand ran up your leg, guiding your thighs apart, until his fingers reached your swollen clit; he rubbed it just a little too slow, too carefully, for the intensity of the moment. “Baxter,” you gasped without thinking, making him laugh thinly.
“We aren't on a first name basis yet?”
“It's a step up from ‘Detective’,” you replied through a sigh, feeling his smile press against your shoulder.
He pulled the straps of your top down, reaching in from the top to palm at your chest. He pinched your nipple at the same time that his other hand moved a bit faster on your clit, and your whole body shook for just a second. “Oh, you’re so sensitive,” he noticed proudly. “You’re gonna fucking come, aren’t you?”
He said it like it was embarrassing, and even though you wouldn’t be able to explain why, you clearly agreed since you weren’t willing to admit it. “Don’t stop,” you mumbled instead of answering directly.
“I won’t stop,” he encouraged roughly against your ear, “I’m not gonna fucking stop, I wanna feel it.”
Whining through clenched teeth, you felt the sensation building with every breath you took, pulsing and swelling inside you, so close to the edge so much faster than you could’ve expected. “Y-yes, fuck,” you choked out right before it hit you. Your hips rocked faster, chasing the feeling as it washed over you.
If it really was a wave that washed over you, then the thing is that the wave should pull back at some point— crash down and then settle, letting you relax into that perfect ‘after’ feeling. One complication: he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down.
It went from good to great to amazing to oh fuck what is happening? very quickly after that, and your clit became much too sensitive for his aggressive touch. You struggled helplessly against the cuffs, hips jerking to try to get away, but of course nothing could interrupt him when he was so determined. “‘Don’t stop,’ isn’t that what you said?” he recalled teasingly.
“Oh, fuck, fuck,” you chanted, your voice getting weaker along with your attempts to resist. It was totally overwhelming, equal parts euphoric and painful, and he only moved his fingers even faster as it became too much to bear. “Fuck!”
“You can take more,” he insisted, “come on, you can take it. S’what you’re good at, baby, just take it—”
“Oh god, oh god,” you choked out, pushing your thighs together; his left hand roughly tugged them apart again— you could feel his ring digging into your skin, good god— and you cried out shakily. “I—I’m—” you stammered out, not sure what you were even trying to say. Didn’t matter anyway, you never got around to saying it.
It was impossible to tell now if it was pleasure or pain you were feeling, but it was definitely too much of whatever it was— and yet somehow you were coming again, in a way so much stronger than before that it barely felt like the same experience. You could barely even process what you were feeling, but he seemed to be getting exactly what he expected. “There you go, there it is!” he encouraged, nearly yelling to be heard over your cries. “Come harder, fucking whore!”
“Fuck, Jimmy!” you whined desperately, tossing your head forward, nearly folding yourself in half just trying to get a second’s reprieve, but he didn’t struggle at all to restrain you as he kept his relentless pace. “Please, please—”
It just felt like it would keep going and never stop, this pleasure so intense it almost burned, but then it broke all at once out of nowhere: you threw your head back and for a second you just made no sound at all, feeling your thighs quiver, hearing him purr proudly behind you. But the second of choked silence ended with a ridiculous cry— a broken, whimpery, animalistic noise you were confident (or at least hopeful) you’d never made before.
He finally took his hand out from between your legs; he needed both to guide your limp body the way he wanted it, anyway, because you were too spent to move your own weight now.
He laid back with you on top of him, but then he rolled you over and pressed his entire weight down on you; you would’ve been annoyed at being nearly suffocated in the too-soft mattress, if you weren’t so numb and disoriented after coming like that. It wasn’t even a minute of him like that— laying on top of you and breathing heavy into your ear with each thrust— before he came. No, he didn’t pull out, because he was still a fucking asshole after all, but you were hardly in the mood to argue about it now… especially when, after he’d stilled and caught his breath for a moment, he unlocked your cuffs. Apparently he’d kept the key somewhere on him all this time; apparently you hadn’t earned your way out until now.
“Fuck,” he breathed softly just before he got off of you, the bed bouncing and creaking a bit as he stood up. You heard him zipping his fly and buckling his belt, and you figured you should at least attempt to pull yourself back together.
Your arms were shaking a little as you used them to push yourself up from the bed, but thankfully he didn’t seem to be watching you— he was sort of staring off into space, actually.
“Fuck,” he said again, though less of an involuntary exclamation now and more of a statement— of what, though, you couldn’t quite say. He brushed his hands over his hair before grabbing his jacket off the chair and slipping it back on. It seemed to only take a shrug of his shoulders and a tug on the lapel to put him back in order; he looked as composed as ever, maybe a little more flushed if you looked closely but that’s it. You, meanwhile, struggled to take a strong enough grasp of your shorts to pull them back up— but then again, he’d put you through a lot more… intensity.
As he put his gun and badge back on his belt, you realized you should probably stop watching him before he noticed. Maybe you were just waiting for him to say something— maybe he was waiting for you to say something.
Regardless, you couldn’t figure out what there was to say. you decided to just try to brush the whole thing off, if you could. “Corolla,” you blurted out suddenly.
“Hm?”
“The missing girl, her regular,” you reminded him, “he drove a tan Corolla.”
He nodded a little. “Year?”
“Sorry, that’s all I know,” you shrugged. He just looked down for a second, and you waited for a moment for him to add something else before you continued. “Do you mind dropping me off?” you asked, a little more nervous than you expected to be. “Just where you picked me up.”
He laughed, a bit of bitterness to it. “Really? Somebody else is gonna fuck you tonight? With my come still in you?”
You’d sort of expected he might just go on like nothing happened, so the direct acknowledgement felt a little… strange. And hot, if you were willing to admit that to yourself.
“I told you to lay low anyway,” he reminded you, making you roll your eyes.
“You’d be better off not worrying about me,” you suggested.
“Yes, I would,” he agreed, unamused. He took a step towards the door and your eyes widened.
“Woah, aren’t you forgetting something?” you prompted, rubbing your thumb against your fingertips in case it wasn’t obvious already what you meant.
“The fuck are you talking about?” he asked angrily, turning back to you.
“Let me explain to you how prostitution works,” you answered condescendingly. “Better yet, let me explain to you how confidential informants work—”
“I'm not paying you for shit,” he informed you sternly, “certainly not for that completely useless tip.”
“So that’s it then?” you shook your head in disbelief.
“I’ll come back when I need something else,” he shrugged, “maybe it’ll be something I can use next time.”
You scoffed in shock. “Are you fucking stupid? I'm not gonna be your fucking rat if you’re not gonna—”
He crossed the space between you in a moment and grabbed you by the neck, forcing you to scramble to grab his jacket so he wasn’t actually holding you up by your throat. He didn’t apply enough pressure to stop you from speaking, but the shock of it certainly did; you could feel your rapid pulse against his fingers. “You're gonna be whatever the fuck I need, you understand?” he barked, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. You nodded quickly and he let go as suddenly as he'd grabbed you, turning his back to you immediately. When he got to the door, though, he stopped. “I better not see you out on the street,” he warned, but his voice wasn’t as harsh as before.
Or what? you wondered. He already chickened out of arresting me twice.
You didn’t dare say that, obviously… not that you were scared of him per se. But you, for once, had actually lost interest in antagonizing him.
When his hand rested on the doorknob, he seemed to hesitate for a moment; he sighed and shook his head, but he didn’t turn to look back at you before he opened the door and left.
one week later…
You raised an eyebrow as the familiar car slowed down to a stop; this time, you walked slowly up to it, waiting for him to roll the window all the way down before leaning into it.
“Looking for a date?” you asked coyly, only smiling wider when Baxter flashed an irritated glare at you.
“Just information,” he replied.
“Just information?” you wondered aloud.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, making a glimmer of light reflect off his wedding ring for a split second, and he looked away. “Do you always have to make this difficult?” he asked; the familiarity of it was more comforting than it had any right to be.
You hopped into the passenger side, getting comfortable with the silence once again, but the ride went on longer than usual. He seemed to be passing plenty of reasonably empty alleys and parking lots, but you weren’t going to complain— it was a colder night tonight and you were enjoying being in the warm car.
When he finally pulled in behind an abandoned business (used to be a bank, maybe?) you saw him look around rather thoroughly, even putting his hand on your seat to help him turn to look out the back window. “This, uh, secluded enough for you?” you asked somewhat sarcastically, but he seemed not to pick up on that.
“Yeah, I think so,” he announced before looking at you again. “Get in the back.”
You swallowed thickly, feeling your heartbeat pick up slightly. “Not gonna cuff me this time?” you joked.
Again, he was dead serious. “No,” he answered, “I don’t think I need to.”
Fuck. “No,” you agreed, “no. You don’t.”
