First Of All, Whore

You whirl.

“Maybe,” you admit while you fish your phone from your pocket, glancing at the nametag pinned to the employee’s lapel. “Donna. Don’t ask why, but I’m desperately looking for this stuffed animal.” 

She glances at the phone and steps around to the other side of the 360-degree-display. Face twisting, she points to an empty section wedged between stuffies resembling alligators and hippos. She gives you a look of contrived sympathy cultivated through years of customer service no doubt. “Sorry,” she says. “Looks like that’s been a popular one.” 

“You’re out?” you ask, fingers itching to grab her by her business-casual blouse and shake her. “You’re positive? Because I need this; I’ll pay double, triple whatever the marked price is. I’m desperate.” 

“I can see that,” says Donna dryly. “But—” 

“I’m sorry,” another voice breaks in. “Maybe I can help?” 

Your eyes track the sound of the soft accent. Standing just a few feet away, boxes of indeterminable tourist-trap merchandise in his arms, is a man. The first thing you notice about him are his eyes—tired. Dark brown, dark bruises beneath that hint at many sleepless nights. The next thing you notice are the curls: inky, charmingly chaotic. A small, wary smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he glances between you and Donna, shifting on his feet to try and make the load in his arms more comfortable. 

The last thing you notice: he is so absolutely handsome. 

“You, help? Doubtful,” Donna says, just as you say, Absolutely. 

You tilt your phone towards him. His face lights up in recognition, and for a moment, the seed of hope in your heart blossoms, threatening to break through soil. He’s going to be able to help you. You can feel it. But then his eyes move past you towards the display and his smile falls. 

“Oh, no,” he murmurs. “Let me just pop these behind the counter and then I’ll help you look, yeah? There might be one hiding amongst the others. Kids don’t always set them back where they’re supposed to.” 

“Steven,” says Donna, voice tight with disapproval. “The display is empty.” 

“Please,” you grit through your teeth at her. “I said I would pay, didn’t I? I have eighty pounds on me, and if you direct me to a cashpoint, I can withdraw even more.” 

In the face of your insistence, Donna gives in, though you can tell by the thin press of her lips that she isn’t happy about it. Rolling her eyes, she waves a dismissive hand at the both of you and turns away, stalking off to some other part of the gift shop. 

“Pleasant, isn’t she?” You glance at Steven, your mood already lightening at the earnest kindness on his handsome face. “Are you her boss?” 

“Am I her—oh god, if only she’d heard you say that.” 

Together, you and Steven scour the display from top to bottom, but to no avail. 

“Can I ask, why the urgency?” he calls, elbow deep in stuffed scarab beetles. “Not a lot of people offerin’ to empty their bank accounts for Egyptian-themed stuffed animals.” 

“It’s for my nephew,” you admit. “He has autism, and he’s absolutely fixated on Egypt right now. Has been for years, really. Last time they were in London visiting me, my sister bought him that stuffie, and apparently he’s grown quite attached. Yesterday, she called me about an electrical fire at her building in the flat below hers. I guess they won’t let anyone back in until they know it’s safe, not even to get their effects. They’re staying with our mum in Leeds, but he’s taking it so hard, being in a different place and all that without anything familiar. She asked me if I would try to find another of these loveys for him and send it through the post overnight, but she couldn’t remember the museum she’d bought it at. You know how many museums there are in London?” 

“Too many, by your count I would imagine,” he says in sympathy.

“Spot on. Do you have any nieces or nephews?”

He smiles, eyes looking a little distant and wistful. “I’m an only child. Always wanted a sibling though. I guess my mum had her hands full enough with me.”

Usually, small talk is a form of torture, but you can’t help but want to press, to know more about him. Already you have begun squirreling away facts about him. His name is Steven, with a V. He works at a gift shop in the British Museum. He is an only child. “Were you rotten when you were young, then?”

“Aren’t all teenage boys?” He smirks, a quirking of his lips that makes him look years younger. Mischief makes a home in him, you can tell. But you can also tell that he isn’t rotten, not at all. Not many grown men would wade through stuffed animals for a stranger. Bruised, maybe, like an apple that has been dropped too many times by careless hands. But aren’t those apples just as sweet as any other?

“You don’t strike me as someone who has ever misbehaved a day in their life,” you tease. All at once you realize that both of you have stopped rifling through the toys. Perhaps it is just in your head, but electricity bounces between you two, charging the air until your hair feels liable to stand on end. Your voice has dropped on instinct into something smoother, warmer, the voice you usually reserve for flirting. Steven doesn’t blush per say, but his mouth can’t seem to close and he looks a little warmer than he was a moment ago. 

A little girl jabs her sharp elbow into your side, working her way in between the two of you to get access to some falcon shaped animal on a lower tier of the display. The look she casts up at you suggests that the ache in your ribs is entirely your own fault. 

“Well,” Steven says, clearing his throat. He can’t meet your eye. “Unfortunately, it looks like we’re fresh out of your nephew’s favorite.”

The moment and whatever charge had been growing between you two has popped like a soap bubble. Your eyes burn. How will you have the heart to call your sister and tell her that you’ve come up empty handed? 

“There’s one last place I could check,” he says. “But if Donna finds out I took you, she’ll have me sacked for good. Come on then, let’s be quick.”

It is cooler in the stockroom, wall-to-wall Egyptian goodies hibernating under the fluorescent lights. Out of respect, you linger just inside the doorway, unwilling to take advantage of his generosity by looking around in an area where customers clearly aren’t meant to be. 

Steven disappears for a long time behind some boxes—knocks over a stack of overpriced, bagged gummies that you nearly enter the room just to help him pick up—before reappearing looking even sadder than before. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says. 

You try and scrape together a smile for his sake; he looks about as devastated as you feel. After the three other museums you had visited across the city today, one would think you would be used to the disappointment. “It’s certainly not your fault. Not unless you’ve got a stash of Bastet stuffies you’re hoarding at home. There are a few more places I can—“

“Sorry, so sorry—Bastet? You showed me a picture of Anubis.”

You blink. “No. Here, look—says right here on the website that this is Bastet.”

“Bastet takes the form of a cat or sometimes a lioness depending on what dynasty you’re—well, anyway, that’s not a cat, is it? That’s Anubis, a jackal. Website must have it wrong. You never saw the stuffed animal?”

“Once, the day they bought it, but it’s been ages.”

“Could he be mistaken about the name then?”

“I’d trust him more than I’d trust myself when it comes to such matters.”

“Then,” and he pulls from between the counter an extremely similar stuffed animal to the one you showed him on your phone, except the ears are curved and feline, the muzzle not nearly so long and thin, “this is your goddess. Cheers.”

You clutch your heart, flooded with relief and triumph so keen that a happy shout bubbles up in your throat, just barely able to be swallowed. “Thank you so, so much, Steven. I really can’t explain how much I appreciate you going above and beyond for me. It’s going to make a big difference to my nephew, that’s for sure.”

The praise flusters him, that not-quite-warmth growing high in his cheeks as he looks away, unable to meet your eyes. The angle only emphasizes the sharp line of his jaw. On instinct, you glance at his hands which fiddle with a nearby mountain of ankh-shaped erasure. No ring. 

He takes you back to the gift shop and rings up the stuffed animal, only charging you the normal price despite your insistence that you would pay more. Passing you your receipt, he gives you a smile and the most endearing wave you’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s in your head, the sweet sadness you see in him. The reluctance he has to part ways. If it is, then oh well. You’ve never been one to shy away from a risk when the reward could be so sweet. 

You pluck a ballpoint pen from his side of the counter, turn over your receipt, and scribble down your name and number. “If you’re interested, I would love to take you out sometime. To repay you.”

He looks at the number with wide eyes. “Oh, that’s—really, you don’t have to. It’s my job, innit?”

Firmly, you slide the number back towards him. “If you’d rather not, just toss it. After I leave though. Then, if you don’t call, I can just pretend you lost it.”

Without another word, gift bag in hand, you turn and begin to sift your way through the busy shop. You spot Donna by a stand of puzzles and make sure to stop and point to Steven, insisting, “He deserves a raise!” Her face twists as if she’s swallowed something sour. Her own tongue, hopefully. 

Before you’ve even made it out of the building, you have your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, calling your sister with the good news. 

*

Days pass, and then a week, and then two. Sometimes Steven crosses your mind: when banners go up advertising a new exhibit opening at the British Museum, when you spot a man of similar build ahead of you in line at the coffee shop. He never calls, which you understand. Perhaps he has a partner or you misread the situation. You try to just be grateful that he helped you find what you were looking for, and you put the handsome gift-shoppist from your mind. 

Until he does call. 

Another Saturday, though this one doesn’t find you with blisters on your heels from running all over London. Instead, your feet are curled up beneath you, a bowl of sugary cereal balanced on your lap while you alternate between spooning breakfast into your mouth and scrolling through the news on your phone. It’s a bloody morbid way to start the day, thanks to the state of the world, but it’s a habit that is hard to shake. 

All at once, a news story about the latest political drama disappears, a strange phone number lighting up the screen. 

“Really,” you mutter to yourself. “Telemarketers even on Saturday? Don’t you people bloody rest?” 

Swiping to answer, you tuck the phone to your ear and noisily slurp a bite of cereal. “City morgue,” you chirp. 

Silence on the other end, and then Steven says: “Sorry, I must—did you say city morgue?” 

You choke, inhaling milk and sugar and nearly upending the bowl on your lap as you scramble to set it on the table beside you. Wiping milk from your chin with the back of your hand, you clear your throat as quietly as you can. 

“Steven? Is that you?” 

“Oh, it is you! I thought I recognized your voice, but then I thought maybe you’d given me the wrong number on purpose which, well, that wouldn’t make any sense, would it? Would be strange for a person to go around offering fake numbers, they usually just give them out to creeps who won’t take no for an answer, don’t they?” 

“They do, and you are far from that.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling aren’t I? It’s just that I can’t believe I actually called you. Not that I haven’t been thinking about it, got the number memorized by now. But when I picked up my phone, I swear I was just thinking about calling my mum like I usually do on the weekends, and somehow I must have dialed your number instead–” 

“Would you like to hang up so you can call her?” you tease. 

“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he says, pleasantly surprising you. 

“Yes,” you agree easily. “But I’ll be the one taking you to dinner. I offered, didn’t I?” 

The two of you agree on a time that evening, considering neither of you have plans (and you’ve waited long enough for dinner with the gift-shoppist, thanks very much). 

Before you say goodbye, you tell him: “Steven? I’m really glad you called.” 

“Me too,” he breathes. 

After hanging up, you can’t help but spread yourself out on the sofa, stretching like a satisfied cat who has caught the canary and drank all the cream and whatever else cat’s enjoy doing. Thank you, Steven Gift-Shoppist’s mum, you think to yourself. 

*

“Lookit you,” Steven says, standing from the table when the maitre ‘d leads you across the dimly lit restaurant. It has a cozy atmosphere, perfect for couples with secluded tables tucked into nooks to give the illusion of privacy. Steven’s eyes trail over you from head to toe, lingering on the soft curves of your waist, the dress that clings to your figure. You’re showing a little more leg than you’re used to, but it’s worth it for the way his throat bobs at the smooth expanse of skin. “You look amazing.”

“So do you!” And he does—dark slacks and a form-fitting dress shirt, the collar open to reveal a glimpse of his tan throat. You see the chain of a necklace, though it disappears inside the fabric. His curls may be tamer by a fraction. Gods, he really is handsome, you think. How are you going to get through this dinner while thinking about setting your teeth into the warm, soft skin of his neck? Or tangling your fingers in his hair so that you can guide his mouth between your legs? 

It’s been too long since you’ve had sex, and far too long since you’ve had sex with someone who you felt so attracted to. A part of you—the part not including the bits between your legs—cautions you against coming on too strong. 

Slow and steady, you think, while he kisses both of your cheeks. He smells softly of cologne, and you have to let a measured breath out of your nose. Easier said than done. 

“I almost thought I had the wrong place,” he admits while helping you into your seat like a gentleman from an old black and white film. “Never been somewhere so fancy.”

It ends up being one of the best first-dates of your life. Steven’s humor is witty and sometimes biting, his education not formal but nonetheless robust. If there was any doubt that he was interested in you romantically, it fades in the face of his sweetly clumsy flirting. How a man so attractive and enjoyable could be out of practice dating is beyond you, but you’ve never been one to question a good thing when the universe drops it into your lap. You talk about every topic under the sun (that’s appropriate on a first date), and with every new detail you learn about the man, you find yourself being more and more charmed by him. 

Between the appetizers and entrees, you pull out your phone to show him a picture of your nephew asleep among a sea of blankets with Bastet tucked under one arm. Steven lights up, even looks a little choked. “Not often do I get to make an actual difference to someone with what I do,” he says. “Just a cashier, aren’t I?” 

“I’d like very much to see you again,” you say while he walks you out of the restaurant on his arm. There are only a few minutes until your cab arrives, so the two of you linger beneath the restaurant’s awning watching the busy London nightlife pass you by. 

“Really?” Steven asks.

“Of course.”

“I—I would like that too. Very much.” 

You shiver a little from the cold, goosebumps blooming on your exposed legs. Steven tucks you closer to himself, suffusing you with his warmth. The wine simmers sweetly in your belly, so you can’t blame the way your head swims on him entirely. But you feel a little drunk on him as well. The smell of him, the feel of his body beneath the thin dress shirt, the burning heat he throws off. When you glance toward him, your breath brushes against his neck. It’s his turn to shiver. 

It rests on the tip of your tongue to invite him back to your place. You’re a modern woman, if the connection was right, you would have no qualms about sleeping together on the first date (and Gods is the connection right). 

By your sides, his fingers brush against your own. Keeping your eyes on the busy London street, you take note of how very still he has become, as if he is holding his breath. Another brush, his calloused thumb brushing over your knuckle. Turning your hand over, he lets his fingers lace with your own. He lets out a sigh of relief. 

Here you are thinking about getting his trousers off, and he’s trying to scrape up the nerve to hold your hand. 

Slow, then, you think. You meet his eyes, dark like ink in the dim light, and he grins. Butterflies spread their wings in your tummy. I can do slow. 

*

But it isn’t just slow, is it? 

It’s glacial. Your fourth date arrives, and short of holding hands and the breathless, closed-mouth kisses he bestows on you before he sees you safely into your cab, there has been no forward momentum. 

There are benefits to the pace, though; the intimacy is divine. Tonight finds you both swimming beneath a blanket in his apartment, fingers tangled together while you watch a French drama. Steven has the subtitles on for your benefit, though you wouldn’t mind him translating, murmuring the lines to you in his warm voice. 

As the movie progresses, your positions meld together until he is mostly reclining with you nestled into his side. His every breath moves your body, his hand resting on your own, thumb making sweet passes over the pounding pulse of your wrist. 

The movie begins to pass in a blur, subtitles blending together. All you can think of is Steven beside you. The obscene warmth of his body. The masculine, clean scent of him. You angle your face upward into the hollow of his throat, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but not close enough to kiss him. 

You sigh shakily, breath fanning across his skin. His throat bobs. A kiss couldn’t hurt, right? Your lips positively buzz with the urge to feel his skin beneath them.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you think, leaning in so that your softly-parted mouth can brush against his throat. Steven keeps clean shaven, but you have the feeling he’d be able to grow an amazing beard if the stumble beneath your lips is any indication. You’re close enough to hear the sound of him swallowing, his jaw clenching. 

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing his skin. 

“You’re killing me,” he whispers back. But he tips his head back to rest it against the couch, baring more of his throat to you. 

This time you press a kiss to his pulse. When you feel his heartbeat hammering beneath the thin skin, you nearly groan. His smell here is potent, the clean scent of his cologne, faded throughout the day. It’s enough to make your head go light and fuzzy. All of the sudden Steven gives a punched-out noise above you, and you realize that you’ve lapped your tongue against the hollow of his throat. 

“God in heaven,” he says. The hand which had been resting against the armrest clenches into a tight fist. 

“Should I stop?” you ask. Part of you is only teasing him, but part of you needs to know the answer. You’ve been working so hard to take things at Steven’s pace, but you were beginning to think that he needed you to make the first move. Either way, you didn’t want to be strongarming him into this; you wanted him to be a whole-hearted participant.  

“I–do you want to stop?” 

“Honestly? No. Not unless you’d like to, in which case, yes.” 

“In what world would I want you to stop?” he laughs breathily. “I mean, your mouth—oh god, I shouldn’t have said that. Now all I’m thinking about is your mouth.” 

“Is this the first time you’ve ever thought about my mouth?” you murmur. 

Steven goes stiff. You draw back, sure that you’ve made him uncomfortable. The flush on his face, clear even in the dim lighting of the flat, tells you that it isn’t that. He’s embarrassed. When he speaks, he stammers over his words: “I—do you mean?—well of course it, I mean—” 

You let him circle around the subject for only a few moments before your smile fades away. Is this normal shyness? You’ve had many partners in the past (though it has been longer than you’d like since your last), and you had never classified yourself as a blushing virgin. You couldn’t classify any of your past partners in that category either. But part of you wonders if Steven’s hesitance isn’t more than typical first-time-with-a-new-partner jitters. 

“Oh, no, I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” Steven says when you draw back. “I just, I’m not sure what the right answer is, love—”

“No, no, you haven’t offended me, honest.”

That’s how the two of you end up cuddling and talking about your past sexual histories. Steven seems to find it easier to talk when you’re facing away from him, nestled in the hollow between his body and the couch, both of you watching the lights flare and dim just outside the flat window as cars come and go on the street. 

“What was your first time like?” you ask him.  

“I—well, to be honest, I don’t really remember.” 

You glance up at him, looking for any tells that he’s lying. But Steven isn’t even looking at you; his eyes are still on the window. Distant, brows a little low as if he’s racking his brain. Is it even possible to forget your first time? you wonder. Even if it was the most lackluster, boring occasion, don’t most people remember something? 

“Maybe it’s best that you’ve forgotten,” you jest weakly. “My first time wasn’t all that special.” 

“It wasn’t?” 

“Not really. I don’t even think I began enjoying sex until I was much older.” 

“Does it bother you that I’m not very experienced?” he asks. 

“Not at all. Does it bother you that I am?” 

He smiles. “Not at all. Someone has to know what they're doing, eh?”

“I know plenty that I’d like to do,” you tease. You test. 

Steven swallows, his eyes dipping down to your mouth for a moment. “Yeah?”

You hum. Shifting a little, you move to rest on top of him, your forearm braced against the armrest that his head lays on. Earlier, he said that you were killing him, but you don’t think he has any idea how much he’s killing you as well. Just having him beneath you, curls a mess, mouth parted as his breathing picks up, eyes unable to linger anywhere that isn’t your mouth. He already looks on the verge of being fucked out. 

“I am absolutely going to wreck you, you know that?” you murmur. 

Then you relax into him, letting your body rest against the hard, warm planes of his own. He’s already hard, shockingly erect and sizeable even beneath the restricting denim of his pants. His eyes slip shut at the pressure of your hips against him, at the crush of your breasts against his chest. Leaning down, you cover his mouth with your own. He meets you eagerly, all tongue and gently nipping teeth, tasting so sweetly of the dessert you had shared at the end of your dinner. When he groans, it vibrates through your body landing squarely between your legs. 

“God I want you,” you pull back to whisper against his lips. 

“I want you too,” he whispers. “I think I’d like to take things slow, though. Savor you. I don’t ever want to forget this.” 

“I like the sound of that. Should we stop, then?” 

“Bloody hell, no. Kiss me again.” 

So you do. And you do. And gods, you do. Your mouths are swollen, lips raw from the kisses you share. When you trail your burning tongue across the sharp angle of his jaw, Steven moans, a sound that has you groaning as well into the hollow of his throat. Besides the sound of your wet, slow kisses and the heaving breaths you share, the flat is silent. 

Opening your mouth, you drag the sharp line of your teeth across the stubble of his throat gently, and his hips jerk upwards, hard cock dragging along your lower stomach. 

“Ohmygod, do that again,” he gasps. 

You whine, shifting upwards so that the next time you drag your teeth against his skin, his cock presses against your aching center. It’s enough to have you gasping, toes curling in your socks. God, you’re wet. You can’t remember the last time someone made you this wet from foreplay, even, much less just some sensual kisses. But every reaction of Steven’s is so raw and honest and wrecked that you can’t help but tighten the muscles in your thighs, lean up and grind down against him hard. 

“Fuck, oh—oh fuck!” Steven’s hands grip at your thighs, knuckles turning pale. 

“You’re so hard for me, love,” you breathe just to watch the way his eyes squeeze tightly shut. You drag your clothed pussy along the hard line of him, relishing in the muted friction against your clit. You’ve never been the kind of person to hold back from something that feels good, so you let your body chase the feeling, grinding yourself against him again and again just to feel the zap of pleasure. “Gods, I’m so wet for you.” 

“You are?” Steven gasps. 

“Soaked, can’t you tell?” 

“I—” 

“Won’t be surprised if I soak your trousers. How the hell are you this bloody sexy? Your cock feels so good and you aren’t even inside me—” 

“Love, I—” the frantic lift of his voice combined with the sharp surge of pressure where he grabs at your waist has you freezing, lifting yourself up and away from him even if your cunt aches at his absence. 

“What is it? Are you alright?” 

His grip on your hips tightens as he urges you to rest your weight against him again, the cords in his neck standing in sharp relief. “Fuckfuckfuck don’t stop, oh fuck I’m cumming, I’m so sorry—“

“Fuck,” you breathe, resuming the ocean-like drag of your hips over his spasming cock. He’s cumming. From just a little dry humping. Like a teenager. 

Steven is screaming. A shrill and terrified sound.

Darting out your arm, you pull at the back of his collar hauling him back until his body gives and he's flung back dropping to the floor, on his ass.

One large step forward and you're standing in front, shielding his body with your own. Then you raise your rifle, steady your aim and pull the trigger at the rotting face that's howling with a demonic sound not of this world.

The bullet carves through its face, somewhere between where its eyes used to be, a crunch of a sound, like cereal being smoshed by a spoon. It doesn't sound right.

Not the sound of flesh and blood being teared into. Because there is none. Where there should be blood, guts and fluid, only shards of dust and bones are left behind in the air. Debris.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs, looking up at you through those said gorgeous lashes, with grime, ash and specks of black thick tar-liek substance splattered across the soft material of his white shirt. "I really should have watched where I was going."

You lower your rifle, smoke still rising from the barrel as your eyes remain fixed on the ground at the dried up corpse in front of you two.

Unnatural.

The bandage wrapped hand is still twitching on the ground. Flashes of white bone and knuckles visible through the black-tarred dried up flesh of its hand. The space smells like burning tar.

You've taken dodgy jobs before, but this is something else.

This is what you get for accepting a "simple escorting job" making sure Doctor Steven Grant has a safe passage to Cairo for his thesis studies.

It had all seemed so easy. You were provided with a map, instructions and an exorbitant deposit payment up front, three times your usual rate, with a promise of double once everything was done and dusted. Not to say that you didn't have your doubts. Your contact had refused to divulge who the payer was, simply referring to the benefactor as the "Traveller" and you had almost called it then and there.

But then you were dragged to one of the reading rooms of the national library "just to meet him". You were greeted to the commotion of books tumbling down, and a man narly falling off one of the ladders, flailing with his arms like a baby bird learning to fly, had you not caught him in your very arms.

Catching doctor Steven Grant himself.

The first time you laid eyes on him, hair tussled, cheeks flustered pink with shocked-wide eyes that gazed up on you, you knew you were in trouble.

The man has no survival skills to speak of.

No preservation for that matter either. He simply says whatever seems to be on his mind. Honest to a fault, even to his own detriment.

Soft-spoken and polite, he's a far cry from the sorts of men that usually find their way in dodgy business and dangerous foreign excursions.

There was no way you could leave well enough alone. Couldn't let this man go out on his own into the deserts of Cairo, with what is practically a big sign around his neck that read: "I'm defenceless."

You had to protect him.

Besides, you're a capable mercenary, you've guided important figures in the country many times before. Politicians who were assassination targets, royalty who wanted an exotic location that you had to ensure did not have so much as a scratch on them on their return, criminals trying to evade the authorities. You've done it all.

Meanwhile here was this man. Thick-rimmed glasses permanently perched on his nose. That same nose constantly buried between the thick pages of some old dusty book he had carted in that beaten-up satchel bag slung across his shoulder.

So gentle in his nature, danger would surely stay out of their way for him. For god's sake, you've pretty sure you've seen him wave and greet the camels that were going to take you across the desert on more than one occasion.

How would a man like this, ever get caught up in danger for something as innocuous as a thesis study?

Naively, you had thought, what is the worst that could happen with a mousey professor?

Mummies. Cursed mummies. That's the worst that could happen.

"I'm sorry," he repeats again, with a sheepish expression on his face as he raises himself up on his knees, before standing. His hand reaches out towards your face, thumb swiping against your cheekbone and it sends an electric thrill that is sharper than the adrenaline you had coursing through your system mere seconds ago while facing up against otherworldly creatures from hell itself.

When his thumb comes away, there's blackish goo staining it, and he grimaces at it. "Are you alright, you're not hurt anywhere are you?"

He reaches into his satchel, pulling up a small animal pattern handkerchief and starts to meticulously wipe your face with it until the clean fabric is covered in what looks like black tar.

Wide brown eyes, filled with concern for you. Your heart has lodged itself in your throat and is trying to gallop its way out of your mouth.

This man is trouble.

God he's so fucking pretty though.

"And why do we need to punish you for that?"

"Because it feels good to obey. And I didn't obey," he finishes. It's a popular refrain in your scenes, but he means it every time.

"That's right... Now how much punishment do you think you deserve?" You're not really asking. That's for you to decide, but you give Marc the illusion of control for a few moments.

To your surprise, a laugh breaks from his chest. "Maybe a little," Marc responds. "You wound me up-"

You bring the crop down on his inner thigh. Hard.

Marc stops talking in favor of a sharp inhale.

"I thought you said it feels good to obey, Marc," you say softly, kneeling to his level.

He huffs, and you catch his chin in your hand as a warning. "Feels just as good to get hit sometimes."

You release his face, and Marc startles, reorienting himself. It's a hard task with his hands tied behind his back. Gritting your teeth, you begin to stand and grab a fistful of Marc's hair on the way.

"Up. Now."

Marc scrambles to his feet to relieve the pressure on his scalp. Once he's on his feet, you crane his neck back to speak into his ear. He beats you to the punch.

"That wasn't very nice," Marc says, panting.

"You start being good, and I start being nice again, you hear me?" you say sternly. He swallows, jaw set. "Answer me," you bite out angrily, your frustration starting to bubble over.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, ma'am," he concedes.

"That's better." You release his hair, and Marc's head springs forward. He hangs it low, eyes running over the length of rope twisted around his chest. You shake your head. Marc was so good and obedient while you were tying them. He loves the rope, the loss of control... And now here he is, trying to get it back.

From the sight of his cock, you suspect he got exactly what he wanted. He was trying to get a rise out of you. The fucking brat. A plan formulates quickly in your head as you take a step backwards.

Marc's gaze tries to follow you over his shoulder. "Eyes forward," you command. Slowly, he complies. He'll need to be quicker than that.

You set the riding crop down and rummage through your box of toys, pulling out a heavy, leather flogger you know Marc loves. He hears the sound of the strips brushing against each other, and his breath hitches.

You brush the thick leather across his arms, neatly tied across each other near his hipbones. His fingers wave through the leather strips.

"Do you want me to hit you, Marc?" You're pretty sure you know the answer, but you need to hear him say it.

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," he responds. Even with his back turned, you can see the defiant look on his face.

There it is. Checkmate.

You pull the flogger back, hearing Marc's expectant inhale as it swishes through the air, bring it forward, and stop inches shy of his ass.

Marc exhales, trying and failing to hide his exasperation.

"Tell me. Tell me you want me to hit you, Marc." You smack the flogger against your hand, just to tease him with the sound.

Marc widens his stance, albeit reluctantly. "No."

"No?" You swoosh the flogger near him again and the rush of air makes him tense. You laugh, pleasantly surprised you'd caught the vulnerability. "Well, alright then."

You make a show of dropping the flogger back into the box. You throw the riding crop in there for good measure and give it a shove with your foot.

You walk around Marc to face him. His eyes are confused and needy.

"Why... why won't you punish me?" Marc says, the testing tone erased from his voice.

"You need conditions, baby, or you'll enjoy it too much," you answer frankly. "Are you ready to listen now?"

Marc bites his lip and he drops his eyes. "Yeah..."

"Good boy," you praise. He meets your eyes again, full of anticipation. "See? It's that easy." All you need are soft words and a gentle tone now. You don't need to yell to command his attention.

He nods quickly. "I'm sorry. It feels... It feels better to obey."

"There you go, Marc." Your hand cups his face and taps it gently. "That's much better." The rope looks so enticing, you can't help but trace over it with your hands. Luckily, it drives Marc insane as well.

"I know I haven't been good." Marc swallows. He draws in a long breath, chest straining against the rope. "I need you to punish me."

This was playing out much better than expected. "You do?" you respond tactfully.

"Yes. I need it. Please."

You try to hold the moment and not smile. "What do you think you deserve, sweetheart?"

Marc shivers, shifting on his feet a little, but not daring to move too far. "I shouldn't get to come. I shouldn't get to touch myself. I shouldn't... I shouldn't get anything."

You frown, furrowing your brow slightly. "That would be fair, right? Not getting to come for coming without permission? Nothing for getting something?"

Marc doesn't respond, just looks at you with a guilty, pleading expression.

"It sounds like you understand what you did wrong. Yeah?" you ask, and a sigh leaves both of you.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry."

You smile. "I forgive you, baby."

Marc looks surprised. "You do?"

"Mhm," you hum. "And I actually think I'll reward you for correcting your behavior so quickly." He twitches at the praise, head lifting a bit higher with curious eyes. "Kneel on the bed. I'll help you get down."

Marc complies quickly, not wanting to test your kindness, but accepting it willingly. You help him keep his balance as he kneels. Then, you grab a knot between his shoulder blades and guide his face and chest to the mattress.

"This doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on you, love," you say, pushing the box of toys back into reach with your foot.

"Wouldn't dream of it." Marc smirks, wide eyes following you as far as they can behind him, lusting after the heavy paddle in your hands.

You smack the paddle in your hand lightly. "Ready?"

"Yes, ma'am."

And you hit him. Right side. Medium velocity.

Marc groans, recovering from the thudding pressure only to find a sting on the surface of his skin.

"Good job, Marc. Does that feel-"

"-Harder." You let him cut you off, only because he sounds so pretty begging.

"One more time, Marc?"

He squirms. "Hit me harder. I need it harder."

"Suit yourself." The paddle cracks on him again, and he moans, face turning into the sheets. "If you ask for it, you can't be shy about it, baby."

Marc turns his head to the side again, panting. You reward him with another smack.

"Fuck!" he shouts, and a laugh rumbles through him as soon as the initial pain dissolves. You smile, glad he's enjoying himself.

The paddle makes contact with his thigh, and his chuckle turns into a series of startled moans. He twitches, pressing his thighs together to soothe the more sensitive skin. The rope pulls taught across his back.

You know the paddle hurts, so you give him one last parting crack on the left side for him to swallow as you get the lighter flogger. The surface pain is much more fun to play with anyway.

Marc's backside is already flushed red with squared-off outlines decorating the skin. He needs some bruises.

You bring the flogger in from the side, landing a couple blows in quick succession. Marc leans into them.

"God, that's good!" he manages through moans. "Can I have more, please? Please. I want you to mark me up. Want you t- ah!"

You hit him harder. Faster. You find every inch of unmarked skin and turn it bright red. You don't stop until Marc's moans turn into strained breaths.

You're both gasping by the time you're done.

"You're such a good fucking boy, Marc. You took that so well. Begged for it," you pant. "So, so good."

Your hand rests on Marc's warm skin, and he twitches at the touch. "Ah- It's ok. Thank you. Thank you so much," he whispers, completely out of breath.

"Of course, baby. Now turn over. I'm not done with you yet."

He has you trapped underneath him on the bed. Strong fingers clamped in an impenetrable circle around your wrists, pinning both your hands above your head in one of his large ones.

"Pobrecita," Jake murmurs to you. It sounds sweet the way he says it, a gentle coo in your ear, but the bastard is teasing you again. "Steven really wore you out didn't he?" 

He's grinning like the cat that got the cream. His one free hand, warm and calloused, roams the bare skin between your breast, over the softness of your belly, then lower until it’s palming the apex of your thighs.

The touch has you wracked with shivers. There’s a whine hovering precariously at the back of your throat, just waiting to come out, and it’d all you can do to bite down on your lower lip because you don't want to give him the satisfaction.

"How many times did Mr. Sunshine make you come hmm?" he asks. 

In the pitched darkness of the flat, you can barely see anything. But you swear you can somehow make out the glint in his eyes as he spreads your legs apart with an insistent nudge of his knee. 

"Once?" he asks, as his free hand massages the aching muscles of your inner thigh. It's a relief, the gentle kneading a welcome reprieve that has your tense thighs melting under his touch.

"No, he definitely did better than that. Three times? …Four even?" 

His hand cups your mound. He rests it there without any pressure, but you know he must feel the way your slick and Steven's come is still dripping out of you, soaking the bedsheets underneath. It’s messy and wet, sliding down the insides of your thighs. 

That mischievous smile spreads as wide as it goes, and  he leans down until he's so close that you can almost taste him on your lips. "Don't tell me you lost count, sweetheart."

Without warning, Jake presses down the heel of his hand into you and overwrought pleasure spears through your limbs. It's raw and unfiltered, burning along every nerve ending of your limbs, and the whine you've been keeping contained escapes and grows into a wanton moan.

Hypersensitive as you are, you still find yourself arching into the palm of his hand, searching for more, even as you squirm and whine brokenly at the extra stimulation. 

"Look how sensitive you are. I can barely touch you." His voice sounds sympathetic, but it doesn't stop his clever, teasing fingers from pressing down firm and insistent against your clit. It's a slick long glide that has your thighs trembling beneath him as he grins against your lips. 

Bastard! The teasing, insufferable, utterly lovable, bastard.

"Jake, for fuck's sake, just--" the heel of his hand grinds down against your clit, and whatever you were going to say next shatters into a broken sob as white pleasure lances through your ribcage. 

"What was that?" There's a quiet breathy laugh in your ear. He's practically giggling like a schoolgirl with how pleased he is with himself. "Need you to speak clearly, sweetheart. I didn't quite catch that."

There's a part of you screaming out that you need to act more indignant. It won't do to let Jake get ahead of himself. He gets too cocky. So smug. 

But the voice dims when your eyes meet his. The playfulness there makes your heart beat excitedly for him. As much of a bastard that he can be, the adoration in his gaze is plain to see, and any indignation in you is replaced with excitement and want all wrapped up together in your chest.

You watch him raising himself on one arm anchored to the mattress to level himself besides you. The other hand wrapped tight around the thick girth as he positions himself between your legs. Jake notches the fat head of his hard cock at your entrance, pressing in and-- Oh fuck, ouch! 

You're too sore, still aching from your earlier adventures with Steven. Even as wet as you are, it's too much. You whimper at the stinging stretch of him, hands flying to his shoulder as you dig your fingers into the muscles underneath for reprieve. Your eyes dart down to the space between you, and oh fucking hell, the tip of his cock is barely even inside of you. 

Slamming your eyes closed, you take a deep breath, bracing yourself. 

You can do this. You can take him. Want to take him. Because you know it'll be good. It always is. 

But instead of the thick drag of his cock pushing its way inside, you feel it drag out of you. The sudden emptiness has you trying to pull him down closer in protest, but he doesn't yield. 

"Open your eyes, sweetheart," Jake says, and his hand comes to cup the side of your face in encouragement. 

When you open them, his eyes are on yours, without a hint of the mischievousness that was there seconds before. "Too much yeah?"

"No, it's ok. I'm fine. I can take it."

"You're too sore to take me." 

You bite your lower lip at his retort. It feels like an insult, even though his tone implied nothing of the sort. It just feels like you've failed somehow, and it takes everything in you not to pout. 

Judging from Jake's next words, you obviously don't succeed.

"Don't pout, mi alma. You're killing me here."  

His soft tone and care for your comfort only make you want to pout even more, because god, it only makes you want him more. And your horny-addled brain is telling you to stop at nothing to get him, even if it means throwing a child's tantrum. It's ridiculous. You can wait until tomorrow when you've had a chance to recuperate. It doesn't have to be right this second, even if your unreasonable libido is screaming out that it is. 

It's just... it's more than that. It's not just the sex.

"It's been a while," you confess, and you’re glad for the darkness of the room, hoping he can’t catch the embarrassment you feel burning across your cheeks. You rarely do this with Jake. The vulnerability. 

In the dark, you can't quite make out the details of his expression, but you can see Jake tilt his head curiously at you like a confused pet.

"With you," you clarify. "I haven't seen you for a while. I missed you."

Between Marc's secret missions and Steven's punishing shifts to make up for his absence at the museum when he returned, you feel like you've barely gotten glimpses of Marc or Steven since they've been back. With Jake you have not even gotten that.

Tonight is the first proper night you've had with them uninterrupted. It's why Steven might have gotten a little bit ahead of himself once he took over from Marc... (Not that you minded. You never mind). And this is the first you’ve seen of Jake at all. 

Jake doesn't say anything, but you can practically hear the gears turn in his head as he keeps his eyes steady on you. His gaze inscrutable in a way you can't decipher in the dark. 

Then, unceremoniously, he slumps back down on the mattress next to you. 

"On your side," he instructs as his hand comes to your hips. Tugging to arrange you to his liking, he has you turn you over until you're facing away from him and lying on your shoulder. 

"Close your legs, beautiful." He's already placing a hand on the outside of your thigh, pressing until you do as he asked, "Yes, mi alma, squeeze them together. Just like that."

Dropping his hands from your hip, you can't see what he's doing, can only hear the rustle of sheets from behind you before he's shuffled closer to you, and you feel the warm, reassuring heat of his chest press up along your entire back. 

There's a moment of confusion as you feel his cock, hard and twitching, pressed up against you. 

His mouth comes to your ear, hot as his teeth nip at the shell of your ear. "I'm gonna fuck you like this."

You feel him, his cock pressing against the back of your thighs before it slips wetly between them, sliding against your folds, without slipping inside you. The bulbous head of his cock presses wet and slick against your clit, and you swear you can feel every gorgeous detail of the shape of him as he thrusts forward again. 

Everything tingles, from the tip of your ears down to the curl of your toes at the strange sensation. It's a smooth and wet and slippery. With each glide between your thighs, the girthy length of him drags along your folds. There are no pleasurable nerve endings between your thighs, and yet-- As his cock slides against you, the barely there pressure against your clit with every thrust has that familiar warmth pooling in your belly. Pleasure rises fast and blinding, and your fingers dig into the sheet until you worry you might rip them in two.

"Fuck, sweetheart, think you can come like this? Nothing inside. Just my cock rubbing that pretty pussy?"

His thighs tremble, a groan stuttering in your ear as his hand grips onto your hips deep and rough. 

"So fucking pretty like this, fucking gorgeous. Feel so fucking soft."

It's not enough. As good as it feels, the pleasure that ebbs and flows with the press if Jake's cock against you is not enough. It wouldn't take you long to come at all if he kept his cock against your clit, rubbing himself against you. Each press forward is like a shock of electricity along your spine, sudden and ecstatic and overwhelming all at once. But it never lasts long enough, each thrust drawing back before you can revel in the maddening pleasure that is slowly building. You feel yourself chasing the sensation as soon as it leaves you, wanting and frustrated.

You're shaking and sobbing. It's so much, and still not enough, even as you are grinding backwards to prolong the sensation, riding out your own overstimulation against the shape of his cock. You don’t know if it’s making it better or worse, but all you know is that you don’t want to stop, can’t stop, craving that slick drag of the hard shape of his cock against your clit. 

“You want to ride it? Hmm? Go ahead, I won’t stop you”

"Jake, I--" you don't get very far. The word hanging on the tip of your tongue, with nowhere to go. Your climax is so close you feel like you can almost touch it, clinging onto the skin of your fingertips but it is still out of reach with how overstimulated the man's got you. 

"What is it, sweetheart, hmm?"

"Please, just-- please," you manage to sob out. 

He tilts your head backwards until his mouth can capture yours. Despite the awkward angle, you're glad for it. The sweet press of his lips against yours as he keeps whispering words of praise and encouragement that has you hurtling forward towards your inevitable climax. 

"I got you. Don't worry," he says into your mouth as he keeps pressing small, gentle kisses on your lips. "Always going to take care of you".

His hand dips down to the curve of your hip, down the softness of your belly, down between your thighs until you feel the feathersoft touch of his fingertips press down on your clit. As overwrought and worked up as you are, it should be unbearable, too much. But his fingers are soft and careful—adoring—even as he moves them in small little circles, measured and precise, and far more gentle than anyone would ever expect from Jake.

After having been teased so long, the steady, consistent pressure of his fingers is everything you need. Pleasure clings to your spine, climbing it to wrap around your lungs until you’re gasping for air.

"There we go, that's right. Let go, sweetheart. Let go for me." 

Pure unadulterated bliss washes over you in merciful tides, and you cling to Jake. Your fingers digging into the arm that is wrapped around you with unforgiving strength. Your nails carve into his flesh as if to mark him in any manner you can as it overtakes you. Rapturous pleasure sears along every nerve and cell in your body, and it nearly has you screaming into his mouth.

Your throat is raw and burning, and you realize it's not nearly, not maybe, you are.

But Jake takes it all, letting you dig your nails in, swallowing every sound you give him, holding you tight, as the room and your surroundings seems to blur around the edge. The steady firmness of the mattress disintegrates underneath you, leaving you floating, ungrounded. Jake's arms, still tightly wrapped around your chest and waist is your only anchor to reality as you come undone for him. 

Overwhelming as it is, overwrought as you are, you know it's okay for you to fall apart in this space, because Jake will catch you and so you let yourself fall into it.

It's heady and disorientating. Rapture pouring into you, and you barely manage to remember where you are as you feel Jake tightens his hold, with a tortured groan.

He's thrusting against you, long, drawn-out glides, that grow shorter and more impatient. His hips stutter into you once, twice and then you feel it, the way his cock jerks and twitches against you. New warm wetness coating the inside of your thighs, as Jake spills his seed across your skin and out along the sheets.

For a long moment there is nothing but your combined breaths, ragged and sharp in the darkness. Your body prickles with the buzzing sensation still swimming in your veins, and it takes you an even longer moment to recognize that Jake's arms are still tightly wrapped around you as if he doesn't want to let go.

As his breathing steadies, his mouth presses sweet almost demure kisses against the back of your neck, your shoulder, and the middle of your spine.

"Was that okay, mi alma?" he murmurs.

You hum, nodding blissfully. "More than okay, Jake."

"Good. Next time, tell Sunshine not to go so overboard or I'm going to be fighting him for the front seat and wear you out before he gets a chance."

You can't help but laugh.

Jake can be a bastard sometimes. But that’s all right because he’s your bastard.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

Dedication: to my beta-reader and prawn supreme queen, shrimply the shrimpiest of them all @thirstworldproblemss.