law's lil rabbit

He's certainly one of the more cheerful Uber driver's you've had—if not the most. You've been driven by all sorts of folk, some kind, some quiet, some rude, but in the short moment you've known him—Strade's making a very strong impression. It's a few things about him that already staple him to the front of your mind. For starters, his accent—it's thick and not one you often find in Canada. Secondly, his energy is through the roof. While it is a nice change of pace, he's so bright that it's almost alarming to you. You don't hate it or anything, it's certainly better than having someone being standoffish. However, much like the sun—you imagine you'd handle it better from a distance and in smaller doses—opposed to burning right in front of your eyes. Maybe, it's simply the poor mood your in today. Regardless, you treat him with the same courtesy you would any other.

You're about to reach out for the car door, but your attention shifts to the sound of another door opening. Your driver strolls on over and makes his way to your side. You tense and step back, unsure of what to make of his sudden movements. He lets out an amused huff at your awkwardness and opens the car door for you.

"Oh, thank you." You bite the inside of your cheek, slightly taken by the gesture, before seating yourself in the back.

He bows his head and closes your door before entering the front once more. You mumble out your address to him and the engine comes to life, the car pulling forward into the night. Your first instincts are to put your headphones in and peer outside the whole ride, but your hand barely makes it to your pocket before he begins to speak to you. It flabbergasts you enough that you don't hear his question the first time—asking him to repeat himself and so he does.

"What brought you all the way out here? You don't live close." His eyes catch yours in the rear view before they slip back to the road.

You shift in place. "I was visiting a friend—I mean, I was supposed to. Things just went a bit sideways."

"Yeah? I'm sorry to hear that, buddy." You look for his gaze in the mirror and find that he seems genuine about his apology.

The sincerity feels a little weird, mostly because he's a stranger and you wouldn't expect him to really care. Especially not as an Uber driver, who likely meets people by the dozen. Though maybe, it's not so bad. While you obviously shouldn't unleash all your problems onto this random man, you also found you're more desperate to talk to someone than you realize.

He finds you searching for him, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. "Want to talk about it?

You nearly deny his offer, so used to keeping things to yourself, not wanting to bother others with problems you could surely handle. That's never backfired on you before..

It couldn't hurt.

"It's silly," you shrug, leaning back into the seat leather. "My friend and I were supposed to move in together and before I could even pack, they text me that found someone else."

"That doesn't seem very fair to you."

"No, I guess not. I just wish they had told me ahead of time instead of wasting my time."

"What's your plan now?"

"I mean, I still have my own place. Just would have been nice to save some cash on rent."

"Money troubles?" He hums, slowing to a stop as the light ahead turns red.

You worry your lip between your teeth, watching pedestrians stroll past the window, retiring to their homes. "A little, just want to be able to afford nice things every now and again without having to skip a meal or something."

Strade nods sympathetically, finger tapping lightly against the wheel. "Everything is so expensive these days."

A bitter chuckle leaves you. "Can't argue with that."

"Was there something in particular you were saving for?"

There was, in fact. Your lips pull up as you recall, something you've been eager to get your hands on for weeks now. You sit up, nearly about to spill your guts before you feel heat flush your cheeks. You really shouldn't be rambling now, certainly you've said enough at this point. Not to mention, you get so passionate during times like this and you've been told before how annoying that can get. Your shoulders fall and you stutter out your words, eyes moving to find the rear view mirror. You worry for a moment, of what he makes of your behaviour. Strade's eyes glimmer in the reflection city lights—the brown in his iris, now a sparkling amber. A sweet and luminous honey.

He urges you on with playful insistence and you can't help but give in. After all, he's listened to you thus far.

Words are so much easy with Strade, you find yourself telling him everything. It's unusual for you to be so open with a complete stranger, but maybe he's different. You go on and on as he drives, beaming as you're given full permission to explain every detail. He listens to every word. No passive nod or a dismissive coo—he fully engages with you, asking questions and indulging your excitement further. If this is his way of trying to get five starts out of you, he's certainly doing a hell of a job.

You're so caught up in your joint laughter—your driver's voice starting to give you butterflies—that when you turn to look outside the car, you quickly realize that you don't recognize where you are. In a sudden bout of confusion, you check your phone and notice that you've been in this car for far longer than you should have been.

"Uh, I think we might have missed my stop." You try your hardest to laugh it off, hoping it's a simple mistake, but your voice struggles to find the mirth it held before.

Strade looks to you in the rear view and this time, you don't see as much charm in his stare.

"Don't worry," his eyes squint with a concerning amount of glee. "There was traffic down that last road, we'd be stuck there for hours if we went that way."

Right. That makes sense. His job is to make sure you get home the best route possible, so a small detour is no biggie.

You repeat that to yourself over and over, but your stomach doesn't care what you have to say. Your body knows something isn't the same, something isn't right. Your gut, a deer that refuses to stop looking for what made that shifting sound in the bushes.

There's a terrible silence that lingers in the air as you pay far more attention to every street sign you pass. You want nothing more than to see names you remember, to believe him when he says you're almost home. He tries to talk to you again, but your answers are empty and curt, so he yields with a small chuckle. It makes you sick.

When Strade drives over a bridge—an old wooden one built over water, no other cars in sight—you know you've gone to far.

Your heart pounds, throat refusing to swallow while you try to collect yourself enough to focus on escape. You stare ahead at the rear view, keeping an eye on Strade. His eyes are fixated on the road ahead, so you take your chance. Trembling fingers feel over the car door in desperate search for a handle. You move directly over where it should be—you know that's where it should be, where else would it be? You find more door, you find absence, you find nothing.

Nothing?

What?

Overwhelming dread sets into your bones as an inevitability finally washes over you. You're almost convinced you're hallucinating as you press your fingers over the socket that was previously occupied by a handle.

"You know," you find him once again in the mirror, low lidded eyes glazed in delight by your terror. "I really shouldn't be doing this."

He scoffs with embarrassment, like he's about to ask you out, like this is some romantic meet cute. "They say never mix business with pleasure."

"Strade—"

"And for good reason. This job is a great way to meet so many people, all those different lives, but there's too much risk."

The car lags for a moment as it steers off road, pulling you into a forest. It bounces over roots and uneven terrain, branches dragging across the roof of the car and taking you further away from safety. Tears well up in your eyes, death never having been this real to you before. The grim reaper's cold, skeletal finger tracing your neck an a taunting caress. You don't want to die.

"I'm bad, I know." He muses in the way someone might jokingly scold themselves for breaking a diet.

The car halts, every path around you shadowed and unknown—visibility only coming from Strade's headlights. "There's just something about you."

Something in you breaks and you stop thinking, your body flying into sudden action. You turn your body and begin to slam your foot as hard as you possibly can into the car door. Every kick shakes the vehicle, giving you hope that it might eventually be enough force to break, to set you free. Tears fall down your face, your throat scratching as you scream out in frustration, loud enough that you don't hear the door behind you open. The back of your neck is grabbed so tight that you choke, your body dragging backwards. Another hand latches onto your shoulder just as tightly, throwing you out onto the cold dirt. Something stabs your side and you sob harder, turning onto your side before you realize where you are. You try and scream again, but his palm cracks across your face before it covers your mouth.

"I knew I was right about you." He's out of breath. "So viel Geist."

You barely get to react before his hands are around your throat, his grip growing tighter and tighter. Your vision spots, your hearing beginning to muffle as you weakly claw at his arms. His own eyes grow lidded, yet they never leave yours. His face mimics yours, you wonder if he's mocking you. It looks so natural on him that you almost consider that he's passing out alongside you. His strength never falters even once and you perish the thought.

Strade says something that you miss, only the words 'fun' and 'home' are clear enough to you before you fall, slipping unconscious.

While hope has left you and you never expect to open your eyes again—you'll find that when you do—there are fates far worse than death.

You've tucked yourself in the far corner of your neighbour's couch while all the others entertain themselves. The plan you're sticking to is to stay here for an hour or two, grab a picture, and lock your door so tight that nothing ever escapes your house again. It's hell being here. Everyone's whispering about you, you're sure of it. They didn't recognize you when you stepped up to the front door. The only reason you got it was because the owner of the house.

Strade's smile was so wide when he peered over the neighbour that was interrogating you.

He called you 'buddy' with such warmth, you'd have thought you'd met before. His large hand pressed into your shoulder as he led you inside, the only person in the house that you'd consider welcoming. Even now, he's the only one that's sitting just across from you while active in conversation with another. That's not to say you're considering any sort of friendship. It's likely he's just being polite, and once he gets to really know you, he'll move on, and so will you.

Checking the time for the seventh time, you're just about ready to take a photo nearby. Some people head out before your body shocks into place. At first, you think you might have just made it up, or you were just lost in your own head, but there's something that's paralyzed you. Something your neighbour said.

"It's a beautiful sound too—" Strade chuckled. You think he might have been talking about music or birds.

There's just something about the way he said it that is eerily familiar to you. In a way that shoots through your veins. Instead of leaving, you stare at his profile and take great consideration to decipher his every word. It's not what he says that matters, it's his voice. That voice.

That's not.. it can't be..

"—Buddy?"

Shit. You were staring, weren't you?

You shake your head and grow hot when all the attention turns to you.

"Ah," a nervous laugh sputters from your mouth as you turn away. "Sorry, I totally zoned out."

The others still seem disconcerted but not Strade. He only pats your shoulder, giving it a squeeze as he chuckles along with you.

He continues his conversation with ease, not before shooting you a wink that makes you feel hotter. You excuse yourself, shuffling off to the kitchen to shove your face with anything to keep your mouth shut. Now, they definitely don't like you.

You huff and almost make it to the kitchen before passing by a door. You hadn't seen much of Strade's house, but when you passed by it there was a cold chill that hit you. After what got in your head before, you're itching with curiousity now.

Maybe it's down here.

Your hand wraps around the knob and you shift it to find resistance. You curse under your breath and step back, bumping into someone. As you turn to apologize, you find Strade—once again.

"Fuck! Sorry, I—"

Strade waves a hand. "No, I'm sorry for scaring you. Were you looking for something?"

He takes a glance at the door behind you, and you follow his eyes. "Oh! I was just—the door. I was wondering where it went.."

You begin to fiddle with the sleeve of your jacket, worried that you were in trouble. That maybe you crossed a line, and he was finally going to kick you out. Every terrible scenario fills your mind, especially when Strade reaches out to you. You shut your eyes before they open at the sound of a door unlocking. He snickers at you as he pushes the door open.

"It's just my basement if you're that interested." He shrugs.

You're starting to feel a little stupid for bothering your neighbour and acting like some weirdo. He invites you over, and you make the worst impression possible. With a sigh through your teeth, you follow him down to the basement. You step off the stairs and prepare to apologize, but the words die in your throat. Your eyes scan every inch of the room. The floor, the walls, the drawers, table, and solitary pole that stands tall in the middle of it all.

You know this place.

You move closer, tracing shaking fingers down the cold steel. Your heart is pounding, and you're breathing heavier—you can feel your pulse.

Strade is watching you like a hawk, trying to decipher what exactly is going through your mind. You snap your head to him, and your lips struggle to form the words.

"It's—" His eyes flicker over your features, specifically your lips, as they begin to curl. "It's really you."

Still, he chuckles, a laugh you can now place. "I'm not sure I—"

"I'm your biggest fan." You whisper, stepping closer to him.

Your hands move out before they awkwardly pull back towards you. Strade's mouth falls, and his eyes shoot open wide as he observes you in a very new light.

With a giddy laugh, you continue. "I mean, I've never missed a stream since I started watching, and I—I donate all the time!"

His eyes move up the stairs before they land back on you. They trace up and down your form before he grins, and then he laughs. He laughs the way you heard it so many times before—a screen between you and your idol. You clasp your hands together nervously as he seems to be rather tickled by the entire situation. He grabs your shoulder, and you flinch before joining in his amusement.

"Oh, buddy." Strade's voice drops, the tone you had gotten off to in the dark of your room. "I knew there was something special about you."

You swallow and bite down a whimper as you're pulled closer, his broad arm falling over your shoulders. He hums, and you feel it, your pulse still racing.

"Stay after everyone's gone, I think we should talk." His hand rubs over your chest, and you know he can feel your heart.

Maybe he's picturing how he'd remove it from your chest—like he did to that one guy.

You nod fervently, and he coos at you, petting your back before nodding his head in the direction of the stairs. Once more, you're obedient, and you rejoin the others, a new excitement finding you. Maybe this move was worth it. Looking at Strade, who shoots you back a warm, knowing smile—maybe you could make friends after all.

There's a crack, then a slam. You barely see a thing, your vision moving far too quickly before it's suddenly dark. Pain shoots through your skull, creeping down your neck and shocking your spine. Blood spills down your forehead and rushes in your ears. Except—no, it's far louder. That much blood couldn't be rushing out of you, could it?

Water. That's the sound of water.

You try and sit up, but you barely move an inch before a grip hits the back of your neck and forces you down. Air has left your lungs and water fills your every sense. Your body fights to force it all out, but it surrounds you fast. Your hands scramble to pull you out, but even that is an arduous task—a fruitless one—as they're collected into a single grasp and pressed into your back.

You might be crying, but it's impossible to tell like this. Everything starts to dim, lungs beginning to accept their inability to function. In all of this torture, you feel a faint sensation of something moving against you. It doesn't matter anymore, there's nothing left for you. There's nothing.

Light. Blinding light is all you can make out before your coughing—the fight returning to your body like an electric shock. You gag and choke out any ounce of water that you can rid yourself of. It burns—everything from your nose to your chest to your eyes to your ears. Just as water begins to fall from your hearing, you clue into heavy breathing that isn't your own. A whine allows you to return back into that feeling you noticed earlier. In all your haze and discomfort, your body welcomes the heated weight that rubs against your ass. You can barely think, simply hoping to find some relief in misery, moving back against it and gaining a shocked grunt.

Water—or maybe drool—drips down your chin. "W-What are you—"

"Quiet."

A single slip up returns you to your watery grave. You scream and it dies in the wet, making sure not a soul knew of your suffering. None but the rotting one that lays in the chest of the man that couldn't stop himself from grinding into you. You shut your eyes and close your mouth, but the bathwater makes it way through your nose and down your throat. All of your bucking and squirming seems to only encourage Lawrence more, to take things a step further. Your behind begins to feel a slight chill, before there's warmth between your legs. Fingers fumble over your exposed folds, pressing and exploring you with hurried yet curious motions.

You hack and cough out water from your lungs once again—hiccupping through tears and the sudden intrusion of two fingers. You don't know what's worse—that you know what's bound to come after this or that you're somehow wet despite everything. It's not enough, biting down on your lip still allows a sound to slip past as his fingers move in deeper.

He scoffs against your shoulder, it sounded almost amused. "You just don't listen."

Lawrence's fingers curl inside you and you let out another strained moan. "I'm s—"

His fingers drag out of you slowly, pressing in. Your words melt with a shaken breath and can't help but wonder if he's doing this on purpose, just to see you fail.

"..sorry." You whisper as his fingers finally leave you.

There's nothing left to say, not as you feel him push into you, his hand quickly shooting up to cover your mouth. You cry out into his hand, coughing up more water that drips in between his fingers. His cock fills you and you feel like your drowning again. Your mind floats and flutters at the stretch, trying to piece together what reaction it should be having to all of this. Lawrence's cock ruts up into you and your body makes that decision for you.

The pain doesn't leave, everything still aches—but the pleasure that rocks through you in waves makes it bearable. You might even say the soreness makes the ecstasy all the sweeter.

Maybe you're finally losing it.

It's humiliating how slick the sounds that come from between your legs are, the wet slap just as telling of your enjoyment. Your face is soaked and you can't tell if it's tears, sweat or simply just water. Adding onto the list, Lawrence drags his tongue along your neck up and up your cheek. The heat of his breath and mouth encourages you to lean into him—his hips quickening. He lets out a broken noise against your shoulder—his hold dropping your wrists to lock his arm around your chest. His desperation becoming contagious as he fucks into you like a toy.

"Just- Just let me—" Lawrence begs into your skin.

Your voice is useless to deny him, not that it mattered. You have no power here.

All of your cries and moans seep into his skin as his hand squeezes against your jaw so hard it hurts. Still your cunt tightens and swallows him with all the eagerness of a succubus. His siren, his venus fly trap. He should have killed you earlier, but he can't imagine having missed this. Your hole is so warm and tight, no graveyard fling could compare.

Maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to kill you.

You scream out into his hand as you cum around him, his movements picking up speed and sending you barrelling through an orgasm. Lawrence lets out a deep groan through gritted teeth, slamming his forehead into you before biting down on your skin to quiet himself. He rolls his cock into you again and again and you feel like your in heaven and hell all at the same time. Then your body's being filled with cum and you nearly collapse against him. You should break at the strength of his hold, but you don't.

Eventually his hold relaxes and you sit there, in his arms. Soaked, fucked and exhausted. Lawrence's mouth presses against your temple and you nearly think it's a kiss before he speaks.

"I'll kill you next time, okay?" He mutters.

You smile.