#jack oconnell

The gym smelled like stale sweat and iron, same as every other hole-in-the-wall fighting spot Stan had dragged him to. But this one had a back door that opened onto an alley, and beyond that, a narrow street with a storefront that caught Lion's eye every time he passed.

Creature Comforts. A pet store. The kind with hand-painted signs and a bell on the door.

He'd been coming to this gym for three weeks—longer than Stan usually let him stay in one place—and every morning, without fail, he'd see you through that window. Sorting bags of feed. Talking softly to a yapping terrier. Your hair pulled back, glasses sliding down your nose, always wearing some oversized cardigan that swallowed your frame whole.

You were quiet.

He could tell from the way you moved—deliberate, careful, like you were trying not to disturb the air around you. Lion understood that. He understood trying to be small, trying not to draw attention, trying to exist in a world that felt too loud and too sharp.

He stuttered. He knew what it was like to have people look at you like you were broken.

"Hey!" Stan's voice cracked like a whip from the ring. "Stop daydreaming and get your head in the game. We got a fight tonight."

Lion pulled his gloves tighter, but his eyes drifted back to that window.

You were holding a rabbit now, cradling it against your chest, your lips moving in some silent conversation. Something in his chest twisted—tight and unfamiliar.

He didn't know why he went in that afternoon.

Stan was off hustling, making calls, probably betting money they didn't have. The bell chimed soft and silver above the door, and you looked up from the register, startled.

"Oh. Hi." Your voice was softer than he expected. "Can I help you find something?"

Lion opened his mouth, and the words stuck—caught on the jagged edges of his stutter like they always did when he was nervous. He felt his face heat up, that old shame creeping in.

You didn't rush him.

Didn't finish his sentence or look away with that embarrassed pity he was used to. You just waited, head tilted slightly, patient as a stone in a river.

"F-feed," he finally managed. "For a… for a friend."

You smiled—not the sharp, hungry smiles he saw at fights, but something small and real. "Small animal? Cat? Dog?"

"Fish," he lied, because he didn't know what else to say, because he wanted to keep you talking.

"Beta? Goldfish?"

"Goldfish."

You nodded and stepped out from behind the counter, and he caught the smell of you—clean, like soap and cedar shavings, nothing like the perfume and cigarette smoke that usually clung to the women Stan pushed him toward.

You moved past him down an aisle, and he followed, watching the way your cardigan hung off one shoulder, revealing a thin strap from whatever you wore underneath.

"These are good," you said, handing him a container of flakes. "Not too much— they'll eat themselves to death if you let them. They don't know when to stop."

Lion took the container, his fingers brushing yours. "S-sounds like me."

You looked at him then—really looked—and he saw something shift in your eyes. Recognition, maybe.

Or just the willingness to see him.

"You fight at O'Malley's gym," you said. It wasn't a question.

"Y-you know it?"

"I walk past it. Early mornings." You adjusted your glasses, a faint pink rising in your cheeks. "You're good. I've watched through the window. You move like… like you're apologizing to the air for hitting it."

Lion felt something crack open in his chest. "I'm L-Lion."

"I know," you said, and then caught yourself, blush deepening. "I mean— the guys outside call you that. Lion Kaminski. I'm… well, everyone just calls me by the store name. Or 'hey you.' But it's— it's y/n."

He started coming back.

Every day.

Sometimes for fish food he didn't need, sometimes just to stand in the cool quiet of the shop while you fed the animals or cleaned cages. You didn't ask about the bruises. Didn't ask about the cut above his eye or the way his hands shook sometimes when he counted out crumpled bills.

You just talked to him—slow, soft, giving him space to find his words.

And he talked to you.

More than he talked to anyone, even Stan. About the fights. About the road. About the way his chest felt tight most days, like he couldn't get enough air.

"You're not just your hands," you told him one evening, close to closing.

The streetlights were coming on outside, painting everything blue. You were sitting on the counter, legs swinging, and he was leaning against the fish tanks, watching the neon light play across your face. "The fighting. It's not all you are."

"F-feels like it," he admitted. "Like I'm just… just damage. Taking it. D-dealing it."

You hopped down, crossed the small space between you, and did something that made his heart stop—you reached out and took his hand. His knuckles were swollen, split in places, ugly. You traced the scars like you were reading something written there.

"My mother used to say," you said quietly, "that some people are born with too much feeling. Too much… electricity. And it has to go somewhere. So it comes out as art. Or words. Or—" you looked up at him, your eyes huge behind your glasses "—fighting. You're not damage, Lion. You're just electricity looking for ground."

He kissed you.

He didn't mean to—didn't plan it—but you were looking at him like he was something worth saving, and he'd never been looked at like that before.

Your mouth was soft, tentative, and you made a small sound against his lips that nearly broke him.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, pulling back. "I shouldn't—"

"Kiss me again," you whispered, and your hands were fisting in his shirt, pulling him close. "Please. While it's just us. While no one's watching."

He did.

He kissed you like you were fragile glass and like you were the only solid thing in a world of smoke. Your cardigan slipped off your shoulder and he traced the line of your collarbone with trembling fingers, memorizing the way you tasted.

"Stay," you said against his neck, your breath warm. "Tonight. Just… stay."

Stan would be furious. They had a fight in the morning, a big one, money on the line. But Lion looked at you—at your quiet strength, your patient eyes, the way you saw him and not the fighter, not the stutter, not the damaged thing—and he nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

That night, in the small apartment above the pet store, you touched him with hands that knew how to be gentle.

You didn't flinch from his scars. You didn't ask him to be harder, tougher, meaner. You just held him, and for the first time in years, Lion Kaminski slept without dreaming of the ring.

In the morning, he would fight.

He would probably win—he usually did, though it cost him pieces of himself every time. But he would come back. He would walk through that silver-belled door, and you would look up from whatever quiet task you were doing, and you would see him.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND.

Letting out a soft giggle as he presses a kiss onto your inner thigh, you shove him back by the head, his dark eyes focused on you. God, he was beautiful. Playfully blowing a raspberry on your inner thigh, you squeal at the ticklish feeling, lips curling up into a bigger smile. Wrapping his arms securely around your hips, he drags you to the edge of the bed, plopping himself on the floor. He mumbles something under his breath, but you don’t catch it. Pressing a loving kiss on your navel, he slowly trails his tongue down onto your clit, sending hot jolts of pleasure down your spine. Humming in delight at your reaction, he slowly swirls his tongue over your clit, the slow drag of his tongue and vibrations of his humming nearly sending you over the edge too soon. 

“Brad⎯” You moan, hips bucking up off the matress.

“Mmm..”

“Brad, I⎯” You warn, the rapid flicking of his tongue growing into too much.

You didn’t want to cum just yet. Groggily opening your eyes up, you barely register the head of blonde hair behind your thighs, mind still fuzz from sleep. He looked so pretty in between your thighs. And his tongue? God, he was even better than you could imagine. Digging his nails into the fat of your hips, the sting from his nails sends a shudder down your spine. The mix of pain with his tongue was a heavenly combination. Opening your eyes again as he hums in delight against your tongue, you tangle your fingers into his hair, the greasiness of his hair making your cringe for a moment. Greasy hair. Why did that feel so familiar to you? No, it was just sweat. He was sweating a lot.

Brushing it off as nothing, you glance between you thighs, tugging at his hair. Humming softly, you buck your hips harder for more, his face completely hidden by your thighs brackening on either side of his head. Sloppily slurping up your wetness, you shut your eyes, ignoring everything but the way he sloppily slurped you up. Perhaps, you should let him do this to you more often. He was so good with his tongue. Lifting your hips off the mattress, you tug harder on his hair, earning another muffled moan of pleasure. Shaking his head from side to side like he was motorboating you, you let out a hiccuping moan, body twitching and jolting involuntarily. You really weren’t going to be able to hold back if he kept that up. 

“Brad⎯”

“Stop calling me that, I’m not fuckin’ Brad. I’m Jimmy.” A familiar voice complains, instantly snapping you out of your pleasure filled daze. 

Jimmy.

Him.

Snapping your eyes open instantly, you stiffen up instantly, feeling as if someone had just poured a pot of boiling water in your face then a pot of cold water. Your gut churns, dreading looking between your thighs again. It wasn’t Jimmy. It wasn’t Jimmy. It was Brad. Brad was between your thighs, not Jimmy. Digging your nails into his scalp hard, you pull him away forcefully by the hair, coming face to face with Jimmy. His chin was covered in your wetness. His blue eyes full of sadness as you forced him to pull away from you. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. A blood curdling scream escapes your lips as it processes in your head what was just happening. 

Jimmy had just..

He was..

He had been..

Kicking him away forcibly, you scramble to put some space between the two of you, the conflicted mix of throwing and scrubbing your skin raw bubbling in you. He was just giving you head. That wasn’t a dream, that was fucking Jimmy. Jimmy and his filthy fucking STD riddled mouth was touching you. Clutching his throbbing nose, he falls back on his butt, his bottom lip bloody from biting down on it accidentally. Gagging violently as your mind kept on repeating over and over that it was Jimmy had just given you head, you shake your head, tucking your knees up to your chest. The scream drags on and on until your lungs burn and force you to breathe once again. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” 

“You hit me.” He frowns, his eyes watery from the kick to the nose.

“Get the fuck away from me! Get off!” You shriek, kicking as he reaches out for you again with his free hand. 

You swear that you hear a sickening crack when your heel connects hard with his nose again. Falling back on his ass, he lets out a loud sob of pain, the blood seeping through his fingers thicker and more frequently. You must’ve broken his nose. Pulling his hand back from his face, he stares at his bloody hand, teary eyes widening with panic at all the blood. Letting out a panicking sob, you look over his face, his once slightly crooked nose now drastically crooked. Surprisingly, it made you feel guilty. If this was a victory, you never wanted to win again. Tucking your knees up to your chest, you try to take as little of room as possible, not wanting him to get a chance to grab you again. Taking a hiccuping breath in, he blinks back tears, nose still gushing blood.

“Why⎯Why would you hit me? I⎯I didn’t do anything wrong!” He sobs, his words quickly snapping you back to reality.

“Are you fucking serious?!” 

He doesn’t respond, only sobs heavily at his bleeding nose.

“You fucking rapist piece of shit!” You shriek, throwing whatever was within reach at him. “You fucking fat fuck! You fucking pervert! Don’t you ever touch me again, I’ll fucking kill you!”

The crusty pillow smacks him in the face, only worsening his sobs. Watching him wail and blubber out snot, you can’t help but stare at him in pure disgust, your nose wrinkled up and lips curled down firmly. It was pathetic, truly fucking pathetic. He was a grown ass man⎯god knows how old really⎯sobbing about you kicking him in the face after he had just raped you. What the fuck did he expect? For you to thank him for once again assaulting you? To giggle and smile and ask him for more? To twirl his hair with your hand and smile at him like he was the love of your life? When in reality you really wanted to kill him.

Taking a hiccuping breath in, he reaches out for you again, clearly hoping for some kind of comfort after what you had just done. It only worsened your anger. Wrinkling your nose up even more, he manages to latch onto your ankle firmly, the stupid rings on his fingers pressing hard into your skin. Surely, adding more bruises to the collection already on your skin from last night’s assault. Kicking at his hand with your other foot, he drags you roughly to the edge of the bed, tears stopping for a moment. It was like a switch had just flipped in him. One moment he was sobbing, the next staring at you with a cold expectancy for obedience.

“You’re supposed to comfort me.” He states, as if it was the most obvious thing ever.

“You fucking raped me.” You argue, unable to stop yourself.

“You promised me that you’d be my Mummy, that you’d take care of me.” He states, voice raising slightly as you continue to not obey instantly. 

Yeah to stop you from raping me, asshole.

The words were on the tip of your tongue, threatening to spill out. But, you stop yourself at the last second. You just let him rant and rave some more, hoping that it could buy you enough time. Time for what? You weren’t sure just yet.

“Stop being such a frigid bitch like the rest of them. You’re supposed to be different. You are different! Just stop! Fucking stop!” He rambles on, “You broke my nose, so you need to comfort me. You promised you’d take care of me, so take care of me.”

“I don’t owe you jackshit, let alone being your fucking Mummy. You fucking raped me, you fucking rapist piece of shi⎯” You argue, but a hard slap to the face cuts you off mid-sentence. 

The room goes deadly silent. It takes you a solid second to process what had just happened, the pain of his ringed hand connecting with the side of your face trickling in. He had just slapped you. He had just fucking slapped you. Blinking back the tears that bubbled in your eyes from the pain, you lift a hand up to touch your cheek, regretting it instantly at the throbbing that shoots down your spine. Reaching back out for you again, you flinch at his outstretched hand, just waiting for a second hit. But, it doesn’t come. Grabbing your chin firmly between his thumb and pointer finger, he forces you to maintain eye contact, his foul breath fanning against your face. It was sour and rotten. Smelt like something that would give you some kind of disease if you kissed him.

“Comfort me.” He demands, pressing his thumb hard on your bottom lip.

“You raped me. I’m not gonna fucking comfort my rapist because I broke his nose for raping me. That’s not how this works.” You argue, shaking your head in refusal.

“You were wet.” He argues, as if that justified it.

“Doesn’t changed what you fucking did to me.” You argue, standing your ground against him. “It’s still rape. You raped me.”

It was stupid. It was really fucking stupid. You knew that deep down, but stubbornness kept your spine extra straight. Narrowing his eyes hard at you, his nose twitches from anger, nostrils flaring up as he takes a sharp breath in. For a moment, you think he’s going to slap you again. That he's going to make you regret talking about to him. But, he doesn’t. Licking away some of the blood on his top lip with his tongue, he blinks back tears in his eyes at the bitter metallic taste, the dark look on his face slowly falling. Staring at you with a pathetic expression, he lets out a soft sob, shoulders wracking up and down again. Another round of tears, wonderful. Fucking wonderful.

Biting back a scoff at the sight of him wailing like a child, he lets go of your chin, dragging you into his arms abruptly. Roughly burying his face into your breasts, your face curls up in disgust, your body tensing up at his tightening grip on you. He was like an overgrown child with his clinging⎯his stupid demanding for care and comfort from you. Digging his nails into the fat of your hips dips, he nuzzles his face deeper into your breasts, his chin pressing hard against your under boob. Gritting your teeth in pain at the pressure, he nips at your breast with his teeth, blindly feeling around to find your nipple. 

“What the fuck?!” You shriek, trying to shove him off but he’s latched on tight. “Get off of me!”

“Mummy..” He whimpers, suckling on your nipple like he was some baby.

“I’m not your fucking Mummy, you sick fuck!” You grit your teeth in anger, “Get off me!” 

“Mummy..” 

He sucks harder on your nipple like he thought that if he did it hard and long enough, milk would eventually come out. It was disgusting. Sure, you knew a few guys with Mommy kinks. But, it was always hot stuff like, “You ride me and call me a good boy” or “Dom me and treat me like I’m beneath you”. Not actually trying to breastfeed from you. Grabbing a handful of his greasy hair, you try to peel him off of your breast, but it only makes him suck even harder on your nipple. 

Letting out a yelp as he clumsily nips at the tip of your bud, it’s clear that he doesn’t know how to properly suck on a nipple, and that only makes it worse. It’s just sloppy and downright painful from how overly eager he was to be touching you, like a stabby toddler on a sugar rush. Giving another hard nip on the areola, you hiss at the painful flick over the tip with his bottom teeth that follows, feeling almost the same as getting a cervix scrape done with a cheese grater.

“Get off of me, you fat pig!”

“You’re being mean, Mummy.” He mumbles against your nipple, more tears streaming down his face at your harsh words.

“Stop fucking calling me that! I’m not your god damn Mummy!” You ramble on, “And I will never be no matter how many times you say it!”

“You promised me⎯”

“That doesn’t mean jackshit! I don’t fucking like you, and I never will! You’re nothing more than a fat fucking creep from the mall to me!” You cut him off, unleashing the anger that had been festering in you since all of this had begun. 

Stopping sucking on your nipple for a second, he stares at you in dead silence, and you think that maybe⎯just maybe you had gotten some sense into him. That he’ll realize everything he had just done to you. But, then he sniffles as more tears bubble up in his eyes. Your words seemingly trigger an even bigger age regression in him. Pawing at your hip dips, he resumes sucking on your nipple, teeth dragging painfully over your throbbing areola. Giving his hair another painful tug, he releases your nipple, only to latch onto the other before you could stop him. Pressing his chin deeper into your underboob, your nipples felt sore and raw, and god knows what they look like.

“Jimmy, get the fuck off of me.” You demand, trying to find some way to peel him off.

He doesn’t listen.

“Jimmy, your Mummy is telling you to get the fuck off of me. Listen!” You try again, hoping that half-play into his twisted fantasy would get through to him.

Again, he doesn’t listen to your demands. 

Letting out a harsh noise of frustration at his refusal to get off, he bucks his hips at the rough tugging of his hair, grinding himself against the edge of the bed. The sight of his growing boner only makes you even more disgusted and fearful. A tiny voice in the back of your head fuels your fear, What if he got horny again? What if he tried to stick that disgusting little dick inside of you again? You didn’t have a bathroom to clean up in. You still felt so revolting from last night, like a thick layer of filth had managed to glue itself onto you. God, you wish that you could forget what happened last night. But, your mind was not kind enough to allow you that privilege.  

You could still feel the way that he rubbed at your clit with his hand, the damn thing feeling like it was made of sandpaper. The way his weight crushed you, forced you down on the crusty bed sheets. The way you had tried to fight back against him, only for it to fail. The way you eventually had to just accept it and count the seconds until it was finally over with. Digging your nails harder into his scalp, you pull him off with all your strength, shrieking in pain as he pulls at your nipple with his teeth. Slamming the bottom of your palm against his bleeding nose to keep him off, you scramble off the bed, desperate to get as far as possible from him. 

“You sick fuck! What the hell is wrong with you?!” You hiss, clutching your aching nipple in your hand; far too far to look at the damage done to it.

“Why do you keep hitting me?!” 

You don’t respond at first, too shocked by just how stupid he truly was.

“Answer me!” He demands, pointing a threatening finger in your face.

“What part of you raping me is not kicking in that stupid bottle blonde brain of yours?!” You snap back, stumbling over a pile of clothes on the floor.

God, he really was stupid…or delusional...or both.

Flinching as your back hits the wall hard, he has you cornered once again, this time the door far too out of your reach. You’d have to jump on the bed to try to reach it, but even then you’d have to find some way to unlock it. Swallowing the pit of defeat bubbling up, you try to stay strong, to keep up the fight just as so many girls did in the true crime documentaries you’d seen. Sooner or later, someone was going to notice that you were gone. Sooner or later, someone was going to notice something was off with Jimmy's house. Sooner or later, Jimmy was going to slip up and you needed to be ready for it. You just…You had to wait, no matter how painful that was.

Taking a moment to really gather yourself since waking up abruptly, you wrap your arms tighter around yourself, realizing that you were only in your socks. Your uniform shirt and bottoms ripped last night during the first assault. Staring down at the ground, you cringe at the stains on the carpet, the cute design of your tellatubbies socks coated with blood clashing against it. Your hair was knotted, could’ve been from last night or from how you slept. It didn’t matter. Your legs had marks, bruises and scratches⎯from his hands, his teeth, his crushing weight. It didn’t hurt, or maybe it didn’t hurt because you weren’t thinking about it too much. He takes a step closer towards you.

“Stop being a bitch.” He warns, “If you keep hitting me, I’m going to treat you like how foids should be.”

“I won’t stop fighting.” You argue, shaking your head.

“Then I’ll have to beat it out of you, bitch. You promised to take care of me, you don’t get to take those words back. You don’t get to leave, no one is waiting for you out there..” He argues, poking roughly at your temple.

“That’s not true, someone will come for me.” You argue, a lump thickening in your throat.

“No one gave a shit about you at work.” He argues, “You think you’re that fucking special, huh? That someone gives that much of a shit if you show up or not? They're not your real friends, they don’t care about you. Not like how I do.” 

Fresh tears bubble up in your eyes, the lump in the back of your throat thickening more and more as your bottom lip quivers. He was just being a dick, trying to break you down so that you became compliant with every demand of his. Someone was going to notice that you were gone. Your friends. Your co-workers. Your neighbor down the hall who always stole your parking spot. The security guard who did rounds in the staff parking lot. Someone. Brushing his fingers down your temple to your jawline, you flinch at the touch, back pressing harder against the wall like it would somehow move so you could escape him. Narrowing his eyes hard as you try to move away from him, he grabs onto your jaw tightly, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him. 

“No one is coming for you. No one cares about you, not like I do.” He argues, “Stop waiting for someone to come, because they aren’t. It’s just going to be me and you, and that’s going to be enough.” 

“Stop saying that⎯” You argue, but he cuts you off.

“It’s the truth, it’s the fucking truth and you know that deep down, ( Y/n ). You’ll learn to accept that..” He trails his eyes down your face, then lingers on your body for a beat too long for your liking. “Sooner or later.”

You don’t respond, biting down on your tongue hard.

“Let me take care of you, ( Y/n ), please. Please, let me.” He whispers, his voice dropping to a sickening soft one. “I don’t want to hurt you, not anymore. I don’t.”

Liar. Tightly clenching your jaw at his words, you bite harder on your tongue, the faint taste of blood flooding your mouth. Pressing his thumb harder against your bottom lip, he stares at your breasts for a dragged out moment, making you wrap your arms tighter around yourself. Your stomach was bubbling up like you had a nasty case of food poisoning⎯your mind telling you to make a bolt for it. This was the thing of horror movies, you were naked. He was naked. Stuck in a room. Together. He did it once before, he could again. He would again. Tightening his grip on your chin, he forces your head back, refusing to let your eyes wander away from him again. 

“But, you keep forcing me to.” He frowns, his rotten breath fanning against your face.

“Just let me go.” 

“Stop saying stupid things like that. You're home, ( Y/n ).” He argues, “There is nowhere else for you to go. This is your home now, I am your home now.”

“Then, let me go to the bathroom.” You try, already knowing that he’d refuse to let you.

“So you can try to escape? Again?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes hard at your words.

Yes, you could find a razor blade..or a window..or a vent..something..anything to help you escape him. Grinding your teeth together at his words, you open your mouth to argue back, but he cuts you off. Trailing his hand from your chin to your throat, he suddenly smashes the back of your head into the wall, a violent wave of nausea fills you instantly. You lose feeling in your fingertips, black spots floating around in your vision. He had smashed the same spot from yesterday, the one that had finally stopped feeling so tender. You had just been feeling good⎯or as good as one could be after being kidnapped and raped. Retching violently, your throat burns as stomach acid goes up. 

Throwing you onto the ground hard, you wheeze in pain as your temple smacks against it, waves of pain shooting down your body. Reaching up to protect your head with your hands, you try to roll over on your side, brows furrowed together. Smacking the back of your head hard with his ringed hand, he forces you to lie on your back, staring up at him. The pressure of the floor on your throbbing head makes you squirm in place, trying to get away. Plopping himself down on his knees, he cages your head in between his thighs, forcing you to come face-to-face with the thick blonde hairs on his balls and ass. The stench of what you know is unwashed ass filling your nose.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You panic, fearing that he was going to try to throat fuck you.

“You don’t need to breathe, just lick.” He states, as if it was the most normal response.

“Don’t you fucking dare⎯” 

Putting all of his weight down on your face, you take a sharp breath instinctively, nose pressing deeper into his balls. The coarse hairs scrape against your skin just enough to make it itch. The stench of sweat and unwashed piss being shoved down your nose. You would gag if it wasn’t for the fact that you couldn’t breath. Angling himself just enough to let you breath again, you gasp deeply for air, the shock of being smothered under his weight making your lungs burn. Gagging at the stench wafting off him, your eyes water heavily, not sure if you wanted to hurl or cry or gag some more for air at this moment. Clawing at his thighs to try to move him, he sinks back down on your face, smothering you once again. The stench of him overwhelming and drowning you.

“Fucking lick.” He demands, grinding against your face.

Not a fucking chance, you wanted to shout back.

“Fucking lick it, or I’ll fucking piss on you, foid!” He shouts, the boom of his voice making your ears ache.

Not a fucking chance, asshole. 

Clenching your jaw tightly in refusal, he grinds harder against your face, shoving your nose deeper between his ass crack. You can feel the coarse hairs rub the skin raw, feeling like sandpaper. A pathetic noise escapes his lips, almost like a squeak and a moan. Bucking against your nose desperately, you dig your nails into his thighs, feeling the muscles tense with each needy jerk of his hips. Despite how fat he was, the muscles of his thighs were still straining and flexing hard. Retching violently as you swear that you feel something wet smear against you, you thrash against him, his weight unbearable⎯everything about him was so fucking unbearable. 

Blindly feeling around for something to use to get him off, your hand latches onto what feels like an action figure, a sticky plastic that feels a lot like a sword. Curling your fingers harder around it, you smash the figure into his thigh with all of your strength. Letting out a blood curdling scream, he abruptly jumps off of you, collapsing onto the floor beside you. Clutching this bleeding thigh in pain, he looks like he’s seconds away from bursting into a fit of tears again. Gulping in as much air as you can before it’s gone, you find that it was some anime figure, plastic sword red from his blood.

Sitting on the toilet in silence, you cringe at the burning sensation as you pee, digging your nails into the palms of your hand. Shoving a cheese grater up your vagina was more pleasant than this feeling, and that was saying a fucking lot. Tightly shutting your eyes in pain, you squirm on the toilet seat, teeth biting hard on the inside of your cheek. You most definitely had a UTI, or some other kind of infection. Which wasn’t surprising considering how fucking filthy Jimmy’s dick is. But, also a little considering you barely had it in you yesterday and a fucking UTI took days to form. The power of Jimmy’s filth…so amazing. The rotten cherry on top of your shit sundae.

Taking a sharp breath in through your nose, you let out a soft grunt, the feeling worsening as you accidentally close your legs too much. God, you needed a jug of cranberry juice and the most expensive pharmacy UTI treatment kit that money could buy. Peeling open your eyes, you grab the roll of toilet paper, dreading having to wipe. You had to do it. But, it already hurt so fucking much. Letting out a whiny little grunt, you shake your head, trying to hype yourself up to wipe yourself clean. Just do it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. Chewing harder on the inside of your cheek, you wipe as quickly as possible, the touch of the toilet paper feeling like sandpaper.

“Son of a fucking bitch!” You hiss, barely resisting the urge to scream at the top of your lungs. 

“Does it hurt?” Jimmy asks, the stupid question only worsening your anger.

“Shut the fuck up!” You sneer, gritting your teeth tightly in pain.

“You’re in pain.” He frowns, as if barely coming to the realization.

No fucking shit, Sherlock. 

Patting yourself dry with another piece of toilet paper, you flinch at the touch, regretting it instantly. If Jimmy hadn’t fucking touched you, none of this would have happened. Hell, if your stupid co-worker hadn’t asked you to take out the trash, none of this would have happened. This was all of her fault. Throwing the toilet paper into the toilet bowl, you slowly stand up, even just moving sends jolts of hot pain up your spine. It felt like if you breathed wrong, it would somehow travel down to your vagina and hurt. Grabbing onto your ankle, you watch in disgust as he presses a sloppy kiss on the skin, as if that would somehow magically get rid of your raging UTI.

“Fuck off.” You hiss, shaking him off.

“You’re all bruised up and hurting.” He states, pouting deeply.

“No fucking thanks to you!” You snap back, “Now fuck all the way off, Jimmy!” 

“I wanna take care of you..”

“Then, take me to a god damn hospital! I’ve got a fucking UTI or something because of you!” You snap back, “Better yet, let me the fuck go and kill yourself, you rapist piece of shit!”

Pouting even deeper at your words, he grabs onto your ankle firmly, his nails curling into the sticky skin. Hot rage bubbles up in you, wanting nothing more than to drown him in the toilet bowl filled with your piss. First, he kidnaps you. Then, he assaults you. Now, he wanted to comfort you? To act like you two were fucking dating? Like all of that was in the god damn past? Not a fucking chance. No matter what he said or did or how much time passed by, you wouldn’t forgive or forget. Lifting your leg up, he has your foot rest on his shoulder, pressing sloppy kisses down your ankle to the tips of your toenails. Wrinkling your nose up in disgust, he starts to suck on your big toe, maintaining eye contact in what you think is an attempt to be in a sexy way. 

“Get the fuck off me!” 

“I let you go to the bathroom.” He argues, as if that justified it.

“You want a fucking prize for that?” You scoff, yanking your ankle free. 

“I do.” He nods.

“You fucking kidnapped me and raped me, you think that you desreve a fucking prize for letting me use the restroom after that? Huh?” You argue, unable to help yourself.

He doesn’t respond, just blink blankly at you and somehow that’s worse than his stupid attempts to justify everything. At least then, you’d know what was going on in that fucked up head of his.

“I don’t want to be touched, not by you.” You add, “Never a fucking again, and don’t ever call me Mummy again.” 

Blinking slowly as he takes in your words, he lunges for you suddenly, grabbing a handful of your hair. Thrashing against his grip, you claw at his forearms with your nails, kicking at whatever part of him you could find in reach. Dragging you into the doorway of the bathroom, he smashes you against the wooden frame, purposefully hitting the back of your head against it. A wave of nausea hits you violently, some stomach acid managing to spill out of your lips onto the floor. You were getting real fucking sick and tired of him hitting you there. Throwing you against the porcelain floors of the bathroom, you curl up in a ball instinctively, wrapping your arms around your head to protect it from further hits. A sob escaping you at what you were sure was another round of abuse.

“Stop being such a foid, ( Y/n ).” He scolds, “You’re supposed to shower me in kisses for letting you go to the bathroom instead of pissing in the bed.” 

You don’t respond, knowing better now to just shut up. A little too fucking late, but still..

“I don’t like hurting you, I don’t. But, you just keep on being such a bitch!” He huffs, “Must be your period or something, girls always act like bitches when it’s their time of the month.”

It’s not, you weren’t due until a week from now. But, still that wasn’t why you were fighting against him. He just didn’t seem ready to accept the cold hard truth⎯you were never going to love your kidnapper and rapist. You could die tomorrow and still hate him with a passion. Dropping to his knees with a soft huff, he grabs onto your thighs, forcibly prying them apart. Another sob escapes your lips, dreading what was to come. You couldn’t even pee without it feeling like hell. God knows what this would feel like. Blowing a strand of greasy blonde hair out of his face, he reaches between your thighs, rubbing the oozing head of his cock between your folds. 

Slapping the head against your clit, you jolt at the feeling, chewing hard on your bottom lip. It felt even worse than peeing, like sandpaper and a cheese grader had a baby and shoved itself inside of you and was now dragging against your inner walls. Lifting your hips up a little higher, he slowly presses the head of his cock in, slowly easing the head in down. Choking on a moan as you clench instinctively around him, he bucks his hips upwards impatiently, pushing another inch in. The sensation makes your back arch, a loud wail escaping your lips. Digging your nails into his chest, you try to squirm away, to force him to pull out. But, he only crushes you under his weight. 

“Stop it.” He demands, “It’s not even that bad, you’re just being dramatic now.” 

“Pull out! Fucking get off!”

“I’m gonna take care of you now.” He shakes his head, pressing a sloppy kiss onto your cheek. 

Hunching himself over you, he forces himself in all the way without warning, a thin layer of sweat glistening on your skin at the intense stretch. It burns, the lack of foreplay and your UTI killing you. Shifting uncomfortably, you arch your back softly, trying to find a position that would ease the burn. But, it doesn’t work. You could still feel the burn from it. How could you not? It was practically in the back of your eyes at this point. Leaving welting red marks on his chest, he reaches up to grope and knead at your breasts, flicking your raw bitten nipples with his fingertip. 

Taking a sharp breath in through your nose, you shift again, feeling the coils of his pubic hair against your thighs. It burns just like the rest of it does. Sobbing as the burn grows as he starts to thrust into you, he places both hands on either side of your head, smashing his lips against yours in a filthy kiss. His tongue and teeth devouring your mouth like it was his only way to heaven. Your lungs burn almost immediately, his foul breath being forced into you. Breaking the kiss, you gag at the lingering taste of him in your mouth, a string of saliva connecting to both of your lips.

“I’m gonna take care of you now, ( Y/n ).” He coos, “You just need to let me. It’s the man’s job to take care of his woman, and that’s what you are.” 

You didn’t fucking want that, and you weren’t his.

“Just stop being so difficult about all of this. I know you like doing things your way, but you’re in my house now. And as the man of the house, what I say, goes. If I want you to bend over, you do it, or else I’m gonna choke you until you're blue. And don’t think I’ll let you die, I know CPR. I’ll bring you back.” He rambles on, each word worse than the other.

Hooking your legs over his hips, he uses the leverage to fold you in half, changing the angle of his thrusts. Punching out sobs from you with each hard snap of his hips against the back of your thighs, you choke on a breath, eyes rolling into the back of your head at the searing pain. Death would be more merciful than this. Drooling at the sight of your face, one hand snakes down to rub tight circles on your clit, earning another sob of pain from you. If God was real, he was fucking cruel. What sin was so bad that he justified this? Gossiping with your girls? Talking shit about the creeps in the mall? What was so fucking bad, huh? What was the reason? What?

“I can’t wait to see what our children look like.” He babbles on, head throwing back in pleasure.

What. The. Fuck.

“I hope they have your eyes. No, no, I want them to have your smile! You have a pretty smile.” 

You don’t respond, no matter how much you want to. ‘Not a fucking chance will I get knocked up by you’ was on the tip of your tongue, just threatening to spill out at any second.

Letting out a pathetic whimper as you don’t respond, sweat drips down his forehead, his body trembling as he battles between trying to get you to respond and just saying fuck it and cumming. Growling lowly as you still refuse to respond, he grips onto your hips, lifting your legs higher on his hips. The awkward angle sends a pinch down your spine, only worsening the pain that fills your entire lower half. Hiding his face in the crook of your neck, he thrusts into you hard and suddenly, stealing the breath from your lungs. The bed creaks under the force of his movements, the sound of your wet, sloppy fucking echoing off the walls. It’s horrid. It’s sickening. It’s cruel.

Biting down on your throat hard, he thrust on last time before tensing, drool leaking from the corners of his slack mouth as he finally cums. That familiar disgusting heat between your legs comes back. He had came in you twice now. Collapsing on top of you like a dead weight, you wheeze as the air is knocked out of you, face turning red from a lack of oxygen. Whimpering lowly as he rides out the waves of his orgasm, a sickening wet squelching sound fills the air as his hips jerks forward, pushing more cum inside of you. Staring up at the ceiling in a daze, you pray that you actually do suffocate underneath him, that this being your escape from him.

“I am going to make you so happy..” He whispers, sucking on the side of your neck to add another mark on your bruised and battered body.

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