#kidnapping cw

it didn't sink in till the first week, but you didn't have to worry about anything. you moved through the house on your own, when you scurried into rooms simon sometimes didn't follow. it was like he was bird-watching. keeping a close eye and admiring you. except you weren't exactly a free bird, rather a delicate beauty in a shiny cage.

you were surprised that simon had your favourite snacks in the pantry, even the same brand of plant-based milk you enjoyed. it was like he knew everything about you, and yet he was a total mystery.

"scary world out there." simon said, kept his distance from you in the recliner while you were curled up in the couch. you had taken a liking to a black and white checkered flannel blanket. it reminded you of the one back home, that you wondered if he just broke in a took it. he eyed you, which made it hard to read one of your many books, "pretty things like you need to be protected... bad men out there." as if this massive mountain of a man wasn't one of those so-called bad men.

you were in no place to argue. you still felt like you were in a spring locked trap and one wrong move would have it clamped down on you. that this was just some sick game before simon buried your body in the field behind the house.

"when can i go home?" you asked, finding your voice.

"this is better than home."

"are you going to kill me?" you asked before you swallowed the lump in your throat.

he shook his head, "no, ma'am. never." sounded like wedding vows rather than an answer. your curiosity only grew with each day. when you finished the books he brought you, he simply put them back in a bag and returned them from where they came from and came back with new ones.

"saw them on the shelf at the library, thought a woman like you would like them." he gave a curt nod as he dropped the canvas bag by your little nest of blankets on the floor by the television. you hadn't been able to watch television yet. primarily busied with sleeping, books, puzzles and notebooks where you had been writing.

and while it started a journal in the event the police found you. it had become more about fictional stories. for your personal pleasure. you thought about being a writer as a child, but the grind of corporate work in your adulthood seemed to dash that dream.

"next time." you said, feeling a little bold, "can you get some science fiction books too...." it felt uneasy to make any demands. he was your captor.

"well then, angel. be good for me then." he said, smiled under that mask. you looked over and made a face at him. you scampered off back into your nest of books and puzzles. maybe he was right, this was better than home. <3

"Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t think at all when I’m working."

He slammed the door and circled to the driver’s side, completely unfazed by your kicks against the window. You scrambled up, heart racing.

“You’re so dead. Do you know what I—”

“Don’t care.” He started the car like this was just his morning commute. “You don’t shut it, I will gag you. And trust me, I’ve got real good tools for that.”

You shoved at the door. Locked. Of course. “You’re gonna regret this! You fucking freak!”

“I’m regrettin’ it already,” he muttered.

***

The next few hours were a blur of rough curses and rapid turns. You had no clue where he was taking you, only that he was confident and fast, and you didn’t dare try jumping out when he slowed. His eyes—sharp and dead—flicked to you every time you opened your mouth. And you kept opening it.

“This car smells like rotten corpse.”

“...You look like you eat raw meat.”

“Ever heard of moisturizer? Or is being ugly part of the job?”

At the third insult, he sighed like a disappointed parent and pulled a thick piece of cloth from the glove box.

“No—don’t you—DON’T—"

He stuffed it in your mouth with zero ceremony, tying it behind your head like a gift bow. “There. Peace and fuckin’ quiet.”

Your glare could’ve set him on fire but he didn’t flinch.

“I miss the kids who cried. You just won’t shut up.”

He kept you tied to a chair in what looked like a storage room for the next several hours. He tried to feed you once. Took the gag off. Brought over what looked like cold noodles.

“Eat.”

“Go to hell.”

His brow twitched. “Really wanna die, huh?”

“I’d rather die than eat your half-assed garbage.”

“Suit yourself.” He shoved the bowl into a bin with a clatter. “Starve then.”

Later, he paced the room like he was trying to burn off the irritation you caused just by breathing.

“Thought you’d be more scared,” he said at one point.

“You thought wrong,” you sneered.

"Should’ve figured. Smart mouth like yours? Bet you grew up with too much attention. Or not enough. Couldn’t shut up for five minutes if your life depended on it."

“Would’ve been quieter if you weren’t a fucking prick.”

His jaw clenched. For a second, you swore he was gonna haul you up and slam you against the wall. Instead, he just chuckled dryly and turned away.

“You’ve got some nerve. Might actually be fun breakin’ you down.”

You ignored the weird flutter that gave you. When he finally got on the phone, out of your earshot, you only caught snippets through the wall.

“Yeah... got her... no, didn’t check... what the fuck do you mean that’s not her?... She had the same hair, height, whatever... What? You’re kidding me.”

The next time he came back into the room, he was rubbing the back of his neck like he had a migraine.

“You lucky bitch.”

“What?”

“Shiu’s coming to get you.”

“And who the hell is that—?”

“You’ll see. Try not to bite him too. Or do. Whatever.”

Shiu showed up ten minutes later, perfectly put together in a sleek coat, pressed shirt, and not a single hair out of place. The contrast between him and Toji, arms crossed like he’d rather punch the wall than be part of this was staggering.

Shiu blinked at you. "...Who the hell is this?"

Toji exhaled through his nose. “The girl. Obviously.”

Shiu’s lips flattened. “Toji. That’s not the girl.”

A long pause. Toji turned his head slowly toward you. His eyes narrowed. “...You serious?”

Shiu tilted his head, something almost like pity in his gaze. “This one’s not even close.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake—” Toji turned, walked a few feet, and kicked the wall. “I knew something felt off—mouthy little brat...”

“You kidnapped the wrong person?” you yelled.

“Shut up,” Toji snarled at you. “You looked close enough, alright? Got the pic this morning, blurry as shit.”

Shiu sighed. “I apologize for the… inconvenience.” He crouched beside you, undoing the ropes around your wrists. “Are you hurt?”

“Only emotionally. I’ve been in a dusty room with that ogre for twelve hours.”

Toji flipped you off.

Shiu chuckled softly, then said, “I can take you to eat. At least.”

You stared at him. “Oh, now I get food?”

“Yes. Anything you’d like.”

You cleared your throat. “I have a list.”

Shiu raised a brow. “A list?”

You held up your fingers. “I want Pasta. Smashed burger. Chocolate milkshake. Fries. Ice cream—chocolate, and vanilla. Oh, and a side of vengeance.”

Toji muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “spoiled brat.”

Shiu helped you up. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You better. I’ve been starving all day because that man is an uncultured ape.”

Toji gave you a smirk, stepping past Shiu as he made for the door. “Whatever. I’ll go get the real one.”

You throw the cloth at his back. “Hope she kicks your ass.”

“Hope you choke on your fries.”

You flipped him off as you walked out with Shiu.

***

Shiu was true to his word.

He took you to a sleek, dimly lit rooftop restaurant, not some greasy hole-in-the-wall. He must've felt bad. Or maybe just embarrassed by Toji's mistake. Either way, you weren’t complaining.

“Order whatever you like,” he said, offering the menu with a mild smile as you sat across from him.

You didn’t hesitate. “I want pasta. Extra cheesy. And a double patty burger. Extra cheese. Fries. Large. A Chocolate milkshake. And blueberry cheesecake.”

“Drinks?”

“Obviously. Tequila shots.”

He paused. “You sure?”

“You kidnapped me.”

“Toji kidnapped you.”

“You work with him.”

“…Fair point.” He flagged the waiter. “Get her whatever she wants.”

The food came quickly. You ate like you hadn’t tasted joy in weeks. Shiu watched silently, arms folded on the table, a glass of red wine untouched at his elbow.

“You’re quiet,” you said between mouthfuls. “What, cat got your tongue?”

“I’m just… fascinated,” he said flatly.

“By what?”

“You. The amount of food you’ve consumed in ten minutes.”

You rolled your eyes at him, then downed another tequila shot. The warmth hit your chest like fire. Another round. And another. Until the edges of the restaurant softened and your limbs got heavy, eyelids drooping.

Shiu’s voice came faintly from across the table. “What’s your address?”

You blinked at him slowly, lips parted. Then slumped forward, cheek hitting the table.

“Shit,” you heard him mutter.

He didn’t intend to carry you. But the rain started just as he was walking you to the car. Not a drizzle. A storm. The kind that soaked you both in seconds. His coat was useless, the umbrella in the trunk forgotten as thunder cracked across the sky. Your unconscious body hung limply against him, breath soft against his chest, and he cursed under his breath as the fabric of your shirt clung to you.

"You're going to get sick," he muttered, unlocking the door one-handed and carefully settling you into the passenger seat. "Tell me your address, kid."

You replied something incoherent.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. “Alright. My place it is.”

***

He laid you on his bed like you were glass. And then just… stood there.

You were drenched. Hair stuck to your face. Shirt nearly see-through. Shorts riding up. And cold—your body still trembling slightly, even unconscious.

“I’m not doing this,” he told himself, dragging a palm down his face. “I’m not that guy.”

But then you whimpered again, shifting, your teeth faintly chattering. And his conscience overpowered his pride. He grabbed one of his soft, oversized black t-shirt from a drawer. Closed his eyes. Swore like a sinner in church as he carefully peeled off your wet clothes.

Hands careful and way too gentle. Not looking, not touching more than needed. When you were finally dry, dressed in his t-shirt that swallowed your frame, he exhaled and tossed your clothes into the dryer.

The rain continued to pound outside, and you slept like the dead, curled up in his bed, warm and safe now. He didn’t look at you when he changed into a towel and moved around the room, searching for dry sweats. His back was to the bed when you finally stirred.

Your lashes fluttered. Eyes opened halfway. You blinked slowly, taking in the unfamiliar ceiling, the scent of soap and cologne that didn’t belong to you. Then your gaze landed on the tall man standing in front of a closet, steam from the shower still clinging to his skin. Only a towel hung low on his hips. And nothing else.

You blinked again. “...What the fuck?”

He turned, startled and saw you staring at him. You threw the blanket off and sat up. Looked down. You were wearing a shirt that clearly wasn’t yours. And… nothing underneath.

“What the fuck—?”

"Listen, kid. It's not what you think."

"You bastard, what did you do to me?"

Shiu lifted both hands, voice calm. “You were shivering and then you passed out. Wouldn't wake up. Your clothes were soaked. Could’ve gone hypothermic—”

“So you fucked me?!”

"I didn't fuck you."

"Then you stripped me?"

“You’re wearing a shirt.”

“Your shirt!”

He sighed. “Do you want your wet clothes back? Or another round of tequila and hypothermia?”

You opened your mouth and then closed it, followed by a huff. "...Still creepy."

He turned back around. “You’ve been unconscious for three hours. I haven’t touched you.”

“You’re wearing a towel.”

“You’re wearing my tshirt. What’s your point?”

You folded your arms, lips pursed. “You’re weirdly calm about having a half-naked hostage in your bed.”

“You’re not a hostage anymore.”

“Tell that to the trauma.”

He finally turned, towel still secure, brow arched. “Do you always run your mouth when you’re drunk?”

“I’m sober now.”

“Pity.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why, you liked me better when I wasn’t yelling at you?”

He smirked, eyes dragging down to your exposed thigh where the shirt had ridden up. “Yeah. I just really liked the silence.”

Your stomach flipped. There it was. You yanked the blanket back over you, glaring at him. “Don’t flirt with me. I still remember the part where your co-worker tied me up.”

“His name's Toji. I rescued you.”

“After the kidnapping.”

“Technicality.”

He moved toward the dresser, back to you again, muscles shifting under damp skin. You watched in spite of yourself, then mumbled, “This shirt smells like you.”

“I know.”

You swallowed. “…Why didn’t you just drop me at a hotel?”

“Too much trouble.”

“Why didn’t you just let me shiver?”

He paused for a moment. “That… would’ve been cruel.”

You blinked at him. “So you do have a conscience.”

“No,” he said, turning to meet your eyes again. “I just hate owing anyone anything. Now we’re even.”

“You think we’re even?”

“You got free food. A warm bed. My favorite shirt.”

You snorted at that. “Fine. Next time I get kidnapped, I’ll ask for you.”

“Don’t. I’m not babysitting again.”

You didn’t respond. Just stared at him, the tension between you growing thicker by the second. Then your voice dropped. “…If I asked for another drink right now, would you say no?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped toward the bed, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

“No,” he murmured, voice low.

“Then why aren’t you moving?”

“Because you’re in my bed, wearing my shirt,” he said softly, “and if I stay here any longer, I’ll want to take it off.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He walked away and the tension crackled like static.

The moment he turned away with that comment, you felt it everywhere. A flush bloomed hot on your cheeks, neck, even down between your thighs. And then your mouth tried to fight the heat rising through your chest.

“Wh—what’s that supposed to mean?” you stammered, pulling the blanket tighter around you, fingers gripping it like a shield. “I… you—shouldn’t say stuff like that, perv.”

He strolled over to a cabinet, towel slung low on his hips, and pulled out a glass. His voice came soft, almost bored.

“Stuff like what?” He glanced at you over his shoulder. “I’m not the one calling strangers pervs while naked in their bed.”

“I’m not naked.” you sounded scandalized.

He turned, finally, one eyebrow quirked. “No? That shirt’s barely covering your ass. Want me to check?”

“Don’t you dare—!”

He stepped closer. You instinctively pulled the blanket tighter, but your eyes didn’t leave his chest, vision catching on the light trail of hair down his torso, on the sharp lines of his hips as the towel shifted just a bit too low. Your mouth worked, trying to form words.

“But—but you—why are you even wearing a towel still? Can’t you put on some pants like a normal adult?”

His voice was smooth, slow. “Does it bother you?”

“No—yes—I mean—” you cut yourself off, flustered, heartbeat thudding like mad in your ears. “I’ve just been through a lot today, and now there’s a half-naked man teasing me in a bedroom that isn’t mine.”

Shiu poured himself a drink. “So dramatic. You act like you didn’t try to bite Toji.”

“He gagged me.”

“You deserved it.”

“I insulted him.”

“My point exactly.”

He took a sip, and then sat at the edge of the bed. Not too close, but close enough that you felt the warmth of him seep through the air. The towel still held firm, but barely. He was bone-dry now but you weren’t. You pulled the covers tighter, avoiding eye contact.

“Calm down,” he said, setting the glass aside. “I’m not gonna jump you.”

Your voice came out small. “You said you wanted to take the shirt off.”

“Did I?” he blinked slowly. “Hm. Must’ve slipped out.”

He knew exactly what he was doing. Your lips pressed into a tight line, face burning. Then you looked at him from under your lashes. Your voice dropped just a notch, soft and slow. “Well… next time you say something like that, try not to sound so disappointed. Makes it feel like a threat when it could’ve been an offer.”

Silence. It hit him like a slap. You saw the shift in him. The way his lips parted just slightly, eyes narrowing in a way that was no longer amused. Not teasing. More like… Curious and dangerous.

He tilted his head, slow. “You sure you’re sober?”

You shrugged, gaze still on his mouth. “Sober enough to know when I’m not being taken seriously.”

“Hm.” He leaned back on one palm, gaze dragging down your figure beneath the blanket, even though most of you was hidden.

“I didn’t expect that from you,” he murmured.

“Didn’t expect what?”

“That mouth.” His voice was barely audible now. “So full of attitude, but sharp when it matters.”

You licked your lips. “Disappointed again?”

“No,” he said softly. “Not even a little.”

There was a long pause. A pull in the air, heavy and slow. His eyes flicked to the blanket again.

“I bet you’re warm under there,” he said casually. “Sweating, maybe. Flushed. Not just from the drink, though.”

You glared at him. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow. “Then why haven’t you moved? You keep holding that blanket like it’s gonna save your soul.”

“Maybe I just don’t want you to see something you can’t handle.”

That landed again. Way harder this time. He laughed, soft and low in his throat. “God,” he muttered. “You’ve got a fuckin’ attitude for someone I rescued.”

“I never asked for it.”

“No, but you didn’t exactly fight when I brought you here either.”

“I was unconscious.”

“Not my problem.”

You opened your mouth to fire back, but paused when his fingers brushed your ankle. He’d found the edge of the blanket. Lifted it just a few inches.

You stiffened. “Don’t.”

“Relax,” he said, voice too damn calm. “Just wanted to see if you’re trembling again. Can’t have you catching a cold, right?”

But that wasn’t why he did it. He was testing the waters. Testing you. And your body betrayed you, thigh twitching, a shiver not from cold but from heat skimming along your spine. His thumb ghosted along your ankle bone. Just once.

“Thought so,” he said, pulling away.

“You’re playing with fire,” you whispered.

He smiled, slow and unbothered. “So are you.”

Then you leaned back, licking your lips again. “Well,” you murmured, curling under the blanket, heart racing, “I hope you sleep with that towel tied tight.”

He stood up slowly, smirk widening. “I don’t plan to sleep much.”

And then he walked out of the room. Left you there with your racing heart, your soaked thighs, and his shirt clinging to you like second skin. You didn’t sleep either. Not with the sound of the door clicking shut and the image of him seared behind your eyelids like sin.

***

You tossed and turned. Pulled the blanket tighter. But nothing worked.

That damn man had infected your thoughts. That older, smug, calm bastard with the sharp jaw and sharper tongue who acted like he couldn’t care less and still put you in his shirt, still bought you food, still looked at you like he knew things you hadn’t even admitted to yourself.

Tch.

Why was it so warm when he was near? Why did he smell like expensive cologne and a sin you want to commit?

The storm outside hadn’t let up. Rain slammed against the windows, wind howling like some cursed beast. You curled tighter under the covers, but the cold still crept in, little shivers climbing up your spine, down your thighs. You just needed some warmth. That was all. Just a little heat. Your feet touched the floor before you could stop yourself, wandering out of his room, blanket clutched around you like a cloak, bare feet padding soft against the cool floor until you stopped in front of another door.

It was barely open. Light from the hallway poured across the wooden floor, a stripe of gold slicing through the dark inside. You pushed it open slowly.

He was asleep, sprawled across the bed. One arm thrown over his face, the other resting low on his stomach. His towel was gone now. Replaced by loose sleep pants hanging dangerously low, hips exposed, one leg bent just enough for you to see the muscle, the curve of his waist. His chest was bare, rising and falling slow.

You weren’t even sure if he snored. Of course he didn’t. The bastard was perfect even in his sleep. It’s because you were cold, you told yourself again. Just that, nothing more.

You crept inside, heart thudding, slipping into the farthest side of the bed, staying by the edge. You didn’t even lift the blanket he was under, just pulled your own around you tighter and curled toward the wall, facing away from him. His bed was so warm. So was his body. You sighed, eyelids getting heavy. You didn’t even realize you were falling asleep until—

A hand on your waist makes you flinch. You're wide awake now.

“What,” his voice rasped behind you, slow and deep and not sleepy at all, “are you doing?”

His palm tightened slightly, just enough for you to feel the press of his fingers through the thin blanket. Just enough to make your thighs twitch.

You cleared your throat. “I—I couldn’t sleep.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It was cold. The rain. I just—needed to get warm.”

He paused for a second. “You couldn’t just ask for a heater?”

“Do you even have one?”

“No.” You could hear the smirk in his voice. “Didn’t think I’d need one.”

You shifted slightly, pulling the blanket higher. “I wasn’t gonna disturb you. You were asleep.”

“Was I?”

Your breath caught again. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you whispered.

“I’m not the one crawling into people’s beds.”

You rolled your eyes. “You didn’t complain.”

“I didn’t have time to complain.”

His hand moved lower, dragging slow across your waist, settling on the dip of your hip. “You always sleep this tense? Or is it just when you're pressed up against older men who make you nervous?”

“I’m not pressed up against anything,” you muttered, voice hitching as you tried to keep still.

“You will be if you keep wiggling like that.”

“I’m not—wiggling.”

He chuckled. “Sure, sweetheart.”

You hated the way your skin tingled from that one word. “Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you, then? Trouble? Brat? Mouthy little thing who says no but keeps ending up exactly where she shouldn’t be?”

You squeezed your thighs together under the blanket. God. What's the deal with this man... His hand was still on your hip. Still warm. Still there.

“I should kick you out.”

“Then do it.”

“You’d pout.”

“You wish.”

“You’d stand in the hallway shivering in my shirt like a pathetic little stray.”

Your breath faltered. “Asshole.”

His hand moved again. Not off you, but down. Lower and lower, slowly grazing your lower stomach now.

“I can feel you shaking,” he murmured. “Still cold?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You hated how your voice would betray you. He leaned in then, the heat of his chest brushing your back, lips right beside your ear.

“Or maybe it’s not the rain making you tremble."

"Wh.. what do you mean..?"

"You came to me, sweetheart.”

You swallowed, eyes anywhere but him.

“And now,” he added, fingertips brushing the hem of the shirt you wore “you’re in my bed, in my clothes, lying right beside me, breathing like you want me to do something about it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” he said slowly, “but you didn’t say no either.”

You looked up at him. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

“Want me to help you fall asleep?” His hand slipped just under the shirt now. “Just a little... yeah?”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

“Tell me no,” he whispered.

And you didn’t. His fingers grazed your skin again, just under the hem of the shirt, barely brushing, barely there, but burning like fire.

“Still cold?” he murmured near your ear, his breath warm and even. You felt it drift down your neck, across your shoulder. “You’re shivering.”

“I-I’m fine,” you lied, your voice barely a whisper.

“No,” he hummed, dragging his fingertips higher, over your stomach, the shirt riding up with each second, “you’re not. Still tense. Still freezing.”

You swallowed hard. His hand moved up, grazing your ribs.. then higher, cupping your breast beneath the shirt like he’d done it a hundred times.

“You’re cold here too,” he murmured, thumbing your nipple slow. “Need to get you warmed up everywhere, don’t I?”

Your hips shifted. Didn’t even realize how tightly your thighs were pressed together.

“You’re not saying no,” he said, fingers rubbing your nipple now, slow circles, featherlight pressure that made your back arch despite yourself.

“I-I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” he asked, voice composed but wicked. “Didn’t ask me to stop? Or didn’t think this would happen when you crawled into bed with a man like me?”

His hand slid down again, gliding across your stomach, dipping into the waistband of your panties now. You gasped loudly at the feeling.

“Look at that,” he muttered, smirking, “you’re warm down here already. But still trembling.”

His finger pressed lower, right between your folds, teasing you through the slick mess he found waiting.

“You were gonna sleep like this? Dripping and needy?”

You buried your face in the pillow, mortified.

“Might as well help you out, yeah?” he added softly. “Can’t have you cold and fussy all night.”

He rubbed slow, lazy circles over your clit, two fingers sliding between your folds while the heel of his palm kept pressing right there, exactly where you needed. You choked out a moan.

“Just getting you warm,” he mocked, voice low. “That’s what you said.”

“Y-you—ah—you’re—”

He pinched your nipple again, harder this time, and your hips jumped.

“That mouth of yours,” he muttered, voice tightening just a little. “So fucking loud earlier. Couldn’t shut the hell up. And now?”

You were panting, biting back more sounds. He pushed two fingers inside you slowly, deep and curling up. You let out a broken whimper.

“Now look at you. Fucking soaking my hand.”

“Shiu—”

His name left your mouth like a plea. Like a confession.

“You always get like this?” he asked, curling his fingers again while the pad of his thumb rubbed your clit. “Mouthy brat until someone gets their fingers in you?”

“F-fuck—”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He pumped slowly, rhythm deliberate and unhurried. You were unraveling against him, thighs quivering.

“See?” he whispered. “So warm now. All that attitude’s melting off you.”

He kissed behind your ear. It was soft but cruel at the same time.

“You gonna thank me?” he asked, voice low. “Or should I keep going until you’re crying from how warm and full you feel?”

“Please,” you gasped, hips rocking into his hand now, chasing the high.

“Please what?”

“Don’t stop—”

He chuckled. “Tch. That mouth’s real sweet when it’s begging.”

You moaned again, louder this time.

“I should gag you with your own panties next time. Bet you'd cum even faster.”

You cried out, body tightening, all heat and slick and shame. And his fingers never stopped. Not until you were shaking for a different reason entirely. Your body trembled under the weight of your release, legs still parted around his hand, your slick coating his fingers as he slowly pulled them out. You were gasping into the pillow, throat hoarse from moans you didn’t realize had been that loud.

He leaned in again, his breath ghosting over your ear.

“Feeling okay now?” he asked lowly, fingers lazily dragging up between your folds, spreading the mess you’d made. You didn’t respond, brain was still foggy, skin burning hot, but you shook your head weakly.

Shiu’s smirk returned.

“Still cold, huh?” he said, licking his fingers clean with slow, deliberate ease, like he was tasting fine wine. “Maybe you need something hotter.”

“Wanna try that?” he asked, fingers now pulling your soaked panties down your legs, inch by inch. “Wanna feel something even warmer?”

You nodded, cheeks flushed, thighs still trembling. He tsked.

“Such a good girl all of a sudden,” he murmured, flipping you gently onto your back.

Your shirt had ridden up past your chest, exposing your breasts, nipples stiff, marked with his fingerprints. Your thighs were wet, spread and waiting.

“I should’ve fucked that bratty mouth shut hours ago,” he said calmly, tugging the pants down from his hips just enough to free himself. Your eyes widened. You could see all of him now. Long, thick, already hard. He chuckled at the look on your face.

“Don’t look so surprised. You asked for it.”

He lined himself up, not rushing, just dragging the tip through your folds, pressing it against your overstimulated clit until you squirmed.

"Still twitching from those fingers," he noted, amused. "Bet you’ll sob once I’m in."

And then slowly and merciless he pushed in. You gasped, your hands flying up to grip the sheets. He was thick, hot, stretching you open with no resistance. Your body, already slick and aching, took him in inch by inch.

“There we go,” he sighed, hips finally flush against yours. “So tight after all that. Gripping my cock so tight.”

You moaned again, one leg wrapping weakly around his waist. Shiu groaned under his breath, leaning in close, his chest brushing your breasts, his hand sliding up to hold your jaw.

“That’s it, pretty,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous. “Let me fuck the cold right outta you.”

And he moved. Slow at first, deep—then faster. Harder. Your body jerked with each thrust. The headboard tapped the wall, your moans rising again, louder, more shameless. His hand found your breast, squeezing, thumb flicking your nipple. He slammed into you harder.

You whined, head thrown back. “Shiu—too much—”

“Too much? Didn’t seem like too much when you were rubbing up on me like a needy little tease.”

He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, fucking into you deeper, pace brutal and perfect.

“That mouth gave me hell,” he panted against your ear. “Now it’s just begging. Moaning like a good little girl who knows her place.”

You keened under him, body shaking again, and he felt it.

“Ohh,” he laughed darkly, “you’re gonna cum now?”

“No—m'not—”

“You will.”

He snapped his hips even harder, grinding into you at the end of every thrust. Your back arched off the bed.

“Cum on this cock,” he growled, voice finally rough. “Show me how warm you got from me.”

And then it hit. You came again—loud, shameless, your walls clenching around him like a vice. Shiu cursed, buried himself deep, and stilled. A thick, hot wave filled you seconds later—his release, raw and endless. He groaned in satisfaction.

“Fuck,” he muttered, still inside you, still hard. “Now you’re warm.”

***

You didn’t even know when you passed out, your body must’ve given in. But what roused you now wasn’t sleep... it was warmth. Wet warmth.

A cloth, soft and damp, moving slowly between your legs. The tenderness of it made your skin twitch. His fingers were steady, sliding delicately over the mess he left inside you. The towel grazed your folds, and you could feel the ghost of his earlier touches all over again.

You stirred with a little noise, eyes cracking open.

And there he was—Shiu, crouched beside the bed, holding the cloth and smiling faintly, like he was just wiping crumbs from your chin.

“Morning,” he said casually, patting your thigh, then your head like you were some sleepy kitten. “Let’s eat something, yeah?”

No mention of last night. Not even a hint in his voice. The same calm, smooth-talking devil. He didn’t even wait for your answer. Just left you there to dress while he moved into the kitchen, unfazed, like he hadn’t fingered you into delirium and fucked the cold right out of your body hours ago.

After some quiet bites of toast and lukewarm coffee, you’d murmured your address. And now, silence filled the car. You hadn’t said a word. Just stared out the window, arms crossed. You were barely processing the scenery when the back door opened and in slid him—Toji.

He sprawled out in the backseat like he owned the damn car, one leg propped up, eyeing you with a half-lidded grin.

“Well, well,” Toji drawled. “The brat’s all quiet now. What, you finally got house-trained?”

You glared forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Shiu chuckled lightly, keeping one hand on the wheel.

“She needed some… warming up,” he said, voice like velvet and smirking at the windshield.

Toji let out a bark of a laugh. “Tch. Figured. You got that look like you had your fill last night.”

Shiu didn’t even blink. “She was cold. I fixed that.”

Toji leaned forward just enough to let his eyes catch yours in the rearview mirror. “Damn, you really shut her up. Didn’t think it was possible.”

Before you could open your mouth, Toji tapped Shiu’s shoulder and gestured something low about the next job, slipping into conversation like none of this was abnormal. When it was time for him to get out, he opened the door but not before flicking your forehead with his fingers, hard enough to sting.

“Later, princess,” he snorted, then sauntered off.

You rubbed your forehead, still silent and stewing. Shiu kept driving like it was a regular Thursday. The rain had eased, leaving streaks on the windows. Your house came into view, and he pulled up with a smooth stop. Didn’t even put the car in park, just leaned his elbow on the wheel and looked at you with that same unreadable calm.

“Here,” he said.

You unbuckled, still not speaking. Still pissed. Still flushed. Still aching in a way that had nothing to do with your body and everything to do with the smug prick who acted like you were just another day’s job. You grabbed the handle, but stopped suddenly.

“Y’know what?” you muttered, voice small but angry. “You’re a fucking dickhead.”

That got him. Shiu’s hand reached out fast, faster than you expected and wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back slightly before you could get out.

“Mm,” he hummed. “What’s with the attitude, princess?”

You finally looked at him, really looked. Your eyes were wet, red around the edges, and your mouth trembled slightly. Not from sadness but from frustration and confusion. Want and need. You hated how calm he looked. Hated that smug glint in his eyes. Hated that last night meant something to you and maybe nothing to him.

He just chuckled. That low, knowing sound that made your stomach tighten. Then he reached into the console and pulled out a slim black card, tucking it into your hand.

“Next time you feel cold,” he murmured, voice dropping low as he leaned in, close enough for your breath to hitch, “call me.” His lips brushed near your ear. “I’ll come stuff you full of heat until you pass out.”

You blinked, mouth parting open. Brain fried.

And Shiu? he just smiled, lazy and smug, eyes dipping to your stunned face one last time. “Maybe then you’ll learn to keep that bratty little mouth busy.”

He let go of you and sat back. And just like that, the door was open, the rain had stopped, and then he left you standing on the curb with your heart pounding, thighs clenched, and his card burning in your palm like a fucking brand.

A blanket is tucked over your knees. A paper cup of water rests in the cupholder beside you. The space resembles the back of a pickup that someone has turned into a tiny mobile room—clean carpet and a small reading lamp show a kind of care that feels intentional. Too intentional. The window is dark, but streaks of light occasionally pass over it as they drive by something on the road—signs, headlights, or maybe distant towns. Each one fades before you can read it with your hazy eyes and clouded mind. The man- big, bulky- in the driver’s seat doesn’t immediately turn around. His hands grip the wheel, and his posture is relaxed.

He wears all black gear- tactical, maybe? and has trimmed blonde hair, appearing middle-aged in a way that screams control. When he finally looks back, he does so through the rearview mirror. All you catch is faint scarring on the side of his forehead. “Morning,” he says pleasantly. “You were out for a while.” Your voice sounds rough, shaky. “Where am I?”

“On the road,” he replies simply, but his eyes betray his amusement at your confusion, your fear. “You’ve been sleeping for a few hours. I figured you’d want something warm to eat soon.” His tone feels so normal that it takes you a moment to truly grasp the words. On the road. Like you’re just traveling together. You lean back, the seat soft beneath you. There’s nothing to see outside but darkness. No lights or signs of a town—just the endless stretch of night. Your heartbeat quickens, and you count them like seconds. He seems unaware, or maybe he notices, and just couldn't care less. The radio quietly hums with static between songs. “You picked a good day for it,” he says. conversationally. “The sky was clear earlier. Stars like you wouldn’t believe.” You stare at him through the mirror, dread coiling up your spin every time his dark eyes- too dangerous- meet yours. “Picked… a good day for what?”

“For traveling,” he answers. Then he pauses and adds, “You’ll see. There’s a diner coming up. You’ll like it.” You don’t reply. Your mouth feels dry again, but you don’t reach for the water, even if it sloshes temptingly in the cup. Instead, you watch the outline of his shoulders as he drives, calm and steady, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

The road hums beneath you for what feels like hours. Your sense of time blends with the sound of tires on asphalt. Occasionally, he hums a tuneless melody under his breath—low, oddly comforting. You hate that it’s comforting, that it's lulling your heartbeat to calm down and eyes to flutter closed before you force them open again.

Outside, the world has become static. The moon hangs low and bright, watching them. When the truck finally slows, you feel it in your stomach first—the pull forward, the small lurch as speed gives way to stillness. A faint glow appears ahead. Neon red, flickering: OPEN 24 HOURS.

The diner resembles something from a forgotten movie—metal siding, a cracked parking lot, and a few scattered cars. The man parks neatly, turns off the engine, and looks at you. “Come on,” he says, mouth twitching with a slight smile like it's all a joke to him, but his eyes are predatory, telling you that if you bolt, he will catch you. And it won't be pretty. “You should eat.” He steps out first. When he opens the door, the cool night air seeps in, smelling faintly of oil and sagebrush. He doesn’t touch you or rush you. He simply waits, patient. It's more unnerving than you thought- you almost wish he would drag you inside and be cruel. It would, at least, explain this humiliating lump in your throat and the constant burn of tears.

His hands reach for your back as soon as you stumble out, clumsy without the use of your arms, steadying you and the quick swish of a knife has the zip ties falling to the ground with a quiet little sound. You didn't even see the knife, and he's already pulling away.

You don't see the second man picking up the zip ties and tossing them into the bonfire behind the diner either.

Inside, the diner hums with the soft sounds of a television above the counter and dishes clattering from the kitchen. A waitress in her fifties looks up and greets the man as if she knows him. “Evening Simon,” she says. “The usual booth?” He nods, smirking at her. “Thanks, Marlene.” He gestures for you to follow. You do, because what else can you do? The vinyl seat squeaks when she sits.

The laminated menu feels sticky, edges frayed. You stare at the list of breakfast items offered at midnight, the words blurring together. Your stomach is growling, cramping with emptiness, but you'll be damned if you give into this. The waitress brings water, sets down salt and pepper shakers, along with a small sticky plastic pot of honey that looks like it's half water.

“I got kidnapped,” You blurt out before you can stop herself. Voice desperate, eyes imploring, a slightly shaking hand on the waitress'- Marlene's- hand as she sets down the honey pot. She doesn’t blink, looking at the man sitting opposite you with a deadpan face instead. The man- Simon?- sighs. Stupid girl, he thinks.

Marlene pulls away, rolling her eyes faintly. “You want pancakes or the waffle, sweetheart?”

Your throat tightens. “I—what?” Simon looks up, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “She’ll have pancakes,” he says. “Maple syrup, not honey.”

“I don’t—” You start, but he's already talking, smirk set in place. “She does. Trust me.” He turns to the waitress again. “And two coffees, please Lena.” The waitress nods, scribbles on her pad, and walks back to the counter. You feel the tremor in your hands now, a faint vibration against the edge of the table. The diner is quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent light above them. “You can’t just—” You start. voice breaking pathetically. “You can’t do this.” He stirs sugar into his coffee with slow, careful motions. “I already did,” he replies mildly, eyes on her like he's waiting for you to start screaming and crying. “You’re handling it better than I expected.” You stay silent, pushing down the lump forming in your throat. It feels like a rock wedged in there. The panic in your chest feels strange, heavy, and muted. He takes a sip, watching you with something that isn’t quite fondness and isn’t quite cruelty.

“The park was nice, wasn’t it?” Simon says after a moment. Maybe it's to be cruel. Maybe he just wants to see your face fall, break any hope of escape. “The one with the new lake view? You liked that spot, didn't you? No cameras there. Most people don’t notice things like that anymore.” Your breath catches, heart plummeting into your stomach. No. He continues as if he’s talking about the weather. “It took weeks to take care of that. And your friends—well, they’re easy to guide if you know how to talk online. A comment here, a post there. You’d be surprised what people do when they think it’s their own idea. Worth it, though, wouldn't you say? It all worked out quite nicely.”

You feel like you can't breathe, chest tightening and anxiety coiling sharp as a whip in your stomach. No. No no no- nononono. Tears spring up, hot and sudden. Simon just smirks again, clicking his tongue once. "None of that, honey. Don't ruin your pretty face with tears." He chides, hand reaching out to wipe a stray wet line down your face, grin widening when you don't flinch or pull away.

The waitress returns with their food—two steaming mugs and a plate of pancakes that smell faintly of butter. “Enjoy, hon,” she says, sliding the plate toward You. You don’t move. “He—he took me,” she says, eyes darting between them, voice trembling now. “You understand that, right?” The waitress looks at you for a long moment, then at him.

Her expression doesn’t change. “Yep. Now eat your pancakes before they get cold.” She walks away, but you could've sworn you saw her lips twitching upwards. It fills you with overwhelming frustration, the kind that makes your eyes prickle with hot tears.

Simon sighs, as if you've just said something naïve. He reaches out, and before you can even think of flinching away, he lightly rests his hand on your shoulder, rubbing comfortingly. The gesture would be almost tender- if he wasn't hiding a smirk of amusement underneath. “They’re all in on it, honey,” he says gently. “You really think I wouldn’t think this through?” He speaks gently, almost condescendingly. Your hazy brain doesn't understand the difference. Outside, the neon sign flickers again. OPEN 24 HOURS. The hum presses against the glass. Inside, the coffee steams between them, and you realise that, somehow, this is worse than cruelty—this quiet certainty, this perfect, careful politeness.