AO3: Otaku_girl | Fics only account: @otaku-girl-ao3-fics | Masterlist: ATJ character fics
Hello again! Has it been a whole year already? I swear, this year’s June of Doom ‘26 💚 has snuck up on me 😅 I’ve had a year to prepare and I have not even looked at the prompted properly until mid May. BUT! I haven’t done one of these bad boys since Kinktober, and I always love working on things for some of my (hopefully our) favourite ATJ blorbos who don’t get as much love as they deserve.
I’m doing the whole 30 day challenge again. This year’s focus will be on: Kraven the Hunter (2024), Bullet Train (2022), Nosferatu (2024), The Fall Guy (2024), 28 Years Later (2025), and Fuze (2026). I might try out a few other ATJ characters I haven’t tried before along the way, so keep an eye out for those if you are a fan of any other ATJ characters 🫶
This isn’t replacing the fic poll I put up in May asking what y’all wanted: I am currently working on a novel-length Tangerine x Reader fic with First Time vibes, which has been my most requested ask on Tumblr for about 18 months now, and has won a couple of polls. It’s the kind of fic that I want to fully write before I start dropping chapters, so, in the meantime… smaller fics and events!
I’ll also be dropping some crossover fics that me and precisely 2 other people like (/lh /aff) as Tangerine x Sergei is just. In my head now 😌 With (and without) various Readers. I’ll also be keeping up with my regular weekly chapter of Devotee (Gladiator II, Caracalla x Reader x Geta) throughout June of Doom~
If you enjoy, please consider leaving a little like here, or even better, a kudos over on AO3 💚 I write for myself, but I edit for y’all 😅 Otherwise these would stay a semi-coherent mess on my PC.
Can’t wait for this year’s fics? Check out my 30 days, 30 fics June of Doom 2025 completed masterlist.
30 days, 30 fics: June of Doom 2026
Like my work? Check out my other fics and master lists. Primarily writing for Aaron Taylor Johnson, Fred Henchinger, Brad Pitt, and Mathew Baynton characters. Slash (canon x canon), het and gender neutral x Reader (never y/n). Some original works shared.
Day 01: Out of the ashes | Kraven the Hunter | M | Sergei/Dmitri | unfair fight
A year after Nikolai Kravinoff’s death, Sergei returns home expecting to find the remnants of his father’s empire crumbling apart. Instead, he finds Dmitri waiting for him.
Day 02: Let her go | 28 Years Later | T | Jamie/Isla | you have to let me go + drowning
On one rare lucid night, Isla asks Jamie for one final trip beyond the village walls – back to the shoreline where they once dreamed of surviving together.
Day 03: Don't look back | Fuze | M | Will/Karalis | deception + misunderstanding + trapped
After a decade of careful planning, Will and Karalis are finally free. When Will follows Karalis to his new reserve in hopes of finally putting into words whatever they have been dancing around for so long, he realises that Karalis has other plans.
Day 04: Say her name (not your goodbyes) | Nosferatu | T | Friedrich & Reader | I won’t leave you + dragged + blankets
Friedrich does not want to go on without his Anna. When Friedrich Harding walks into the crypt where Anna and their children lie, grief already consuming him, you refuse to allow him to surrender and join them in their final resting place.
Day 05: Hold on | Bullet Train | T | Tangerine/GN!Reader | grief
Tangerine is ready to burn the whole train down after finding Lemon bleeding out in Kyoto. From the other end of the phone, you do everything you can to keep grief from turning him into a dead man walking.
Day 06: The cost of being kept | Kraven the Hunter | M | Dmitri & GN!Reader, Sergei/Reader | forced to watch
You have always known that Sergei would come for you, should someone be foolish enough to actually try and kidnap you. You just never expected to be taken alongside Sergei’s brother.
Day 07: The sound of Survival (1 of 3) | Bullet Train | T | Tangerine/Ladybug | buried alive + can you hear me
When the shinkansen derails and Tangerine becomes trapped in the wreckage, he’s convinced this is how he and Lemon will reunite, until a voice through the wreckage gives him hope.
Day 08: Not random material (1 of 3) | Kraven the Hunter x Bullet Train | E | Nikolai/Reader; Tangerine/Reader | revenge + collared
You have always known that Nikolai does not pay randoms. Not for his boys. Not for anyone. When you are taken, survival is no longer something theoretical. Suddenly, the lessons meant to keep you alive begin to look a lot like preparation for something far worse.
Day 09: ??? | The Fall Guy | T | Tom/Reader | I made a mistake + crying + broken glass
In the aftermath of Colt Seavers’ fall, you find Tom Ryder drunk, shaking, and ready to confess everything. Loving Tom has always meant cleaning up his messes – even when Tom himself is ready to confess his sins.
Day 10: ??? (2 of 3) | Bullet Train | M | Pairing | where am I? + handcuffs
Tangerine deals with the aftermath of the train derailment.
Day 11: ??? | MCU | T | Pietro/Reader | left for dead
You should have left once you pulled him from the rubble. Instead, you somehow end up babysitting a concussed Pietro Maximoff while he insists on flirting through the pain, the panic, and the dust still settling around you both.
Day 12: ??? | Fuze | M | Will/Reader | don’t life to me
Ten years after the loss of his squad in Afghanistan, Will starts slipping into a silence you can’t follow. You refuse to let him go without a fight.
Day 13: ??? | Nosferatu | M | Friedrich/Reader | I just want to forget
In the dim receiving rooms of a London brothel, Friedrich Harding comes seeking forgetfulness. Instead, you offer him privacy, quiet, and a hand to hold while the memories refuse to fade.
Day 14: ??? | Fuze | M | Will/Reader | you’ll have to do better than that + darkness + trembling
There is blood on the bed. Bruises already beginning to form around your throat. Terror in his eyes that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the ghosts he brought home from Afghanistan. You have waited too long to get him back to let him run now.
Day 15: ??? (2 of 3) | Bullet Train x Kraven the Hunter | M | Nikolai/Reader; Tangerine/Reader | you’ll be ok. Maybe. + touch starved
Rescue comes from an unexpected place.
Day 16: ??? | Bullet Train | M | Tangerine/Reader | take me instead + kidnapping
There’s nobody in the world more important to Tangerine than Lemon is. Not even you. Somewhere between Covent Garden and Piccadilly Circus, you realise someone is following you. When the opportunity presents itself, you make your decision without hesitation. If only one of you gets to walk away safe, you already know who it has to be.
Day 17: ??? (3 of 3) | Bullet Train x Kraven the Hunter | M | Nikolai/Reader; Tangerine/Reader | I’m worried about you + nightmares
Tangerine helps you deal with the aftermath of captivity.
Day 18: ??? | 28 Years Later | T | Jamie/Reader | how long have you been like this?
You were supposed to turn three seconds after the bite. It’s been nearly three months.
Day 19: ??? | Bullet Train | T | Tangerine/Ladybug | carry + regret + (mistaken) major character death + whatever happens…
Ladybug is halfway to drinking himself unconscious in a Kyoto izakaya when a dead man walks back into his life. Tangerine just wants to know what the hell he did in a past life to deserve this.
Day 20: ??? | Kraven the Hunter | T | Sergei/Reader | I’ll be fine
When you find Sergei injured, alone, and bleeding on the forest floor with the poachers that did this still out there, you know what you have to do.
Day 21: ??? | Fuze | T | Will/Reader | heatwave + dissociation
The hottest day of the year leaves London sweltering beneath an endless blue sky. In your kitchen, Will stares out the window and disappears somewhere thousands of miles away.
Day 22: ??? (3 of 3) | Bullet Train | M | Tangerine/Ladybug | you’re still you + disability + recovery
Tangerine struggles to adapt to his injuries.
Day 23: ??? | Project Hail Mary x The Fall Guy | T | Colt & Ryland; Colt/Tom | unreliable + you promised + plea
“I’m so, so very angry at you right now, Ryland. You promised. Me and you against the world. It’s only been a year, and you’ve already missed so much. Fuck. That’s… give me a second, that’s not really… sunk in yet. You’re going to miss everything. I was wrong. I can’t do this.”
Day 24: ??? | Nosferatu | M | Friedrich/Reader | drugged + locked door
When Friedrich hears that you have been indulging in an improper pastime, he takes steps to ensure that such unseemly behaviour does not continue.
Day 25: ??? (1 of 3) | Bullet Train | E | Tangerine/Reader/Ladybug | this is all my fault + confession + pushed away
Eighteen months after walking away from Tangerine and the mess he made of your relationship, you wake up handcuffed to your own bed with your ex standing over you like nothing ever changed.
Day 26: ??? (2 of 3) | Bullet Train | E | Tangerine/Reader/Ladybug | you’re only making it worse + obsession
When Ladybug returns to find a new guest in Tangerine’s safehouse, he decides it’s time to set a few things straight.
Day 27: ??? (series part 1 and 3) | Kraven the Hunter | E | Sergei/Reader | you’re pathetic + kneeling + muzzled
“Maybe you’re more of a sweet puppy than a pathetic little stray after all.”
Day 28: ??? (3 of 3) | Bullet Train | M | Tangerine/Reader/Ladybug | obsession
You and Ladybug can at least agree on one thing: Tangerine means everything.
Day 29: ??? | Nocturnal Animals | M | Ray/Reader | trust me + forbidden love + doubt
The chain is long enough to let you pretend. Long enough to reach the doorway, but not the outside. . Long enough to make you obedient. Long enough to give you hope.
Day 30:??? | Fuze | T | Will/Reader | I thought you were dead
After months of being treated like a suspect in the wake of the London explosion, you finally track your missing husband down to Karalis’ nature reserve – and discover that Will never intended for you to find him at all. Furious, heartbroken, and very much not ready to forgive him, you decide that if Will wants his marriage back, he is going to have to earn it.
Summary: Maekar is trying to provide a good life for his new wife by removing himself from her company and offering alternatives. He fails. Warnings: a bit of angst because of pining, a bit of smut.
The morning light cut through the high, narrow windows of Summerhall with a pale, wintry insistence, and Maekar Targaryen, prince of the Seven Kingdoms, found himself staring at the ceiling of a room that was not his own. It was decorated with painted vines, a delicate feminine touch he had never bothered to notice before. The bed linens smelled of lavender and something else, sweet and warm. The weight on his arm was the source of the latter.
You were curled against him like a dormouse seeking warmth, both your hands wrapped around the corded muscle of his forearm as if he were a lifeline in a storm. Your cheek was pressed to his shoulder, lips slightly parted in the ease of deep, trusting sleep. A strand of your hair had escaped your night braid and lay across his tunic.
Maekar did not move.
He was a prince, a warrior, a man who had crushed rebellions beneath his mace and watched men die without flinching. But this, the soft, contented curve of your mouth, the way your breath puffed in tiny, even waves against his sleeve, paralyzed him. He cast his mind back, desperately trying to remember when exactly his careful, honorable plan had crumbled to dust. It was the previous night. It had been a fool's errand, a mission of pure and unparalleled idiocy disguised as magnanimity.
For months, he had constructed a cage for you, gilded and sprawling, and called it a marriage. After the death of his first wife, the mother of his children, the very concept of a new bride had felt like a betrayal, a picking at a wound that had barely scarred over after years. His brother, King Aerys, had insisted. The match was politically sound. You were from a fine lineage, a daughter of a loyal house, and your dowry was a collection of trade agreements and land rights that made the court accountants rub their hands with joy.
And you. You were a pretty thing: young, sweet, blinking up at him at the Sept with your big eyes, he had noted absently, and a slight pout on your mouth. He recognized that pout now, not as petulance, but as a sign of deep concentration, an unconscious expression you wore when you were trying very, very hard to be brave.
At the wedding feast, you had tried to engage him in conversation, your voice a soft, hopeful melody against the droning noise of the hall. He had grunted in response, complaining about the seasoning on the boar. You had blinked, then smiled, a small, tentative thing, and said, "Perhaps the kitchens will do better with the lemon cakes, my prince. Would you like me to ask them to bring some?" Deflecting his rudeness with a kindness so artless and sweet it had made his teeth ache.
He had taken you to Summerhall, the seat of his power and the monument to his own complicated legacy. He gave you servants who curtsied low, spacious rooms filled with sunlight and tapestries you seemed to admire, and a generous allowance that could have purchased a small fleet of ships. He had daughters, Daella and Rhae, who were delighted with you, finding in you a new playmate, a doll who could speak and laugh and teach them new embroidery stitches. His sons were a different matter. Aerion was a burning star of chaos somewhere in Essos, Aemon was at the Citadel, chaining himself to books, and Daeron…Daeron was usually never counted. The thought of his eldest, a dissipated dreamer, brought a familiar, leaden weariness to his gut. But the girls were happy, and you were occupied.
He thought he had it all handled.
Everything was provided, he had reasoned, watching you from across the courtyard one afternoon as you and Rhae chased a butterfly. You were a young maiden. His idea of a comfortable existence was good service, a sturdy roof, a well-stocked armory, and a couple of friends with whom to share a flask of strongwine. He had assumed, in his colossal, self-absorbed ignorance, that your needs were the same.
Until he started to see it. The quiet sigh you suppressed when he answered your sweet inquiry about his wellbeing with a noncommittal grunt at the dinner table. The way your eyes, those big, expressive eyes, would track a young knight in the yard as he laughed with his comrades, not with lust, but with a kind of wistful, academic curiosity. You were studying a creature you had never encountered. Daella, his sweet daughter, was already starting to enter that phase of mooning over singers and sighing at sunsets, a phase he dreaded with every fiber of his being. And you, his wife, a lively girl not much older than his own children, were saddled with a grumpy man whose range of communication with her was limited to tactical assessments of mutton and grunts about the weather. You were drowning in comfort and starved of life.
He could commission solutions. Jewelry? A cascade of sapphires appeared on your vanity. New dresses? Bolts of lace and silks in hues of deep green and amethyst filled your wardrobes. Rare books? He had a first-edition history of the Rhoynar, bound in pale leather, delivered to your solar. You had been effusive in your thanks, your pout melting into a radiant smile, but the smile never quite reached your eyes. The problem, he realized with a cold, hard jolt, was not resources.
The problem was romance. He couldn't morph himself into a handsome young knight with a carefree disposition and light humor, the kind of man who would compose a song for you, who would bring you a wildflower he’d picked on a reckless morning ride, who would whisper sweet, foolish nothings in your ear. He was Maekar Targaryen, a blunt instrument, a man of duty and gristle and a simmering, constant irritation at the world.
His poor wife. You were left to smile and giggle quietly at his dry, caustic remarks about a visiting lord’s speech. And you seemed genuinely amused by them, your laughter a soft, surprised ripple of sound that made him pause, mid-chew, in confusion. You were so deprived of pleasant company that you took what you could get from him, poor sweet thing. The realization had made him want to kick himself.
So, he had formed a plan, a scheme that, at the time, had seemed the pinnacle of rational, self-sacrificing genius. He went through his guards the next day under the guise of a brutal, unforgiving drill. He had them running siege patterns, sparring until their padded armor was dark with sweat, watching them like a hawk. He found the one he was looking for: Ser Elyas, a bastard from the Reach. He was honorable, sharp as a blade, and handsome in that sun-kissed, broad-shouldered way that maidens were supposed to swoon over. His laugh was easy, his temperament unruffled.
"Ser Elyas," Maekar had rumbled, his voice a low thunder. "You are being reassigned. You are now the personal guard to my wife, the princess. You will see to her safety at all times. You will accompany her on walks, attend her in the gardens, and ensure no harm befalls her."
He had made it clear to you on your wedding night that he had no intention of bedding you. It was a statement of fact, delivered not out of cruelty but out of a misguided sense of honesty. He had seen the flash of hurt in your eyes, quickly masked by a composed, brittle acceptance. So, naturally, he reasoned, after some time spent in the company of the charming Ser Elyas, you would come to love him. It was a natural, tragic story. A handsome knight and a neglected princess. He had practically gift-wrapped a discreet, passionate affair for you. It was the least he could give it to you, a substitute for the husband you had probably imagined, a way to satisfy that aching, youthful urge for romance that he, a man carved from stone, could never fulfill.
Yet, from what he observed over the following weeks, the plan had failed with spectacular precision. He would watch from a high balcony as Ser Elyas, in his gleaming plate, offered you his hand to help you over a damp patch of grass. You took it with polite, distant courtesy. You would exchange a few words, an occasional jest that made the knight chuckle, but your expression remained serene, unmoved. Maekar, a veteran of countless campaigns, knew the look of a soldier performing a duty. And your nights, as the quiet reports from your maids confirmed, were spent solely in your rooms. No secret knocks, no furtive shadows slipping from your door at dawn.
He was at his wits’ end. What did you want then? He had given you everything your station and age could desire. What would wipe off that pretty, unconscious pout off your face? Perhaps, he had finally conceded, if he talked to you. A novel concept for a marriage, he knew. He would go to you, and perhaps, in a moment of unguarded frustration, you would let your grievances slip.
The previous night, he had gone to your chamber. Your maid, a timid wisp of a girl, nearly dropped her mending box when she saw him at the threshold. "Leave us," he had commanded, and she fled. You had been seated by the fire, a book open on your lap, and you looked like a startled doe at his unexpected presence, your body going rigid, your eyes wide.
"My prince," you had said, your voice a breathless question.
He had felt like an intruder in his own wife's space. "I…I came to see how you were faring," he had managed, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.
You recovered quickly, your innate grace taking over. You poured his wine yourself, and offered him a plate of fruit and honey cake. "I am well, my prince. Truly. The book you sent is fascinating. The accounts of the Rhoynish are almost unbelievable." You were making conversation. You were making it easy for him. And so you spoke for a while. It was surprisingly pleasant.
He found himself relaxing into a chair, debating the tactical blunders of the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoyne, and you had listened with rapt attention, asking pointed, intelligent questions that surprised him. You had a mind, he realized with a start. A sharp, curious mind hidden beneath the pout and the big eyes.
But he didn’t catch any clues. No lamenting a lack of knights, no forlorn sighs about the gardens, no veiled complaints about his absence. Just you, being…pleasant. So, eventually, he rose to leave. "It is late. You should rest."
The change was instantaneous. The spark of animation in your eyes died, replaced by a stricken, hollow look, as if you were wondering what you had done wrong. Your fingers tightened imperceptibly on the spine of your book. "Of course, my prince. Thank you for your company."
He hesitated. He was a man of military precision, and the sudden, palpable drop in your mood was a tactical variable he hadn't accounted for. He was already in your bed chambers. What kind of husband left his wife's bed chamber right before going to bed himself? A churlish one. A neglectful one. The servants would talk, of that he was certain. The walls of Summerhall had ears and mouths. But he did not care what servants would see or say. Their gossip was the chaff of court life. The thought that stopped him cold, that made his feet feel nailed to the floor, was simpler. He owed you basic courtesy, did he not? He had denied you everything else. He could not deny you the simple, public dignity of a husband who shared your bed for a night.
Before he could overthink himself out of it, he gestured to the bed. "Move over, then."
Your eyes, if possible, grew even wider. "My prince?"
"I will not sleep in my boots," he said gruffly, sitting on the edge of a chaise and beginning to unlace them. "I will stay. Just to sleep." He made a promise to himself then, a sacred oath. He would lie down with you, and he would speak to you until you fell asleep, so you would not be insulted by a silent, rigid vigil. Then, he would leave. He had been insulting you for months by refusing to do his duties as a husband, and this small act of presence would at least be a temporary salve on a wound he had no intention of healing.
He lay down atop the covers, fully clothed in his tunic and breeches, a stiff, awkward pillar of a man. You slipped under the furs with a rustle of linen, lying rigidly on your back. The silence was deafening. Maekar cast about for something, anything, to say. "Tell me more about the Rhoynar," he commanded, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room.
And so you did, your voice soft and hesitant at first, then gaining strength. You spoke of the legends, the songs of the Mother Rhoyne, the giant turtles that were said to be gods. He listened, inserting a dry comment now and again that made you giggle, that beautiful, rippling sound he was growing dangerously accustomed to. He stayed, and continued speaking to you about the defensive layout of river cities, the logistical challenges of moving a legion through marshland, until your words began to slur, your breathing deepened, and your face went slack with peace. He had done it. He thought he would leave when he was sure you were deep in sleep. He would just wait one more minute. Just to be certain. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was warm. The scent of lavender was soporific. And that was the last thing he remembered.
Now, it was morning. The maid’s insistent knocking on the door was a relentless, chipper assault on his senses. He was still fully clothed, his tunic creased. And you were curled up next to him, clutching his arm as if it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world. The knocking roused you. You stirred, a small hum of contentment escaping your lips before your eyes fluttered open. Your gaze, hazy with sleep, traveled up his arm, over his chest, and settled on his face. The reaction was not one of surprise, or at least not the kind he expected. It was pleasure. A deep, luminous, bone-deep pleasure that transformed your features. You were smiling. A shy, pleased smile, as if you had just woken from a beautiful dream and found it still real.
"Good morning, my prince," you murmured, your voice thick and honeyed with sleep. There was a newfound confidence in it, a possessiveness that hadn't been there before. "Are you to have a busy day? I thought I might join you, if it were permitted. Perhaps I could assist you with your letters?"
Maekar found himself staring. The words were simple, but the meaning behind them was not. His plan, the handsome guard, the neglected lady, the grand affair, it all crashed down around his ears in a shower of broken, idiotic pottery. He realized his mistake with the force of a warhammer to the chest. You thought your husband was finally coming around. The gift, the miraculous, improbable gift you had wanted all along, was not a surrogate. It was him.
You wanted this. Him. His presence. His attention. His dry, sarcastic remarks. His tactical critiques of ancient river warfare. His grumpy, unyielding, solid self.
All this time, you had wanted him.
He felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest, a feeling he hadn't allowed himself to entertain for many, many years. It was a seed of warmth, cracking through the cold, hard stone he had meticulously built around his heart. He cleared his throat, his voice emerging as a low, rusty rumble.
"You can join me," he said, the words a surrender. "If you wish."
The pout was completely gone now. The smile that remained in its place was brilliant, a sun emerging from behind a lifetime of clouds. It was a smile just for him. And for the first time since he had been forced to take a new wife, Maekar Targaryen didn't feel saddled. He felt, with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty, that he was about to be completely, irrevocably unhorsed.
The days that followed that first, accidental night established a new rhythm in Summerhall, one Maekar found himself falling into with a disquieting ease he refused to examine too closely.
You had asked to assist him, and Maekar, a man who had never refused a direct request from a lady in his life out of sheer, blunt propriety, could find no reasonable grounds to deny you. You appeared in his solar the next morning, freshly dressed in a gown of pale yellow that made you look like a spring daffodil, and settled yourself in the chair across from his great oaken desk. He expected you to be a distraction. Instead, you proved infuriatingly useful. Your handwriting was elegant where his was a cramped, soldierly scrawl.
You sorted his correspondence into neat piles: urgent, routine, and the one you tactfully labeled "probably insincere flattery from lords who want something." He had let out a surprised bark of laughter at that, and you had beamed at him as if he'd just crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty.
This became your habit. Mornings in his solar, you with your neat piles and your quiet, intelligent questions about the running of the lands. Afternoons, you would walk with him along the battlements, your hand resting lightly on his arm as he pointed out the defensive improvements he was making to the eastern wall. You listened with genuine interest, asking about murder holes and arrow slits with a curiosity that was wholly unfeigned. Evenings, you dined together, and your sweet inquiries about his wellbeing were no longer met with grunts. He found himself actually answering you, describing the frustrations of a dispute between two minor landed knights or the irritating news from court. You would nod, your brow furrowed in thought, and offer observations that were often startlingly perceptive.
And every night, the same delicate, unspoken negotiation occurred.
The first time it happened outside of your own chambers, you had been in his rooms. It was late, the fire burning low, and you had been reading aloud to him from a treatise on dragonlore while he sharpened his dagger. Your voice had grown hoarse, and he noticed the way you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. He could not, in good conscience, send you shuffling down cold corridors to your own chambers. The very idea was absurd. What kind of husband kicked his own wife out into the night like a stray cat?
"The hour is late," he had said, sheathing his dagger with a decisive click. "You will stay here."
You had looked at him with that expression again, the one that was half hope and half caution, as if you were afraid of misinterpreting his words. "Here, my prince?"
"In my bed," he clarified, the words coming out more gruffly than he intended. "I will take the chaise."
But you had looked so stricken at that suggestion, your face falling in that way he was growing to dread, that he had found himself amending the plan. "Or I will join you. The bed is large enough. It is not seemly for a prince to sleep on a chaise in his own chambers."
It was a flimsy justification, and he knew it. But the way your expression brightened, the shy, pleased smile that curved your lips, was worth the internal grumbling. He lay beside you that night, a careful distance between your bodies, and spoke to you about the properties of Valyrian steel until your breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep. He awoke to find you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, one of your hands resting over his heart as if counting the beats.
This, too, became your habit. You clinging to him in sleep like a limpet to a rock, and Maekar waking each morning to the scent of your hair and the warm, trusting weight of your body against his. He told himself it was for your dignity. He told himself it was a small kindness, a basic courtesy. He told himself many things, and believed none of them.
Then there was the incident with the lamprey pie.
A lord from the coastal holdings had sent a gift of lampreys, and the kitchens had prepared them in a rich, heavily spiced pie. You had eaten only a small portion, politely complimenting the flavor, but within hours you were taken ill. Maekar was in the yard overseeing a drill when your maid came running, her face pale as milk.
"My prince, it is the princess. She is unwell. The maester says it is the lamprey, that it has irritated her stomach something fierce."
He did not remember crossing the castle. He only remembered the cold spike of fear that had lanced through him, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs with a violence that had nothing to do with exertion. He found you in your chambers, curled on your side in the great bed, your face waxen and beaded with sweat. The maester was there, a fussy old man who was doing far too much hand-wringing for Maekar's liking.
"She will recover, my prince. It is a mere gastric disturbance. But she must eat to keep her strength up, and she refuses. The princess will not touch the porridge."
Maekar looked at the tray on the bedside table. A bowl of plain, unappetizing porridge sat there, cooling and congealing. You were facing away from it, your eyes closed, your pout firmly in place.
"Leave us," Maekar commanded. The maester and the maids scurried out like mice before a dragon.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked at him with such a mix of misery and embarrassment that it made something twist painfully in his chest.
"I am sorry," you whispered, your voice thin and reedy. "I am being foolish. It will pass."
"You will eat," he said, reaching for the bowl.
"My prince, I cannot. The very thought..."
"You will eat," he repeated, and this time his voice was gentler, an unfamiliar softness creeping in despite his best efforts. He scooped a small portion of the porridge onto the spoon. "Open your mouth."
You stared at him, those big eyes glassy with discomfort, and for a moment he thought you would refuse him. But then you parted your lips, a tiny, obedient gesture, and he carefully slid the spoon into your mouth. You swallowed with visible effort, your face scrunching up, and he immediately had another spoonful ready.
"Good," he said, the praise awkward on his tongue. "Again."
He fed you the entire bowl that way, spoonful by painstaking spoonful, his large, calloused hands surprisingly steady. He did not rush you. He waited between each bite, murmuring gruff words of encouragement that felt foreign and strange, like a language he had never been taught. When the bowl was empty, he set it aside and reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at the corner of your mouth.
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that made him feel like a hero from a song, when all he had done was feed you porridge.
"Thank you, Maekar," you breathed, using his name without his title for the first time. It hit him somewhere deep, a blow he had no armor for.
"Rest now," he ordered, his voice rougher than he intended. "I will stay."
He stayed. He lay beside you, fully clothed, and let you curl into his side. He stayed until your breathing steadied and the color slowly returned to your cheeks. He stayed even after that, watching the firelight play across the ceiling, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, and wondered what in the seven hells he was doing.
But still, still, he put off the matter of bedding you.
It was not that he did not want to. The realization had crept up on him with the slow, inevitable force of a rising tide. He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to. The sight of you in your thin nightdress, the way your hair spilled across the pillows, the warmth of your body pressed against his each morning, it was testing the limits of his resolve, which had never been particularly strong where matters of the heart were concerned. He had simply never had his heart involved before.
But to bed you would be to open a door he was not certain he could close again. He had built his life around duty, around the cold, hard certainties of obligation and honor. He had loved once, and loss had carved a hollow in him that he had believed was permanent. You were filling that hollow, day by day, smile by smile, and the sensation was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.
He was a coward. Maekar Targaryen, who had faced down rebel lords and laughed at the prospect of single combat, was a coward when it came to his own wife.
Then came the night of the kiss.
It was an evening like any other. You had spent the day in his solar, helping him draft responses to a particularly tedious batch of petitions. Dinner had been a quiet affair, just the two of you, and you had made him laugh, actually laugh, a deep, surprised rumble of sound, with a wicked impression of a pompous lord who had visited the previous week. You had retired to his chambers, as had become your custom, and he had told you about the Dragonknight's campaigns in Dorne until your eyes grew heavy.
"Goodnight, Maekar," you said, your voice soft and drowsy.
And then you kissed him.
It was not a forceful kiss, not a demand or an invitation. It was a brief, gentle press of your lips against his, as natural and unthinking as a breath. A goodbye. An act of simple, uncomplicated affection. You pulled back, your eyes already closing, and nestled into your pillow with a contented sigh, as if you had done nothing of any particular note.
Maekar lay frozen, staring at the canopy above him, his heart thundering in his ears.
You had kissed him.
This was his fault. The thought careened through his skull like a loose cannon on a ship's deck. This was entirely, unequivocally his fault. He had done this. He had planted this notion in your head, watered it with his attentions, and now it had bloomed into something he could no longer ignore.
A fortnight ago, you had been helping him remove his heavy outer tunic after a long day of inspections, your small fingers working deftly at the clasps. It had been such a wifely gesture, so intimate and so natural, that before he had known what he was doing, he had leaned down and pressed his lips to your brow. A brief, chaste kiss. A thank you. He had not even realized he had done it until he saw the way you had frozen, your eyes wide. He had cleared his throat and muttered something about the fire needing more wood, and the moment had passed.
But you had taken that kiss, that single, thoughtless gesture, and drawn a conclusion from it. You had decided, in your sweet, hopeful way, that your husband wanted you to initiate affection as well. That he was too reserved, too gruff, too locked within his own silences to ask for what he wanted. And so, with that gentle, trusting kiss, you had reached across the chasm he had placed between you and offered him a bridge.
Did he want you to? The question burned in his mind, insistent and demanding. Did he want you to kiss him goodnight, as if it were the most normal thing in the world? As if you were truly husband and wife in every sense?
He certainly was not complaining. The ghost of your lips still tingled on his, and his body was reacting in ways that were entirely inappropriate for a man who was supposed to be letting his wife sleep. He was not complaining at all. That was the problem.
He should be complaining. He should be panicking. Because this, this sweetness, this trust, this quiet, domestic intimacy, led inexorably to one conclusion. You would expect children now. The thought hit him like a splash of ice water. Of course you would expect children. A princess, a wife, a woman who had been raised to understand that the bearing of heirs was a fundamental part of her duty. And you would want them, he realized with a jolt. You would want his children. Not out of duty, but out of genuine desire. You would want a babe with his silver-gold hair and your eyes, a child you could hold and nurture and love.
Gods be good.
He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. You were already asleep, your face peaceful, your lips still curved in that small, contented smile. You had no idea of the earthquake you had just set off in his chest. You had kissed him and promptly fallen asleep, trusting him completely, utterly unaware of the crisis you had left in your wake.
Maekar stared at you for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of your breath, the way your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks. His mind was a whirlwind of duty and desire, fear and longing, the cold echoes of past grief and the warm, insistent pulse of something new.
He could not keep putting this off. He could not keep lying beside you, night after night, pretending that this was a mere courtesy. He could not keep telling himself that he was doing this for your dignity, when in truth, your dignity was the last thing on his mind when he felt the press of your body against his in the dark.
But not tonight. Tonight, you were asleep, and he was a coward still. Tonight, he would lie here and listen to you breathe and feel the warmth of your kiss still burning on his lips.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be braver.
Or perhaps, he thought grimly, you would kiss him again, and the choice would be taken out of his hands entirely. The thought was not as unwelcome as it should have been.
The kisses continued.
Every night, without fail, you would bid him goodnight with that same gentle, fleeting press of your lips against his. It was never demanding, never lingering. It was a question posed in the softest possible terms, a door left slightly ajar, an invitation he could accept or decline as he saw fit. And every night, for the first several nights, Maekar accepted it the same way: by remaining perfectly, rigidly still, a statue of a man enduring a pleasant but bewildering assault.
He felt you withdraw each time, felt the tiny, almost imperceptible slump of your shoulders as you settled back onto your pillow. You never said anything. You never complained. But he knew. He was a dull rock, an unresponsive lump of granite, and he was hurting you with his passivity. The knowledge gnawed at him, a persistent, guilty ache that followed him through his days and haunted his waking hours.
The fifth night, something in him snapped. Simply, as you leaned in to press your customary kiss to his lips, he found himself moving. His hand came up, rough and calloused, to cup the back of your head. And he kissed you back.
It was not a passionate kiss. It was not the kiss of a man swept away by desire. It was a careful response, a returning of pressure, a silent acknowledgment. He felt your startled inhale against his mouth, the way your body went taut with surprise. When he pulled back, your eyes were wide, your lips parted, and there was a look on your face that made his chest constrict.
Expectation. Hope. A question that had been waiting, patient and trembling, for an answer.
Maekar looked at you, at your big eyes shining in the firelight, at your kiss-swollen mouth, at the delicate line of your collarbone visible above the lace of your nightdress. He thought of all the nights he had lain beside you, rigid with restraint. He thought of the way you smiled at him, the way you laughed at his dry remarks, the way you clung to his arm in sleep as if he were the only safe harbor in a storm.
He resigned himself. The decision came not with a sense of defeat, but with a strange, liberating clarity. He did not want to become the object of your resentment. He could not bear the thought of those eyes looking at him with bitterness, with the slow, corrosive realization that your husband was a man who denied you not only his affection but the most basic experiences of womanhood. You were young and full of life, and he had been keeping you in a gilded cage, feeding you porridge and kissing your forehead as if you were a child rather than a wife.
"You deserve pleasure," he said, his voice low and rough, the words feeling as if they were being dragged from some deep, hidden place within him. "I have been remiss in my duties."
Your breath caught. "Maekar..."
He moved before he could lose his nerve. His hands found your waist, and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, settling you onto his lap with a decisive, careful motion. You were warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress, your body soft and pliant against the hard planes of his chest. He could feel the rapid flutter of your heart.
"I will not take what I have no right to claim," he said, the words a rough murmur against your temple. "But I can give you this. Let me give you this."
His fingers found the hem of your nightdress, and he pushed it up slowly, giving you time to object. You did not object. You only watched him with those enormous eyes, your hands resting on his shoulders as if you did not quite know what to do with them. He touched you gently, so gently, his battle-roughened hands moving with a delicacy that surprised even himself. He explored the soft skin of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. He learned the shape of you by touch alone, his gaze fixed on your face, cataloguing every flicker of expression.
When his fingers found the center of your heat, you gasped, your head falling back, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He moved with slow, patient circles, learning what made you sigh, what made you shudder, what made your hips buck involuntarily against his hand. He was methodical in his attentions, as he was in all things, and he brought you to the peak with the same focused determination he might apply to a siege.
You shattered against him with a cry that was half surprise and half relief, your body arching, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic. He held you through it, his free arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you against the storm of sensation. When the tremors subsided, you slumped against his chest, breathing hard, your face buried in the crook of his neck.
He gave you a moment. Then, with the same gentle efficiency, he rearranged your nightdress, lifted you from his lap, and placed you back onto the bed. He drew the furs up to your chin and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Sleep now," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.
You blinked up at him, your expression dazed and soft and so full of something that looked terrifyingly like adoration. "But you..."
"This was for you," he said, cutting you off with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Rest."
You slept. He did not. He lay beside you in the darkness, his body aching with unfulfilled need, and told himself that this was enough. He had done his duty. He had given you pleasure without complicating matters with his own involvement. It was a tidy solution, a clean, surgical strike. You were satisfied. There was no need to get himself fully involved.
This, too, became a habit.
Every few nights, when the expectant look in your eyes grew too pronounced to ignore, he would pull you onto his lap and touch you until you came apart in his arms. He learned the rhythms of your body. He knew the spot just below your ear that made you whimper when he pressed his lips to it. He knew the pace that made you clutch at him desperately, the slower, teasing touches that made you gasp his name like a prayer. He gave you pleasure as a general might distribute supplies to a besieged city: regularly, efficiently, and with a steadfast refusal to partake himself.
He thought you accepted this. He thought you understood the unspoken terms of this arrangement. He was a fool.
It was a quiet evening, the fire burning low in the hearth, the castle settling into the deep hush of night. He had just returned from a grueling inspection of the eastern watchtowers, his muscles aching, his mood as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the mountains. You were waiting for him in his chambers, a book open on your lap, a cup of warmed wine already poured and waiting on his desk.
You were always waiting for him now. The thought should not have warmed him as it did.
The night's ritual had been completed. You were nestled against him, your body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was preparing to settle you back onto your pillow, to pull up the furs and press his customary kiss to your forehead, when you spoke.
"Maekar." Your voice was soft, hesitant, but there was a thread of steel beneath it that he had learned to recognize. "May I ask you something?"
"You may," he said, his guard instinctively rising.
You were silent for a moment, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his tunic. Then, you lifted your head to look at him, and the expression in your eyes made his heart stutter.
"Why do you not want anything for yourself?"
The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. He opened his mouth to deflect, to offer some gruff platitude about duty and obligation, but you did not give him the chance.
"Every night," you continued, your voice still soft but gaining strength, "you give me such pleasure. You are so gentle, so careful, so attentive. But you never…" You hesitated, a flush creeping up your cheeks, but you pressed on with the same determined courage you had shown since the day you arrived at Summerhall. "You never let me touch you. You never seek your own release. It is as if you believe you do not deserve it, or as if you think I am not capable of giving it."
"You are capable," he said, the words escaping before he could cage them.
"Then why?" Your pout was there, that unconscious, pretty pout that he had come to know so well. But it was accompanied by a look so loving, so open and earnest and full of desperate hope, that it struck him like a blow. "I could learn. I could learn how to please you, if you are willing to teach me. I am not afraid. I want to be a true wife to you, in every sense."
He felt something cracking inside him, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart beginning to crumble. "It is not a matter of teaching," he said, his voice strained. "There are…consequences. You are young. You should not be burdened with..."
"Children," you finished for him, and he was stunned into silence. "You are worried about children."
It was not the only thing, but it was the easiest to admit. He nodded stiffly.
You took a deep breath, and he watched as you gathered your courage, your hands clasping together in your lap. "If you do not wish for children," you said, your voice steady despite the tremor he could see in your fingers, "I can drink moon tea. We can postpone the idea. I have spoken to the maester, and he has assured me it is safe when used sparingly."
Maekar stared at you. You had spoken to the maester. You, his sweet wife, had gone to the old man and asked about moon tea. The image was so absurd, so unexpectedly bold, that he almost laughed.
But you were not finished. "I would like to have a child someday," you continued, and now your voice grew softer, more wistful. "One child of my own. No matter a boy or a girl. And I would raise it with the best of my ability, with all the love I have to give. But…" You reached out, your small hand coming to rest on his cheek, your thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "I would like to have a life first. A marriage. A husband who does not treat me like a delicate piece of glass that might shatter at his touch."
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that had undone him from the very beginning.
"I want you, Maekar," you whispered. "I want my husband."
The walls crumbled. The last defenses fell. Maekar Targaryen, prince of Summerhall, breaker of rebellions and terror of his enemies, looked at his young wife and realized he was only a man. A man who had been fighting a losing battle against his own heart for longer than he cared to admit. A man who loved his wife.
He loved you. The truth of it was a physical thing, a weight in his chest, a fire in his blood. He loved your laugh, your pout, your clever mind and your gentle hands and your infuriating, wonderful habit of clinging to him in sleep. He loved your courage, standing before him now and baring your soul with nothing but hope to shield you. He loved you.
"Gods be good," he breathed, and then he was moving.
His hands found your waist, and this time there was nothing careful or clinical about the touch. He pulled you against him, crushing you to his chest, and his mouth descended on yours in a kiss that was nothing like the chaste, hesitant presses of lips you had shared before. This was a surrender. A desperate, hungry admission of everything he had been too stubborn to say.
You gasped against his mouth, and then your arms were around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, and you were kissing him back with an enthusiasm that made his head spin. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your faces inches apart.
"You foolish, stubborn man," you whispered, but your voice was thick with tears and joy. "I have been waiting for you to understand."
"I understand now," he said, his voice a low, wrecked rasp. "Forgive me. For all of it. For the neglect, for the distance, for the guard I foisted upon you like a fool..."
"You gave me Ser Elyas?" Your eyes widened, and then a surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Oh, Maekar. I thought he was just a very attentive guard. I wondered why he kept trying to recite poetry at me."
Maekar groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "I am an idiot."
"You are my idiot," you corrected, and the possessive warmth in your voice was his final undoing. "My husband. And I believe you owe me a proper wedding night."
He looked at you, at the mischievous glint in your eyes, at the loving curve of your smile, and he felt something he had not felt in many, many years. Hope. Joy. A future unfolding before him that was not merely duty and endurance, but something bright and warm and achingly beautiful.
"I owe you much more than that," he murmured, and he lowered his mouth to yours once more.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
He'll have you sit on his lap naked, just so you'll get his jeans dirty. Something about it really makes his cock throb.
Or, he'll fuck you on his fingers while wearing his favourite pair of gloves before a mission, just so he has something to lick and smell when he gets lonely—and you do get a helluva fucking when your scent wears off his gloves sooner than usual. As if you can control that.
After one too many punishments for that though, you pushed him down and sat on his face while he wore his balaclava. Practically waterboarding the bloke with your arousal. Simon always loved when you were just as perverted as he was.
The thing that turns you on disgusts you the most? You'll be bent over in your kitchen, garden, laundry; and Simon'll come up behind you, shove his fingers in you before pulling them out before you can properly register what he's doing, walking off and sucking his fingers with a pleased hum.
You've scolded him for it countless times, yet the pervert doesn't care. Smiling at you in a way that from any other man? It would make your stomach twist in disgust. But from Simon? You can't get enough.
And yes, he is in fact the type of guy to pull your asscheeks apart so he can lick his thumb and press it against the spasming ring of muscle,
"If she keeps winking at me like this, I'll have to fuck her too." Growled in your ear while you whine in disgust, as if you don't have a pretty little collection of plugs in the back of your dresser already.
You and Simon just loved pretending like you were being corrupted by him.
⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧
Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ
Might change my divider, and way of colouring text. I dunno guys. Anyway hiiiii lol please don't sound me for not posting until now. Can women be sounded? God I hope not.
Imagine reader being the only human in werewolf!141, or you are until you have to be turned on the field. A traumatic process you seem to handle...shockingly well.
The only problem? You have no clue what is and isn't socially acceptable for a werewolf to do.
The guys aren't exactly sure how to tell you that obsessively sniffing everyone's clothes is...weird. creepy. Because you being creepy is better than remembering the way you screamed during the transformation, right?
So they let you curl up in gazs hoodie, taking a sniff to mutter "woah, I like this. You smell so good, gaz."
It's worse when you decide to do it in public, still getting used to your new heightened senses. You don't hesitate to cuddle up to soap, astonished by how warm he feels, nose tucking into his neck. Cedar, cinnamon, gunpowder and his distinct musk all filling your nostrils.
Your instincts, too, are completely out of your control. You bark and whine and huff whenever they tell you to, even when it's considered...taboo to indulge in certain instincts publicly.
Like play-biting on ghosts arms whenever they are vaguely within range of your teeth, similar to how gaz sometimes acts, but you don't mind doing it in the middle of a meeting. Though you're wiggling happily with a phantom-tail common in most recent transformations, so ghost does nothing to stop you.
Truthfully, the team is glad you're so preoccupied in your new identity. Too distracted to notice the way they've been acting odd, sneaking off more often either alone or in pairs, coming back smelling odd which only makes you want to sniff them more. They've all agreed it's best to let you figure yourself out first, what with how disorienting a transformation can be, especially one as traumatic as yours.
Because really, who was going to be the one to tell you that by werewolf standards you've been violently flirting with the entire team?
Not that he directly says it, but even an SAS operative is hard-pressed to hide the subtle flinch of touch from his fellow teammates at all times. Skin always covered, always positioned away from people, it's an unspoken rule that no one touches ghost unless mandatory.
So why the hell does he let you, the new secretary, get away with it?
"Oh, sir! Hey, I needed an updated copy of that file–" you'll catch him in the hallway, hand on his bicep to get his attention before you lose him in the crowd. The strangest thing? Ghost actually stops and listens carefully. No tensing up or glaring at all.
Or when you happen to be next to him in line for dinner, you have no qualms bumping your shoulder into his side in lieu of greeting with full hands, already saying "hi, sir! Yknow, I was looking over those reports, and I really appreciate how you—"
It's an absolute mystery to the team. How you ghost is more than happy to be practically manhandled by you in crowded spaces or simply casually touched in conversation. There's only one logical explenation.
Ghost has a crush.
After that, it just becomes more obvious. How he angles himself closest to you in a group. How he subtly leans into your touch on certain days.
Curiously, gaz asks you about it one day. A casual water cooler ambush, designed to look purely coincidental when he interrogates "oh, you and ghost talk often, don't you?"
"Hm? Oh, ghost? Yeah! He's a great friend!" You smile, all wide and unassuming. of course you have no fucking clue, because ghost is damn difficult to read even to trained soldiers. You go on to smile to yourself, fidgeting with the manila folder held against your clipboard. "I'm honestly shocked he tolerates me so much, what with being just some secretary. But he's nice to talk to, yknow?"
...and it seems you are just as horribly enamoured by him. How the hell neither of you has figured it out is beyond the team.
They already have a betting pool going if you two will sort it out before or after next months ball.
Ghost's favorite position, hands down no argument, is prone bone.
Him on top, of course, one arm nestled under your torso and holding you close. The other slung above his head, forearm resting just above you in a lazy sprawl.
You've learned that this is his go-to position after eating. Something about a fully belly and feeling safe, warm in your presence just makes him too tired for the more ambitious stuff you usually do. Ghost would much rather lie on top of you, squishing you under his massive figure.
"Fuckin hell— hold still, lovie." Ghost groans when you squirm at a particularly harsh thrust. Not like you could actually go anywhere when he completely settles his weight into you and switches from thrusts to grinding.
"W– what–? Si...c'mon, baby you promised...!" You groan, huffs because he had promised to fuck you earlier!
"I'm inside you, ain't i?" He grunts, slinking the other arm under you too for a proper cuddle, the heavy thickness of his cock still deep inside.
"Yeah, but you know thats not what I— uh....simon? Si...? Oh my god—" steady snoring above you.
Of course he decided now was the best time to nap. Fucking food coma again.
...Hopefully he gets a wet dream and you get that fucking you asked for.
Few times in your life have you truly fought with your husband, simon riley.
Tonight is one of those nights.
"Simon, you fucking crossed a line! That is unacceptable!" You had told him two days ago after finding out he's put a tracker on you and has been sharing your location with his work buddies. That was your first big fight since the wedding.
Which leads you to now, fluffy comforter and favorite pillow in hand while you glare at the couch.
You didn't want it to come to this. You had hoped refusing cuddles and referring to him solely as "simon." Instead of your usual pet names would get the point across how serious this is. But ghost refused to budge.
So, you're sleeping on the couch. Because as pissed off as you are at simon and as much as you want to tear his face off, some silly part of you aches at the thought of him hurting his back sleeping on the couch.
So, you go tuck in and try to ignore how weird it feels not to have a warm body next to you.
When you wake up, you nearly trip over your husband sleeping on the floor by the couch.
"What— simon! What the hell—" all anger you'd initially feel is destroyed when you look closer at the wet lines down the scars on his face, the red tint around his eyes.
Oh. You've....You've never actually seen ghost cry.... not since the wedding.
"Please don't leave me love–" are the first choked words out of his mouth, not even awake for a minute and already shifting closer to you "ahm' sorry. I'm sorry, I just— i can't lose you. If— if something happens to me I—"
"Woah. Woah, hey, slow down si" You attempt to soothe, because pulling him up onto the bed. "I'm pissed off. You know that. But I'm not leaving you. What's going on?"
Ghost breathes for a second, looks at the window instead of you. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and raw "if I get captured. If I'm— compromised. The team needs to be able to find you. Keep you safe. I can't always be here."
Oh....oh.
The conversation that followed was long, painstaking, but necessary. You and simon struck a tentatively compromise, both mentally exhausted from it all. You could tell he was struggling not to shut down.
"....come to bed with me? I missed your cuddles last night." You smile, only to gasp and laugh when simon bodily hauled you over his shoulder to drag you to bed.
While working at your new job at the Stark County Sheriff’s Department, you catch the eye of one Gator Tillman - much to your dismay and his delight.
A/n - two new fics in one day ?? hell yeah !! I forgot I’d only had like a lil left to edit of this one so now you all get it. enjoy !!
tw/cw - dubcon, non-con (& complicated feelings towards that from the reader), fear-mongering, forceful fingering, forced oral (f! Receiving), use of handcuffs, unprotected sex, Gator being an asshole, no use of y/n, Gator using a few demeaning terms.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Stark County Sheriff’s Department always seemed to hum with a headache-inducing frequency. Whether it was the cheap florescent lighting, shitty heating unit, or the incessant ringing of phones & muttering of the employees - it had become the soundtrack of your new job for the last three weeks. Surely, you should’ve been used to it by now, or at least able to drown it out. Maybe the fact that you were constantly coiled into a ball of tension wasn’t helping matters. Even now as you sat at the front desk, you desperately tried to look busy and focused. Organizing and re-organizing shift logs, triple-checking paperwork - anything to avoid the one person you knew wouldn’t leave you alone - even if your life depended on it.
"You paint a real pretty picture just sittin’ there doin’ nothin’."
The voice was low, grating with that specific North Dakota dialect that dragged out the vowels, and it sent a jolt of apprehension straight down your spine before you even glanced up. Deputy Sheriff Gator Tillman was leaning against a nearby doorframe, his uniform tight across the shoulders, that perpetually amused smirk plastered across his face.
"Just doing my job, Deputy," you muttered, keeping your eyes strictly on the paperwork in front of you. You could smell his cologne even from a few feet away - something cheap and spicy barely masking the fruity, nicotine scene of his vape, or the exhaust fumes clinging to his jacket from the cruiser.
"My job involves protectin’ and servin’," Gator drawled, stepping closer until he was right against your desk, invading your space without a second thought. He reached out, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the wood surface, inching dangerously close to your hand. "Does yours involve bein’ this stubborn? I told you to come get coffee with me like, three times now."
"I’ve been busy," you replied, pulling your hand away and placing it firmly in your lap.
Your heart was racing unpleasantly and a little faster than you preferred. Gator Tillman was trouble. The kind of guy your mom warned you to guard your drink around before you even left for college. He was volatile, arrogant, and walked around with a violence that simmered just beneath the surface. You’d seen him slam a vagrant against a patrol car last week just for asking him to loosen the cuffs slightly.
"Sure you were.”
You frowned. “I was.”
“Lucky for you, I like 'em a little difficult," he replied, eyes raking over you, lingering on your neck before snapping back up to your face. The intensity of his gaze was suffocating. "Makes breakin’ 'em in more fun. You gonna keep playin’ hard to get, or are you gonna let me take you for a spin? I know places."
"The Sheriff needs those logs, Deputy," your voice trembled slightly despite your best effort to sound stern. “I don’t have time for whatever you’re getting at.” And it’ll be a cold day in hell when I let you break me.
Gator let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You think you’re better than this? Than me? Don’t get high and mighty just ‘cause you type the reports. I see the way you look at me. You’re scared, sure, but you’re interested."
"I'm not interested," you insisted, gripping the edge of the desk until your knuckles turned threatened to split from the pressure. "Please leave. I have work to do."
He stared at you for a long moment, the amusement flickering out for a split second, leaving something colder and darker in its place. It was the look of a man who didn't like hearing the word no. Or maybe it was just a foreign concept to him. Then, just as quickly, the mask slipped back on.
"Fine," he winked, tapping your nose quickly with his index finger before backing away toward the door. "But don’t think I’m done with you, darlin’. Not by a long shot."
You exhaled a shaky breath when he finally walked out, the tension in your shoulders dropping. It was exhausting. Every single day, it was the same routine - the inappropriate comments, the touching, the looming presence. Today hadn’t even been a total HR violation, but Gator’s demeanor never ceased to stress you out.
Relief washed over you an hour later when Deputy Miller, a desk cop who spent most of his shift on dispatch, stopped by to drop off some files. He was younger than Gator, softer, with a polite smile that actually reached his eyes. He hadn’t been on the force for long, that much was clear by his attitude and demeanor. The place hadn’t rotted his soul.
"Hey," Miller said, leaning a hip against the desk. "I noticed you started handling the Captain's paperwork. You’re doing a great job keeping this place organized."
"Thanks," you said, smiling back at him. It was easy to smile at Miller; he didn't look like he was undressing you mentally whenever he looked at you. "It’s a lot of filing, but someone has to do it."
"Well, if you need a break, a few of us are grabbing lunch at the diner in twenty," Miller offered, rubbing the back of his neck and nervously glancing around, as if he feared being overheard. "You’re welcome to join. Unless, you know... Tillman’s got you on a short leash."
The joke was meant to be friendly, a shared eye-roll at Gator’s behavior, but you felt your stomach drop. Was his territorial attitude that obvious to everyone else?
“I’d like that," you smiled, but your tone was firm. "And Gator doesn't own me."
Miller looked relieved. "Great. See you then."
The interaction lasted maybe two minutes. It was innocent, fleeting, and the first time you’d felt comfortable at your desk since you started. You didn't notice Gator standing in the shadows of the hallway, his fists clenched at his sides, eyes narrowed as he watched Miller laugh at something you said. You certainly didn't see the red flush creeping up Gator’s neck, or the way his jaw set so hard it looked like it might shatter.
The retaliation didn't come immediately. It came two days later in the form of Captain Lundy, a man who usually ignored your existence unless he needed a coffee filter replaced or a file turned into a pdf.
"Pack up your things," Lundy said, not looking at you as he scanned the bullpen.
"Excuse me?"
"Departmental reorganization," he grunted. "Front desk is too crowded. Since you’re on filing duty we’re moving you down to the Records Room. Basement level. Starting immediately."
"Basement?" Your stomach sank. The Records Room was essentially a dungeon. In the bowels of the station where almost no one went anymore. You’d been down to put away a few boxes of files once or twice, and the bleak, windowless maze of shelves made you shiver. "But... I was hired for reception."
"Not my call to make. Order comes from higher up," Lundy said dismissively. "Don't argue. Just go. And take this list - Sheriff wants all this reorganized pronto.”
You wanted to argue and demand to know why you were being banished to the basement for doing your job well, but the look on Lundy’s face told you the he was just the messenger. You gathered your purse and a handful of personal items, throat tight with frustration, and headed for the rarely-used basement stairwell.
The basement was large, cold, and smelled like a mixture of dust and mildew. It was a large, windowless space filled rows upon rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves of beige boxes. There was no reception counter, ringing of the phone, and zero other people. It was silent, oppressive, and totally isolated.
You sat at the small, cluttered desk they’d assigned you near the stairs, and felt a shiver run through you that had nothing to do with the temperature. You were down here, alone, buried in the depths of the building with nothing but your thoughts for company.
But as the silence stretched out and you made yourself comfortable, you realized that Gator couldn't bother you down here. There was no reason for him to pass by your desk, no flirtatious leans against the doorframe, no invasive comments while you tried to work. Gator Tillman stayed upstairs with the action and the noise. You were safe here. Sure, it wasn’t what you were hired to do, but you could make it work. You’d be out of sight, out of mind. He’d forget all about you.
You double checked the list Lundy had shoved at you, and wandered over to open a file cabinet nearby, forcing yourself to focus on the labels, ignoring the nagging feeling in your gut that told you this wasn't just a random bureaucratic shuffle. You told yourself you were glad. You were rid of him.
So engrossed were you in your work reorganizing the abysmal filing system that you didn't hear the heavy footsteps descending the concrete stairs ten minutes later. You didn't hear the distinct, heavy click of the door being locked from the inside - too busy breathing in the smell of old paper, convincing yourself that the fear in your chest was finally starting to fade.
"Well, well, well,” a familiar voice drawled from the shadows behind the shelving unit. "Can’t believe they stuck the prettiest girl in Stark County all the way down here in the cellar."
You froze, blood instantly turning to ice as you spun around to see Gator stepping out from between two rows of shelves, his hands in his pockets, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
"Deputy," you nodded, voice barely audible.
“Gator.” He corrected, taking a step closer. “Call me Gator.”
You shook your head, clutching an armful of files to your chest. "What’re you doing down here? Access is restricted."
He laughed, a low, dark sound that bounced off the concrete walls. He took another slow step toward you. "Not restricted for the Deputy Sheriff. And certainly not a Tillman."
He stopped in front of where you stood by the filing cabinets, towering over you, the dim light casting harsh shadows across his face. He looked manic, his dark eyes wide and fixed entirely on you.
"Rumor has it you were gettin’ awful cozy with Miller up front," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Can't have my secretary distractin’ the help."
"I'm not your secretary," you snapped, though you pressed yourself back into the chair, trying to put as much distance between you and him as possible. "And he was just dropping of some -"
"Doesn't matter," Gator shrugged, reaching out to place his hands atop the cabinet on either side of your head. Your chest felt tight with anxiety as he leaned down until his face was level with yours, his breath hot against your cheek. "I pulled some strings. Got you moved down here. Away from prying eyes. And distractions."
"Why?" Your heart pounded so hard you thought it might bruise your ribs. You were trapped in a basement with a man you knew was dangerous, and the realization of what he’d done crashed over you.
"Because I like you," he said, stating it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And I don't like sharin’. Now, it’s just you, me, and a whole lotta quiet time."
The next few days fell into a routine as you tried to handle the new element of suffocating isolation offered by your new “office”. The basement became your own little world, separated from the noise and life of the station above by a heavy steel door and a flight of concrete stairs. The air conditioning down here seemingly always set to a lovely walk-in freezer temperature, but sometimes it felt that the chill had nothing to do with the actual degrees and everything to do with Gator.
He was the only constant in your life now.
You quickly learned that the restricted access list for the basement was essentially only Gator. At least, it seemed to be. There was never anyone allowed near you. He made sure of it. Every few hours, the heavy door would creak open, and you’d hear the distinct thud of his boots on the concrete floor. It didn't matter if you were buried in a pile of arrest reports from 2006 or trying to organize the evidence logs - he would hunt you down between the shelves.
“Feels good to’ve found a use for this place," he’d said once, leaning against a shelf, watching you like you were an exhibit in a museum. “This place suits you. Quiet. Hidden away."
You tried to keep your responses professional, sticking to "I'm working, Deputy" or "Please let me finish this row," but he always just laughed it off. He treated your boundaries like they were merely suggestions, or annoying obstacles he could casually step over.
His come-ons, once confined to suggestive words and looming looks, began to evolve into something much more tactile. It started small - a hand on your shoulder that lingered a second too long when he leaned over to “read” a file, accidentally brushing against your hip when he squeezed past you in the aisles that weren’t nearly narrow enough to warrant that sort of action. As the days bled into one another, his confidence grew.
“Well, looky here,” he said one afternoon, stopping you as you carried a box of archives. He reached out and hooked a finger under the collar of your blouse, tugging it slightly to the side to examine the tag. “Satin? For the basement? You're dressin’ up for the rats and dust bunnies? Or you gotta hot date you didn’t tell me about?”
You jerked back, clutching the box tighter against your chest. "Don't touch me, Gator."
“Just admirin’,” he smirked, not looking the least bit remorseful. "You got nice skin. Shame to keep it covered up in all that.”
“This is what I wear for work.”
“Yeah, and it’d all look better off you than on it, sweetheart.”
“You can’t say things like that.”
“Can’t I?”
By the time you’d been confined to the basement for over two weeks, Gator had stopped pretending anything he did was accidental. He would come up behind you, placing a heavy hand on the small of your back and rubbing it slow and deliberate, making your skin crawl. He’d catch your wrist as you reached for a pen or file, holding it trapped in his grip while he teased you about being "jumpy."
"You're like a wild horse," he chuckled, squeezing your arm just hard enough to hurt before letting go. "Gotta break their spirit before you can ride ‘em.”
You started taking your lunches in your car, sitting in the driver's seat with the doors locked, just to feel the sun on your face and breathe air that didn't smell like old paper and Gator's stupid fucking vape. You used the restroom on the main floor solely for the fleeting hope that you might run into Captain Lundy or Deputy Miller - someone, anyone, who could witness what was happening. But the station was always chaotic, and you were invisible. When you did spot Miller across the bullpen, you couldn't bring yourself to shout over the noise, terrified of the repercussions if Gator found out you were tattling.
You were trapped in a silent hell.
It was a Friday afternoon when the tension finally snapped. The basement was silent, save for the hum of the overhead lights. You were in the very back of the large room, making yourself useful in a narrow aisle lined with shelves that went all the way to the ceiling. You were on a step stool, struggling to slide a heavy box of pre-1998 cold cases back onto the top shelf, so you didn't hear him approach until it was too late. The first indication you had was his hand closing around your ankle.
You gasped, nearly losing your balance on the stool, and whipped your head around to find Gator standing right behind you. He wasn't wearing his hat today, and his hair was messy, falling over his forehead. His eyes were dark and fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach drop.
"Need a hand?" he asked, his voice low and rough, but he made no move to help. Instead, his hand slid up from your ankle to your calf, his thumb rubbing circles in your smooth skin.
“I’ve got it,” you stammered, trying to shove the box into place and climb down, shaking his grip from your leg. You turned, but he stepped in close, blocking the aisle.
"You've been ignorin’ me," he said, the playful tone gone, replaced by a hard edge. "I come all the way down here, jus’ to keep you company, and you act like I'm some annoyin’ bug.”
"I'm trying to work, Gator. Please move," your voice trembled. Trapped between the shelves and his body, the air felt thick and hard to breathe.
“Lemme take you to dinner.”
“No.”
He stepped closer, forcing you further back against the shelving unit. The metal edge dug into your spine. “Seems like you’re just tryin’ to hurt my feelings at this point.”
“It’s nothing personal. I just don't want to go to dinner with you.”
“Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t be like that.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“Actin’ like you don’t want nothin’ to do with me.”
“News flash, Gator - I don't want anything to do with you.”
“Why?”
You scoffed. “You corner me day after day in this fucking dingy basement, and you’re asking why I have an issue with that?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Because if you’re trying to get a woman to like you, this is a pretty piss-poor plan.”
Gator’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He stared at you, chest rising and falling heavily. "I did you a favor, gettin’ you reassigned to down here. Up there, you're nobody.”
He slammed a hand against the shelf beside your head, making you jump. A cloud of dust puffed out from the boxes above.
"I own this basement," he growled, leaning in until his nose was almost touching yours. "Which means I own you while you're in it."
“That makes zero fucking sense. And I’m not a piece of property," you spat back, emboldened by a sudden surge of adrenaline and fear. "I'm a person, and you can't -“
Gator didn't let you finish, and you barely had a moment to grace yourself before he lunged forward, capturing your face in his hands, his fingers digging into your cheeks hard enough to bruise. Before you could even gasp, he crushed his mouth against yours.
His assault was forceful and angry, tasting of artificial strawberry and burnt coffee. He pinned you against the metal shelving, his body pressing into yours with a weight that felt suffocating. You fought to turn your head away, hands coming up to push against his chest, but he was immovable, a wall of muscle and aggression. His lips moved frantically against yours, teeth scraping and tongue trying to force its way into your mouth as his breath came in ragged huffs through his nose. It was as though he was trying to force a reaction out of you, to bend you to his will through sheer physical dominance. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a terrifying contrast to the cold basement air.
Your hands curled into fists against his uniform shirt, useless and weak. You squeezed your eyes shut, hot tears pricking at the corners, refusing to give him the satisfaction of participation, but also terrified of what he might do if you fought back too hard. The pressure of his mouth on yours as he slowly managed to work your mouth open was almost too much. You felt his saliva mix with yours, and you fought the urge to gag. He was everywhere - the scent, weight, and feel of him overwhelming in the dingy basement.
Finally, after an eternity that likely actually lasted only a few moments, he pulled back, gasping for air. He didn't let go of your face, though, keeping you held there, trapped in his grip, chest heaving against yours. He looked wild, his pupils blown wide and dark, staring at your swollen lips like he was assessing his work.
"Awe, don’t look at me like that, sugar," he whispered, a crooked, terrifying grin spreading across his face. "Like you’re scare ‘a me.”
Maybe I am.
As if he could hear your innermost thoughts, he laughed softly. “You're gonna learn to love it. I'm gonna make sure of that."
Gator then released you abruptly, stepping back and smoothing down his uniform, acting as if he hadn't just forcefully assaulted you against a rack of cold case files. He glanced at his phone, then back at you, the smirk returning full force.
"Lunch break's over," he said, turning his back on you and heading toward the door. "Don't go nowhere. I'll be back later."
You slumped against the shelves, legs giving out as you slid down to the dusty floor. You brought your shaking hands up to your lips, wiping them frantically with the back of your hand, trying to scrub the taste of him away. The silence of the basement rushed back in, and it made you feel even more hollow.
The days that followed were quick to prove that if you thought Gator had been bold before, the “incident” had stripped away the last of his pretense. There was no more flirting, no more or thinly veiled suggestions that would normally be frowned upon in the workplace. His new goal seemed designed to wear down your defenses until there was no fight left in your soul.
He took to lingering in the doorway, especially as you were trying to leave, blocking the only exit with his broad frame. Other times he’d just watch you work for long, silent stretches. Sometimes he’d critique your filing (as if he had any right to do so), or he’d annoy you by spinning his keys around his finger, the metal jingling cutting through the quiet like a threat.
"You’re movin’ too slow," he’d say, walking up behind you and pressing his front against your back, trapping you against the shelves or desk or wherever you happened to be standing. "If you worked faster, we could have more fun."
Gator’s touches also became relentless. If you reached for a file, his hand would be there first, "accidentally" brushing the side of your breast. If you bent down to pick up a dropped stack of papers, you’d feel his hand graze your ass, squeezing hard before you could straighten up. He stopped apologizing. He stopped pretending it was an accident - and you knew that he did it because he knew you were too terrified to go all the way upstairs and make a scene.
"Still so jumpy," he taunted one afternoon, hovering over your chair while you tried to type out one of the reports you’d been digitizing. He reached out and twisted a lock of your hair around his finger. When you didn’t spare him a glance, his firm hand landed on the back of your neck and forcibly pulled your head back until you were looking up at him. "Think you’d be used to me by now. I’m the only friend you got down here."
"You're not my friend," you whispered, your voice trembling.
He laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "I’d wager I’m about the only thing keepin' you sane, sweetheart. You should be grateful I pay you any attention at all."
The station above had gone quiet. The day shift had left, and the skeleton crew of night deputies was handling calls. You had stayed late, trying to reorganize the chaotic mess of the 1980-1983 section that you’d neglected during the first half of the week and didn’t want to deal with on Friday.
You were in the very back corner of the records room was the furthest point from the door. It was a narrow alcove tucked behind a massive support pillar, lined with shelves that were rarely accessed. The single light bulb in that section flickered, leaving the space in near-total darkness, and you made a mental note to either request the bulb be changed next week, or perhaps remember to bring your flashlight into work.
Kneeling on the concrete floor, stacking heavy boxes with your breath nearly visible in the frigid air - you felt isolated. Lonely. But in a way, you had convinced yourself it was safer like that. At least that meant that Gator wasn't here. You hadn't heard the door open in over an hour. For a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he had gotten bored. It was a Friday night for God’s sake. A man like Gator should be out at the local dive bar, letting off steam and likely hitting on someone who would actually give him the time of day. Or at least not be so repulsed that they wouldn’t willingly hop in the backseat of his truck for ten minutes.
Then you heard the boots. Heavy, deliberate steps thudding on the concrete.
You froze, heart seizing in your chest. Yanking on the swinging chain a few inches above your head, you plunged the corner where you stood into darkness. You held your breath, praying he would just check the front desk and leave, that he wouldn't think to look in the deepest, darkest recess of the room.
"I know you're back here," Gator’s voice echoed, bouncing off the concrete walls. He didn't sound angry. Maybe a little bored. Antsy.
You stayed silent, pressing yourself back against the shelves, hoping the shadows would swallow you.
"Come on out," he coaxed, his footsteps getting closer. "Don't make me come an’ find you. Y’know I will."
The footsteps stopped just outside the alcove. You could see the silhouette of his figure blocking out the faint blue light from the main room. He was a monster in the dark. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing him to turn around.
"I'm done waitin’," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "I asked real nice. Played your little game. But I'm done askin’."
He stepped into the alcove.
You scrambled backward, but your foot caught on a stray box, sending you stumbling. Before you could regain your balance, a hand shot out of the dark and grabbed you by the upper arm, hauling you up and spinning you around. A gasp tore from your throat as he slammed you forward, pinning you face-first against the cold metal filing cabinet. The impact knocked the wind out of you, rattling the boxes above. His chest was flush against your back, trapping you completely. You could feel his heart hammering against your spine, or maybe it was yours. The close proximity made it hard to tell where he ended and you began.
"Please," you choked out, your hands scrabbling against the smooth metal of the shelf, trying to find purchase to push away. "Gator, stop."
"Shh," he hushed you, his mouth right against your ear. His breath was hot, ghosting over your neck, making the hairs on your arms stand up. "You've been teasin’ me for weeks, darlin’. Walkin’ around in those tight little skirts. Bendin’ over just right. Not very fair, if you ask me."
No one asked you.
He kicked your feet apart with his boot, forcing your legs to spread. You tried to close them, but he wedged his knee in between your thighs, holding them open with an iron grip. You were trembling violently, tears leaking from your eyes and soaking into the dust on the shelf in front of you.
"I d-don't want this," you sobbed, your voice breaking.
"Don't matter what you want," he grunted, his hand leaving your arm and sliding down to band tightly around your waist, grinding his pelvis into your ass. "It matters what I want. And I want to see if you're as sweet on the inside as you are on the outside."
"No," you gasped, bucking against him, trying to dislodge him. It was like trying to move a mountain. He didn't budge an inch.
"Easy there," he laughed, the sound vibrating through your back. "Just relax. Gotta lemme in."
His other hand moved around to the front of your skirt, shoving the material up as his hand finding the soft skin of your thigh. The cold air hit your skin, making you gasp, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his hand as it returned to your upper leg. He squeezed the flesh there, his fingernails digging in, marking you.
"So fuckin’ soft," he murmured, almost to himself. "All this attitude, but you're just a soft little thing underneath, aren’tcha?”
He slid his hand upwards, fingers seeking the heat between your legs. You tried to clamp your thighs shut, to deny him access, but his knee held you open. You squeezed your eyes shut, turning your face away from him, pressing your cheek against the cold metal shelf.
"Gator, please don't," you whimpered, your voice barely a whisper.
"God, listen to you. Knew you’d make sexy sounds for me," he groaned, his fingers slipping beneath your underwear. “Fuck, sweetheart.”
Gator didn’t wait, or even bother with teasing. He thrust two fingers inside you roughly, dry and forceful. You cried out, a sharp, broken sound that echoed in the small space. It burned, a sudden, intrusive stretch that stole your breath. He didn't give you time to adjust as he curled his fingers inside you, pumping them in and out with a brutal, rhythmic pace.
"Fuckin’ hell," he hissed, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder. "You're so fuckin’ tight."
He ground the heel of his hand against your clit as he fingered you, the pressure painful and overwhelming - though your body began to unwillingly respond to his touch. You could hear the wet, slick sounds of his fingers moving inside you, vulgar and humiliating in the quiet basement.
But your self loathing wasn’t enough to down out the fact that Gator was practically panting in your ear, his hips jerking against your ass in time with the thrusts of his fingers.
"See? You like it. I can feel you gettin’ wet. Don't lie to me."
"I'm not... N-not..." you sobbed, knowing it was futile to argue with him. It wasn't from arousal, not really. Or maybe it was. But he didn't care either way. He was taking every noise, twitch, and movement as permission.
"You are," he insisted, adding a third finger. You gasped, your back arching involuntarily as the stretch became too much. "Look at you, takin’ my fingers like a good girl."
Gator continued to pump into you, his other hand coming up to grab your breast through your blouse, squeezing and kneading it so roughly a button popped off your shirt. He was relentless, taking what he wanted, and there was nothing you could do but endure it. The pain mixed with a terrifying, unwanted pressure building low in your belly, a physiological response that made you sick with shame.
"I'm gonna break you," he whispered, his voice thick with lust and cruelty. "And I’m gonna make you beg for it."
He bit down on the side of your neck, hard enough to leave a mark, and continued to fuck you with his fingers in the dark, dusty corner of the basement, while you clung to the shelves and prayed for it to be over. The rough, dragging friction of his fingers inside you was relentless. Every thrust of his hand knocked your hips against the metal shelving, the sharp edge digging into your lower belly, but the pain was distant, washed away by the overwhelming, searing sensation between your legs.
"Fuck, you're grippin' me," Gator groaned, his breath hot and wet against the side of your neck. He curled his fingers upward, dragging them against you with a harsh, deliberate pressure that made your vision white out.
Your head fell back against his shoulder, a traitorous moan tearing from your throat despite your best efforts to swallow it down. It felt like your body was betraying you, responding to the rough stimulation with a rush of fluid that coated his fingers, making the wet, obscene sounds of his invasion even louder in the quiet room.
"That's it, baby. Give it to me."
"P-please," you gasped, the word scraping your vocal cords. "It... it hurts -“
"Good," he bit out, but he didn't stop. If anything, the admission of the pain he was causing you just spurred him on. He ground the heel of his hand harder against your clit, rubbing it in tight, agonizing circles that made your legs shake uncontrollably. "Pain lets you know you're alive. Reminds you who you belong to."
He released your breast, letting his hand slide down to grip your hip bone, holding you steady so he could drive his fingers deeper. The stretch was burning, the angle cruel, but your body was confused, overwhelmed by the sheer force of the stimulation. You could feel the heat blooming in your pelvis, an unwanted pressure coiling tighter and tighter despite the terror freezing your heart.
Gator’s voice dropped to a dark, awed whisper that made your skin crawl. "Look at that. Makin' a mess all over my hand. You love this, don’tcha? You love bein' taken."
"Stop... please, Gator, stop," you whimpered, tears streaming down your shame-filled face to drip onto his hand where it now gripped your shoulder.
"I ain't stoppin'," he growled, nipping at your earlobe. He bit down hard enough to make you cry out, then soothed the sting with a sweep of his tongue. "I'm gonna make you cum. Right here. In the dark. Our own dirty little secret."
The fullness of his fingers and overstimulation of his pace made you sob. He was delighting in taking you apart, piece by piece, reducing you to a trembling, gasping mess pinned against a shelf. You could feel the metal of his badge cold and hard against your spine, a harsh contrast to the scorching heat of your body.
"Come on," he coaxed, his voice rough with exertion. "I can feel you. You're close. Quit fightin’ it."
He angled his wrist and thrust up hard, hitting a spot inside you that made your entire body seize. A white-hot exploded behind your eyes, violent and unwanted. Your back arched sharply, your fingers clawing at the metal shelves until your knuckles threatened to split.
"No -“ The coil in your belly snapped, your legs shaking violently. You slumped back against Gator, your body convulsing slightly around his fingers as the forced orgasm tore through you, intense and shaming.
"Thaaat's it," Gator hissed in triumph, feeling your muscles spasm around him. He didn't stop moving his fingers, prolonging the sensation, milking every last drop of the climax out of you until you were a sobbing, writhing wreck in his arms. "Seems like you needed this. Needed me to take control. Not give you another option.”
He continued to stroke you through the aftershocks, his movements slowing yet remaining deep and possessive. You tried to catch your breath, but the shame of the biological reaction he’d wrung out of you was a heavy weight in your stomach.
Gator slowly pulled his fingers out of you, the withdrawal dragging a weak cry from your lips. You felt empty, achingly empty, and terribly exposed. He brought his hand up to your face, his fingers glistening with your fluids in the dim light. He smeared the wetness from one of the fingers across your cheek, marking you with your own arousal. You stared at him, vision blurry with tears, seeing the satisfaction glowing in his eyes.
"Taste it," he whispered, pressing his fingers against your lips. You kept your mouth shut, turning your head away, but he was persistent. He forced his fingers past your lips, sliding them over your tongue. "Clean 'em. Every drop."
You gagged slightly at the intrusion, wanting to vomit at the thought of tasting yourself. He held his fingers there for a moment, forcing you to suck on them, humiliating you further. When he seemed satisfied, he pulled them out with a wet pop.
"Good girl," Gator murmured, wiping his hand on your skirt.
He stepped back, letting the cold air rush in to fill the space between your bodies. You almost collapsed, your legs trembling so hard they couldn't support you. You leaned heavily against the shelf, trying to pull your skirt down and cover yourself.
Gator stood there for a moment, looking at you with a dark, hungry expression. He adjusted himself through his pants, his erection straining against the fabric.
"See?" he said, his voice rougher than usual. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"
He reached out and grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, then swiped away a tear.
"Same time tomorrow," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "See ya, sweetheart.”
The hum of the station’s ventilation system sounded like a dying animal, echoing through the cavernous basement. You sat at your desk, a fortress of paperwork you had constructed around yourself in a vain attempt to create a physical barrier between you and the inevitable. You hadn't bothered turning on the main overhead lights; the desk lamp was enough, casting a small pool of yellow light that felt like a tiny island in a sea of black.
You were shaking. You’d been shaking since you walked in the door and clocked in that morning. Every creak of the building settling sounded like his boots. Every shadow looked like the silhouette of his uniform. You knew he was coming. He had told you to be ready, and Gator Tillman was not a man who made idle threats. If you didn’t desperately need this job - and fear that Gator would blacklist you from getting a job anywhere in Stark county if you didn’t comply with his demands - you wouldn’t have come back at all.
The heavy steel door didn't creak this time. It just clicked open and shut with a finality that made your heart stop.
You didn't bother to look up from the arrest reports from 1973 in front of you that you were attempting to digitize, but the words were swimming, blurring together into meaningless gray lines. You could hear Gator walking across the room.
"You didn't lock the door.”
Despite knowing he was there, you jumped, your breath catching in a choked gasp. He was closer than you’d thought, rounding the desk to lean over you, one hand braced on the back of your chair, the other splayed on the desk, boxing you in. He smelled like vape smoke and that cheap cologne, and the scent alone made your stomach twist with a mixture of nausea and terrifying anticipation.
"I... I thought it was locked," you stammered, clutching a pen until your fingers ached.
"Don’t ever lock it," Gator murmured, his lips brushing against the top of your head. "I like knowin' I can just walk in. Like I own the place."
He reached down and took the pen out of your hand, tossing it onto the desk. Then he slammed the laptop shut and swept his arm across the surface, clearing aside the stack of files you had so carefully built up. They fluttered to the floor in a disorganized mess.
"Hey -“ you protested weakly, reaching out to try and catch them, but he caught your wrist in a vice-like grip.
"No you don’t," he commanded, voice dropping to a low growl. "Focus on me. Not that stupid paperwork."
With surprising force, he pulled your chair back, turning it around so you were facing him. He stood between your parted legs, looking down at you with dark, hungry eyes. He looked wilder tonight, less controlled than you’d ever seen him. The barely-polished facade of the deputy was gone, leaving only the predator.
"Stand up," he ordered.
You hesitated, body rooted to the chair by fear.
Gator didn't ask again. He grabbed your arms and hauled you up, knocking the chair backward. It hit the floor with a loud clatter. He spun you around and shoved you forward, bending you flat over the desk.
"N-no," you gasped, bracing your hands against the wood. "Gator, not like this. Please."
"Shut up," he snapped, flipping your skirt up over your hips. The cold air hit your bare skin, making you flinch. He hooked his fingers into your panties and dragged them down to your ankles in one rough motion. "I've been thinkin' about this all day. How you sounded when you came on my hand."
He kicked your legs apart, leaving you completely open to him as he dropped to his knees behind you. The suddenness of the movement took you off guard. You expected him to unzip his pants and force a brutal intrusion inside your body.
"Gator, what are you -“ you started, trying to turn around, but he grabbed your thighs in a bruising grip, holding you in place.
"Stop fuckin’ squirmin’," he warned, and then his mouth was on you.
The contact was electric, a shock of heat and wetness that made your knees buckle. He didn't start slow or tease. He buried his face in your cunt with the same aggression with which he did everything, his tongue dragging roughly against you with a broad, flat stroke.
"Oh god," you cried out, your head falling forward to rest on your arms. It was too much. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and shame that made your head spin.
He groaned against you, the vibration traveling straight up your spine. "Fuck, you taste good," he mumbled, the words muffled by your flesh.
He attacked your clit with his tongue, flicking it rapidly back and forth, then sucking it into his mouth with a hard pressure that bordered on pain. His teeth grazed the sensitive bundle of nerves, making you gasp and try to pull away, but his hands were like iron bands on your thighs, holding you open for him.
"Gator," you sobbed, not even sure what you were begging for. For him to stop? For him to never stop? "I can't... It’s too much."
"You can take it," he growled, pulling back for a split second before diving back in. He thrust his tongue inside you, fucking you with it just as roughly as he had with his fingers the night before. He alternated between thrusting and sucking, creating a rhythm that was relentless and demanding.
Your body was betraying you. Again. The pleasure was coiling in your belly, hot and tight. You could feel yourself getting wetter - whether from arousal or his own saliva, you couldn’t entirely tell. The sloppy, wet sounds of his mouth working you over. It was humiliating, but it felt… Good. It felt better than other parters who had gone down on you, and that knowledge made you sick.
He seemed to sense your impending surrender. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue moving faster, his suction harder. He reached up one hand and slid two fingers into you, curling them upward to find that spot that made you see stars while his mouth continued its assault on your clit.
The dual stimulation was your undoing. Your back arched, a cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm washed over you. It was violent, ripping through you with a force that doubled your self-loathing. Your legs shook uncontrollably, your muscles clamping down around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.
Of course, Gator didn't let up. He rode you through it, prolonging the sensation until you were a sobbing, writhing mess on the desk. He licked and sucked and fingered you until you were begging him to stop - or maybe continue - until the pleasure turned into a strange, aching overstimulation that made your teeth ache.
When he finally pulled away, you slumped against the desk, completely spent. Gator meanwhile wiped his mouth with the back of your skirt, leaving a dark, wet stain on the fabric before standing up. He yanked you to your feet and looked at you, his eyes dark and satisfied, a smirk playing on his swollen lips.
"Wouldja look at that," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. "You're a mess, babydoll.”
He grabbed your hair and pulled your head back, forcing you to look up at him. His face was wet with your release, his chin glistening. He looked proud of himself, like he had just conquered a mountain.
"Tell me you liked it," he demanded, his dark eyes boring into yours. "Tell me you loved it."
You tried to look away, but he tightened his grip on your hair, pulling a sharp cry from your throat. "Tell me," he repeated.
"I... I liked it," you whispered, the not entirely untruthful words leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.
"Good," he said, releasing your hair and patting your cheek condescendingly. "Good.”
He reached down and grabbed your panties, which he’d cast aside in the heat of the moment, wiping his face off and pocketing them which a smug expression. Then he leaned in and kissed you, forcing you submit to tasting yourself on his lips.
"Be here tomorrow night," he whispered against your mouth. "Same time. I got more plans for you."
He turned and walked toward the door, leaving you leaning against the desk, your legs trembling so hard you could barely stand, your body humming with a lingering pleasure and self hatred that felt like stains on your soul. You watched him go, and for the first time, you didn't know if you were more terrified of him, or of yourself.
The shame of the two nights before sat in your stomach like lead through the entire work day. The way your body had betrayed you, the sounds you had made, the taste of yourself on his lips - it was disgusting. You were disgusting. You had packed your work bag ten minutes ago, planning to feign “lady problems” and leave a bit early. Consequences be damned - you wouldn’t be here when he arrived.
An hour or so before he usually showed up due to the patrolling schedule, you grabbed your coat and headed for the door. You kept your footsteps light and breathing shallow as you mounted the stairs. You reached for the handle, turning it slowly.
It was locked.
You stared at the mechanism, confusion turning quickly to dread. The door was locked from the outside, and you didn’t have a keycard for the service elevator. Fuck. You’d have to call the front desk and probably alert half the station that you were sneaking out early. The phone at your desk was just within reach when you heard the sound of a throat being cleared.
“Goin’ somewhere, gorgeous?”
You spun around to find Gator was sitting on top of an empty filing cabinet in the far corner near the elevator, shrouded in shadows. He must’ve been there the whole time, watching you pack and try to sneak away like a thief in the night. He swung his legs down, the thud of his boots hitting the concrete floor echoing like a gunshot.
You backed away from him, heart feeling like a jackhammer in your chest cavity. "I... I finished work. I'm going - I’m not feeling well, and I -“
"We ain't finished," Gator cut in, stepping closer. He didn't rush. Not that he needed to. Oftentimes the predator knows the prey has nowhere to run.
"I'm leaving, Gator," you said, your voice trembling with a defiance you didn't feel. "Unlock the door. We can play this game some other time.”
He laughed, a low, chilling sound. "You think I’m gonna let you walk out there? After you tried to run from me?"
"I'm not running.”
"Bullshit," he spat. "You're runnin' because you're scared. You're scared and hate yourself because you liked it. You liked it givin’ up control. And when I finger-fucked you two days ago, and ate that pretty little pussy last night.“
"Shut up.”
“Not till we have a conversation about you lyin’ so damn much - what the fuck, no -“
You didn’t wait to hear Gator’s villainous monologue - instead, you turned and sprinted into the dark maze of shelves, filing cabinets, and dust that was the sprawling records room.
Behind you, you heard him curse, then the heavy slam of his boots as he gave chase. You ducked behind a row of "Domestic Disputes - 2004," chest heaving. By this point, you certainly knew the layout in the darkness better than he did; you spent all day here. You could lose him. Somehow.
You moved deeper into the labyrinth, keeping low. Gator crashed through the aisles, knocking boxes over, swearing loudly. He wasn't trying to be stealthy anymore; he was just trying to flush you out. And probably frighten you.
"Come on, princess!" He yelled, his voice bouncing off the walls. "You can't hide down here forever! This basement ain't that big!"
You crouched behind a huge stack of boxes labeled "Evidence," and held your breath. His footsteps grew closer, then faded as he passed your row. You waited a beat, then bolted in the opposite direction, heading for the back corner where the old furnace room was. There was a maintenance backdoor there - a heavy steel door that according to blueprints you’d found last week led to a service exit to the alleyway. It was probably rigged with an alarm, but you didn't care. You’d rather freeze outside than be caught in here by Gator Tillman.
You saw the door ahead, a beacon of hope. You scrambled toward it, your fingers fumbling with the latch. It was rusted shut.
"Gotcha.”
A hand slammed onto the door next to your head, and you screamed, spinning around to bolt, but Gator was already on you. He shoved you back against the cold metal, his body pinning yours instantly. His face flushed from the chase, eyes utterly wild. He was breathing hard, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"Really think you could outrun me?” His voice was a growl. “In my house?"
"Let me go," you sobbed, shoving against his chest with all your might. "Please, Gator. Just let me go."
"Not a chance," he said, grabbing your wrists and pinning them against his firm chest with one hand. "You tried to run. That means you need to be punished. And then you need to be reminded who owns this cunt."
“Stop -“
He used his free hand to shoved your skirt down around your ankles, not even feigning decorum. The cold air hit your thighs. You barely felt it amidst the utter panic coursing through your veins. To your dismay, the panic was accompanied by something akin to… Excitement. God, you were so fucked.
"Gator, please," you begged, tears streaming down your face. "Don't -“
"You're wet," he observed, his hand cupping you roughly through your underwear. A shudder wracked your body, and you weren’t sure if it was from his crass words or harsh touch. "You were runnin' from me, so scared to death, and you're still soaked."
"It's not... It’s not because I want this," you choked out.
"Your body don’t know the difference," he smirked, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and ripping them down your legs. "And deep down, neither do you."
He unbuckled his belt with a metallic clatter, the sound making you flinch. He freed himself, his cock springing out, hard and thick. He stroked it once, his eyes locked on yours.
"Turn around," he commanded. "Hands on the door."
"No," you shook your head frantically. "I don't want -“
He grabbed your shoulders and spun you around, slamming your chest against the cold door. "I said face the wall. Ass out. Actually, no. Gimme your hands.”
There was no time to protest before cold metal was looped around your wrists, handcuffing your hands behind your shaking body. Gator kicked your legs apart, and you were trembling so hard your teeth were chattering. You stared at the rivets in the door, counting them, trying to dissociate, trying to go somewhere else in your mind.
You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance. He didn't prepare you, or god forbid ask. He just thrust forward, burying himself inside you in one brutal stroke.
You cried out, your head falling back as the sudden stretch burned through you. He was big, thick, and not at all gentle. He gripped your hips, pulling you back onto him as he drove deeper, until he was seated fully to the hilt. You’d never felt so utterly full before.
"Fuck," he hissed, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder. "I knew you were gonna be tight but Jesus -"
Gator pulled out slowly, almost all the way, then slammed back in. The force of it knocked the air out of your lungs. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against your ass with wet, skin-slapping sounds that echoed in the vast space.
"This whatcha wanted?" he grunted, punctuating each word with a thrust. "To be chased? Caught? To be fucked like a dirty little whore in the basement?"
"Stop," you moaned, your fingers scrabbling against the smooth metal door. "It hurts -“
"Liar," he growled, reaching around to find your clit. He rubbed it roughly, in time with his thrusts, and your body betrayed you. The pain began to blur, morphing into a hot, heavy pressure that made your whole body feel weak. "Fuckin’ Christ just admit you love this, sweetheart. You love bein' manhandled."
The crushing realization that settled over you was that he wasn’t wrong. There was something primal about it. Being physically overpowered. Being desired and lusted after to a point where Gator just couldn’t contain himself. Submitting to the sheer force of him taking whatever he wanted. It was probably sick and wrong, but as he pounded into you, hitting a spot so deep inside that your vision tunneled at the edges, you felt yourself spiraling spiralling closer and closer to release.
"That's it," he muttered, sensing your surrender. "Give it to me. Let go an’ show me how much you like bein' my little runaway."
He slammed into you harder, faster, the friction building to a fever pitch. The handcuffs rattled, chafing your wrists painfully - but that was the least of your concerns. The coil in your stomach snapped, and you fell apart with a moan that you wished you had the decency to be ashamed by. Your body convulsed around him, tightening around his length as the pleasure washed over you in wave after wave of humiliating ecstasy.
"Fuck," Gator muttered, feeling you spasm around him. He didn't stop. He rode you through your climax, chasing his own end. One of his arms came around to rest your stomach, where you knew he could feel himself moving inside of you.
With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself deep inside you and came. You could feel him pulsing, filling you with his release, the heat of it searing you from the inside out. He held himself there, panting heavily, his weight pinning you to the door. For a long few moments, the only sounds were your ragged breathing. You slumped against the door, your legs trembling so badly you couldn't stand fully. You felt used, dirty, and somehow satiated.
The handcuffs clicked open, and Gator slowly pulled out of you, turning you around to face him. A wet trickle of his cum release poured out of you, and he glanced down at it in fascination. With his index finger, he carefully swiped at it, guiding it back up your leg and pushing it inside you once more.
“Shame to waste it.” He gave your pussy a little tap with his finger. “You know. You’d look awful sexy all knocked up, you know. God, I bet your tits would get fuckin’ huge -“
You shuddered. “I’m n-not having a kid with you, Gator.”
“We’ll see, baby. We’ll see.”
Without another word, he fastened his pants, then reached down and pulled your panties back up, ignoring your flinch as the rough fabric grazed your sensitive flesh.
To your surprise, he pulled you into his chest, wrapping one around your waist and using the other hand to tilt your chin up, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were dark, satisfied, and terrifyingly - tender.
"See?" he whispered, brushing a stray hair away from your sweaty forehead. "Wasn't so bad, was it? If you run - I’ll chase you. Got it?"
You nodded. Gator leaned down and kissed you. A slow, possessive kiss that tasted of sex and the facade of power he seemed to think he deserved to have. You didn't really kiss him back, but you didn't pull away either. You just stood there, limp in his arms, hating yourself for the way your heart still raced, and for the small, treacherous part of you that was already wondering when he would come back next.
It was no secret that Dex was an attractive guy, and even more charismatic. Though his charms doesn’t work on you well it definitely works on other women.
In no way im saying Dex would try to flirt with women to get your attention, he is too hopelessly and desperately into you.
It doesn’t stop other women to flirt with him though. Its not like he doesn’t shut it off immediately, he really does. But what he didnt know that you would be jealous by it.
How could he? You barely gave him the time of day, never paying actual attention to him. Hell, you barely even talk to him properly at home!!
You two were in the car, going back home after a wedding. Summer season always did meant the wedding season, and maybe thats why the only thing Dex insisted about the wedding was having the wedding late autumn early winter.
To be honest, if this was a friends wedding you would’ve totally left Dex home. After all its your friends. But since this was a family wedding you had to bring him, and he was quite eager to come.
You were sat on the passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other. Back comfortably against the seat, watching the dark road. Your music playing in his car.
You were quieter than usual, you were always quiet when alone with him, sure. But this time it was different, seeing your cousin (who wasnt even your cousin) touch up on his arm talking about how unfair it was to him that he had such a cruel wife.. you werent that cruel were you?
“You’re different,” Dex started, looking at you for a moment. Watching the way your gaze was so distant, thumb brushing over the diamond ring. Your breathing a little a slower, like you didnt even have the tolerance to hear your own breath. “I promise nothing happened, i shut it down as soon as i realised..”
Dex reached with his right hand, the left one still on the wheel. His hand hovered over yours for a moment, raising his hand to touch your arm. Trying to coax words out of your mouth. “Im cruel?” You asked, you were as confused as someone could be.
“No, you’re not cruel. You’re just…” he trailed off, not knowing how to continue. “I’m just what, Dex?-” You huffed out, crossing his arms.
“You’re my wife, thats who you are. You’re not Cruel, you’re not mean. You’re my wife.” He cut you off before you could continue, emphasizing on the word wife. “Since when do you care what others say? Huh? Wait, this is not about being called cruel is it?” He realised, eyes widening slightly as he stopped talking for a moment. Stopping to park inside the gas station.
He turned to face you, a small smile forming on his face. “What are you so smiley for?” Your brows furrowed, why was he being so smiley about??
“You’re jealous- thats, thats what it is” He said, happy as he can. Reaching to touch your hand. You retract your hand, rolling your eyes before resting back against the seat. “…No.” You muttered not even looking at him.
“Oh no, please let me have this. Come on.” Dex was more excited than anything, it was his first time seeing you this… small.
You shook your head, not even looking at him. He grabbed your wrist, squeezing. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to get your attention back on him.
“Its just me, come on, dont be shy.” He said, ducking his head a little to get into your vision. “You let her touch you.” You muttered out, finally making eye contact.
“Ah… i see. Im yours though, aren’t i? Do you want me to get rid of her? I know how much you hate her.” He said, trying to lighten your mood. And when you didnt reply he just nodded, his hand sliding down from your wrist to your hand.
Trying to hold your hand without pushing his luck too much. “Maybe.” You said in a small voice slightly irritated that he was this happy. “Will you shut up now?” You sigh, wanting so bad to snap at him.
Dex, gave you a defeated look. “She touched me barely a second, you know.” He spoke after some silence, watching you pick at your bracelet. “Besides, why do you care now?” He hummed, hoping to take you out of your shell a little more.
“You’re acting as if you wouldnt have done the same thing.” You murmur, finally holding eye contact with him. “Yeah, well, i would’ve killed the guy. But thats just me.” He shrugged casually, like it was just common sense.
“…So, i should kill her is what you’re saying?” You smiled a little, and Dex grinned at your smile. It was the third time he made you smile up until now. “No, i got it handled. Dont mess up those pretty nails.” He hummed, reaching out a hand. Seeing if you would let him take it.
When you didnt retract your hand he took it as a sign to hold your hand in his, thumb rubbing over your nails.
You finally spoke after watching his thumb touch your nails so gently “No.. dont kill anyone.”
“I could.”
“I wont come visit.”
“Fine, i wont…” Dex said begrudgingly, you two fell into a silence again. But this time it felt comfortable, warm even.
———
Skipping to Thanksgiving few months later, you arrived at your family home. Dex walked behind you like a puppy, per usual. But this time you were actually letting him hold your hand. Couple bite marks on his throat, high enough that his turtleneck doesnt even cover them. Dex doesnt want them covered eighter, happy that his pretty pretty wife is holding his hand, her marks on his throat. His marks were planted in deep deep places instead. Maybe you getting jealous wasnt so bad after all, after all it got him what he wanted all along.
reader who inhales some experimental aphrodisiac while on the latest mission.
the transport home is awkward to say the least. you’re whimper, humping your seat lamely while you’ve practically soaked through your panties, cargos, and down onto the seat itself.
“eyes forward, men.” says price from the drivers seat. his calm demeanor gives nothing away if it weren’t for his sweating palms that have a death grip on the drivers wheel.
you whine- a fucking delicious and needy whine. “please…please captain…please can someone help me? please? pleasepleasepleaseplease?”
“oh lord,” mutters soap from beside you. his eyes are oddly focused on the pattern of the roof. “lord please give me the strength right now.” his fingers twitch with ache and his leg is anxiously bouncing up and down. he continues to mumble prayers- which is odd since soap isn’t known to be a religious man.
“please- please it’s so hot. need to take these off. please,” you beg, hands fumbling with the button and zipper of your cargos.
“stop it, kid. Kyle, soap, hold ‘er down.”
gaz and soap look at each other, face full of emotion- uncomfortableness, concern, arousal?
“S-sir…don’t think it’s a good idea for me to touch the lass right now.” Soap admits, taking a slow and deep breath as his eyes unwillingly stare you up and down.
Gaz steps up. Not because he’s eager to touch you, not because he needs an excuse to get his hands on you- but because he genuinely believes that if anyone can have the restraint, it would be him. “I’ve got it, sir.”
he bunches your hands together by the wrist, bringing it away from your pants that are left unzipped but still fully on.
you let out a broken sob that just breaks his heart but stiffens his dick. “Nonononono, just a little touch please? please? Hurts s’bad. Need to…just once, please?”
gaz gulps, and for a second his grip loosens on your wrist. “Garrick!”
gaz jerks, meeting the stare of his lieutenant who’s sweating at the base of his mask. “we’re almost there. keep it together.”
you squirm, crossing and uncrossing your legs in any attempt for a piece of friction that is just never enough.
the rest of the ride is painfully silent, each man thinking the same thing but none of them willing it out loud. It feels like ages when the transport is finally parked at the base and three heads turn to their captain for his decision.
you freeze at the sound of your bedroom window swinging open. for a moment, it's all quiet. then someone drops lightly to the ground, and you hear heavy combat boots on the hardwood floor, advancing towards the kitchen. where you are.
you'd taken a gamble, leaving it unlocked when the city's in shambles already. now you're going to find out just how far your luck has made it.
a hulking beast of a man stands at the doorway, a dark shadow. there's just enough light coming from the single lit lamp in the corner to show you that he's wearing tactical gear, has weapons strapped all over himself; a mask covers everything but his eyes. and those eyes—or what you can see of them–bore right into yours. you panic instantly—this isn't what you'd wanted, this isn't who you'd expected. desperately, you lunge for a kitchen knife near you when a different one whizzes post your head and embeds itself in the wall behind, so close that you feel the way it cuts through the air in front of you.
"fuck!" you let out, making the (objectively correct) decision to stop moving. he's huge, bigger and stronger-looking than anyone you've seen in your entire life. and now he's stalking towards you, and you think you see the mask shift, as if he's grinning.
"what's wrong, sweetheart?" he drawls. "you expecting someone?"
the voice, oh, you recognise that voice. the pieces fall together. the way he walks, the knife—
"yes," you say, as calmly as you can, now that you know who's behind the mask. "i was."
"didn't think you'd be the type to let men sneak in through the window," he comments, conversational. his hand rests on the counter, just a mere few feet away from you, and it's like he owns the place.
"things change," you respond. "people—"
"don't give me that bullshit," he interrupts. "who the hell were you waiting for?"
you wince, but you've never been one to back down from a fight, especially with him.
"who d'you think, genius?"
"if it's anyone else, i'll kill them," he promises; you raise a brow.
"how would you ever know?"
"i'll find out," he says, and objectively this situation is so fucked up in so many ways, because you know he's being serious. you know he would, uncaring of how many lines he'd have to cross, how many lives he'd have to take or leave in ruins. and the worst part is, it doesn't even matter to you. if anything, the thought of him doing that, for you, because of you, makes him all the more attractive.
"dex," you say, placatingly, reaching for his hand. he jerks away from your touch, brows still furrowed.
"tell me you were waiting for me." his voice is harsh, but there's a certain undertone to it that tell you he's not just angry.
heat churns deep in your gut; logically you know you should just stop this game of cat-and-mouse, give him what he wants. but you've never been the most rational person in the room—
"god," you laugh. "this needy? what the hell did prison do to you?"
he makes a dissatisfied noise low in his throat and steps towards you while you rip his knife out of the wall and hold it in front of you.
"tiny thing's not gonna do anything," he says, crowding you up against the wall, and you don't know if he's talking about the weapon, or you. you swallow, nervous. inside, you know that he won't hurt you. he has no reason to. but your body reacts all the same, adrenaline spiking as you search for an exit.
"you can quit looking, baby, there's no way out of this." one hand tilts your chin up, the other reaches for his knife. when you don't let go of it, he makes a face at you—one you can't quite see because of his mask, but you know he's mocking you; there's that oh-so-condescending look in his eyes that you simultaneously love and hate. you glare up at him, refusing to break.
"what's wrong?" he asks you. "are you mad? show me how mad you are, yeah? take it out on me."
in a matter of seconds, his voice goes from sharp, taunting, to breathy and soft, almost a whisper. he's pressing your hand, the knife in it, against his neck; if you move, you'll hurt him. it's like he wants you to.
his other hand moves to cup your cheek, and you startle with the realisation that he's shaking with want for you.
"i am mad at you," you decide. "i'm mad because you left me all alone here, you selfish piece of shit. i'm mad 'cause there are a hundred men you could kill and not get caught, and you chose the only one who'd get you killed!"
"that's not—" he begins, then realises you're in tears.
"shit, baby, don't cry," he whispers, but you can tell he's not feeling as bad as he should—not even a little. the sick bastard's enjoying it. he slips the knife away from your hand, and slides it away from you on the counter. pulling his mask off, he tosses it to the side, forgotten, wipes your tears with the hand that'd been holding you.
"i'm not sad," you clarify, sniffing. it's good to see his face again, even if it's different now, older, more machine than man. "i'm just really fucking pissed."
his grin returns in full, so fast you'd think it'd been there this whole time, just hidden. "yeah? show me."
you pull him down to kiss him, channelling your rage and fear and grief into it, like you're trying to make him understand what you've been feeling all this time. he stiffens for the tiniest fraction of a second, then softens in your touch, groaning into your mouth, all tongue and teeth while his hand moves to the back of your neck.
you claw at his chest, taking in the new broadness of his shoulders, the way his muscles are taut under the fabric of his suit. you break the kiss, panting, and he halfheartedly chases your lips with something that's almost a whine, but not quite. he's different like that, now—before, he'd be whining, begging for you like a man starved, but something's changed within him. he takes and he takes and he takes.
you smack him lightly, shoving him away to create space between the two of you.
"i need this," you begin, then cut yourself off with a deep—and much needed—breath. "dex, i need this off."
he exhales, half-breath half-laugh. "impatient, are we?"
"fuck you," you snap, so, so close to losing it, and he dips his head to hide his smile, nosing at your throat instead.
"sweetheart, babe, i'm trying," he groans, now pressing sloppy kisses down your neck, and your hand instinctively tightens in his hair, eliciting another unholy noise from him.
"i swear you enjoyed this stupid fight," you say accusingly, a jab that you don't mean as you try to keep your breathing even, and when he doesn't reply, just smiles wider against your neck, you tug at his hair to get an answer. but then he moans into your shoulder, and you realise he has been getting off on this.
"fucking sicko," you breathe. "i hate you!"
he looks up just to shake his head and laugh, one strong hand keeping your head in place so you can't look away. "don't lie to me, baby, you love me. you're never gonna move on, right? 'cause i ruined you for anyone else, yeah? you'll never find someone like me again."
and it's true, so all you can do is nod and agree, breathless. "dex, baby, i love you, i'm yours, i promise—"
"good," he says, and shuts you up with another bruising kiss.
god im so fucking scared 1.2k words and it's my first dex fic lol lmk ur thoughts in the replies! thanks!
pt3 of this Dex being his own warning, freak4freak?, reader is kinda into his stalking or at least doesn’t mind it. Reader is implied to have a sort of bad relationship with her mom or at least something is wrong.
Well. If this sudden trip has done you anything, then it is reminding you of the reason why you don’t visit your mother for long periods of time. She tries, bless her heart, to make conversation with you, her and your stepfather. But it is very evident that things are quite awkward. But that has been the norm since you were thirteen. You don’t think things would get better.
you are not your mothers only daughter. You are not her gentlest. You remind her too much of your father and that, however much she loves you, is a thing that the both of you never got over. It is also because of that incident, but you don’t want to wander too much down memory lane.
your stepfather is a kind, gentle bear of a man. With the protective instincts and the stature to back it up as well. The both of you are not close. By the time he came into your life, you were done with fathers. He just settles on supporting you from afar, where the both of you are comfortable.
Your biological sister is resentful of you. She does not hate you, she is not a hateful creature, that is you, she is a lot like your mother in that regard. Non of your sisters are capable of hate, you absorbed all of the hateful genes in the womb and left them with nothing. So she just resents you for knowing a father she never knew and one that not you and neither your mother a willing to talk about. Whenever she sees you now, she is full of snide remarks. You don’t blame her really. She is a teenager. You were her age once.
your youngest sister, however, is a joy. Aptly named joy, for the feeling she brought you when you first saw her. Your mother was insistent that you name her, for whatever reason. She is the only thing that makes the awkwardness worth it. When she first saw you pulling up the drive way, she ran out and started running up and down the lawn, happily shouting your arrival. When you got out of the car, she started looking at your hands wondering about her gift. She is spoiled. This is all your fault. But you cant say no to her. Your joy. She is four and so full of energy. Talking your ear off about this and that. You listen to her, giving her your full attention. She sits in your lap after opening her toy, telling you all about her friends in kindergarten. About how she likes this boy in her class. And how they are learning numbers and colours and various things. She thinks you are the coolest person ever. Her big sister with the hard job and cool cloths and cool demeanour. She tells you all her friends are jealous of her because they don’t have a sister like her sister. She idolizes you in a way only a child can.
so, between a mother that doesn’t know what to do with you, a stepfather that is more of a cool uncle than a parental figure, a sister that resents you and another that thinks the world of you, dinners a kinda of an awkward affair. Filled with stiff attempts at small talk and small remarks from your teenage sister. But mostly silence. And when silence happens, your mother panics and to fill the void she asks
”so, have you met someone special yet?”
That. Question.
in your minds eye, you see Benjamin. Him following you and watching you and being mesmerized by you. you have to physically keep yourself from smiling. Someone special indeed.
you continue to chew slowly as they all look at you, waiting.
”no.”
your mother nods, disappointed but not surprised. Your teenage sister mutters “loser” under her breath. It is your stepfather that offers words of comfort.
“That is okay. You shouldn’t rush into those things. You should find someone that suits you.”
”no one is going to be as cool as you are.” Your little sister chimes in.
you smile at her, ruffling her hair.
you are an awkward fit in that family. Like a piece of the puzzle that came from another set.
Later in the kitchen, you are putting the dishes away with your stepfather. Your mother is off kitchen duty forever, since she almost burned the house down when you where seventeen. The silence with him is not uncomfortable. The both of you are creatures of not many words. But you can tell he is psyching himself up to tell you something. You give him time. He clears his throat.
”so,”
your hum, indicating that you are giving him your attention as you are toweling the plate dry.
”your sister has been having a hard time lately. She has been fighting with your mother about…” he pauses,”you know. The usual. I was wondering if it is finally time to tell her.”
you put the dish down and it makes a sharp sound as it it hits the counter, you turn to look at him and he nervously looks back at you,
“You know fully well why we don’t do that.”
He nods “she has the right to know.”
“No.”
after that, you cut the visit short. What was supposed to be a five day visit end in three. And as you drive Benjamin’s car back to your apartment, you wonder what has he been up to when you were gone.
when you open the door to your apartment, you find it to be in disarray. Furniture upturned, vases broken, books on the ground(that one made a little anger spike). You see men’s shoes in the door way and you recognize them as his. Benjamin’s. You keep your shoes on because of the glass as you make your way to your bedroom. As you stand in the door way, you see him sleeping in your bed. Shirtless. He has his head buried in your pillow. The longer you look the more you are intrigued. But you are mostly just hungry so you make your way back to the kitchen to make yourself some food.
You are sitting in your table mid chew when you start feeling an ominous presence behind you. You swallow your food and go to take another bite but you are rudely jerked back in your chair and turned around. Your line of sight falls directly into a set of abs. You crane your neck high until you can lock eyes with your assailant. His hair is a mess. His under eyes are dark and his eyes are red rimmed. Mostly he looks very pissed off. you, however, are not paying much attention to that.
“You left me.” He says with barely contained rage.
“I didnt like the way you were talking to me.” You answer back distractedly.
“You left me. I didn’t know where you are.” He borderline yells, standing to his full height. You guess it is a reflex to make himself more intimidating. You haven’t been able to feel intimidated by men for a long time.
”i don’t like being yelled at. You should fix that tone.”
his face cracks. He looks a you with a mix of emotions that are hard to decipher. Rage, sadness, madness, fear. Mostly fear.
You guess this is what this is about. He was afraid. But you are not sure from what. You decide to throw him a bone.
You take his hand in yours. Intertwining your fingers together. His breath shutters at the touch.
”i was at my mother’s.” You sigh, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb. “You are allowed to go there. By the way.”
he looks raw. Like a wound that was aggravated. You look at him, which is becoming difficult for your neck. You tug at his hand.
”come here.”
You were meaning for him to sit in the chair next to you. But he falls to his knees in front of you. Your breath hitches and your heart skips a beat. You decide breathlessly that yeah, this could also do.
You bring a hand to his cheek. Bringing him closer to you. And he comes willingly. He nuzzles the hand in his face while never letting go of the hand in his own. You pet him a little. Moving his hair away from his sweaty, flushed face. he looks very vulnerable. Like any small movement and he will break.
In all this time, you realize, you weren’t actually taking a very good look at him. He is handsome. You knew that already, but now that he is this close, you realize that he is handsome in a way that you very much appreciate. You have never seen him shirtless before as well. He is very big. His shoulder are very broad and his arms. You can definitely appreciate these arms.
he suddenly leans forward, burying his head in you chest. His arms wrap around you and your legs have no option but fall open to accommodate his build. Your arms stay useless at your sides in your surprise.
”you left me and I didn’t know where you were.”he mutters in your chest, voice so so quiet and small.
You sigh, bringing your hands to wrap around him. You pet his hair and he whimpers like he is in pain. He squeezes you harder to him. You think your chest is beginning to feel vaguely wet.
He is very big indeed. His biceps are so very strong.
Huh, you think to yourself, has he always been this muscular?
I accidentally deleted this twice and had to write it from scratch, twice.
Pt2 of this, Dex is his own warning. Reader is into his brand of freak, she is also kind of a freak, he is a little pathetic in this ngl.
When he asks you out, you don’t say yes to him immediately. A huge part of it is the stalking part. But really it is the fact that you don’t really do that. Dating.
the thing is, you are a creature ruled by routines. You enjoy doing the same things that you always do. But also, you are easily bored. So you decide to toy with him a little. Dropping subtle hints here and there that you know about his stalking, only to watch him get a little tense about it. It’s nothing much, at least not enough to confirm or deny your knowledge.
You make him work for it for a bit. And eventually you say, eh what the hell and agree to a date.
You realize it is a balancing act. Dating Benjamin. You need to keep track of what you tell him and play dumb when he brings up a fact about you that you haven't told him. Also you have to guess what he knows about you. All of these make for a fun evening out. So far, he took you to your favourite restaurant. You told him that this place is one you frequent, he pauses and then smiles at you, telling you that it is one of the best spots in town. A few more incidents like this occur. So you decide to make a game out of it.
You tell him that you hate the Pitt(it’s your favourite show) and watch him frown in confusion. You watched and rewatched that show to oblivion.
when he orders you a strawberry milkshake, you tell him that you are allergic to strawberries.(it’s your preferred drink.)
when he asks you about the the book your are reading you tell him you don’t read that genre of books.
you can tell he is beginning to fell a little frustrated, so you do something to take the edge off. You kiss him on the cheek when he stops by your apartment door after one of your dates.
he wears a dopey smile for days after that.
It is right around that time you begin to realize that he craves praise and approval.
So you start running an experiment.
On the days that he starts watching you more, you become short with him. You don’t give him smiles and you don’t greet him at the elevator. No wearing the outfits that you know he likes. No cute designs or frills or low cut tops. You don’t even look at him at all.
but on the days that he doesn’t do the usual stalking, you are all smiles. You talk to him, invite him to your coffee run, you hug him when you see him. You even touch his arm and chest. Giving him a kiss on the corner of his mouth.
he is not stupid. He begins to put two and two together. So he behaves a little more.
his need for your approval becomes the center of every type of act that he does to you. Sometimes he cooks you food and waits for you to eat it. Watching your expression for every minute change. You think it's kind of endearing that he does that. He brings you flowers. Fixes his behavior, self correcting based on your unconscious feedback.
That one coworker that won't leave you alone left you alone finally. Although you don't have any proof that he did it. The coworker, Dan, hit on you right in front of him when he came to pick you up from work. You watched as his expression changed slowly to frigid. As he came up to you and give you a kiss on the temple, introducing himself as your boyfriend. You haven't given him permission to do that yet. Matter of fact, you haven't even said I love you to him. Not to mention being his girlfriend. But you can make allowances.
You guess that it is a simple matter of opinion, but you have come to think of him as a large feral cat that you picked up from the street. Mean and standoffish to outsiders, sweet and lovely to you. And just like cats are, he started doing things that annoy you. Some of it,like installing a tracker on your car and in your phone, very fixable. You just find them and remove them. You can consider that pretty harmless. What you don't like is the fact that he yelled at you because you had to get out of dinner because of an emergency at work. That has never happened before at your job so to your stalker who knows your schedule, it will look like you are trying to get away from him. You let him know that you don’t like the way he is behaving and you take his car and go. You decide it is a good idea to go visit your mother early now. Sure you don’t have clothes or anything, but you can buy them.
you are gone for three days.
Dex being his own warning, reader knows he is stalking her but acting none the wiser matter of fact she might be a little into it, suggestive?
Sometimes, when you concentrate hard enough, you can ignore his eyes on you.
You cannot exactly pinpoint the moment you became aware of him. He is not bad at it, stalking you, that is. It's just that you are very good at pattern recognition. It is part of why you will always have job security. It is also because that you are very rigid about your routine and the people that occupy your space on a regular basis. Still, it was a little jarring when he suddenly just... appeared in your periphery. You are sure he did not just spawn out of nowhere. The level of comfort that he operates at indicates a will oiled routine that was followed. But to you it was like he was not here one day and here the next.
You are not sure how to proceed with this whole thing. It's not like you can go to the police, he has not done anything to you nor approached you at all. No threatening messages, no weird gestures and no headless rats. He is just there. Sitting on the opposite side, out of your view at you favorite cafe. Down the street from your work place. And across the street from your window at your home. And side of a few things moving from their original place, He doesn't do anything so you leave him be.
It goes on like that for a while, you following your established routine of going out of your apartment, getting coffee, heading to work, clocking out of work, grocery shopping and heading home. All with the anonymous man following you around. If he was not actively stalking you, you would have been impressed that he is not bored at the fact that you do nothing at all. You even start to get a little comfortable at his presence. Finding comfort at the fact the he is always there and eventually he is part of your routine. You even say a little good morning to him in your head when you get out of your building and see him across the street. All is well in your little life.
That is until you see him in the elevator leading up to your apartment.
Up until now, you have not seen his face at all. he is always out of view, that is by design of course, so you don't know what he looks like. But you have familiarized yourself with him enough to recognize the way he stands, his height and built anywhere. The man that is stalking you is in the same elevator as you and he pressed the same button that you pressed. He is blond.
You give him a little nod and he smiles at you, all charming and sweet, he introduces himself as Benjamin, your new across the hall neighbor.
You ask him about what happened to the previous tenant. He tells you that he doesn't know. You nod and exit the elevator.
The thing is about the place you live is that it is in a remote area out of the city. You picked it that way because you get overstimulated by the sound of the city. The second thing is, it only has two apartments. You and your previous neighbors who kept to himself. Your landlord doesn't live on the property. You are in a building alone with your stalker. So that leaves you with quite the dilemma.
Oh well.
Benjamin is a very quiet person. Aside from the fact that he is stalking you, he is actually the perfect guy. Charming, intelligent, delightful. It is just that...you know.... he is a stalker. You haven't brought it up yet because, really, how to you bring that up?'thank you so much for helping me bring up by groceries, oh by the way, I know that you follow me everywhere.' You think that would put a damper on things so you just drop it. You also asked the landlord about your previous neighbor, he just tell you that the guy suddenly skipped town.
You also change in front of the open window now, when you know for a fact that he is there. So there is that. In your defense, you are a little bored and it not that you are fully nude. You bought curtains that are shear for this exact reason. You think that with all of the monotony in your life the guy kinda deserves some excitement.
You start noticing that his eyes linger on your frame more whenever the both of you cross paths in the elevator. Which is a lot. On your arms and your chest. A lot on your waist as well.
You don't think anything will come out of it. So you just settle on some light stripping and nothing else. And soon. It is also a routine.
Simon is impossibly deep inside of your warm, wet pussy, thrusting so hard you scoot up the bed as he knocks the air from the lungs while the headboard bangs against the wall. A pillow is strategically placed under your hips so every time he slams inside of you it hits your sweet spot, and your clit catches on the wet material without fail. Your nipples drag across the soft fabric beneath you, your hands clutching at the pillows in front of you, all while you’re being fucked dumb.
“Fuckin’ slut. Wish you could see the way your pussy sucks me in,” he growls, his grip on you turning punishing, his face never faltering as he continues to drill into you from behind.
His fingers are tangled in your hair, yanking on it hard and keeping your head in place so your moans aren’t muffled against the mattress. His other hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your airway just enough to make it more pleasurable as your choked sobs ring out around the room.
His thick, long cock slides through your walls as he molds your pussy to be perfect for him. The veins and ridges leave imprints the faster he thrusts, the deeper he reaches, the harder he grinds. Every knock to your cervix leaves you breathless, every brush against your sweet spot has pleasure shooting through your body, and the longer he abuses your poor pussy, the more you beg for it.
“P-please Si, please,” you manage to say, gripping onto the sheets for dear life, lifting your hips to meet his every thrust but trying to run from it all at the same time.
Simon fucks you harder, the sound of your sweet voice begging for him enough to bring him to the brink of his orgasm, but not until you unravel on him for the umpteenth time tonight. His hand smacks down against your ass, your skin burning raw immediately, and he yanks your hair so hard that stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Please what? Be a good girl and use your fuckin’ words,” he says through gritted teeth, biting back an obscene moan that wishes to fall from his swollen lips.
His fingers press into the delicate skin of your neck, your pulse fluttering around his thumb, and the adrenaline of knowing that you’re at his mercy makes your walls clamp down tight around him, earning you a hiss from the man behind you. When you don’t respond in what he deems as a timely manner, his hand strikes your ass again, harder this time, but somewhere in this moment he still feels guilty for it when his thumb brushes over the scorching skin to soothe you.
“More, p-please Si,” you continue to beg, completely consumed by the feeling of his cock inside you, bullying your insides with no pity.
His hand moves from your throat to the pillow in front of you as he steadies himself. Leaning over your back, his cock pressed against your cervix with the utmost amount of pressure, he positions himself to watch your face while he fucks into you like a rabid animal as if he has no compassion or love for the woman under him what-so-ever.
You know he would apologize after. Apologize for being rough, apologize for saying mean things, apologize for acting as if he has no respect for you, but it makes your pussy so fucking wet all you can do is beg for him to be meaner.
“Yeah? Beg for it. Look at me and beg me to make you cum, beg me to make you feel good slut.”
Your gaze lifts to his, and the way his pupils dilate from the sight of you so undone solely because of him has a groan rumbling out from the depths of his chest. Drool drips from your chin while your mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Your eyes are half-lidded and dazed with tears staining your cheeks, your lips swollen and pigmented, and he watches how every single time his cock thrusts until there’s no more space inside you the air from your lungs comes in short, ragged gasps that sound like music to his ears.
“Make me c-cum Si- f-fuck- make me f-feel good, p-please,” you stutter, tripping over every other word, trying your hardest to form sentences coherent enough to beg for it like he asked.
He growls, deep and low, animalist almost, and he shoves your face into the pillow while spreading your cheeks with his other hand to watch your pussy swallow him whole. He fucks you, deep and hard and fast, it is almost too much. Your juices leak out around his cock, coating his length of your arousal, and he watches how tight you get the closer your orgasm gets.
“Do it,” he says, the words coming out strained, “cum on my fucking dick then since you beg so pretty.”
Every movement of his hips is hitting a spot inside of you that bursts into pleasure. Your cervix, your sweet spot, your nipples drag against the sheets until they’re hard and sore, your clit grinding against the pillow beneath you until it all pushes you over the edge. Your body becomes rigid, your muscles draw taut, and your screaming sobs fill the room, and no other sounds can be heard.
“I’m c-cumming-“
“Who makes you feel this good? Who do you belong to,” he asks, fucking you harder, fucking you through your orgasm, fucking you into overstimulation, waiting for the words to fall from your pretty, swollen lips before he allows himself the same release.
“You! F-fuck it’s always you Si,” you whimper, your body twitching from your walls being rubbed raw, from your clit grinding against every last nerve, from your nipples peaking beyond belief.
With a few more thrusts and a guttural groan ripping from his throat, Simon buries himself to the hilt, spilling his seed into the deepest parts of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out against your cervix with every twitch of his cock, coating your walls in all he has to give as the man behind you stills while he fills you to the brim. When nothing else will fit it leaks out around him, your cum mixing with his, making a mess between your thighs and spreading against the sheets.
“Fuck,” he groans, collapsing on top of you, trying his hardest to catch his breath.
His face is buried between your shoulder blades, his warm breath hitting your skin and sending shivers down your spine, his hands moving from their previous positions to caress up your sides as if asking for forgiveness through touch before asking verbally. He kisses against your spine, all the way down to your ass where he licks the raw handprint burning against your skin, and when he reaches your pussy, he licks up the mess before flipping you over with ease.
He hovers above you, wiping a stray tear before placing a feather light kiss to your lips. Admiring you, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, watching the way you give him the softest yet brightest smile he has ever seen, and he can’t help but cover your face in the same kisses.
“You’re not a slut, and you never have to beg for me…,” he mumbles in between kisses, and before he can keep rambling on you pull him down until your forehead is pressed against his.
“If you say sorry… I swear Simon.”
He laughs softly, “I know, I know. I’m sorry- shit- sorry. Fuck. I’ll just stop talking now, yeah?”
bumping into your really nice alpha neighbour in the hallway (who you’ve been on again off again flirting with for weeks now), but squeaking out a little “sorry!” while having to rudely push past him so that you can get into your apartment before your heat gets out of control
vs
him being unable to resist following after you the second you scurry upstairs, every step he takes now getting a little more urgent, his blood hotter, until he’s pacing in front of your door, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; trying everything in his power to keep himself from knocking because the way he is moving now reminds him of a predator and he doesn’t like it - he’s nice, goddammit, he’s nice
