Rules for Thee
ticket taker x fem!reader
FANDOM: The Freak Circus
PAIRING: Lawyer!Ticket Taker / Legal Assistant!Female Reader
GENRE: Dark Romance, Psychological Horror, Yandere, Romance, Lawyer AU, Monster AU (note: Ticket Taker takes a more human appearance in this)
RATING: 18+ / MATURE / EXPLICIT / Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
WORD COUNT: 14k+ (it a biggie)
CONTENT WARNINGS: obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, unhealthy attachment, toxic dynamics, possessiveness, non-consensual themes, female terms/references, sexual harassment in the workplace, rape, kidnapping, physical violence, forced impregnation, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of blood, biting, profanity, power imbalance/workplace abuse, threats/coercion, breeding kink, size difference, monsterfucking, inter-species relationship, cum inflation/bloating (belly distention), implied babytrapping, slight ooc for ticket taker?
a/n: i was inspired by a few fanart where he's particularly dressed in a suit, can you blame me for finding a suited, mysterious man sexy. I'd include it here, but I didn't want to risk issues with artists, especially if I wasn't sure who it was by. also I'm not a lawyer, so I apologize if anything is inaccurate, I did try my best to research!
When the job offer from Cirque Firm landed in your inbox less than a day after your interview, you didn't question it. It didn't matter that the firm was made up mostly of monsters - non-humans. It didn't matter that your parents were terrified for your safety. You were more afraid of overdue rent, shut-off notices, and unpaid loans. As long as your paycheck cleared, you couldn't care less if you'd never be able to see your boss' face fully.
reader discretion is advised
"You're fitting in quite well."
The cigarette is burned halfway down between your lips, dead ash scattering across your black slacks as your head snaps toward the voice you immediately recognize.
His voice is smooth as always - controlled in a way you could never replicate, you'd even say elegant. Always punctual, direct, and utterly intimidating at times.
Immediately, you're met with a half-visible face - a thick shadow cast over pale skin, a shadow so dense it completely conceals his right eye. His left eye remains untouched enough to see the vast grey swirling around his pupil - and the fact that he's watching you so intently. As always, his gray hair is parted uniformly, swept and gelled to one side with a few deliberate strands spilling around the frame of his face.
Distantly, you remember Doc, one of the lawyers who mainly specializes in medical malpractice cases, explaining his species is sort of an enigma - referred to as 'Unknown'. The appearance ranges from human-like to sometimes the face being a complete shadow. Information is limited about them.
He has a slight lean while he stands next to you, yet he towers over you regardless with his abnormal height - you'd guess well over seven feet.
Despite this, he still tries to meet your eyes, something you've always noticed: how he tries to incorporate as much eye contact as inhumanly possible, like he has to remind himself to blink. His arms are loosely intertwined behind his back, the long grey coat he's wearing hanging around his neatly suited form.
Shit, you internally curse. You're quick to shove the burning bud of the cigarette into the built-in standing ashtray next to you before throwing it away.
"Sorry, I didn't think you'd come out here, sir," you apologize immediately, dusting off your slacks from any fallen ash.
You know it stinks like cigarettes - you know you stink of it - and you know that your boss isn't particularly fond of the smell of cigarettes or anything that remotely smells ‘dirty’.
Within your first week working with him, you remember how his face would wrinkle in disgust when the stench of tobacco wafted too close to the courthouse doors.
However, when you glance up, you don't see his expression twisting. All you see is that calm, polite smile peering down at you.
He gives a low hum. "I just wanted to check up on you. I didn't mean for you to waste it."
"It's better if I do - for my health," you sigh, tucking the small box of cigarettes into your purse.
You've always thought about quitting, not that you have the actual motivation to do it. You worked enough dead-end jobs that barely had anything to do with the degree you poured your years and money into. Inevitably, you picked up bad habits from your old coworkers.
If it wasn't alcohol, it was weed. And if it wasn't weed, it was tobacco.
You deemed, now in a professional and legal environment, more people are willing to find you credible if you stink like a cigarette rather than a pothead or alcoholic.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to freak out on you," you break the silence with a soft chuckle, although you can feel the head buzz from the cigarette diminishing. "What was it that you said earlier, sir?"
"That you're fitting in quite well." His posture straightens slightly when a mother and daughter walk by, pushing into the courthouse doors while still keeping their eyes on him. "I believe it's been almost five months now. Doc and I were worried once we hired you that you'd have trouble navigating the firm with its particular demographic."
You nod, understanding where he's coming from.
"I just want to make sure you're adjusting well." There's something careful in his tone, measured - genuinely concerned.
Your hands intertwine in your lap, fingers threading together as you vaguely note how dry they are.
"It's definitely new - everyone there is always so different, it's hard to keep up at times." You offer him a small, honest smile.
"And have they been treating you well?" His question comes out slightly sharper than before. There's an edge there, though his expression remains perfectly neutral save for his eye narrowing slightly on your expression - protective, almost.
"Everyone is nice and treats me well, I swear," you confirm, your voice light, reassuring. "It's just nice to learn and experience new things - new people."
You mean it, too. The firm has been welcoming, if occasionally overwhelming.
"That's good to hear." His eyes momentarily leave your form to nod simple greetings toward other lawyers, some you recognize from past trials, a few faces don't ring a bell. Once they pass, his gaze returns. "I'd hate to be an ignorant boss."
You shake your head practically before he's finished his sentence. "Never," you state so confidently the polite smile on his face falters before returning as something warmer. "I've never been more thankful to have a job like this and to have a boss like you."
His eye crinkles slightly. "I'm happy you're here as well. I'd hate to lose such a capable employee."
Your eyes stray away, something warm blooming under your skin at the compliment. You try not to swell with too much pride.
You opt to look toward the shuffling crowd on the sidewalks.
He seems to follow your gaze as well - you can see his head turn in the corner of your eye.
When you look, the diversity is immediate.
Maybe years ago there would've been just humans - people just like you walking up and down the busy street, walking out of the surrounding stores, walking their dogs, or heading to work.
Now, it's more than humans.
Beings that you couldn't put a name to, even if you tried. Beings with vibrant skin colors, or sometimes having no color with translucent skin. Beings with longer or shorter limbs compared to a human, hands that could completely envelop your head with room to grab more. Some beings with abnormalities jutting out from their heads down to their toes.
You're so used to someone sticking out from a crowd of humans that you'd start questioning if there wasn't any at all.
"Do you miss working with humans?" he asks with hesitancy in his words, his tone cautious.
"I do work with a human," you tease. "That janitor I see once a week if I'm lucky."
He gives a low chuckle. "I'm certain that one human doesn't count as 'working with humans'."
You smile before a sound of uncertainty escapes your lips. "Obviously, this is a new experience - y'know, working with non-humans," you pause, trying to find the right words. "But it's not like it changes anything. I'm content regardless if they look like me or not."
"Many humans, unfortunately, don't share the same sentiment," he counters gently. "We've hired a few humans before who found the lack of the same species unnerving and quit soon after. I can understand if you'd feel that way."
A brief breeze of morning cold curls around your body momentarily, enough to send a small shiver up your spine. You lean back onto the cement bench, the cold rock immediately flooding the little warmth you had on your back through your blouse.
"I just think people act like humans are better than they really are, like they'd waste opportunities because of that," you add. "That they're above anything not human."
He gives a soft hum.
"Sometimes they can be," he responds simply. His tone is understanding, thoughtful despite what arises.
You're not sure how to respond. His words hang in the air and you're unsure what exactly he means. Sometimes he says things you can't personally understand as a human, and you're sure you've said things he wouldn't understand either.
You can feel his eyes on you once more. Something you've also noticed - he'll tend to continue watching even if you're not looking.
It was uncomfortable for the first month or two; it made your heart beat a little harsher and louder against your ribcage, afraid that he might be debating whether the job was a right fit for you.
As time passed, you've learned to welcome it as something comforting - as if he's always listening and processing your words even if they hold no meaning or require no response.
There's a moment of uninterrupted silence between the two of you. The sounds of the morning city life fill it in, whether it's cars abusing their horns, music playing, or the unintelligible conversations of those passing.
Another cold-nipping breeze combs through the both of you. You can hear the trees rustle above you. You try to keep your teeth from visibly chattering. You wonder if you should throw on your coat right now.
Before you can though, you notice a white gloved hand come into view, palm facing upward and stretched toward you. It's a familiar gesture; he always offers his hand coming out of cabs in addition to always holding the door open whether it's a car or a building.
You don't mind now as much as you did before; you'd joke about 'chivalry not being dead' to avoid the awkwardness of it all, attempting to beat him to the doors in order to hold them open for him.
You'd even joke that he's the epitome of a gentleman, to which he graciously denied.
After enough times of him doing it automatically and telling you that it really is fine, you just followed through, swallowing that lump of pride that would rise to your throat. You realized he was doing it because he wants to - not to prove anything.
The corners of his smile soften when you slide your hand into his palm, your purse hanging off your shoulder with your coat in your free hand. You've always distantly noted the size difference between your hand and his.
"Let's get you warmed up again," he says softly, something kind glinting in his gaze before it shifts toward the courthouse doors. "We should go over the details one more time."
A small hum of agreement leaves you as you stand up, pressing some of your weight into his hand when you do. Your heels make a soft clack against the pavement.
You can vaguely feel the warmth from his thumb gently caress the skin on your hand as he holds it.
There were specific things you would try to avoid, especially working with non-humans.
Topics you'd rather avoid - cases you'd rather not speak about.
You watch absentmindedly as the dark brown liquid sputters and kicks before a steady stream begins to pool into your white mug.
You try thinking about other things: your parents and how they're doing, whether you locked your door this morning, or if you switched your load of laundry into the dryer before you left - however, the thoughts are almost minimized, taken over by the face of that younger female who sat in the witness box. Her face was pitiful, her eyes a puffy red as if she'd been sobbing for weeks - which was more than likely.
"How did the case go?" a certain playful voice speaks up in the droning silence of the break room. It makes you flinch a little too hard.
You turn to see the green-eyed, curly haired lawyer that was the most opposite of your boss in every way. The green diamond that runs through his eye always glows too intensely.
You open your mouth to speak - to joke about something and change the topic. However, you're barely able to muster a word before another voice speaks.
"Harlequin," another voice cuts into the silence. A voice sharper, but softer. You remember having to constantly lean in to hear him speak.
Long white hair, lazily tied up in a half-pony with two lines cutting through both of his eyes, a small tear drop at the end on the right.
"Boo," Harlequin whines, his boy-ish nature always makes you smile as if you were watching a child. "Can't I ask how our little human's day was?"
Pierrot exhales a little too harshly. "Again, she has a name - and really - you need to watch your mouth. If he hears you - "
"Yeah, yeah," Harlequin dismisses with a lazy hand wave, shooting Pierrot a smirk which makes Pierrot's frown deepen.
You assume they're talking about your boss. They refer to him as 'T' or 'Mr. T' on paper and in person most times.
The name is so simple yet awkward when it comes out of your mouth. You've always opted for a simple 'sir' or 'boss'. However, they always speak cautiously around him, you've noticed.
You remember when Harlequin said something when he was referring to you a month ago - you didn't know what it was though, no one told you.
Not even your boss.
Pierrot had accidentally mentioned it when you asked why Harlequin was suddenly put on a week's leave. With enough push, you managed to get a brief explanation, yet he did so while his golden eyes glanced nervously around the office, specifically focused on your boss' office.
You're not sure why. Your boss is anything but harmful - sure, his voice raises during court, sometimes his words are sharp and strict, but it's not like he'd beat them up or something.
He's a lawyer - not Batman.
You chalk it up to hierarchy and your boss wanting to maintain a friendly environment, despite what Harlequin really said about you.
You remember when Harlequin came back and his words were hesitant. There was a distant look in his eyes when he spoke to you. It took a week before he started speaking to you normally.
"So?" Harlequin pushes. "I heard it was pretty bad."
The cogs in your head turn more slowly than normal, pictures from the crime scene and her face - her body - overcrowding your thoughts.
"Well," you swallow. "It was definitely a case - I mean I've seen worse - it just - "
"It's different," Pierrot finishes for you, sensing your discomfort. "And I'm sure it's something she'd rather avoid bringing up, Harlequin." He shoots Harlequin a nasty look, devoid of the usual kindness he shows you. The norm for the two; they always had an odd yet tolerable distaste for each other, constantly bickering.
Pierrot motions towards the coffee machine. You take your steaming mug off, moving over to allow him to brew his own cup.
Harlequin's smile lessens by a fraction. "I know, but it's something she'll have to get used to," he states while looking at Pierrot. He glances over to you after. "It happens a lot more than you think. Sometimes it can be the other way around."
"Really?" The words surprise you a little as you take a sip from your mug. "A human kidnapping a non-human?"
Pierrot hums in agreement as the machine sputters. "Yes, not every non-human is bigger than a human by default."
"A lot of humans see us as pets if we're small enough," Harlequin adds. "Although, this case was pretty brutal. I'm surprised Mr. T let you accompany him. Usually he brings Doc to those."
The case was indeed brutal. The defendant was a non-human - the build on him was insane - the only way you can describe it without saying terrifying. Easily reaching eight feet, two extra arms. Everything about him was bulging - muscles that strained against the bright orange prison uniform, as if threatening to rip at the seams.
The defendant had captured a young female he'd been stalking for days. She didn't even realize he was stalking her before it was too late. Months had passed before she managed to escape far enough where police could intervene. You remember the massive swell of her belly, a bump not comparable to a human pregnancy - something disgusting coiled within you when your eyes immediately caught it - the thought that some non-humans were able to do that - and that, biologically, it was possible when physically it shouldn't be.
The defense attorney tried to justify that he was acting out of insanity. Insanity that was emphasized due to the nature of his cycles: phases that some non-humans experience like a menstrual cycle, except it makes them impaired with an insatiable amount of lust and aggression.
You try to force a small smile on your face despite feeling uneasy.
"It's better for me, exposure and all that," you justify. "I just couldn't believe it got that severe."
The coffee machine sputters before ending. A small tune plays to indicate it's finished.
Harlequin leans over the tall granite island, his head being held up by his hand as he watches you.
"Would you date a non-human?" Harlequin's question comes out slowly.
Pierrot's head snaps to him a little too harshly with narrowed eyes.
The question throws you off. Not that you haven't thought about it - you're just not sure if you want to share the answer, as it might be taken the wrong way.
"Harlequin," he warns with a harsh tone.
"What?" Harlequin asks innocently. "It's a genuine question. It's not as big of a stigma as it was before."
"Yes, but it's not something you should be asking her - "
"Asking her what?" A smooth and deep voice interjects.
Both Harlequin and Pierrot perk up before their bodies still a little too robotically, as if caught doing something exceptionally bad.
You look over to see your boss standing at the door. His white collared shirt rolled up neatly slightly below his elbows, his security card attached to a lanyard still around his neck but tucked into his breast pocket.
"Just discussing the case, Mr. T," Harlequin says quickly while straightening his posture. He's already halfway out the door, saying something about a lot of work to do. He's the laziest out of all the lawyers here - you sometimes wonder how he gets anything done.
Pierrot's smile doesn't exactly meet his eyes as he greets your boss with a simple 'good morning, sir', following Harlequin. Although, you notice he glances at you with a look akin to pity before leaving.
Your eyebrows furrow slightly at the expression, watching the two leave the break room with urgency. You glance back at your boss, that swirling grey in his eye always catching your attention first.
"Well," you begin, "they were in a hurry, I guess." You take another sip of your coffee. You ignore the way your boss' left eye momentarily dips down to your mug - or, at least, you think it's the mug he's looking at. "What did you do to them? Whip them or something?" A chuckle follows after, indicating you find that idea ridiculous.
He doesn't say anything as a beat passes. He sighs lightly before that usual polite smile follows. "You'd think that," he responds. "What did Harlequin ask before he left?"
You hum, before waving your hand as if it wasn't anything serious, because it really shouldn't be. "The case - how it was and all. Of course, him always being nosy, he asked whether I'd date a non-human."
The corner of his smile twitches. "I see. I've warned him before. I'll have to talk to him about his rashness."
"No need," you say easily and lean against the counter. "It's a fair question, I guess."
You add the 'I guess' part loosely. The question threw you off, but it wasn't something worthy of a harassment report, not to you at least.
He nods slowly. You hope he doesn't really talk to him - talking to Harlequin after that first warning was miserable. You wanted to avoid talking to him at times because it felt like he was walking on eggshells every time, that or he'd try to speed up the conversation even when it was about work.
"What was your answer?" he asks suddenly, his tone a little too curious. You're expecting him to add 'if it's okay' or 'only if you want to say'. But it never comes.
You take another sip of your coffee, using the few seconds as the coffee floods your taste buds, debating whether to give the honest truth. He is your boss after all, an understanding one though.
"It definitely would depend."
"Depend. How?" You notice his body tenses slightly, but he covers it up by crossing his arms over each other.
"Mostly depends if it can even work physically," you explain. You continue when he nods, but something about his pupil is a little too dilated while staring at you. "I mean a human can only handle so much. My apartment isn't exactly built to house a ten foot person, or if biologically it would be an issue later in the future - like he ages faster or slower than me, or if I wanted kids. It just depends if we can make it work."
"Would you want kids with a non-human?"
You straighten a little against the counter, confused why he's even asking that. You assume it might be due to the plaintiff today.
"I don't really want kids regardless, but I guess if the right person comes along, maybe. Even then though, probably not for a while. I'd hate to lose such a good job," you add the last part with a soft smile. He returns something similar, but not enough for something you can describe as genuine.
He hums a little too loud. He seems to be thinking of something - there's a distant look in his eye as his jaw clenches momentarily.
"How about you?" you ask. "A human partner and all that."
You'd think the question was inappropriate for your boss, at least. However, given the subject and his insistent questions, you assume it's fair to show the same curiosity.
"I have no issue with it, at all," he answers a little too quickly. "I'd like kids, but I'd be willing to wait too, until I couldn't."
You internally question the 'until I couldn't' part. Not expecting it as you consider the man so patient and attentive.
"Really?" you add absentmindedly, feigning a small amount of interest, although you're not particularly looking for a response.
"Yes," he breathes out with a particularly large exhale, an edge to the single word.
You hum in response and turn around, deciding to brew another mug. You pull your favorite flavor pod from the organized tray next to the machine and slide it in the designated spot.
Almost as if the building sensed the growing silence, the AC kicks on, filling the room with a low white noise.
"Whoever it is, I'd like to meet them," you pause as the machine begins to sputter again. "You'll make a good father - they'll be lucky."
You glance over your shoulder to notice his visible eye a little too fixed on your face. You thought you might've seen his eyes dip down from your head to your feet, but it was too fast for you to really find concern.
A smile spreads wide onto his face. You're taken aback by how far it stretches upward.
"Once I have her, I'd consider myself the lucky one."
You note the pronoun 'her'. He must already have someone in mind.
The fact doesn't really shock you - you know well enough that many find him attractive, many stare a little too long at him before you're popping up right next to him like a gnat, handing documents into his hands.
You try not to stand too close when it happens, not wanting to start any rumors. You couldn't even count the amount of clients you've had that talked to him a little too comfortably for it to be professional anymore, even when others were present - like you.
You're not sure why you're not particularly attracted to him - sure, you've caught yourself staring sometimes, he's obvious eye-candy - but not really your type.
You've already concluded the conversation has ended when his phone rings. He excuses himself hesitantly, giving you one last glance as if he was trying to figure something out before his legs are leading him to his office.
Something shifts after that conversation, not enough for you to reasonably bring it up, even if you wish you could.
As always, his stare is piercing. However, it's undeniably noticeable now, even when you're not talking to him. His gaze finds you among the masses.
You're grateful when it's trying to navigate through heavy crowds to reach certain locations. His gloved hands are always reaching for yours, fingers threading through yours more intimately than you'd like before he's pulling you close, weaving through people with ease.
You notice your smoke breaks are constantly interrupted by him. Even when he doesn't speak. You don't mind the silence since he's always been like that, but there are times when his questions are slightly jarring.
'Is smoking really that nice?'
'No, if anything it's bad,' your tone exceptionally playful that day, the buzz after a particular draw from the lit cigarette in your mouth felt too good. 'Don't do it, sir. You're too young to die.'
He was visiting so often during your breaks that you stopped putting it out. If he didn't mind, you'd rather make the most out of the twelve dollars spent.
His laugh follows, it's genuine and doesn't match his usual temperament. He mentions something about him not being that young.
'Do you particularly look for someone who shares the same habit?' He must've realized the question was odd, noticing the puzzled look on your face. He coughs awkwardly before adding: 'If you'd stop if they didn't like it. You shouldn't forget you're young too.'
You think for a minute or two before answering, flicking the ash onto the ground. 'It would be preferred - for me, I guess. Many girls would find it enticing rather than not. However, my lungs would definitely hate me and my partner if it happened.'
He smiles to your response, a peaceful silence filling the space as the only word, 'right', leaves his mouth.
You didn't think much of that conversation, until one day when he sat down next to you, his body brushing against you as he shifted, he was always so warm even when he wore layer upon layer.
You were about to ask him if anything was wrong when he beat you to it. He had asked for a cigarette so casually you almost dropped the one in your mouth when your mouth opened in shock.
'Sir, there is no way you smoke,' your eyes widening as you quickly let out a small 'shit' when you felt your lips lose the grip on the cigarette. You hesitantly hand him one from your nearly empty pack.
'Contrary to how you initially viewed me,' he said as he sparked the cigarette, 'I used to smoke. I had to stop because the smell clung to everything even when washed.'
You immediately noted how his lighter was one of those expensive wick lighters with a flip top, smooth silver shining. A thin fog of smoke left his mouth before he tucked the lighter into his coat's pocket.
You let out a shocked laugh that borders on a scoff, he brightens to it immediately, his body brushing against you again.
'Oh yeah?' you say a little too lightly. 'Are you trying to impress me or something?'
You'd usually have the mind to control the playfulness in your tone, but today it doesn't really bother you.
'That depends,' he says lowly, taking an exceptionally long drag from the cigarette, exhaling the thick smoke without any hint of coughing following, you can visibly see his body relax into the bench. 'Are you impressed?'
'Totally,' the single word dripping with sarcasm, you follow suit and take a shorter drag from your cigarette than he does, 'the girls will be crawling all over you soon. I don't think I'll be able to fight them off now.'
A low hum comes from him, you're reminded how close he is to you when you can feel his voice practically vibrate against your body. You'd say he was leaning into you almost.
'You won't have to worry about that. They'll know.'
Your eyebrow raises, but you don't question it too much. Enjoying the buzz that actually sticks.
Again, the conversation barely registers in your head afterwards.
Work started piling up in the office, you could tell during certain periods where very little of your coworkers came into the office, always having client meetings. You tried not to miss the occasional conversations during work, deciding that it was a good time to focus on getting ahead of your work: agonizing client phone calls, preparing and organizing documents for your boss, researching case materials.
However, you saw your boss more than enough. He was always there, right next to you, which is to be expected as his legal assistant. However, there were scenarios where you're certain you don't need to be present for.
One day he asked you to come with him without saying where specifically - you expected a location regarding a case, maybe a client meeting somewhere, sometimes it was lunch or coffee which was normal you'd guess - yet, you're a little confused when you find yourself walking behind him timidly as he's pushing a cart down an aisle.
An aisle belonging to a grocery store that surely required a membership you couldn't afford.
People stared - as always, either acknowledging an inter-species relationship that didn't exist, or just looking at him entirely. He didn't care at all, asking you questions about specific brands or products, he'd ask about your day even though you've been in the office with him the entire time.
When someone pushed their cart a little too close without you noticing, he always knew before you did. His hand pressed into your back or wrapped around your waist, pushing you closer to his side for the person to bypass without any obstacles.
His hand would linger. When it was around your waist, you'd note his hand would subtly rub up and down along your side. When it was on your back, he'd palm soft circles into it, the pressure deliberate.
It's hard for you to stop your embarrassment causing a sudden rush of heat running along your spine before reaching your ears. The red tint dusting the tips was obvious if they were visible.
You rejected the offer when he told you to throw anything you needed into the cart, casually adding he'll pay for it even when you joked about throwing a three hundred dollar couch into the cart. He returned a look, his soft smile deepening into a frown before the smile appears once more, a simple 'alright' leaving his mouth.
Things piled over each other - touches and stares too obvious for you to dismiss as him just being a gentleman. He was increasingly more comfortable than any of your previous partners.
You think the breaking point was when you entered the break room for another cup of coffee as every morning, only to find your usual flavored pod non-existent among the rest. It's never been that hard to find, but you shrugged it off. You opened the cabinet above you to already see the box of pod refills. The box was well within reach, you did have to stretch your arm slightly to completely grip the box with confidence, but still reachable.
However, another hand beats you to it. A white gloved hand coming into view, grabbing the box with ease, his arm not having to lengthen itself at all.
You didn't even realize someone had entered the room - much less him.
The box lands beside you with a soft thud. You open your mouth to thank him - a polite acknowledgment before you can step away and create distance.
But you can't move.
His entire body presses against you from behind. Not brushing. Not accidentally close. Pressing. The full weight of him pinning you against the counter, chest to your back, hips flush against you. There's no space. No air. No escape.
Your breath catches in your throat - a sharp, panicked inhale that doesn't fill your lungs. The heat that floods your body isn't embarrassment. It's fear. Your hands brace against the granite countertop, knuckles going white as you try to ground yourself, try to think, try to breathe.
You press forward instinctively, stomach digging into the counter's edge hard enough that pain blooms sharp and immediate. It doesn't matter. He follows. His body molds against yours, unyielding, suffocating.
He's not moving away.
He reaches up - slowly, deliberately - and closes the cabinet door. The movement is languid. Controlled. Like he has all the time in the world.
The door clicks shut.
His hand doesn't leave the cabinet. His palm stays pressed flat against the wood, arm extended above you, caging you in. You can see his forearm in your peripheral vision - the white fabric of his sleeve, the tension in the muscle beneath.
Then his other hand moves.
It settles on your lower back. The touch is firm, possessive, his fingers splayed wide. He starts to rub - slow, deliberate circles that travel up your spine, then down, then lower. The fabric of your shirt shifts with each pass, bunching slightly under his palm.
Your body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid. You can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything but feel the weight of him, the heat radiating off his body, the way his hand keeps moving - keeps touching you - like he has every right.
You can feel everything. The hard planes of his chest against your back. The way his breathing has changed - deeper now, more controlled, like he's restraining something. Each exhale is hot against the side of your neck, deliberate and slow. You can feel the tension coiled in his body, the barely-leashed control, the way his fingers press just a fraction harder into your back with each pass.
'Everything okay?'
His voice is right against your ear - so close his breath ghosts across your skin, raising goosebumps that have nothing to do with cold. The tone is casual. Light. Almost amused.
Like this is a game.
Like your fear is entertaining.
Your heart slams against your ribs so hard it hurts. Your pulse roars in your ears. You can't breathe - every inhale is shallow, useless, your chest tight with panic. Your thoughts are screaming at you - move, run, get away - but your body won't obey. You're frozen. Trapped between the counter and him, between the weight of his body and the threat in his touch.
This isn't appropriate.
This is wrong.
You try to steady your voice but it comes out shaking, broken. A weak, robotic laugh that sounds nothing like you, followed by a breath that rattles in your chest.
'All good' you manage, the words tumbling out too fast, too desperate. You don't even recognize your own voice.
You mumble something about needing to get back - an excuse so quiet it's barely audible. He doesn't respond immediately. For a horrible, endless moment, he just stays there. Pressed against you. His hand still moving on your back. His breath still hot on your neck.
Then - finally - he steps back.
The absence of his weight is immediate and dizzying. You stumble forward slightly, catching yourself on the counter. Your legs feel weak. Unsteady.
You don't look at him. You can't. You just move - fast, clumsy, your abandoned coffee mug forgotten on the counter as you escape into the hallway.
When you turn the corner, something makes you glance back through the glass panel beside the break room entrance.
You shouldn't have looked.
He's standing exactly where you left him. Watching you. His head is tilted slightly, that grey swirling pupil fixed on you with predatory focus.
And he's smirking.
Not a polite smile. Not amusement. A cruel, satisfied smirk that makes your stomach drop and your pulse spike all over again. Like he's just proven something.
Like he's enjoying this.
Your eyes snap back to the floor. Your hands are trembling. Your throat is tight.
You walk faster.
That smirk - that look - it follows you. It burrows under your skin and stays there, a cold, creeping dread that makes you want to run and never stop.
It truly terrified you.
Avoiding him was getting harder with each passing day. It was as if he'd take you everywhere now or he was everywhere all at once.
A message or two would occasionally slide onto your phone with a simple ring, sometimes even phone calls - asking what you were doing, where you were, and if he needed you to meet him somewhere.
These days, he doesn't offer a choice. His voice bordered between gentle and demanding.
If he wanted you somewhere, you would be there, next to him with a shaky smile. If you took too long to answer - too hesitant - he'd ask with a sharper tone, 'do you have somewhere to be?', too harsh it made your heart hammer against your ribs as you succumbed with a small 'no'.
If you wanted to protest to anything, the words would feel like lead on your tongue, a painful swallow as you held back. If you purposely created space between you two, a more than normal amount of space, he was quick to fill it. He would lean into you at every opportunity: when you sat at your desk, when you brewed coffee, when you were on your smoke break - you could smell his cologne, feel his breath, his quickening heartbeat.
You tried to ignore it. Your paychecks made it slightly easier, before they didn't.
The job paid well. Exceptionally well.
You've never had your bank account stay in the four digits consistently. You still looked for jobs, updated your resume, conducted interviews. It was as if the universe hated you. Job offers that fell way too short of either the pay or communication, and you had bills to pay.
You told yourself that you could stick it out, just long enough for him to lose interest.
However, you felt as though he got worse by the day.
You dreaded coming into work to the point you began to use the PTO you've been accumulating - an absurd amount that was left untouched for so long.
In the past, even if you had aching sinuses or a brutal cough you'd still show up, and miraculously there would be an assortment of pills and syrupy medicine on your desk. You've always thought it was Pierrot as he'd always be the first to notice the change in your demeanor, but you're not too sure anymore.
You'd force yourself to scream into your pillow for practically thirty minutes with short breaks for air, trying to make your voice sound as raw and hoarse as possible when you'd call your boss. You've tried texting him about not coming in, but an immediate phone call would startle you, his name always at the top.
'Should I bring you medicine?' or 'have you eaten? I'll bring you food' were always so quick to leave his mouth over the phone. His voice was concerned, fabric rustling as if he was already collecting his things to leave, and you'd think he was genuine - he most likely was.
You rejected him, making a lousy excuse that you wanted to just sleep it off, that you'll be fine. You'd end the call swiftly before he could respond.
You didn't want him to know where you live nor enter your apartment - a space that was still safe, untouched, and secluded.
You completely forgot that finding an employee's address was easy when he had access to practically everything.
It was a company party. You had to come. You needed to show face, just enough to avoid anyone questioning your absence.
You planned to leave after twenty minutes, perhaps thirty if you could permit it. You wore something safe, something that'd hide most of your skin without looking like your usual work clothes.
Yet, you'd fail to realize until you left your house how easily the neckline would sag. Just standing you could feel the fabric sliding down low enough to show either your bra's padding, or the beginning line of your cleavage. The only reason it would stop short was due to your chest holding it in place, becoming tight enough where it couldn't slide down anymore. You tried not to make it obvious you were constantly aware of it, pulling it up quickly when certain conversations with your coworkers would persist long enough.
You told yourself you'd leave soon.
But god - you missed not walking on eggshells, always checking if he was near.
You missed the normalcy of everything.
Harlequin and Pierrot bickering like always, Doc sighing a little too loud when they'd try to include him in some mindless argument that would end after they'd finish their drinks. A new one sprouting once another drink was in their hands.
You could feel your resolve slipping too fast when Doc had mentioned after checking his phone that 'Mr. T' most likely wouldn't make it. You couldn't focus on the rest that left his mouth, whether it was weather or work - you couldn't care less about the predicament.
Ringing flooded your senses before it subsided. The sounds of the more-than-practical bar, rented out for the evening, came soon after. People laughed - cheered at times, muffled music from the vast amount of conversations overpowering whatever was playing, the smell of sterilizing products mixed with something citrusy. You welcomed all of it too easily.
You tried not to show the tsunami of relief flooding your body on your face at that moment. Every joint in your body practically loosened at the thought of not having to see him. Thankfully, the alcohol in their system rendered any critical thinking they had as useless.
Drinks found your hands fast - every sip burned a little less, every swallow pushed down that initial gag that threatened to reach your face. It was too easy - way too easy. You thought you were dreaming.
Especially when a certain chirpy boy behind the bar counter slid over a small shot glass filled with a clear liquid. You noticed his awkward smile he shot you before your eyes automatically slid down to the overly zealous silk tie he wore. It was yellow with small bubbles of pink, green, and blue randomly scattered about.
His expression was flustered when he spoke as you eyed the small shot glass leaving his hand. Red that deepened along his face, ears, and neck made you think of the word 'cute' almost immediately.
"A shot of water," he spits out a little too fast. Your eyebrow raises but a lazy, drunken smile pulls at your lips. "I was going to say something funny, but then I realized it wasn't as funny."
You laughed. "Oh yeah? I'm sure I would've found it a little funny."
Your body is completely turned now, your full attention on him as you lean onto the thin bar counter, your head in your hand. You can feel yourself slightly swaying, movements a little too slow, your words occasionally slurring over each other as you both went back and forth.
Some of it being jokes or poorly done pick-up lines, some of it being about him - the same questions would flip onto you, while other times he'd say something mildly suggestive, but he would immediately apologize, explaining that he doesn't usually hit on customers. His hands would reach to rub the nape of his neck when you'd respond with something equally inappropriate, inviting him almost.
You liked it - you liked him.
You liked the way he easily flushed to every word, the way he perked so easily - albeit, a little too eager. You liked the way he'd slide over a drink you requested, decorated with something random every time; at first a sugar rim, a salt rim, then it was a lime, the next one was four limes. You liked that he'd say 'on the house' when he slid over a shot of water between drinks.
Most of all, you liked how he took care of your coworkers' drinks in between, excusing himself while he completely busied himself. He'd come back right after with a nervous 'miss me?' like you'd ostracize him each time.
He was fun. You're not sure when you've felt like this last. Too busy with work and worrying about your boss completely took over your life. The warm fluttering in your stomach had the smile growing on your face.
This was nice, you concluded. Your thoughts beginning to cloud, becoming too fuzzy for you to truly think about the words coming out of your mouth.
When he moved away to help someone, noticing the conversation between the two became longer than you anticipated, your eyes wandered where they could - where they could focus without you straining.
Naturally they floated to Pierrot and Harlequin in the corner of the room, their eyes looking somewhere behind you. You don't follow their gaze fast enough as their eyes flit back to you immediately.
You offer a smile. You're sure you looked drunk.
They don't return it.
You're drunk, but not drunk enough to miss the panic washing over their expressions. As if they're about to run to you, their posture straightens in your direction.
Your face twisted in drunken confusion.
What's wrong with them?
The chirpy boy returns with a playful smile. "Sorry, I could barely understand a word he was saying. He could barely hold himself up," he explains.
Your gaze is hesitant to leave Pierrot and Harlequin's, but it does. Dismissing it as the alcohol playing tricks on you or them.
"Yeah, well I'm getting there - "
Your words are caught in your throat when a hand snakes around your waist - all too familiar, yet the roughness sobers your mind for a second, as if engaging your sudden fight or flight response as adrenaline pumps through you. You're pulled into his side, a little too hard and fast that you collide clumsily against him with an audible gasp leaving your throat. The fingers dig hard through the fabric of your clothes, surely making imprints, like he's trying to leave bruises.
You know who it is.
The smell of weakening cologne clogging your sinuses. You don't look up, your eyes shaky. You think the alcohol in your system is making it worse as your ribs almost ache against your beating heart.
You watch the boy behind the counter - the one who was so willing to speak to you - look slightly above your head and then to you. You watch in horror as his face completely freezes, no longer that cheerful yet bashful smile - instead, fear is evident. He doesn't meet your eyes when he looks away from the man towering over you.
"I'm sorry I couldn't make it on time," his voice is thin, void of any sincerity. "Didn't think you'd come at all."
You don't have to look to know that he's staring down at you. You can feel his eyes dig into every part of your body, scanning you. His chest is heaving. You can hear his heartbeat thumping hard when he seems to pull you closer into him.
Your eyes begin to wander along the floor in an effort to calm yourself. It doesn't work. Your eyes catch how low the neckline of your top has fallen. You're certain he saw the obvious line of cleavage dipping into the visible top of your bra's padding.
You notice the boy behind the bar counter has already left. Although, you're afraid to check where he went.
"Who was that? Hm?" he questions, his voice deep and words punctual, dripping with venom.
You open your mouth, trying to stop the words before they come out.
"I - no one, 'swear." You hate how clumsy the words feel rolling off your tongue.
He hums, but you know he doesn't believe you.
"Is that so?" he begins. "Because it looks like you were having fun talking to him. A lot of fun."
"No," you respond weakly. "'m just getting a drink - "
"Oh yeah? Before or after you fuck him?"
His voice is low, and thankfully, you don't notice any heads turning. Yet, the bluntness of his words makes you flinch against him.
When you don't respond, he continues. You can tell he's speaking through gritted teeth. His body tenses under you with every word.
"I'd think you were trying to get my attention with how obvious you looked. Basically drooling over him. Am I doing something wrong?"
Something inside of you burns, annoyance bubbling up to the surface before you can stop it. You curse the fuzziness growing over any reasonable thoughts.
"We're not together," you mutter slowly, trying to enunciate the words to mask your drunken state.
"What was that, love? I couldn't hear you."
Your confidence is slipping, but you try again. Hoping he'll stop if you say it outright, especially around others.
"'m not - we aren't dating."
A low chuckle vibrates against you, but you don't hear it. You can hear him scoff.
"Fuck," the curse comes out after a sharp inhale. "You're really making this difficult. More than it needs to be."
His gloved hand finds yours with a tight grip. He squeezes it hard and you have to stop the burning tears threatening to fall as he drags you like a ragdoll through the crowded bar. People look, but they don't question it - a mix of disgust and helplessness washes over you. Why won't they question it? Why are they just letting you be dragged? Where is Pierrot or Harlequin?
It doesn't take long before you're outside, the doors swinging closed behind you. The cold air finds any possible skin exposed, nipping at the numbness of your limbs that awkwardly force themselves to move as your boss continues to drag you. You can feel the cold sobering you up. Further and further you follow. You don't see anyone around you as you enter the parking lot. The post lights are uncomfortably dim, too dark, that even looking at his back feels ominous.
"Where are you - where are we going?" you manage to force out with a shaky voice. You can't mask the fear in your voice anymore.
"Home."
Is all he says.
Your vision distorts as the tears fall too easily. You've given up trying to keep it in.
He stops next to the passenger door of a car - a car you've been in a few times before. It's sleek and black, a make and model that you'd never own with your paygrade. The tinted windows you're sure are beyond the legal limit.
The car unlocks with a click once he presses the seamless button on the door handle. He opens the door wide and fast.
You finally look up at his face when he doesn't say anything, as if expecting you to climb in obediently. Your eyes well up with more hot tears that make your face feel sticky, the wet lines from your fallen tears that were previously warm now feel cold.
It's almost as if the shadow cast over his face is darker, as if it was a completely black space. The features you'd be able to make out before are completely hidden - in fact, it was as if it spread further down his face. All that's visible is his eye looking down at you. His expression is devoid of any sympathy, even as more tears fall.
"I don't want to - "
"Get in," he threatens. "While I'm still being nice." He adds a cruel smile at the end.
Your hands shakily find the door, using it to reluctantly hold your weight as you climb in with soft sobs leaving your mouth. The seat is massive compared to any human car you've been in. It makes you feel even smaller against him.
The door swings hard after you're seated, causing both you and the car to jolt. He walks over to the other side swiftly, opening it with fervor before slamming it closed with an even greater amount of force. You wonder in fear how this car can withstand it.
The doors make a clicking sound, locking you in. You fold into yourself, your arms tensing as you hold yourself up from your thighs. You try to control the sniffles that leave you, feeling too helpless when it's completely silent and dark in the car.
He exhales loudly. You look over, your head stiff as it barely turns.
He's already pulling the coat off of him, throwing it somewhere in the back before his hand goes to loosen the black tie secured around his shirt's collar.
An intensifying silence fills the car once more. His hand combs through his hair that's slowly losing the hold from the gel.
You hate the way your eye catches the few veins bulging from his exposed arms, his sleeves rolled up messily as if he did it in a hurry.
He could kill you. He really could. The thought freezes you in place.
"I didn't mean to make you cry," he says exasperatedly. For the first time, you notice, he's refusing to look at you. "You have to understand how seeing you talk to someone like that makes me feel."
"I don't - I didn't know..." you trail off, not sure what you're trying to say because you did know.
"Didn't know that I'd be there? Or didn't know how I felt about you?" His laugh is low and mocking. "Because I'm sure I made it obvious. I did everything I could. I was gentle. I tried to be, and all you would do is run away."
You don't say anything. His words are almost violent as they leave his mouth. The temperature in the car starts to grow hot.
You mutter out a small apology. You're not sure why you're apologizing. None of this is your fault.
"The worst part," he says, his voice growing with frustration, "is that you don't know what you're apologizing for. Do you?"
"N - No," you stammer.
He hums, like the question didn't need to be answered for him to know. His left hand grips the top of the leather covered steering wheel, tight enough that you can hear the leather squeak under his hold despite him wearing gloves.
"I tried to be nice." The car roars to life when his right hand presses the button next to the wheel, the bright LED lights coming to life on his dashboard and down the middle console. Cold air blasts readily into your face. "I think it's best if we talk about this elsewhere."
Your head perks up with glossy eyes, watching him back out of the parking spot. You automatically go to pull your seatbelt on, fearing that he might just kill you in a car crash if he planned to.
"Where?" you ask quickly. Your head begins to spin uncontrollably when he's already leaving the parking lot onto the main street. "I want to go home. Please."
Your begging elicits no reaction from him. His left hand comes to rub at your thigh. You try to push yourself into the door, trying to escape the harsh brush of his hand that occasionally dips a little too low into your inner thigh.
It doesn't make a difference - he's bigger than you in every way, arms much longer that can reach you with ease. The car exceeds a speed you'd never be comfortable with as you pass buildings you can't recognize. All of it is a blur. Jumping out the window would be a death wish at this speed.
"We are going home."
You thought when you were dragged through the high-rise building of occasionally lit apartments, dragged through the luxurious yet empty lobby and into the elevator, and once pushed through his apartment door with the lock clicking behind you - that you'd genuinely have a conversation with him, that you could get through to him.
Your fingers are shakily overlapping each other as he hangs up his coat. You ignore anything in his apartment that catches your eye.
You turn around hoping to initiate the sensitive conversation as a way to ground yourself.
Words don't reach your mouth.
His lips are clashing against yours violently, barely giving you time to register as your mouth parts to let out a strangled sound of shock.
He finds it as an opportunity as something long and slimy, inhuman, slides between your lips. It fills every space in your mouth it can find, lapping hungrily against your teeth, the walls of your mouth, your tongue, even forcing itself down your throat. It makes you gag, your throat constricting around it even as painful whines escape you. He responds with a low groan, animalistic.
His hands are caged around your head, holding you in place as you slowly and blindly walk backwards to escape. He follows after you effortlessly. His lips continue to devour yours with aggression. You can feel something sharp poking against your lips as he pulls away. There's a string of saliva that connects between his tongue and your mouth before it snaps as he stands tall, your lips covered in an absurd amount of saliva.
Your breathing has no rhythm as you try to inhale as much air as you can. You thought you were going to die.
"I'm really tired of waiting," he purrs as he wipes off the saliva around his own lips.
He's pulling off his white gloves that he's worn since you've met him. You immediately notice that the paleness of his skin darkens immediately at the wrist. His hands are nothing but pure black.
"I'd like to be gentle for our first time. Humans are much weaker. They break easier." He throws the gloves behind him without care. "I'd like for you to enjoy it as much as I will. However, my patience is thinning."
"Wait - please - I won't run away," you beg with tearful eyes, voice cracking. "Please, let's just talk first."
"Talk? About what?" His tone is mocking you, a smile playing on his face as his eye narrows onto your shaking form. "God - you're cute, too adorable." He runs a hand through his hair to push the fallen hair out of his face, his eyes never leaving you. "Trembling like I'm going to take a nice, big bite out of you right now."
You can't even form coherent sentences, your eyes wandering around the room for any possible exits - weapons. All you see is the door. It's tall, most likely heavy, but it's doable.
"I - Please don't," you cry.
"Depends," he says, his tone playful yet cruel. Something akin to hunger swims dangerously within his eye. "Will you be good for me tonight?"
You nod feverishly, your eyes flitting back and forth from the front door then to his face. His smile widens. You can make out the sharp canine-like teeth revealing at the ends.
You could make it, you think. Just run straight. Just run. Just run. Just run.
Your legs move before your mind can fully commit to it. You run past him with weak legs that wobble uncontrollably. Briefly, you wonder why you don't hear heavy footsteps behind you, or arms already pulling your body back with enough force that knocks the air out of you.
"Almost there," his voice sings with amusement from behind you. You can feel the smirk on his face from his tone alone.
Your heel catches on the edge of the rug. Your body lurches forward, arms flailing as panic floods your system. You barely catch yourself against the wall, palms slamming flat, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your legs feel like they're made of water - adrenaline making every movement clumsy and desperate.
You reach for the handle with shaking hands. Relief floods through you as your fingers close around the cold metal. You twist it and pull - the lock clicks, the door swings open an inch, two inches -
It stops.
The door shudders violently in your grip, rattling against something above. You pull harder, throwing your weight back, but it won't budge. It's like the door is caught on something, held in place.
Your eyes dart upward. There - at the very top of the doorframe, far above your head - a security latch. The kind designed for someone seven feet tall. Even on your tiptoes, even jumping, you'd never reach it.
The apartment wasn't built for someone like you.
His hand - that black void in the shape of a hand - reaches past your head with ease. He doesn't rush. His palm presses against the door, pushing it closed with a soft, final click. Then his fingers move to the handle, locking it again with deliberate slowness.
He knew. He's known the entire time. He let you run. He let you hope.
You freeze, your body going rigid against the door.
He's going to kill you.
He gives a low chuckle, his whole body pressing into the back of your tiny form. You can feel something thick and pulsating against your lower back.
"You almost had it."
A strangled sob leaves your mouth as you feel his hand grip your waist harshly.
"Unfortunate though," he leans into your neck, his breath unbearably hot as it hits your skin. You can feel his teeth drag along your neck before his tongue darts out to lap at the same spot. "I really wanted to be gentle for you."
His other hand moves before you can process it - threading through your hair, fingers curling tight against your scalp. His grip is iron. You barely have time to draw breath before he slams your head forward into the door.
The impact is immediate and catastrophic.
Your skull connects with the wood with a sickening crack that reverberates through your teeth, your jaw, down your spine. White-hot pain explodes behind your eyes - blinding, all-consuming. For a split second, you feel everything: your brain rattling inside your skull like something loose and broken, the way your neck snaps forward then back, the metallic taste flooding your mouth.
Then - nothing.
Your body goes slack. Your knees buckle but you don't fall - he's holding you up, his hand still twisted in your hair. Your vision strobes - white, then black, then white again - before the darkness swallows everything. Something warm and wet slides down your forehead, trickling past your temple. Blood. You can smell the copper of it.
He's speaking. His mouth is moving. You can feel the vibration of his voice against your back but the words are garbled, distorted - like you're drowning, like your head is underwater and he's calling from the surface. The sound warps and stretches until it's just white noise.
The last thing you register before consciousness slips away entirely is his arm wrapping around your waist, holding your limp body against him.
Then - nothing.
The first thing you feel is fullness.
Not pain. Not the throbbing in your skull or the dried blood crusted along your hairline.
Fullness.
Something thick and hard stretching you open, buried deep inside your cunt, moving - thrusting - with a rhythm that makes your body rock against soft sheets beneath you.
Your eyes snap open.
The ceiling above you is unfamiliar. Dim lighting. Expensive fixtures. Your head is pounding, vision swimming, and for a horrible, disorienting moment you don't understand what's happening.
Then you feel it again.
The drag of his cock pulling out slowly, the obscene wet sound of your body yielding to him, then the brutal thrust back in that punches the air from your lungs.
Your head jerks down.
He's on top of you.
Inside you.
His massive frame cages you in completely, his body between your spread thighs, his hands wrapped around your arms - pinning them down at your sides, using that grip as leverage to pull your entire body deeper onto his cock with every thrust. He's moving you like you weigh nothing, dragging you into him, forcing you to take more with each brutal snap of his hips.
"No - "
The word comes out broken, barely a whisper. Your throat is raw.
His head snaps up. That grey swirling eye locks onto yours, pupil blown wide with lust. His mouth - that inhuman mouth - is parted, panting, and you can see the sharp teeth, the thick tongue, the way drool glistens on his lower lip.
"You're awake," he breathes, and his voice is wrecked. Ragged and desperate and so fucking pleased. "Thank god - I was worried - fuck - worried I hit you too hard."
He punctuates the words with another deep thrust that makes you cry out. Your body jerks in his grip but there's nowhere to go. He's everywhere. His weight, his heat, the smell of his sweat and cologne and the musk of sex already thick in the air.
"Stop - " You try to pull your arms free but his grip tightens, fingers digging into your biceps hard enough to bruise. "Please - I don't - I don't want this - please stop - "
"I'm sorry," he gasps, and he sounds like he means it even as he doesn't stop, even as his hips snap forward again and again, fucking into you with increasing desperation. "I'm so sorry - I was going to wait - I swear I was going to leave you alone until you woke up - "
His rhythm falters. He drops his forehead against yours, breathing hard, his whole body trembling with restraint that's barely holding.
"But you looked so perfect," he continues, voice cracking. "I just wanted a taste. Just wanted to touch you. And then - god - then I couldn't stop. I tried - I tried -"
He's lying. He's a liar. He planned this. He knocked you unconscious and stripped you and spread your legs and -
Your stomach lurches. You can feel it now - the slickness between your thighs, the way your cunt is drenched, the obscene wet sounds every time he moves. How long has he been fucking you? How long were you unconscious?
"Get off me!" You thrash beneath him, bucking your hips, trying to twist away. "I don't want this - please - "
It does nothing. He's too big, too strong, and the movement only makes him sink deeper, makes you feel every thick inch of his inhuman cock stretching you open.
It doesn't feel human. It's too big, too textured - you can feel ridges along the shaft, feel the way it pulses inside you like it's alive. And the size - god, the size - you look down and you can see it, the obscene bulge in your lower abdomen where he's buried inside you, stretching you impossibly full.
"Shh, shh, it's okay," he murmurs, and he's pressing kisses to your face now - your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth. Tender and loving and completely at odds with the way he's still fucking you, still using your body. "It's okay, sweetheart. I've got you. I'll take care of you."
"No - please -" You're sobbing now, tears streaming down your temples into your hair. Your head is pounding. Everything hurts. But worse than the pain is the horrible, traitorous heat building low in your belly.
Your body is responding.
You can feel it - the way your cunt is clenching around him, the way slickness is leaking out of you with every thrust, the way your nipples are hard and aching where his chest brushes against them.
"That's it," he groans, and his voice drops into something animalistic, something that barely sounds human. "Fuck, you feel so good. So perfect. I knew you would be. Knew you'd take me so well."
He adjusts his grip on your arms, pulling you harder onto his cock, forcing you to take him deeper. The bulge in your belly becomes more pronounced and you whimper at the sight of it, at the feeling of being so impossibly full.
"It took so long at first," he pants, his voice breaking with pleasure. "So tight. So - shit - so perfect. But you're taking all of me now. It'll get easier with time - I promise."
Time.
The word makes you want to vomit.
He releases one of your arms to slide his hand down your body - over your breast, squeezing roughly, then down to where you're joined. His thumb finds your clit and presses down in tight circles.
The sensation is immediate and overwhelming.
But your body arches into the touch. Your cunt clenches hard around his cock and you hear him make a sound that's barely human - a guttural groan that vibrates through his chest.
"Oh god," he chokes out, his rhythm stuttering. "Don't - fuck - don't do that. Don't clench like that or I'll - "
He doesn't finish the sentence. He just fucks into you harder, faster, his control visibly fracturing. His movements become erratic, desperate. The hand on your clit doesn't stop, keeps rubbing in those devastating circles that make your thighs shake and your breath come in short, panicked gasps.
You don't want this. You don't want this. You don't -
The orgasm hits you hard.
Your body seizes, back arching off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in waves. Your cunt spasms around his cock, clenching rhythmically, and you can feel every ridge, every pulse of him as your body tries to milk him deeper.
"Yes," he hisses, and he sounds feral. "Yes, fuck, just like that - come on my cock - god you're so beautiful -"
You're sobbing through it, the pleasure mixing with horror and shame and the pounding pain in your skull until you can't tell where one sensation ends and another begins. Your body is betraying you. Your body wants this even as your mind screams.
"Please stop," you beg, voice breaking. "I'm sorry - please - "
"I love you," he gasps against your neck, his hips still pistoning into you. "I love you so much. You have no idea - how long I've wanted this - wanted you - "
His face buries into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. You feel his mouth open - his tongue dragging along your pulse point - and then sharp, searing pain as his teeth sink into your flesh.
You scream.
The pain makes everything in your body twitch. His needle-like teeth pierce through skin and muscle, tearing, and you feel the hot gush of blood immediately. It runs down your neck in rivulets, pooling in your collarbone, soaking into the sheets beneath you.
"Stop - please - you're hurting me - "
But he doesn't stop.
You feel his tongue - that thick, inhuman tongue - lapping at the wound. He groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through the bite, and his hips snap forward with renewed violence. He's lost to it now - whatever thin veneer of humanity he'd been clinging to is gone.
Teeth and hunger and violence. He's feeding on you while he fucks you, and the realization makes bile rise in your throat.
"Please - " you sob, but your voice is weak, broken.
He finally pulls his mouth away from your neck, and you see it - the blood smeared across his lips, dripping from his teeth. His grey eye is wild, unfocused. He looks drunk on it.
"I'm sorry," he pants, but he doesn't sound sorry. He sounds wrecked. "I couldn't - I can't - fuck - you taste so - "
His words fracture, dissolving into incoherent gasps as he buries his face back into your neck - not biting this time, but licking, cleaning the blood from your skin with desperate, hungry strokes of his tongue.
"I'll take care of you," he promises, and his voice is so tender, so loving, even as he's rutting into you like an animal. "I'll take such good care of you. You'll never have to worry about anything."
His hand leaves your clit to grip your hip, holding you in place as his thrusts become brutal, punishing. The bed frame is slamming against the wall. Your body is being moved entirely by his strength, pulled up onto his cock over and over while he chases his release.
"I'll take care of you," he repeats, panting. "You and the kids."
Your brain stutters.
The words don't make sense.
"What?" The word comes out strangled, barely audible over the obscene slap of skin on skin.
But he doesn't seem to hear you. He's too far gone, his face buried in your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. You can feel him trembling, feel his cock swelling impossibly thicker inside you.
"What?" you scream, thrashing beneath him with renewed panic. "What did you say?"
His hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your cries. His weight presses you completely into the mattress, pinning you so thoroughly you can barely breathe.
"I made sure it would work," he pants against your ear, his voice ragged and breaking. "Like you said - they might take after me more - but I hope at least one of them looks like you. God, I hope they have your eyes."
No.
No no no no no -
The full horror of what he's saying crashes over you like ice water. Your eyes go wide. You try to scream but his hand is too tight over your mouth, only muffled, desperate sounds escaping.
He's going to come inside you.
You thrash with everything you have, bucking and twisting and trying to throw him off, but it's useless. He's too big, too strong, and your body is still weak and disoriented from the head injury. His cock is still buried deep inside you, still fucking into you with ruthless precision.
"At least three," he groans, and he sounds delirious with pleasure. "I want at least three. Maybe more. We'll see. I'll take such good care of you. I'll make sure you're comfortable, that you have everything you need."
Tears are streaming down your face, soaking into his palm. You're making sounds you don't recognize - sounds of pure terror and desperation.
His gray hair has fallen completely loose around his face - the gel worn away by sweat and exertion, dark strands hanging in his visible eye and framing his features. He doesn't look polished anymore. He doesn't look human. The careful facade he's worn for months has literally fallen apart, and what's left is something feral.
The sight makes your stomach turn.
"You can even k - keep working for a little while," he continues, his voice hitching as his rhythm becomes erratic, strands of hair seem to be clinging to his forehead. "Until the pregnancy makes it too difficult. Then you'll - you'll take maternity leave. Stay home. Let me take care of everything."
His breath hitches, and he adds almost apologetically through the dark curtain of hair falling across his face, "You'll have to quit smoking. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but it's what's best for - for our kids."
He's insane.
He's insane.
This can't be happening. This can't be real.
But you can feel it - the way his cock is pulsing inside you, the way his entire body is tensing, the way his breathing has become ragged gasps against your neck.
"I love you," he chokes out one more time. "I love you - I - I can't hold - god - "
His words dissolve into broken gasps. His rhythm becomes frantic, desperate, completely uncontrolled.
"I'm going to - fuck - I'm so close - you feel so - so fucking good - "
His hips slam forward one final time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and you feel it - the hot pulse of his release flooding into you, filling you.
So much of it.
Too much.
He's coming inside you with an inhuman amount - spurt after spurt after spurt, each pulse accompanied by a guttural groan. You can feel it overflowing, leaking out around his cock even as he stays buried inside, even as more keeps coming. It's obscene, the sheer volume of it, hot and thick and everywhere.
He's breeding you.
The sound he makes is barely human - a guttural groan that vibrates through his entire body. His cock jerks inside you with each pulse, pumping more and more of his seed into your unprotected cunt. It doesn't stop. It keeps coming, flooding you, until you can feel it pooling beneath you, soaking the sheets.
You're screaming behind his hand. Screaming and sobbing and thrashing but he doesn't move, doesn't pull out. He keeps you pinned there, his cock still twitching inside you, making sure every drop stays deep.
"Perfect," he breathes, and he sounds wrecked. Satisfied. "So perfect. You're going to look so beautiful pregnant. I can't wait."
He finally removes his hand from your mouth.
You immediately start begging.
"Please - please no - you can't - please - I don't want this - "
"Shh," he soothes although his breath is barely catching up, pressing gentle kisses to your tear-stained face. "It's done now. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay."
"No," you sob. "No no no - please - "
"You'll be a wonderful mother," he murmurs, and he finally - finally - starts to pull out.
The sensation makes you whimper. You can feel the flood of his release leaking out of you, obscenely warm and wet, so much of it. Your cunt is raw and aching and stretched. It pours out of you in thick rivulets, more than should be possible, staining your thighs and the sheets beneath you.
He looks down between your legs and makes a satisfied sound.
His gaze travels up to your lower belly - still slightly distended from how full he'd made you, from the sheer amount of cum he'd pumped inside. His hand splays across it, pressing down gently, and his expression shifts into something almost reverent. Pride. Possession. Satisfaction.
"Look at that," he says softly, watching as more of his release leaks out of you. "Look how well you took me."
You can't look. You can't do anything but cry.
But then - his entire demeanor shifts.
The feral desperation melts away. His touch becomes gentle, careful. He shifts beside you, pulling your limp body against his chest, cradling you like something precious and fragile.
He mutters a small 'hold on' into your neck, pressing light and sporadic kisses along your neck. He stands after, moving to the edge of the bed. You watch through blurred vision as he pulls on a pair of dark boxers.
His chest is bare, pale skin stretched over defined muscle, his frame still impossibly large and predatory even in this moment of false tenderness. The sight of him moving so casually, so comfortably, makes your stomach turn.
"Come on, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice soft and tender - a voice so familiar it hurts. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you toward what must be a bathroom. You're too weak to resist, too broken to fight. Your body is limp in his arms.
He sets you down carefully on the edge of a massive bathtub and turns on the water, testing the temperature with his hand. Steam rises. He's meticulous - making sure it's not too hot, adding something that smells like lavender.
He leaves the bathroom without a word, you barely register his absence as you're body starts to shake, your legs uncontrollable with a tremor.
The size of the bathroom alone rivaled your own apartment. You can barely form any escape plan before he's back with a colorful set of towels neatly folded in his hands.
"I shouldn't have hit you so hard," he says quietly, almost to himself, as he adjusts the water flow. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'll have to control that temper of mine. I hope you can forgive me later on."
The words 'I hate you' sat at the tip of your tongue like a loaded gun. But you painfully remember the sheer strength - the blunt force from only his hand.
"There we go," he says gently, lowering you into the water. "Nice and warm. This will help."
He washes you with a tenderness that makes your skin crawl. His massive hands are careful, almost reverent, as he cleans the blood from your hairline, the dried tears from your face, the evidence of what he's done from between your thighs. He's humming softly - something you don't recognize.
He carefully wipes the blood from your neck - from the bite wound he inflicted - with a warm cloth. The touch stings but he's gentle, almost apologetic in his movements.
His gaze drifts downward, and he carefully positions you - standing in the shallow water, your legs slightly parted, angled so he has a clear view between your thighs.
You follow his gaze and feel your stomach turn. Thick, obscene amounts of his cum are still leaking from you, thick globs of solid to translucent white drip and hit the bath water. It's grotesque, and you feel bile rise in your throat.
But he's watching it. His expression is almost rapturous, satisfied, like he's admiring his work. Something swirls in his eye, his body tensing as if he was mulling over something.
"I'd rather it stay inside you," he says softly, he looks up at you with an even softer smile, his voice carrying that possessive edge. "But I don't want you sleeping in too much discomfort, sweetheart."
His hand gently combs through your wet hair, starting from the end of your hairline. Fingers light on your head but mindful as he finally feels a slight bump, it's hot and pulsating under his fingers. You wince, a low 'sorry' leaving his mouth immediately.
He reaches for a fresh cloth, and carefully - so carefully - he wipes the excess away, meticulous to the point of even parting your folds. You flinch automatically when he does, you swore his smile twitched slightly. His touch was almost worshipful as he cleans you.
You stare at his hands as they move across your skin. They're completely black - not gray, not pale, but an absolute void of color. The contrast against your own skin is stark and sickening. You watch them cup water, watch them glide across your arms, your shoulders.
The word 'monster' clouds your brain.
"I'm sorry for being so unruly," he murmurs, his voice low and sincere. "I didn't mean to lose control like that. I'll make it up to you."
"You did so well," he continues, pressing a long kiss to your temple. "I'm so proud of you. The water's not too hot, is it?"
You don't answer. You can't.
The whiplash is sickening.
He lifts you out of the tub after what feels like an eternity, wrapping you in a towel that's far too large. He dries you carefully, methodically, then carries you back to the bedroom. The sheets were pulled off, you're not sure when he had the time to. He briefly mutters under his breath that he'll put on a spare set after. He sets you down on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you to dry your legs.
And that's when it breaks.
Everything inside you shatters.
You start sobbing - not the quiet, defeated crying from before, but something raw and childlike. Uncontrollable. Your chest heaves, snot runs from your nose, and you can't catch your breath between gasps.
"How - how could you," you choke out, your voice breaking. "How could you - "
He looks up at you, his expression shifting to concern.
"You're a lawyer," you sob, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "You can't - you can't do this. You've seen what - " You're gasping, trying to form the words. "That girl - that case - the one who was - who got - "
You're trying to say it. Trying to make him understand that he knows. He saw what that monster did to her. He saw her testimony, her trauma, the pregnancy.
He moves fast.
His hand cups the back of your head and he pulls you into a kiss - forceful but restrained, his mouth covering yours and silencing your words. You note the slimy muscle occasionally licking against your lips.
His other hand wanders to your waist, pulling you closer despite you being pressed against him already. His fingers trail down your hip, his palm spreading across your thigh, and you can feel the tension coiling through his entire frame. His muscles tense beneath his skin like he's holding back something primal, something that wants to take and take and take.
You whine against his lips, a sound of pure fear and frustration, and the sound almost undoes him. You feel him shudder - a full-body tremor - before he literally forces himself to pull away, his jaw clenching so hard you hear his teeth grind. He tears his mouth from yours like it takes physical effort, his breathing ragged.
His grey eye searches your face.
"Oh, that?" he says softly, almost amused. "I know it scared you. I could see it. I do apologize, sweetheart. But you clung to me that whole time - I wanted you to see what could’ve happened.”
Your blood runs cold. Yet, he continues to dry you, his hands coming back up to your face to wipe your tears.
"I know it's horrible for me to say, but I wanted that to be you," he continues, his voice dropping to something darker, more intimate. "So badly. It took everything in me not to snap when we drove back to the firm. Watching you react to her... I couldn't stop thinking about it. About how you'd look just like her."
Your tears have long since stopped, your eyes burning with the strain. They just stare at him in complete horror, unwavering, unblinking.
"Everything is going to be fine, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice soft and tender - the voice of your boss you found all too familiar, the man who'd been so patient and kind.
i apologize for my absence, the night shifts are killing me!!! i hope you all enjoyed it! i'll try to write more fluffier stuff after this, no more scary guys (i am lying) <3
Oh shit. I have no words. This was amazing
