John Price who isn’t just older—he’s worn in. A little gross. A little rotten. Manipulative. The kind of man who sees a pretty bird like you—young and sweet, all soft lips and shy eyes—in some dingy pub sipping something pink, and he doesn’t think I want her. No. He thinks mine.
John Price who decides quick. From the first glance, it’s already settled. He’s already imagining you on your knees in his kitchen, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Already thinking about how tight your cunt will feel wrapped around him. How pretty you’ll look pregnant, tits swollen, begging for him to fuck you slower.
You don’t know it yet, but he’s mapped it all out—where you’ll sleep in his house, how long he’ll let you play independent before he starts cutting off your options. You won’t need your job. Won’t need friends. Won’t need anything but him.
He’s already picked the ring. Already picked the crib. Already thinking about whether he’ll fill you up before or after dinner.
Twisted in the head, that’s true—but it doesn’t matter. He knows what you need before you even open your mouth. Knows how to touch you, how to own you, without ever asking for permission. You’re not equals. Never were.
He’s choosing you. He’s keeping you.
And oh, sweetheart—whether you feel it yet or not, he’ll make damn sure you learn to be grateful.
Grateful to wear his ring. Grateful to carry his name.
Grateful every time he fills you up, breeds you with his cum until you’re full—so full it leaks out of your swollen, poor cunt—reminding you exactly who you belong to.
Because in his house, in his bed, wrapped around his cock—you’re not just his girl. You’re his wife.
And he’ll fuck the doubt right out of you if he has to.
Honestly, the way I'm tired of working, I'd become the traditional wife of a hot dilf who's obsessed with me in a heartbeat.
Don't get me wrong, I'm completely feminist, and part of being feminist is understanding that a woman can choose how she wants to live her life. So sometimes a girl just wants to be a housewife and get fucked hard, and that's okay.
Here’s the thing—gross, old, disgusting John Price isn’t gonna let you question a single fucking thing. You’re not here to stress. You’re here to serve. To stay pretty and obedient and wet, full of his cum and his kids and his rules. Because what’s there to worry about, sweet’eart? Bills? You’ll never see one. Won’t even know where they go. He’ll cover it all—rent, utilities, groceries, your dumb little skincare—like the man he is. All you’ll have to do is look good and open your legs when he says so.
Lonely? You won’t have time for that. Not when your body’s busy stretching around the first baby, tits heavy and leaking milk. Not when the second’s already on the way before you’ve even named the first. And he’ll be right there, hand on your hip, whispering, “Told you I’d give you a family, didn’t I? Look at you, my perfect, perfect wife.” If your thighs are sore and your back hurts, he’ll rub it for a minute, kiss your shoulder, then pull you into his chest and wrap his arms around you like he didn’t just ruin you. Like cuddling makes it better.
And if that rusted, tired little voice inside you—the one that studied books and said no and signed her own paychecks—starts to stir? If your feminist starts getting nervous, starts clawing up through the thick syrup of domesticity and cock? He’ll shut her up. Fuck it silent. He’ll coo in your ear, “You’ve done it all alone before, sweet’eart. Let me take it from here.” And that’s when he bends you over the kitchen counter and fucks you stupid, pound every ounce of resistance out of your cunt until your brain forgets how to spell independence. Until the only words you know are yes, Daddy and I’m yours.
Hello I just want to say I've just discovered your writing and It's really good so far! So far my fav is butcher simon.
Keep up the great work and I'm excited for more
-marcy
Ahhh thank you so much marcy! T T I’m really glad you’re enjoying the writing. Messages like this keep me going. Thank you for taking the time to say something🥺it really does stay with me. 🫶🏻💕
unless they specifically asked, you don’t get to tell a fanfic writer you think they mischaracterized the character by the way. because the second someone writes a fanfic about a character, that character becomes the writer’s own version of the character. canon is only a suggestion, but whether or not an author will follow it / how much of canon an author will take is entirely up to them. you don’t get to stick your nose in their world and tell them “hey this is not to my liking therefore I think you’re doing it wrong” when you can simply leave quietly and move on to something else you may enjoy
Fanfic authors write for free. You don't get to complain about free art. It's only constructive criticism if it was asked for. Otherwise, you're just being mean. You aren't entitled to anything. They don't have to make their work "better" for you.
I write for myself and post for others who enjoy it. If you don't enjoy it, move on. I love my writing. I write my characters in a way that I love. The day I change my writing to please others is the day I lose my genuine passion.
ghost x f!reader. 17k words.
cw: noncon. kidnapping. gun violence. free use. smut. mentions of involuntary groinal responses lol. simon is a smug asshole and reader is into it
you get robbed at gun point while working the lone register at a nowhere petrol station. the money in the till is not the only thing he takes with him.
or [read on ao3]
Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so they say.
The devil should have been busy with you, then. Malignant boredom had taken root in you, rankled in every crevice and swell, metastasized like knobbly tumours that parasitised on your will to live until only the gritty alluvium was left.
You began your shift behind the till at the Gulf station in the late afternoon, shy of four p.m., as you had done yesterday and as you would tomorrow. You took over from Mitchell, who worked the morning shift, the old man with a wiry grey beard and eyebrow hairs like corkscrews sticking haywire out of his forehead. You’d work until midnight, when you would be replaced by Charlie, a pinguid twenty-something with legs like beanpoles and eyes so sunken they were hollow as caves in his skull.
They had been your co-workers for the better part of three years, yet they might as well have been strangers to you. The scant exchanges you would share with them were a few words at shift change, if that. Mitch would prattle on about some rude geezer and tell the same story about his ex-wife that he had every other week. Charlie, bedecked in his cheap headphones and carrying an egg sandwich cling-wrapped by his grandmother, would only give you a nod and ask been busy? with little attention paid to your answer.
You had been offered the morning shift when you first started.
The owner of the franchise station, Dave, was uneasy about the prospect of a ripe (his word) young woman working alone behind the register after dark, at a nowhere white-pole station in the sticks, where the only customers were long-haulers and on-the-way-home farmers. A just concern, you supposed, and a part of you had considered taking him up on his offer.
You refused, in the end.
Told him that someone like Mitch (frail, near-blind, on the cusp of Alzheimer’s) would far more likely be victimised by the ilk of patrons that trudged through the station. In your experience, anyway, most of the late-night customers that came through the push-door understood the implication of a burly old man being served by a young woman on her own. They’d tread more carefully, offer you kind smiles, sometimes mention their wives to make sure you understood they were not a threat to you.
There was always the odd lecher, though. Goes without saying.
The kinds of yellow-toothed men that would lean too far over the counter, talk to you like they knew you, overly familiar. The type to ask you to smile for them, or for a discount, or for your number. Ones that would joke about coming back, just to visit you. That would say you’re too pretty to be working in a dump like this, you should be in a bar instead. Maybe on a pole. Maybe in the passenger seat of their truck, to keep them company.
It never frightened you, really, because nothing ever happened. You stuck with the late shift because it offered the fanciful possibility that something interesting might come to pass. Maybe, if you were lucky, there would be a car wreck outside the station, or a patron threatening enough to justify hitting the panic button, or a fire set off by the fuel pump and you’d finally be able to put the ten-year-old extinguisher to use.
But you were confident that every shift would be the same, as always.
Nothing would happen, you would drive home to your shoddy seventies cottage in the pit-stop hamlet of Dunhill, eat a frozen pastry, sleep alone, and do it all over again. Days came and went like empty boxes on a trundling conveyor belt, your life a deserted factory, only still whirring because the last attendant forgot to switch off the machinery when they left.
Today was no different.
You perused the grocery shelves with cheap earbuds stuffed in your ears, the kind with squishy mushroom plugs that made it sound like you were underwater. Shuffling through the same playlist you had been slowly adding to over the last year — you liked the songs you already knew every word to, creature of habit that you were. Busied yourself by twisting the canned foods so that their labels all faced outwards, then backwards, just for a laugh.
It got to half-nine, the sun had long since set, and you had served one customer since your shift started. A middle-aged man with a muddy van, who bought three RedBulls and a pack of Chesterfields, and half a tank of diesel. He scarcely acknowledged you, a hi when he walked in and a cheers when he left.
Your meal for the evening was a pack of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps and a bottle of chocolate milk, plucked from the shelves and not logged. Leaned back in the plastic chair behind the till with your Chucks propped up on the counter, some Sally Rooney book with its spine broken folded in half in your hand.
You had milk in your mouth when you heard the characteristic thud of a closing car door, a harsher slam than you were used to. Attuned to the noise even while your ears were plugged. You swallowed it hard when you heard the chime of the bell, the swing of the door, the thuds of boots. New customer.
Sat upright, you peered over the register to see who had entered the station, and you were flummoxed when there was nobody there.
You grabbed your earbuds by the flimsy cord and tugged them from your ears with a pop — there were footsteps, someone was there, you weren’t crazy. You could hear the sound of provisions being swept from shelves and shoved into a bag, the bonking of cans and the crinkling of plastic.
Only once you stood did you see the head above the shelves.
Black hood up, you only saw the side of him as he wandered down the aisle, towering beast shuffling along and torpidly picking things up just to put them down again. A foot taller than the racks he meandered between. Wore a black leather bomber over his hooded sweater, well-worn hide, turned tawny brown in the creases and at the edges. All bulky, padded up. His shoulders swayed with the bravado of a gladiator who spent his life unchallenged.
Had you any remaining hospitality in your system you’d have greeted him, but you circumspectly held your tongue.
There was something in his presence that did not augur well. Something crooked, something bent. Turned the tired air inside the station dyspneic, too dense and thick to comfortably breathe.
Call it a woman’s intuition, if you believed in such a thing.
Simon hadn’t accounted for a bird at the till.
He’d have expected some ruddy-cheeked man with buck teeth and brown-bordered sweat stains on his shirt. The typical clerk at a shithole backroads petrol station, in his experience. They’d shoot him a grimy look, eye him up-and-down with a curl in their lip, all ruffian until he brandished the Sig Sauer he had tucked in the waistband of his jeans.
That was what he had prepared for. He came to stick the gunmetal barrel in the face of the old bloke behind the register, demand every stack of cash from the till drawer and anything valuable he had on his person, maybe fire at the ceiling if he moved too slowly. Piece of cake. In and out.
Instead, it was you.
Sneakers propped up by the register, sucking the crisp dust off your fingers with pink lips. Reading a book as disinterestedly as you might watching paint dry.
Unlucky for you, it didn’t make a difference that you had a pair of tits. He wanted that money.
Your chary little head poked up from behind the counter once he was done collecting his supplies. A few cans of Baked Beans, couple bags of crisps, some vacuum-sealed biersticks. A roll of gauze and a bottle of Dettol for the flesh wound in his thigh. Pack of tissues. Bic lighter. KitKat for a treat. All shoved in the duffle bag he held in his fist, heavy with the wads of cash he had already collected from the last pit-stop on his trip north — an offy in a piss-stained back alley in Cheltenham. Grabbed a few pilsners for the road from there, too.
He forsook his urgency as he approached the register, measured pace, duffle in hand. Eyeing you up with each step as if you were a candybar on a display rack.
Pretty wee thing.
He hadn’t even shown you his gun yet, and your eyes were already peeled wide, glistening in the bright fluorescent lights hanging overhead.
None of the goods he intended to pay for. He didn’t need to make that any clearer to you, the assumption was already plastered on your face as he loomed towards you. Had his mask on, after all; thick black ski mask pulled over his head, jagged holes cut out for his eyes. No doubt that made quite plain his intentions.
You stood pin straight, curling the purple cord of your earbuds between your fingers as if some attempt to ground yourself. Not a drop of makeup on, he could see the satin sheen of sweat on your forehead, the plum rings unconcealed under your eyes. Nobody to impress out here. Still pretty.
“Um, which pump?” You asked flatly, tone meek, in denial of the obvious.
Your stupefied stare followed his hand as it ventured to the base of his sweatshirt, a frown fluttering in your brows as you all but tilted your head in anxious confusion. He reeled up the heavy fleece, white t-shirt underneath — but that wasn’t what your eyes clung to.
His hand curled around the grip of his handgun, plucking it out from the waistband and holding it insouciantly at his side. No need to point it at you, not yet.
Your skin turned cadaver grey as your blood flooded to your feet, eyes bulging with the instantaneous panic that wracked you as though you had been smacked in the face with it.
“Oh my god — ohm — oh my god,” you squeaked, tongue knotting in your mouth, tears quick to fill your kittenish eyes. “Oh my god — y-you—”
It was this, the histrionics, that he hoped to avoid. The tears, Christ, the fucking tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about, not yet, but your eyes glowed sanguine, and the tears that oozed from them were clear and glittery. Rolled dramatically from their wells and dripped from your chin, seeped into the corners of your trembling mouth. All flushed and glossy and he hadn’t even spoken yet.
There was no blood-curdling outburst, though. You didn’t scream, didn’t wail, didn't scurry around hysterically like a decollated hen. You were stiff as a board, arms pinned flat to your sides. Merely whispered the Lord’s name in vain over and over as if he might answer your call.
“Please — ohmygod — please don’t hurt me,” you cried, lungs seizing with every word, hiccuping and spluttering like you had just been pulled ashore. “What do you want, you can — you can take anything. P-please—”
“Shut up,” he barked, and you flinched at his aggression. “Just open the fuckin’ till.”
You nodded so vehemently he thought your head might roll off your shoulders, and your pallid hands began raking over your body in desperate search of the pocket you kept your keys in. His glare followed keenly as they ran over your hips, waist, unabashedly caressing your arse in the search. After finding them in a back pocket you tried to orient the keys in your grip, but your fingers trembled so vigorously that you immediately dropped them to the linoleum floor.
“Fuck — I’m sorry,” you bleated as you bent down to pick them up, eyes still riveted to him, “I’m sorry, let me just — please, I’m sorry—”
He let out a grunt of exasperation as he marched around to the other side of the counter, your feet remained planted still as though you were bolted to the floor, leery eyes following him while your head kept rigid.
A deer in headlights. Fawn, more like. Small and doe-eyed and too stupid to get out of his way.
You only whimpered when he jostled you away from the till, physically driving you to the wall with his hands under your arms, clearing his path. He took your shaky little hand in a fist and peeled it open, plucking the keys from your sweaty palm.
The register was old, something from the nineties, yellow-faded plastic with cube-clacky buttons. He shoved the tiny key into its slot on the drawer, gave it a good shimmy to loosen it up, and it popped open with a ding.
Pretty much empty.
“The fuck is this?” He growled, fingering through the notes in the drawer — all twenty-two of them. “There’s fuckin’ nothing in ‘ere!”
Your face screwed up like a wrung cloth when his glare shot to you. Great gulping sobs, your eyes squeezed into fleshy little crescents and spewed tears from either corner, terror rilling from your nose and making your lips all wet.
“I’m sorry — it’s not my — I think Mitch m-must have done the cash drop this morning,” you wailed, “Please — it’s not my f-f-fault!”
“Shut up,” he snapped, jutting the mouth of his Sig Sauer at you, callously reminding you of the fate he held in his grip.
He snarled to himself as he plucked out all of the notes, flipped through them to count it up. Nine fivers, six tenners, five twenties, two fifties. A few quid worth of coins floating around unorganised between the compartments. A prodigious spoil of three-hundred-and-five pounds.
Fucking joke.
He rancorously shoved all the paper in the bag — left the coins, ego too tall to fish out the petty change.
“Piss take,” he grumbled as he slammed shut the till drawer. “What else y’got.”
You blinked up at him timorously as he tucked his gun into his jeans and marched towards you, almost buckling over as though you could curl up into a shell to protect yourself from him.
Only cried as he spread your arms, shamelessly smearing his hands over your body to feel for something in a pocket. Down your waist, stomach, hips; all pillowy under the pressure of his hands, soft even through your t-shirt. Prodded the undersides of your breasts with shameless fingers, checking for anything tucked in your bra, and your lips curled in disgust as you looked away from him.
He almost cracked a smile at your diffidence. Maybe another time, pretty thing.
He flipped you around, manhandling you until your nose pressed into the wall. Hands smoothed down your back, before finding something rectangular tucked into the tight pocket of your skinny jeans. You squeaked in dispute as he stuck his fingers in the pocket, flush with your arse, but he had no time to enjoy it.
Little red wallet.
He flicked through it — a visa debit card, expired Primark gift card, two quid in the zipped pocket and a tenner note folded in a card sleeve. Eyed your license for longer than necessary — cute little photo of you, a tiny smirk in your lips as you gazed at the camera.
“Pretty name,” he said wryly, and you only huffed with your forehead pressed against the wall.
He didn’t bother taking any of the change. Looked like you needed it as much as he did. You winced when he pushed a finger in your back pocket, tugging it open so he could shove your wallet back in.
He instead returned his attention to the checkout, scouring the counters for anything else that could be deemed at all valuable. Nothing, obviously. Merely cardboard display racks of chewing gum and cheap candies. There was a cigarette cabinet behind the till, at least — after some fiddling he found the key on the chain that fit the lock, broke open the steel door, and swept an entire rack of cartons into the duffle bag.
As a last resort, he dropped the bag and crouched down, wiped underneath the countertops with gloved hands, hoping for a vault, a hidden compartment, or—
His fingers brushed plastic, creasing and soft; something wrapped in film, taped to the underside of the counter. He tore it off with a zip, held it in a tight hand; a stack of notes, more than a centimetre thick, wrapped with a hair tie and shoved in a zip-seal sandwich bag.
You let out a remorseful sob as you sunk to the floor with your back against the wall; thighs tucked to your chest, head dropped to your knees.
A grin peeled his lips from his teeth as the realisation settled. “This yours?”
“No,” you chirped, a pitiful attempt at a lie — he was unsure why you wouldn’t admit to it, it wasn’t as though he’d have informed your boss.
“Skimming, eh?” He snorted, peeling open the yellow seam of the plastic pouch and fishing out the stack. Flipped through them — mostly tens and twenties — easily a couple grand, at the very least.
“I just—” you sobbed, shoulders hunched, “I was just saving up. It doesn’t matter. Just t-take it.”
“Saving?” He asked incredulously, voice thick with amused derision. “Little thief. No better than me, are ya?”
“Whatever,” you bellyached, arms wrapped around your knees, snivelling on the floor.
He sucked his teeth as he dumped the stack in his bag. Too bad. His now.
As he went to stand, though, he went dead still — eyes hooked on a flashing blue light under the counter. Squinting, he leaned closer, to substantiate his hunch—
A fucking panic button.
His rage burst like a purulent blister, apoplectic with it, he ripped his handgun from his jeans and steamed towards you.
“You fuckin’ hit the alarm?” He roared, and you shrieked in terror as he took the collar of your t-shirt in a fist and heaved you up from the ground.
“I — I’m — I didn’t—”
Your spluttering only enkindled his fury. You cried out in despairing dread when he shoved the mouth of his pistol into the soft flesh under your chin, and he held his teeth to your cheek.
“Why the fuck would you go and do that, eh?” He growled, inexplicably disappointed. Thought you were smarter than that.
“I’m sorry,” you bawled, shaking your head, wet eyes bolted to the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to do, I just — I thought I was s’posed to, I’m s-sorry. Please — god, please, don’t kill me.”
He huffed, jaw rigid.
He wouldn’t put a bullet in you, pretty thing. Too lovely to mire with lead, that butter-soft skin.
It was a shame you were such a thorn in his side, fractious girl, because otherwise he would have just left you be. Would have taken his cash and been done with it, left you in your piss-wet jeans to cry to your boss about the ordeal and rightfully request some weeks off to escape to somewhere more therapeutic for the soul than fucking Dunhill.
“Would be a damn waste,” he grunted, finally pulling his gun from under your chin, sticking the barrel into his jeans. A moan of relief leaked from your throat once the instrument of your imminent death was no longer kissing your jaw.
Premature relief, love. He grappled you away from the wall, and with a shove, had you in front of him. You yelped when he collared you with a tight hand around the back of your neck, stumbled over your feet as he began driving you forward.
“What are you—”
“Use those legs, girl,” he barked, as he reached to hoist up his duffle bag from where he left it on the floor.
You blubbered like a toddler, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, as if your tears might engender pity from him. “Are you t-taking me?”
“Not gonna leave you to blab to the cops, am I?”
Another sob. “No — I wouldn’t — I won’t say anything, I don’t even know what you look like. Please—”
“Christ, you’re a whinger, aren’t you?” He rumbled, barrelling through the swinging door and hauling you across the asphalt of the forecourt.
The air was thick with the greasy smell of petrol seeping from lousy fuel pumps, amalgamated with the distant fumes of factory farms and cow manure that hung in a blanketing smog from there to Birmingham. Only the corrugated metal infrastructure of beef and dairy industries for miles in any direction out there.
He couldn’t fathom what a bird like you was doing with her feet in the mud, stagnating in such a miserable shithole. Maybe he was doing you a favour.
He tore open the passenger door of his twenty-year-old Mitsubishi L200 — a rusty black pickup he bought with cash from a shrivelled old man on Gumtree, with hopefully just enough life in it to last the drive north.
You stuck your hand out and planted it on the edge of the door as he pushed you towards it, vigorously shaking your head. “No, n-no — I’m not going with you, I’m not—”
He snorted, and when you didn’t capitulate with a shove, he swept an arm under your knees and hoisted you upward before dumping you into the passenger seat whether you liked it or not. You landed with a squeak, and before you could spew out any more vacant refusals he slammed shut the door.
He stormed around to the drivers side and hopped in beside you, tossing his duffle bag back between the seats, hastily igniting the engine as he shut his own door. Hit the central lock button and the entire truck locked shut with a clunk — you whimpered when you heard it, and turned your knees away from him.
“Where are you taking me?” You cried, as he revved the truck and rapidly accelerated, tearing out of the forecourt and over the curb, landing on the road with a sharp bounce and a tire screech.
He paid little attention to your whimpering as he sped off down the dilapidated country road, eyes flicking to the rearview every odd second to make sure he saw no flashing lights in pursuit. The vehicle dipped and recoiled over every pothole on the crumbling old road — motorway would be preferable, but he decided heading in the opposite direction to loop back around would be the safest bet.
You only sobbed quietly to yourself in his silence, no doubt his lack of response was a threat in itself.
He had no issue frightening you. Served you right.
Took some morbid glee in considering what you imagined he planned on doing with you. Whether you considered weighing up your chances. Might you survive if you were to attack him? Would he go easy on you? Might he enjoy the struggle?
Perhaps you were girding yourself for what he might do next.
Truth was, he hadn’t decided yet.
His decision to take you was as impulsive as it was inexorable.
You weeped until your tear troughs were droughted and nothing more could bleed from their ducts. Cheeks had gone sticky with it, salt dried gritty on your flushed skin, lips shrivelled and thirsty.
Transient thoughts of rebellion had been ignited and snuffed out in the ten minutes since he had abducted you from the station — you could have reached over and pulled the gun from his waistband, could have tried to kick through the passenger window, could have thrown a nuclear tantrum and bucked and screamed until he was forced to pull over.
All would have been futile. You weren’t stupid.
He had that gun in his immediate reach; in fact he kept a heavy hand resting high up on his thigh, prepared to yank it out of its nest above his crotch at any given opportunity. He had made abundantly clear the shortness of his fuse, and that his reflexive reaction to annoyance was to threaten your life.
Best you settle down, you thought — wait until his guard was down, until he pulled over somewhere, then consider something more drastic. While you were trapped in a car with him such an opportunity was unlikely to present itself.
There were no streetlights out this way; your abductor had bypassed Dunhill entirely, sticking to unmaintained back roads that had you bouncing up and down in your seat. Not the motion alone that made you queasy, but the fact he was driving even deeper into nowhere, where the only sources of light were the headlights of his truck, illuminating the dark road ahead like something out of a found-footage horror film.
“You didn’t answer my question,” you croaked, voice abraded to the point of gurgling stones.
You felt his head turn to look at you, but you kept your stare pointed out your window. Knees turned so far away from him that they burrowed into the door.
“Eh?” He huffed dryly.
Sipped a cautious breath before repeating yourself. “Where are you taking me?”
“I’m ‘eaded north,” he said, no elaboration.
“Where north,” you asked more firmly, warily frustrated.
He let out a breathy chortle, as though surprised you’d interrogate him. “Scotland.”
You cocked your head back in bewilderment and turned to glower at him. “Scotland?”
“S’what I said.”
“I don’t want to go to Scotland,” you whined, realising quickly the length of the drive — easily six hours to Glasgow if he stuck to the motorways, but you got the sense he was avoiding them.
“That’s a shame,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” you pleaded, terror thick in your throat. “What do you — what do you want from me?”
You regretted the question as soon as you uttered it, because there was some comfort to be found in uncertainty — that is, the possibility that he wasn’t going to throw you into the bed of his truck and rape you in the pitch dark of the backcountry night.
He looked at you again, eyes tar-black in the shadows of his balaclava, and you held shut your thighs on instinct.
“Dunno yet,” he said.
You might have cried if you had any tears left to give. Instead you blinked at him uneasily, petrified into a surreal state of milky numbness — maybe you were in shock, you had heard of that before.
“So you — you just took me because you felt like it?”
He shrugged with a single shoulder. “‘Spose so.”
A minute of stodgy silence settled in the cab as you stared blankly ahead down the spotlighted country road. You weren’t sure what you should do with yourself, and it made you itch all over. From the pits of you echoed screams to put up a fucking fight, to do something — instead you sat quietly, vacantly, erosively indecisive. Waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop.
“Are you going to shoot me?” You timidly asked, words eking out like dripping water from a tight faucet.
“Hopefully not.”
“Then — then why did you take me?”
His head rocked back and bounced off the headrest as he let out an exasperated puff of air. “Y’make a lot o’ noise, don’t you?”
“Well there would be no noise if you hadn’t.”
He laughed at that, you could see the fine lines creasing in the corner of his puckering eyes through his mask. “Got me there.”
“So then why don’t you just let me out?” You pestered, only emboldened by his droning indifference. Apathy exuded from him like serum from an open wound, oily yet salutary, and you found it grotesquely reassuring.
“Don’t want to,” he bluntly replied.
“Why not?”
He was twitchy. On a razor edge. He lasered a glare at you and it stung, and you shrunk into yourself under the heat of it.
“Because I don’t want to.” He repeated, jaw tight.
You should have heeded the venom in his throat as a warning to shut up, but despite effort to wire your jaw shut, your compulsion to fill the silence was pathological.
“Are you — are you going to—” Couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. The tail of it sat heavy and sour on your tongue.
“Goin’ to what.”
A quivering breath leaked through your teeth. “Rape me.”
He sighed heavily, languidly rocking his head to the side, and you felt his hard eyes on you. Excoriating you from legs to lips.
“Thought about it,” he said.
Ribs closed like dog jaws around your lungs.
Said with such torpor that it didn’t cut you like a threat. Instead it made your heart tight and hot, shuddering rather than beating, pumping out needly adrenaline that made your hairs spike up and your stomach drop heavy.
“And?” You creaked, voice scratching in your trachea.
“Wouldn’t mind a fuck,” he grunted indifferently. “But I don’t like crying.”
A mortifying heat feathered over your cheeks. Something pre-programmed, an evolutionary reaction to the suggestion of sex at all, consensual or otherwise — that’s what you told yourself, when you felt a reflexive shiver between your legs, and your ears turned hot.
“So that’s why you took me,” you mumbled anxiously.
“To fuck?”
You shot him a pointed lour in place of a response.
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
Fucking weird girl.
Your curiosity was potently unsettling, riveting in the same breath. Didn’t make sense to him, that you’d ask him so unabashedly whether or not he intended on defiling you. What answer were you hoping for? Did you simply want to make sure he said no?
You blinked at him vacantly after his candid response. No use in lying to you.
It wasn’t his style to brutalise himself into a bird, to bulldoze through wails and shrieks of refusal, physical capability to do so notwithstanding. He simply didn’t like tears. Felt beneath him, really, the impotent sadism needed to enjoy milking them. The only wetness he liked in a girl was a wet mouth and a wet cunt.
He was partial to a hisser, though. Liked his spitters and scratchers. The kinds of girls that would gripe and grouse about his brutishness but turned treacly sweet when he inevitably overpowered them.
Perhaps you’d be a hisser.
He would have liked to find out. What noises you might have made. What the skin of your thighs might have felt like when free of their denim sheaths. How your nipples might spike up in the invasive cool of the September evening, or under the unwelcome brush of his fingers.
There was a glimmer in the pools of your eyes, fretful yet inquisitive. He was probably only seeing what he wanted to see.
You went quiet after that, at least. For the best. Kept your little knees nailed together as you glowered out your passenger window, pleasantly pacified for the time being. Sulking like a fucking child, but he supposed he couldn’t blame you.
He wasn’t stupid enough to expect that you’d be cheerful after he kidnapped you. And he wasn’t in denial, either — he did kidnap you. There was no dancing around it. He threatened to kill you and then he abducted you, because he felt like it. Because he liked the look of you.
Not remorseful, though. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever felt sorry for anything. His brain just didn’t function that way. If he wanted something, it was his. No use wasting time feeling guilt over something not even he could prevent.
He spent his time in your silence considering how to make it worth his while. Whether he would, in fact, drag you all the way to Scotland with him. Whether he’d have you aid and abet his next robbery to make up for the piss-poor spoils he purloined from your petrol station. Whether he would find a way to fuck you on the way, or perhaps once he got to his destination.
Maybe he’d let you keep some of your savings if you showed him your pussy. He looked at you briefly as he thought about it. Wondered how badly you needed the money.
“What were you savin’ for, eh?” He asked suddenly, and you flinched at the sound of his voice.
Soft little girl. He’d need to harden you up.
“What do you mean,” you murmured, hardly a croak.
“Don’t play dumb,” he gritted.
You sighed warily, eyeing him before you answered. “Doesn’t even matter,” you grumbled. “You took it, so now I haven’t saved anything.”
He glowered at you, and something in his dissatisfied stare must have compelled you to elaborate. He had that effect on people. Birds, especially. Intimidation coursed through his blood and emanated out of his skin, it didn’t take much effort.
“I wanted to leave Dunhill, obviously,” you groaned, reluctant to spill every word.
“Yeah?” He asked, “where were y’off to?”
“Fucked if I know,” you muttered. “Literally anywhere else.”
He snorted at that. “Couldn’t do that without skimming, eh?”
“What, do you disapprove?” You hissed, scowling at him. “At least I don’t kidnap people when I need money.”
“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” he crooned through a grin. “M’only impressed.”
“Whatever,” you groused, crossing your arms and glaring out the window. “I only took it because I owe a bunch of money.”
He quirked a brow at that. “To who?”
“Why do you care.”
He shrugged. “Boring drive.”
You let out a petulant huff before you inevitably decided to answer him.
“I’m behind on rent,” you said, through gritted teeth. “Like, four months behind. And I’m still paying off my car, which I just needed to get repaired, so now I also owe money to the mechanic who did me the favour. Fucking owe money to the government, too, because they found out I was on the dole while I was working at the station.”
A curl tugged in his lips, brows raised in intrigue. No surprise you had managed to find yourself burdened by so many favours — landlord giving you grace, mechanics fixing your cars without payment upfront. Pretty thing like you, though, he’d expect you’d get everything for free. Couldn’t imagine what kind of penny-pinching wankers would still demand money from you when you looked like that.
Shame you didn’t cross his path sooner, he’d have fixed your car for you. No charge. Might have even let you squat at his place rent-free, assuming you made it worth his while.
Started to imagine it, despite himself. Pictured having a pretty thing like you to come home to. Standing in the kitchen in his t-shirt, nothing under it. He’d bend you over the counter and fuck you right there while you stirred your tea. Wouldn’t have taken much to get your cunt nice and wet, he thought. You seemed like you’d be easy to please, bored little thing, hopelessly awaiting a man like him to show you what’s worth living for.
Maybe he would take you all the way to Scotland, after all.
“What about you,” you asked dully, snapping him from his reverie. “Why do you need the money.”
He glanced at you, you picked your fingernails and glared at his hands on the wheel.
“Must need it pretty bad,” you muttered, scorn bubbling in your throat.
He tapped the steering wheel. “Long story.”
“What, are you a fugitive, or something?” You asked, contemptuous eyes raking over him.
“Is it that obvious?” He asked, through a chortle.
You gulped, almost cartoonishly. So scared of him. He was sure the mask didn’t help, but he didn’t feel like taking it off yet.
“What’d you do?” You questioned, that pang of anxiousness never quite leaving your voice, despite your attempts at feigning bravery. “Kill someone?”
“Worse than that,” he said frankly.
Your brows knitted together worriedly, fingers knotting. Nervous fidgeting. “Some kind of rapist, then?”
“Not quite,” he replied facetiously, certain you must have found his amusement at the prospect ill-placed.
“Then what?”
“Got in trouble with people you shouldn’t get in trouble with,” he explained, purposefully vague. He enjoyed your inquisitiveness.
“A gang?”
“Could call it that,” he jeered. “Special air service.”
Probably shouldn’t have told you that. Couldn’t help himself.
“Special — wait, you’re in the army?”
“Not anymore,” he said.
You frowned uneasily. “What happened?”
“That’s a tale for another day,” he grunted, and you turned to glare out the window again, spiteful now that he left your curiosity unsated. Little brat.
Twenty uneventful minutes passed uninterrupted, then, and Simon focused on the route he had set out to follow. Had successfully avoided main roads for the better part of an hour, now electing it safe enough to return to the highway. Took a few dark turn offs, and every time the truck slowed, you visibly tensed up; so terrified that he’d pull over for a rest stop and drag you into the grass on the side of the road.
He didn’t like the streetlights. They were confrontational, accusatory, as though their beams of light were enough to alert every cop in the vicinity to his presence underneath them.
The highway was largely empty, at least. Only one car passed in the opposite direction as he cruised along the smooth asphalt, decidedly more comfortable to drive on than the tattered backroads. Meant he could drive a lot faster, too. Might have been able to cut his trip by an hour, if he stuck to eighty-five miles an hour for the stretch between there and Birmingham.
Your girlish little hands clutched the armrest of the door as he accelerated, the speed of the vehicle pushing you against the window as he followed a curve in the wide road.
“You’re driving too fast,” you said quietly.
He cracked a grin. How endearing that you thought to warn him. You were lucky he was trying to keep a low profile, in any other circumstance he’d be brushing a hundred. Then he’d really scare you, wouldn’t he? You could do with some toughening up, he thought.
“Now you’re worried about the law, eh?” He sneered.
“I just don’t want to die in a car wreck,” you bit.
Seemed his docility was emboldening you. Perhaps you were a hisser, after all. Wondered if he needed to correct your behaviour. Maybe you’d spit on him if he reached over the centre console and fixed his hand to your thigh.
“You’ll be fine,” he said.
He avoided the arterial motorway that cut through Birmingham, choosing instead to stick to the A roads that bounced between exits and junctions in a zigzag. Hardly efficient, such a route would tack on an extra three hours of travel between there and Manchester, but at least far less monitored than the M5.
He got cocky, he supposed.
Saw the flashing red-and-blue lights before the sirens started blaring, and you jumped like a bunny — your head wracked around with a speed that made your neck crick, glaring at the cop car through the back windscreen.
“Fuck,” he barked, through a clenched jaw, eyes jumping between the cruiser in his rearview and the highway ahead of him.
He could have shoved his foot down, pressed the accelerator flat to the floor and fled the likely jaded cop patrolling the country highway at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. There was a chance the fat old bastard wouldn’t give chase, but that chance was slim. Simon didn’t need the attention.
He sunk his foot into the brake and slowed to sixty, veering into the shoulder. “Fuckin’ tosser.”
And didn’t you perk up? Itching all over to bounce out of your seat, head swinging back to look at the police car twice a second. All twitchy and riled up. He could see what you were thinking, it was printed in your cheeks, bright in your eyes; now’s your chance.
He hoped you weren’t that stupid.
“You gonna be a good girl?” He asked rigidly.
“What do you mean,” you squeaked, panicked, eyes peeled wide and skin glossy with sweat.
“Means keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” he snapped, lifting up his jersey, and you gawped at the gun against his stomach. “You make a scene, I’ll have to shoot him. And then I’ll have to shoot you. Y’understand?”
You nodded tightly, wiping under your eyes with your palms, some paltry attempt to collect yourself. He sincerely hoped you’d behave. He didn’t want to kill you. Would be a waste of a pretty bird. Not to mention a fucking pain in the arse to hide not one, but two bodies.
“Good,” he muttered, as he tore off his mask and tossed it on the ground between his feet, slowing the car to a stop on the side of the highway. Rubbed his hand over his buzzed head on instinct, cropped hair velveteen under his palm. Hopeful the knit didn’t leave suspicious imprints in his skin.
Your lips went a little slack when you looked up to see him unmasked, and a grin creased in his cheeks. Saw plain as day that glimmer in your little eyes, as they scoured over his face as if reading the pages of a book.
Didn’t think he’d be pretty, did you? He was not ignorant of his looks, and wasn’t humble about them either. So blatant in your flustered expression that you liked what you saw, only too virtuous to admit it to yourself.
He wound down his window before the policeman approached. He was adept at pretending to be a good boy. Spent decades licking boots in the military, and cops were even easier to please.
The officer was middle-aged and saggy-eyed, just as jaded as Simon had predicted. The truck was taller than him, so his hatted head peered through the center of the open window, assessing the cab with his lips in a line.
“Evenin’,” Simon said simply.
“Heading home, are we?” The officer asked, eyeing up the bird next to the driver, lathering you in more attention than necessary.
Could’ve clubbed him in the nose for so shamelessly drooling over you — as far as the cop was likely concerned, you were his bird, not some slapper along for the ride. He had king-hit men for less.
“You bet,” was all he said.
“Must be in a hurry,” the cop said derisively, glare finally returning to the driver. “Any clue how fast you were going, mate?”
Mate made Simon twitch. Swallowed back the urge to spit not your fucking mate, instead offering a placating grin and a pat of the steering wheel.
“We are in a bit of a hurry.”
“Yeah? Enough of a hurry to be going twenty over the limit?”
“Bird tells me to hurry home, I hurry home,” Simon jeered. “Y’know what I mean.”
The officer almost tutted, until your voice cut across from the passenger seat, and Simon’s knuckles turned white on the wheel.
“Don’t blame me,” you snapped. “It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself.”
To Simon’s surprise, the cop chuckled at that.
“Need to rein your fella in, love.”
“I tried,” you lamented. “I told him he was going too fast and he was going to get pulled over. I told him so. Bastard doesn’t listen to me.”
Simon blinked in your direction, to see you sitting upright with your arms spitefully crossed over your chest, cheeks red-hot with panic and knee bouncing in frustration. If he didn’t know the root of your unease was the fact he had abducted you, he’d have believed you were a contemptuous bird itching to castigate her reckless partner for getting in trouble.
Seemed the cop believed that, too. “Bird’s smarter than you, eh?”
Simon snorted, deciding to play along. “That she is.”
“Looks like you’re in plenty of trouble, then,” he taunted.
Simon looked at you, again, to see you scowling at him before you glowered out the windshield. “Mh. Think so.”
“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to do the paperwork,” the policeman said sternly. “I’ve got your plate, though, so slow down, yeah? Way down. No excuse for eighty-five in a sixty.”
“Understood.”
“Don’t let me catch you again, eh?”
Simon smiled politely, concealing the chortle that curdled in his throat. Cop wouldn’t be seeing him again at all, ever, because he was fucking off to a different country and intended to stay there for as long as he remained under the radar.
He’d have to dump the car, though. With the plate on the record it was fated for the scrapyard.
“Appreciate it,” Simon said through an artificial grin. “Have a good one.”
The cop only nodded, patted the car door with a flat hand, before waddling back to his cruiser without another word.
Simon was humiliated to admit the relief that doused him was sobering, letting out a ragged sigh as he rolled up the window and twisted the keys in the ignition. He was certain that the encounter would have been far uglier — felt his hand twitching towards the gun on his stomach more than once, imagined how quickly it could have been over if he simply tore it out and pointed it at the wanker’s forehead.
You, strange girl, saved his arse. Whether or not you had intended to help him, you did. His eyes fixed to you as he pulled back onto the motorway, speedometer creeping back up to sixty and staying there, while the police car was still in sight.
“‘Bastard doesn’t listen to me’?” He quoted with a brow raised, incredulous amusement rich in his tone.
“What,” you muttered derisively, staring rigidly out of the passenger window, arms tightly interlocked.
“Think of that on the spot, did ya?”
Seemed you were avoiding eye contact with him now, glare fastened out into the moonlit countryside and head bolted still. Ashamed, perhaps, that you had thwarted your only real opportunity to escape him. Or, worried that if you looked at him for too long, your fear of him might have mutated into something far more difficult to justify. He smirked at the thought.
“You should be grateful,” you grumbled.
“Should I?”
“You didn’t get arrested because of me.”
He chortled at that. Maybe your tactic to ingratiate yourself was to help him, but he got the sense that wasn’t your intention.
“In that case, ‘course I’m grateful.”
“Then say thank you,” you spat, finally swivelling your head on your neck to pin your grouchy little lour to him.
“Thank you,” he crooned, grin sharp.
“Whatever,” you griped, slumping back into your seat with a huff.
He wasn’t sure if he preferred you whining and crying to pouting like a teenager, either option tested his patience. He at least found the latter vaguely amusing, only slightly more endearing than a whimpering abductee in his passenger seat.
“Thanks not good enough for you?” He asked mordantly, and you scoffed. “What, do I have to lick your cunt to prove it?”
Your stare cut to him out of the corner of your eyes, head impudently bowed to avoid facing him head-on.
“Don’t say things like that,” you murmured uneasily, eyes glittering under the streetlight that passed by.
“Like what?” He sneered, “don’t want me to talk about licking your cunt?”
“Shut up,” you chirped, stiff-lipped, tipping your knees away from him and once again scowling out of your window.
He snickered at you, couldn’t help it, watching you get all tight and restless when he said it again. Certain you were involuntarily picturing his head between your legs, whether you liked it or not.
“Don’t like the word cunt?” He teased, winding you up for his own enjoyment. “Or don’t like thinking of me licking it?”
“Stop it,” you whined, shrivelling up like a raisin.
He grinned. “I can call it your pussy instead.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Uh-huh,” he laughed.
You turned to tug at the door handle, yanking at it unrelentingly, and it only thumped as you failed to break through the lock. “Let me out.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“Open the fucking door,” you spat, spite simmering in the back of your throat. “Let me out.”
He liked this better. Hissing derision, contemptuous attempts to escape, to demand your freedom. Much more enjoyable than your earlier weeping, all snotty and puffy-eyed.
“Not gonna happen,” he said.
“You’re a pervert,” you growled.
“So?”
“Let me go,” you repeated, glaring daggers at him.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said candidly, tone as rigid as he intended it to be. He meant it.
Again stymied, you slouched over and turned away from him, and went petulantly silent. Simon drove ahead unruffled, took another exit off the motorway — once again trundling over a poorly kept rural road, heading in the direction of the next highway junction half an hour north.
It was evident being off the beaten track put you on edge, pellucid in the way you tightened your arms around yourself once the streetlights became fewer and further between. He couldn’t blame you, it was certainly slasher-esque to cart you around backroads, where the only buildings were abandoned barns and grain silos. Lucky for you, he wasn’t a murderer. Not anymore. Besides, all of his past killing was government sanctioned. Most of it, anyway.
You kept your mouth shut for the next long while, huffing and puffing every now and again, making sure not to let him forget how unhappy you were with your circumstances. Strangely enough, he found it endearing.
“I need to pee,” you said suddenly, a squeak, shy to say so.
He snorted. “Think I’m thick?”
“I — I’m being serious,” you stammered. Unconvincing.
“Hold it,” he said unsympathetically, turning a left corner, the momentum making you tip into the centre console, your shoulder nudging against his before you spitefully tugged yourself away.
“I can’t,” you grouched.
“Piss yourself then,” he sneered. “I’m not keepin’ this car.”
Your brows scrunched up in disappointment. “I don’t want to — to pee on myself. That’s just gross.”
He smiled. Something cute about you.
“You can piss when we stop for the night,” he said. “How’s that?”
“We’re stopping?” You asked quietly, blinking at him charily, as if he’d change his mind if you spoke too loud.
“Been a long fuckin’ day,” he grumbled. “I’m not driving for nine hours straight.”
“Nine hours?” You pestered, “I thought we were going to Scotland?”
He couldn’t help but grin at that. Perhaps it was a Freudian slip — we. Maybe you had come to terms with it already, the ineludible fact that you were stuck with him for however long he wanted to keep you. So far, that looked like a good while.
“Taking the long way,” he answered.
“What the hell, how many people are looking for you?” You asked, pouting in worry.
He sucked his teeth. “Not enough to find me.”
You didn’t need to pee at all.
In fact, your nerves had sucked up every drop of water that remained in your body after your deluge of tears. They were glutted with it. All swollen and pinging with panic every odd moment, when you remembered you were supposed to be in fight-or-flight.
You were seething, though, that you had failed to convince him.
The plan was poorly conceived, in fairness — you only imagined getting as far as an unlocked door, girding your legs to bolt off into the endless fields on the side of the road in whichever direction they took you. Didn’t spend a moment considering whether you could outrun the goliath, or how rough he’d be when he predictably tackled you. Maybe he’d simply have shot you as you ran away, turned it into a game of target practice for his own amusement.
There was shame brewing within you, now.
Sweltering, emetic, frothy as it crawled up your throat — you were disgusted with yourself, at how pathetic you were being, at how little you had done in the interest of your own escape. How you had let all of it happen.
You always imagined yourself a fighter, it was easy to imagine such a thing. In hypotheticals you would kick and scream, could easily overpower your assailants by sheer will, your resolve to survive so strong that capitulation was inconceivable.
Reality stung.
You weren’t a kicker or a screamer. You were a sit-and-waiter, and that realisation was sobering as it was disappointing.
Humiliated that you had forsaken a real opportunity at rescue for no discernable reason. No reason you could truly justify. Perhaps you had done it to save the police officer; if you hadn’t intervened, your deranged captor would have shot the innocent man for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and it would have been your fault for making a fuss.
Terror was the next excuse, but that didn’t quite justify it either. If you were so terrified that the man would shoot you, you would not have uttered a word. No, you would have been quiet, a good girl, just as he ordered you to be.
It assuaged your fear, you thought, to see his face.
You were surprised to see a face at all beneath the mask, forgetting he was a man and not some caricature of chaos and violence. He looked like a soldier, too. All scarred and cynical, disillusionment was inlaid in his features despite how caustically he grinned at you.
His hair was freshly buzzed, sandy blond velvet coating his head, long pink cicatrices carved lines into his scalp as if someone had attempted to cut through it and peel it from his skull. He was tattooed, you could tell, by the teal-black engravings that crept up the side of his neck, the rest concealed by the thick hood of his sweatshirt. Nose a little swollen at the bridge, fractured once and poorly healed.
The shame was even more potent when you caught yourself eyeing him for too long, flicking over to him every now and again just to get a glance, the shortest possible eye contact to ensure he didn’t catch you staring.
Fucking mortifying that he was good-looking.
That your mind even allowed you to think so, that your eolithic subconscious had considered your abductor’s appearance at all. The way he had rakishly smirked at you was arrogance manifest, you could see in his russet-brown eyes a patent awareness of your attraction. As if he could smell it on you, goading you to admit it, ego stroked every time you caught his eye.
So you didn’t.
You kept your body tilted away from him, gaze locked out of your passenger window, sweaty hands clamped together. Every now and then you felt his glare on the back of your neck, heard him breathing in your direction — it felt as though you were counting down the minutes until he felt compelled to reach over the console and touch you.
It was only a matter of time, undoubtedly. That’s what he took you for, you were certain, despite his supposed ambivalence. The thought made your heart sit fat in your throat. Stopping for the night was a deadline.
“Where are we stopping?” You asked weakly, voice aimed at the passenger door.
He let out an exasperated breath. “Not sure yet.”
“Are you going to sleep in the car?”
He seemed to find that amusing. “I might not look it, love, but I’m a creature of comfort,” he said. “I’ll get us a bed.”
Us. You shivered when he said it.
A scornful refusal knocked at the back of your teeth, but you knew how he’d twist it, would mock your aversion. He’d make another foul little quip about your pussy, you thought.
You didn’t want to give him the chance to say the word again. Not simply because it was revolting to listen to the degenerate joke about eating you out — licking your cunt, it echoed in the sauna of your skull — but because the mere mention of it turned your cheeks claret-red and the back of your neck all clammy.
What was worse, is that you knew he could see it on you. Plainly emboldened by how much it ruffled you. Could decipher your unease as an effort to conceal some biomechanical reaction, one provoked by the mere suggestion of it, by the vibrations of his voice as he said it.
“Do me a favour,” He suddenly demanded.
You refused to turn and look at him. “What.”
“Grab me a fag, will ya?”
Animosity congealed in your mouth. The fucking gall to request favours of you. “From where?”
“Bag in the back there,” he said simply, “light’s in there too.”
“Fine.”
You peered behind the headrest, his unzipped duffle bag was dumped on the back seat; just out of reach if you were to extend an arm between the gap. Instead you had to twist your entire body and contort yourself through the middle, waist between the front seats as you climbed over the console.
You resented being in such a position, arse jutting out towards the windshield, unable to see the driver that sat so close to you — so you were quick about it, burrowing through the sack, stuffed to the brim with junk, and myriad different brands of cigarette cartons.
“Which ones do you want,” you asked impatiently.
He huffed as he thought about it. “What’ve we got?”
“Um,” you murmured, digging through the cardboard cartons. “Mayfairs, Richmonds… uh. Embassies, Davidoffs—”
“Mh. Gi’s a davidoff,” he interrupted.
You followed his instruction and plucked out the trim red box, and an orange Bic lighter once you found it at the bottom of the bag, wedged between wads of cash. You peeled away the thin plastic covering and flipped open the card lid as you reeled your body back between the seats — immediately you caught him lavishing your rear in attention. He sniffed casually when he caught your eye, utterly shameless.
Heart shuddered in your ears as you sat back down in your seat, gooseflesh prickling up in your skin as you held the carton out for him to pluck out a roll.
He pinched the end of one and stuck it between lips curled over his teeth, before gesturing wordlessly for you to give him the lighter.
“You’re a doll,” he said, muffled by the filter in his lips. Jaw jutted out to angle up the cigarette, he flicked the lighter in his fist with his thumb, little orange flame hovering under the end of the roll as he sucked it.
“Whatever,” you grumbled, swiftly turning away from him to return your attention to the road out the window.
Seemed he was approaching some area of population, little brick houses began popping up on the side of the street, lampposts peppering the road ahead. A surge of adrenaline made your hackles spike up — bystanders, you thought, people who might have heard you if you screamed loud enough.
“Want a puff?” He asked indifferently.
“I don’t smoke,” you snarked, distracted.
He snorted. “Goodie girl, are ya?”
“No,” you said curtly.
“Mh, that’s right — you’re a little thief,” he taunted. “Not a good girl at all.”
There was no response that would spare you his teasing, so you kept your mouth shut. Stayed silent for the remainder of the drive, in fact, a solid quarter-hour — until the car bounced over something and you jolted in your seat. Quickly realised he had pulled up into a parking lot as the truck began to slow.
A two-star Travelodge, evidently, one planted directly on the side of the northbound highway. It looked barren, coral bricks all grimy with lichen and sludgy brown water stains, every window blocked by shut curtains. Not a single light glowed from within a hotel room, only the dim yellow lantern bolted to the wall above the sliding door at the entrance.
You held your tongue in your teeth as he drove to a park at the very back of the lot, under a low-hanging tree branch, concealed by shadow. Your skin began to itch, crawling with bugs and alight with adrenaline — you could run, now, if he opened your door. Maybe you could sprint to the nearest building and hammer on the door, shriek that you’d been kidnapped, and to please please call the police. Or, maybe you could try to snatch his gun from him and shoot him in the fucking head.
Instead you sat still in your seat. Felt your chest breaking out in a panic rash.
“Righ’,” he said casually as he killed the engine, the suspension of the truck bouncing under the weight of him as he adjusted in his seat. “Look at me.”
You shook your head in refusal. Entire body stiff as wood. Anticipation frayed your nerves and made your hairs stand on end. It was suddenly real.
You kept your eyes pinned away from him, but it was futile, because he reached a massive arm across the gap and seized your jaw in a single hand. Fingers dimpled your cheeks as he twisted your head to face him, and you attempted to scowl at him, but your quivering lip made plain your alarm.
“You gonna make a fuss?” He asked stiffly, pinching his cigarette with his free fingers, silvery smoke clouding out from behind his teeth.
You just about said no on reflex, but bit down on it instead, because it likely would have been a lie. Only pouted at him scornfully and shivered in his grip.
“What d’you think will happen if you do.”
You swallowed. “You’ll shoot me.”
He shook his head. “Would be an uncomfortable night for you, though, I can tell y’that.”
A crease pulled between your brows. “Are you going to — to beat me up, or something?”
He chuckled at that, a cocksure grin; you suddenly felt a weight in your chest, burning hot, made your ribs sink and your heart flutter.
You hadn’t yet seen his face up close. His cheeks were stubbled, skin peppered with freckles and the creases of early aging. Teeth were sharp and unexpectedly white, raffishly crooked with pointed canines, a silver cap on a premolar. His lips were full, pale, a single scar running through the top one, white stripe in the ruddy pink.
The shame returned with a kick to the stomach when you noticed yourself staring at his mouth, and you tried to look away from him, but he riveted your head in place.
“Don’t plan on it,” he said, after a beat too long.
Sweat pricked along your hairline. “Then what.”
“I’d like to have a nice long snooze,” he grumbled. “I don’t wanna be up all night wrangling you. So if you throw a tantrum you’ll be sleeping tied up with a sock in your throat. S’that what you want?”
“No,” you chirped.
He nodded approvingly. “I don’t want that either. I like the sound o’ your voice. Be a shame to snuff it out, wouldn’t it?”
You attempted to nod, and though his hand kept you still he understood the intention. With a ragged sigh he finally released you, giving you a condescending pat on the cheek.
With a grunt he suddenly twisted and leaned between the seats, gargantuan body taking up the entire cab as he reached behind you to grab his duffle bag, and you wedged yourself against the door to avoid touching him.
Clambered about as he reeled the giant bag back to the front, before snatching the car keys out of the ignition and unlocking the driver side door. He kicked it open and hopped out with a huff, immediately slamming it shut behind him — only unlocked your door with his keys only once he was directly outside it, pre-empting any of your attempts to slip away.
He opened the door for you with a clunk, and the biting air of the late autumn night made your entire body tighten up.
“Get out,” he said.
You nodded, swivelling yourself on your bottom and sliding out of the truck cab, landing directly in front of him. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and left the stub smoking on the concrete.
“C’mon.” He fixed a hand to your bicep and yanked you away from the car, shutting the door with a slam.
You were light on your feet as he ferried you towards the entrance to the cheap hotel, his other fist white-knuckled around the strap of his bag.
“You don’t need—” you chirped, almost tripping over your feet, “—to hold me so tight.”
“No?” He snorted.
“I’m not gonna run,” you spat, hushed despite yourself.
“Obviously.”
The sliding glass doors trundled open as you approached them, a tired ding echoing out to welcome you. The reception was quiet, poorly lit by vibrating fluorescent bars, stunk of fresh linen toilet spray and floor cleaner.
Your abductor let go of your arm abruptly when he noticed the receptionist — a teenage boy with headphones on, who disinterestedly looked up from a Nintendo Switch to address the tall brute that sauntered in with you in tow.
“Y’after a room?” The kid asks monotonously.
“Standard double.”
The receptionist clicked around on the computer, smacking chewing gum between his teeth “How many nights.”
“Just the one.”
Click click. “It’s sixty-eight for the night.”
“Y’take cash?”
The kid frowned dubiously at that, jaw hanging open as he rolled the wad of white gum along his tongue. “Sure.”
“Lovely,” your abductor grunted, unzipping the flap of his duffle bag and fishing out a thick wad of paper notes.
Jaw gaped as you watched him unashamedly finger between the notes to pluck out three twenties and a tenner, slapping them on the counter of the reception before tucking the stack away again. As agog as the receptionist at his brazenness, all but showing off his spoils, plainly stolen.
The kid pouted skeptically as he swiped the notes and counted them again, tucking them aside, and you wondered if he used the same technique as you.
He dropped a keycard on the counter. “Room thirteen,” he said.
“Cheers.”
Your abductor scooped up his bag and planted his other hand on the small of your back, nudging you ahead of him towards the narrow hallway, never allowing more than two feet to grow between his body and yours.
You glanced around feverishly as you wandered meekly down the corridor, identical doors mirroring each other for as far as you could see, until the hall turned a corner. Eyes clung to the glowing green emergency exit lights dotted along the ceiling, as if they might lead you to your salvation.
“Can’t believe you actually paid for a room,” you murmured spitefully, when he nudged you forward by the arse as if guiding a ewe.
“Wouldn’t want to break the law,” he chuffed.
In any other circumstance you would’ve giggled. You might have found him funny if he weren’t the deranged fugitive who had kidnapped you.
A yank of your shirt stopped you in your tracks, tugging you back — your abductor had flippantly taken your t-shirt in a fist, as he shoved the key card into its slot under the handle of a door behind you.
“In,” he snipped, shoving you through the door once he had pushed it open.
The room was small. Hardly enough room for the double bed in the middle of it, skinny end tables wedged on either side. The only amenities were a shin-height fridge and a kettle on a bench, tucked into a nook by the door. It was hot in there, too — radiator bubbling all day, you guessed, to counteract the cold weather.
Immediately you fixed your stare on the window by the bed; a good metre across, brown aluminium trim, lumpy textured glass that distorted the view of whatever sat directly outside the hotel room. Ground floor, you thought, easy to slip out, if you could open it —
Noticed, then, that there was no indication it could be opened at all. No hinges, no frames, no handles. Simply a flat plane of glass stuck in the wall.
Your stomach wrung itself, and you did your best not to keel over. The air was suddenly infinitely stuffier, sweltering, torrid in your lungs.
He flipped shut the bolt on the door, and landed a pat on your shoulder. You could unlatch it, obviously, but the old thing was squeaky, clanking old brass, and undoing it would certainly alert him.
He nudged you out of his way and dumped his duffle bag on the floor beside the bed, evidently claiming the side closest to the door, as if prepared to catch you should you try to slip around him.
In truth, the notion of escape was scarcely a whisper. Supplanted by a nauseating docility — a survival instinct, you thought, to simply behave. To do as you were told.
He began undressing himself, uninterested in whether you observed him; shucked off his old leather jacket and hung it over the back of his bag, unlaced and kicked off his muddy old boots. Your toes curled involuntarily into the soles of your shoes, watching him like a degenerate, as he tore off his hoodie and t-shirt and tossed them to the floor.
Something out of a movie, you thought; gargantuan beast of a man, broad-shouldered and cladded in such a dizzying mass of muscle and adipose bulk that he looked encumbered by it all. The icteric light of the sconces by the bed carved out the divots in his back, the valley of his spine, the symmetrical dimples above the waistband of his jeans — you felt sick with yourself, that you even let your eyes venture there, but they cleaved fast to him despite your chagrin.
He was slathered in tattoos as you had imagined, all flames and skulls and barbed wire, broken up by the occasional stamp of something more meaningful — a sacred heart, serif-font numbers, somebody’s name with a date beneath it. You could read it from where you stood; Johnny, 11/2023.
You were only thankful he hadn’t turned around — couldn’t see you leering at him, and spared you having to see him from the front.
“Still need to piss?” He asked roughly, and your lips twisted.
“No,” you said, still standing awkwardly by the door.
He snickered. “Seemed pretty desperate before.”
“I — yeah,” you stammered, “I don’t know. I’m fine.”
Gave you a shrug as he lumbered into the ensuite bathroom, and you heard the unbuckling of a belt and zip of a fly, the clunk of metal on a counter, then the steady stream of his piss landing in the toilet water.
You scoffed in revulsion. Fucking pig. Couldn’t even close the door. You heard him rinse off his hands at least, though you couldn’t be sure he had used any soap.
He emerged from the bathroom rubbing his shaven head and with his belt undone, leather straps hanging loose from his hips, zipper of his jeans wide open. His gun was gone. Plaid boxers bunched up, distended by the mass within and protruding through his fly — you felt yourself turn berry pink, more repulsed by yourself than him.
This time he caught you staring, and he was manifestly pleased about it. A smug grin pulled in his lips as he shuffled towards you, and you rested your weight on your back foot.
“Y’want a Valium?” He asked you, and you frowned at him bewilderedly.
“What?”
In front of you, now, you panted like a cornered animal in the shadow he cast. “Might help you sleep.”
You grimaced at him. “You just want to knock me out.”
He snorted. “Why would I do that?”
The daggers you stared at him served as your only reply, and he half-heartedly rolled his eyes at you.
“You reckon I’d want to fuck a sleeping bird?”
“Probably,” you muttered, averting his gaze when he uttered the word.
“No fun in that,” he said simply. “No nice noises if you’re asleep.”
You scoffed, perturbed by how he discussed it happening with you as if it were an inevitability. “What, like screaming?”
He cracked a grin. “Screamer, are ya?”
Your blood went runny. “Stop it.”
He brushed a knuckle under your chin, and you flinched — but to your relief, he relented. Turned away from you and squeezed the back of his neck as if to release tension.
“Get into bed,” he grumbled, plodding towards the bathroom, returning swiftly with his gun in hand.
You went cold. “Why?”
“The fuck do you think?” He replied curtly, shoving his pistol under his pillow, before he pulled his jeans down and your mouth went dry.
“I don’t want to,” you squeaked.
He chuffed at that. “Christ, fucking is the only thing on your mind, in’t it?” He taunted, “don’t get all worked up.”
“I’m — I’m not worked up, you—”
“I’m too tired for this shit,” he grunted, “‘n I’m not havin’ you up and about while I’m sleeping. Get into bed or I’ll put you in bed.”
There was no give in his expression, it was a final order. He did look tired — eyes were sunken and beset with aubergine rings, lids heavy with frustration and exhaustion. He stood with hands hooked on his hips as he impatiently awaited your acquiescence, and you sensed you were on a short timer.
“Fine,” you murmured, shuffling around the end of the bed with your arms crossed tightly, eyes averting him.
He watched you, though. Scrutinised your every move as you bent over to untie your shoelaces, pulling off your converses and dumping them on the carpet.
“Sleepin’ in your jeans?” He jeered, when you reached to pull back the blankets.
“I’m not taking my clothes off,” you retorted, sitting on the mattress and swiftly tucking yourself under the covers. The mattress was foamy, soft, sunk deep as though permanently impressed by all the bodies that have ever slept in it.
“Hardly comfortable,” he said, smirking, decidedly amused.
“Don’t care,” you groused, rolling onto your side away from him, blanket up to your ears.
He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”
You bounced on the mattress as he fell into it, springs moaning as they sunk deep beneath him, and you felt your body tip back towards him — you curled up, as close to the edge of the bed as you could get without toppling over the side.
He switched off the sconce above the bed, and the room was abruptly black as pitch.
The mattress recoiled as he adjusted himself, settling into bed with a gruff sigh, and you felt his warm breathing on the back of your head.
He seemed to find comfort quickly; exhales turning deep and languid, you sensed he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
There was some relief in that. Temporarily escaping him while he was unconscious.
With your heart thundering in your ears, though, sleep was impossibly out of reach for you. You could hardly keep your eyes shut, they fluttered and twitched as you tried to close them, and they’d bolt back open as though spring-loaded.
Now’s your chance — it echoed ad nauseum in your skull like the chiming of a clock, over and over until your ears rang.
You could have slithered out of bed and scurried to the door, unbolted it and ran down the hallway if you were quick enough. You could have used the steel-legged chair in the corner to shatter the window and sprint into the night. You could have slipped a hand under his pillow nice and slow, snatched his gun from under his head and shot him while he slept.
Instead you lay dead still, save for the trembling that never quite subsided.
You tried to vivisect your own mind while you stagnated in the bed. Attempted to determine why you failed to enact your own rescue, why you actively avoided pursuing your freedom.
The answer eluded you, in concrete terms anyway.
Truth was, you didn’t know where you’d go.
Literally, of course — you had no idea where you were, no phone with you, no sense of direction. You could run to a bystander and ask, of course, but you didn’t want to do that either.
It was as if you didn’t want to go back.
The thought of it nauseated you almost as gruesomely as the uncertainty of the path ahead. Of being dragged back to Dunhill, of being back to square one, of having no money, no prospects, no future.
It was the obscurity, you thought, that kept you there. Something new. Something different, albeit terrifying. The ambiguity of any future, however short, was somehow preferable than the certainty of not having one at all.
Worse to admit was whatever churning you felt between your legs. What seed he had planted when he took you had taken root, tendrils burrowing into the recesses of you and tumescing with a reluctant anticipation. You all but throbbed with it, as if your body were preparing itself for the inevitable, manipulating your mind into assenting to it.
It made you feel sick, and your skin was febrile, sticky with apprehension.
You were baking — the air was thick with it, stifling heat, though in truth it was likely your thundering nerves that set your body alight. Too anxious to release yourself from under the covers, or to roll into a cooler position, or to flip over your pillow to the cooler side.
You lay cocooned for as long as you could bear the heat, but your blood was molten and your head began to ache, and you resorted to uncovering yourself.
You did it desperately slowly, peeling the cover away from you inch by inch, and even in the air you found no relief. Your last resort was to turn off the radiator — if you could — but you’d need to get out of bed for that.
Slinked a leg over the edge of the mattress, whisper-slow, used your elbow to prop yourself up—
You felt a hand grab at your hip, and you were unceremoniously yanked back into the bed with a squeak.
“Where d’you think you’re goin’,” he grunted, voice gratingly hoarse after a half-hour sleep.
A ten-tonne arm was suddenly hooked over your waist, and you were flush with his back, his knees folded in behind yours.
“I just wanted to turn the heater off,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear you.
“Too hot, eh?”
You exhaled shakily. “Yeah.”
“Y’know why you’re too hot,” he murmured, and you felt him stick his fingers into the back of your skinny jeans, tugging the stretchy waistband and snapping it against your lower back.
“I just can’t s-sleep when it’s warm,” you stuttered, tongue tangling in your mouth.
“Bit restless, are ya?”
You felt his hand glide over your belly, and your muscles turned to stone, entire body tensing up with the touch.
“I’m not havin’ you tossing and turning all night,” he grumbled, thumbing at the button of your jeans, unfastening it with a pinch.
“Don’t do that,” you breathed, heart plugging your trachea, unable to swallow a real breath.
He persisted unimpeded as if he had not heard you, pushing down your zipper and stuffing his hand unhesitantly down the front of your underwear.
You squeaked in fright the moment his fingers brushed your mons — every millilitre of blood in your body flooded out of your extremities and pooled between your legs, a reflexive reaction that fired off every nerve ending under your skin.
“No, d-don’t—” your whimpers of refusal eked out between your teeth on instinct, but their root lay more in humiliation than fear.
His hand was icy against your feverish skin, and goosebumps bristled out from his touch — your vision went foggy as a cold middle finger the size of two of yours slid along your seam, lips went slack as the tip burrowed deeper.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunted, his stony voice tickling the hairs on the nape of your neck, “you are warm, aren’t ya?”
“Stop it,” you whined, half-heartedly, defeat viscid on your tongue.
His finger snaked deeper between your legs, the others flush with the puffy outer lips of your cunt, thumb burrowing into your groin as he wedged his hand in the tight gap between your pussy and your jeans.
He chortled under breath when the tip of his finger broached your entrance, dipping into the mortifying abundance of your fluid that had pooled there. God, there was so much of it, you were humiliated — you had been in denial, ignoring it, even as you felt it slicken the gusset of your underwear, maybe even the inseam of your jeans. It was only instinctive, you told yourself, it wasn’t like that—
“Jesus Christ, girl,” he chuffed, breathless, and you could not for the life of you tell whether he was proud or disgusted. “Made you wait too long, did I?”
You shivered, cunt pulsing around nothing, felt the nettle sting of adrenaline crawling down your spine.
“N-no, I—”
Bit down on your tongue as his slippery finger dragged up between your folds, catching your clitoris with a swipe and making your legs clamp together in a vice.
He only scoffed in awe. “Sensitive thing.”
“Stop doing that,” you mewled, so embarrassed that your cheeks were aflame, ears burning red-hot, heart galloping in your chest.
He didn’t believe your attempts at refusal, and you weren’t certain you did either — not when he stroked your clit with the palp of his finger, up and down, all of his movement honed in on the one spot that made you choke on air.
“Not so bad, is it,” he sneered.
You curled up like a cat, but he kept you fastened to him, immovable hand burrowed deep in your jeans. His finger slid between your folds effortlessly despite how hard you pressed your legs together — there was no escaping it, every brush of his fingertip against your slippery clit burned more than the last, igniting an inferno in the core of you that seemed inextinguishable.
Fucking humiliating, degrading, shameful, that the brute who had abducted you could make you feel that good, do so little to have you so, so—
“You’re a fuckin’ furnace,” he jabbed, and he swiftly tugged his hand from between your legs and out of your jeans.
Whatever remorseful noise spilled from your mouth was beyond you, high-pitched and so wanton it made you sick to hear it, but he only snickered.
“Quit whingein’,” he chided, taking your waistband in a fist.
He hiked your jeans down with a violent tug, tearing them down to your thighs, underwear pulled down with them. What little abnegation you had left turned to sugar on your tongue, dissolving in your saliva and sliding down your throat.
The blanket was gone, then, pulled off and pooled at the end of the bed — the slightly cooler air biting at your bare skin scarcely settled your tempers, even less so when he roughly shoved his hand between your legs again, now unobstructed. Three avid fingers prodded against your hole as if to collect the syrup that pooled there, slickening themselves before they dragged back up.
You yelped like a kicked puppy when he kneaded your clit, pads of his fingers pressing and pulling in firm circles, bud swollen and shuddering and so sensitive it was sore.
You could only whine about it, now unwilling to fight him off and likely incapable even if you wanted to. He had you riveted to him, chest solid against your back, heaving arm locking you in place. Your compunctions had melted, deliquescing into the stodgy recesses of your mind; usurped by the revoltingly animal, blood-thinning want that thundered in your temples and made your mouth all wet.
“Don’t, p-please, you’re—”
“Tha’s it, girl,” he rumbled, directly into the back of your skull, and it made you dizzy. “Let it happen.”
Your core tightened up, cunt constricting as tight as a vice, painfully empty — the surge was as sudden as a flash flood, just as violent, and you drowned in it as it swept you under. You came beneath his fingers with a winded whimper, so forcefully you bucked your legs to evade him, bullied clit ablaze and spasming in waves that made your heart stop with each contraction.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he chortled, easing his infliction but not yet stopping. “Listen to you.”
“Shut up,” you whined, unable to catch your breath.
“That’ll help you sleep, eh?” He teased, fingers finally retreating, trailing your slick up your mons before he landed flat on his back with a huff.
You were molten, sweaty hair clinging to the nape of your neck, and you wanted nothing more than to take off all your clothes and have a cold shower. All you could muster was your jeans, though, already half-off — you used your feet to peel them down to your calves, kicking them off into nowhere. Your shame had dissolved, now, utterly irretrievable.
The stale air was cool against the wetness of your inflamed cunt when you rolled onto your back; a potent relief, despite how unbecoming you felt it to leave yourself so exposed in the company of a bedlamite.
“Now stop fussing,” he grunted, settling into the mattress, hand resting on his stomach. “Don’t want you wakin’ me up again.”
You couldn’t have fussed, even if you tried. Body utterly siphoned of all energy, mind as foggy and blank as smoke.
It took you less than a minute to fall asleep.
Morning came with rain.
The glow of daylight through the embossed window was powdery white, you heard the gentle patter of raindrops landing on the pane, the loud dripping of a leaky gutter pipe somewhere outside.
Your mouth was chalky, tongue swollen, vision too blurry to identify where you were at a glance.
The realisation rinsed you like cold water when you heard the gruff breathing from beside you. Heavy and deep, the warmth of a body lying too close to you, you felt the hirsute skin of a leg against yours.
You were nauseous as you remembered the night before, when your legs brushed together and you noticed they were bare — no underwear on either, the sheets tangled up between your feet and your hair greasy on your forehead. Your cunt was still sticky and it made you wince to move and feel it, remembering how he had touched you, that his fingers were likely still covered in the dried residue of the orgasm he had milked from you.
The remorse was as pounding as a migraine. Brontide in your skull that made the room spin, and you wanted nothing more than a glass of icy water and some ibuprofen.
You peered over your shoulder at your abductor; lying on his side with an arm folded under his pillow, shoulders rising and collapsing with each heavy breath, scarred face somehow peaceful in his slumber. It was surreal to witness him like that, observing him in his most vulnerable state — you knew his gun was under that pillow, but the thought of trying to steal it faltered as fast as it came.
Instead you slipped out of the bed, pattering on the soft soles of bare feet to the tiny kitchenette, and filled up a brown glass mug with tap water. You drank it all in three hard gulps, then filled up another.
He didn’t stir, not even slightly. In such a deep sleep that you likely could have put your jeans back on and unbolted the door without even waking him.
Instead you went into the ensuite, shutting the door behind you. The bulbous knob had a push-button to lock it, but it was loose, and no matter how many times you pushed it, it failed. You gave up quickly, though — didn’t want to wake him up yet.
The bathroom was arranged nonsensically — the toilet sat by the door, the vanity across from the shower that was tucked into the corner. Its glass walls were grimy with limescale, every amenity made of faded ivory acrylic and stained brown at the edges where the janitors had failed to clean it.
You flushed the toilet when you saw that he hadn’t and swore under your breath in disgust. Fucking animal. You quickly peed, rinsed out your mouth with water from the sink, then turned on the shower. You only had a t-shirt to take off, revolted that it was all you had worn during the night. You hung it on the towel rail.
You kept the water lukewarm, too sensitive for cold and too feverish for hot. An array of cheap mini soaps and shampoos lined the tiny in-built caddy, and you were not frugal in using them. Used almost the entire bottle of body wash to lather every crevice of your body, washing away the sweat of panic and ignominious lust that mired your skin. Shampooed and conditioned your hair with products that smelt like pine and citrus with an undercurrent of battery acid.
The water was cleansing, a pleasant distraction, and you shut your eyes as you rinsed off your face, rubbing the grease off your skin.
You rubbed your eyes before you opened them — immediately spotted a silhouette outside the shower, and a blood-curdling scream erupted from your chest as you sprung from the ground. Almost slipped over when you landed on the PVC floor, but you managed to catch yourself with your hands on the glass.
“What the fuck!” You shrieked, heart galloping so rapidly you worried it would break a rib.
He was blurry through the spray of water landing on the shower walls, but you could see him lumber towards the shower door. You shrunk into the corner when he cracked it open, back firm against the square tiles as if you could slip through the fractures in the grout.
He stepped into the shower as if he hadn’t noticed you there, leviathan that he was, his body took up two thirds of the space in the narrow glass box. Boxers were gone, his cock hung heavy and unashamedly, and your stare caught on it like a fish on a hook. Fucking bludgeon of a thing; it swung as though prideful, thick from root to head, roped with veins and sheathed in rosy foreskin. Half-hard, it jutted out from his bed of wheaten curls at a forty-five degree angle, and it bounced as he took a step.
You looked at it for too long, breath caught in your gullet, and he noticed.
“Settle down,” he taunted, hardly a croak, morning voice abraded and gurgling from his throat. He shut the shower door behind him.
You had a plethora of disputes to mount — get the fuck out, how dare you, you didn’t even knock — but they all fizzled at the back of your throat, when he hauled you out of the corner by the hips, swivelling you around until your nose was flush with the shower wall. Kept you there with a hand cuffed around the back of your neck, wet hair knotting in his fingers.
“You can’t—”
“Prettier than I thought,” he murmured to himself, a rough hand smoothing from your hip to your ass, brazenly taking a handful and squeezing hard enough to make you chirp.
“Get off—”
You choked on the rest of your dispute when he packed his hand between your legs, the gap tight where you held your thighs together — he gave no warning when he snaked his finger between your folds, nudging for an entrance.
It happened so fast you couldn’t catch a breath — he found it quickly when your hole twitched at the intrusion, and you yelped in shock when he unhesitantly pushed it inside you to the knuckle, palm flush with the base of you.
“Lovely little cunt.”
And despite every effort to maintain some dignity, every bulwark you had attempted to erect against succumbing to your baser appetites, came toppling down in the quake of his words. Scruples sloughed off from you like the shed of a snake, and whatever slithered free was as shameless as she was hungry.
“Mh, still nice and warm after last night, in’t she,” he crooned, flexing his finger to push it deeper before raking it out.
He was priming you, evident in how he stretched you open around his thick finger, pumping it in and out of you as though assessing how deep he could go. You pressed your forehead against the cold tile, toes curling into the plastic shower floor, whimpering like a wounded animal.
You felt like one, when he tried to push a second finger in — he had to wriggle it to wedge it in, bully it deeper before your hole could stretch to fit it. It stung where the fragile skin pulled taut, but it was a delicious pain, like the burn of liquor or the sting of pulled hair.
“Christ, that’s tight,” he grunted into the shell of your ear, and a chill prickled down the side of your neck.
He ran out of patience, you supposed, because he slid his fingers out of you and your cunt spasmed in protest of its emptiness. He had spun you around then, handling your body like a ragdoll, moving you right where he wanted you — had his hands under your ass in a blink, and he deftly hoisted you upward, back grinding against the tile wall.
You hooked your legs around his hips on instinct, arms slung over his shoulders when he put them there, his face level with yours. Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his hairline and off his chin. Pupils distended and black as tar, beady as a shark, and glaring into the depths of them made your tongue even wetter.
His titanic arms held you up without exertion, and one released your thigh to scoop underneath you — held his cock upright in a fist, and with no pause he lodged the clubbed head of his cock against your opening. He pushed in with his full weight, reaming you open on the girth of it, and your eyes glassed over.
The noises you made were animal, mewling and gasping, coughing when he landed against the spongy plug of your womb, cock as hard as a gun barrel and just about as threatening.
“Fu-hu-huck,” he chuffed into your cheek, voice oozing ardent satisfaction, vibrating directly into your skull. “Tha’s heaven.”
It tracked that he was a talker, given how chatty he was for the duration of the drive — but you liked it. God, you liked it. Mortifying, yet liberating to admit to yourself, that you wanted to hear him talk; you wanted to hear him tell you how lovely, how pretty, how perfect you were.
“All sweet now, aren’t ya?” He purred, bouncing you upward as he rutted hard. “Just what she needed, mh?”
You almost said it aloud — yes crept along your tongue and prickled at the tip, but you weren’t quite ready to let loose the confession. It escaped instead as a moan, head rocking back and knocking against the tile, and he let out a low chuckle, because you said it in all but words.
“Yeah,” he grunted, panting, pelvis grinding against yours as he pistoned into you, somehow deeper every thrust. “Fuckin’ knew it. Barmy for it the second I walked in, weren’t ya?”
He grabbed your face by the jaw, angling your head to look directly at him, the squeeze of his fingers forcing your lips to pucker. His cheeks were ruddy, blood fresh and hot under his skin, eyes rabid with hunger and pride. They scoured every feature on your face and you melted beneath their attention.
“Gorgeous girl, aren’t you?”
He rutted with purpose, chasing his own end with no mind paid to your squeaks of sore rapture, grunting as his cock reeled out and stuffed you full again in steady rhythm. You could only burrow your fingernails into the meat of his back, carving into his wet skin as if holding on for dear life.
“Just fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, a tirade that persisted through every thrust,
“Sweetest thing I ever stole.”
“Who needs fuckin’ money, eh?”
“Hit the jackpot with you, din’t I?”
“Might just keep you forever.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, sweetheart?”
Perhaps your brain had been knocked against your skull one too many times, turned soggy and stupid in the heat, because you whimpered; “Y-yeah.”
His brows shot up at that, shocked — but that surprise quickly gave way to a lavish conceit, a vicious smile that oozed pride for having conquered your inhibitions without even having to try. You’d have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you.
“Yeah?” He goaded, grin wide and jaw loose, panting through his teeth. “Want me to steal you away, eh?”
You nodded as much as he would allow you to, and his lips planted on your chin as though tempted to bite you.
“I can do that, love,” he crooned, “I can take y’where no one will ever find ya. Keep you all for m’self.”
You whined when he only fucked you harder, tender skin of your back chafing against the grout with every jolt. Seemed he was approaching the summit of his own pleasure — huffing like a bull, thrusting with anger, not nearly as chatty as he had been for the rest of it.
“Agh, shit—” he groaned, mouth landing on your shoulder, teeth catching your skin. “Fuckin’ hell—”
He hastily reached underneath you to unsheathe his cock from your hole, leaving your cunt bitterly empty and convulsing in its sudden vacuity — his entire body jerked against you as he came, you felt his cock jolt beneath the cleft of you as it spurted ropes come against the tiled wall he held you to.
His climactic groans were music, to you, little lecher that you were. Some foul part of you was remorseful he hadn’t come inside you instead, hadn’t carelessly pumped you full of it — not a drop of rationality left within you, evidently.
You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but he did; planted a slovenly kiss on the side of your neck, pillowy lips wet with saliva and the water of the still-running shower.
He released you, then — didn’t quite drop you, lowered you as gracefully as he could before letting you land on your feet with a thud. Gave you a pet on the head as though to praise you, a prideful kiss into your scalp.
He shut off the water with a shove of the chipping lever, and the showerhead continued to leak fat drops of water despite it being shut off. He pushed opened the shower door for you, and you slipped out, sodden feet landing on the bathmat.
There were scant words exchanged as you handed him one of the towels, using the other to dry yourself off. You couldn’t help but watch him as he rubbed himself down with the teal-blue cotton, polishing his head like a bowling ball, flossing under his arms, unabashedly rubbing the towel under his balls to dry between his legs. Something in his nonchalance, unapologetically going about it all as if it were normal, was endearing to you. Made your hackles soften, if they were still at all raised.
You put your t-shirt back on, wishing you had a change of clothes, and ventured back into the bedroom — the air was still thick with the dusty warmth of the heater, and ripe with the musk of both of the worked up bodies that had spent the night in it.
“Get dressed,” came a demand from behind you, followed by a coaxing pat on your bare arse. “Need to hit the road.”
You looked over your shoulder at him, watching as he pulled on his boxers, tucking his cock away and snapping the elastic waistband around his hips. You picked up your knickers from where they had landed on the carpet the night before, shimmying up your legs.
Couldn’t yet believe what you were girding yourself for. What you had already accepted as the next step you would take.
You caught his eye, a pout in your lips;
“Can we get breakfast first?”
i've got a pinterest board for this one. the vibes have been stewing for a long while
John Price who isn’t just older—he’s worn in. A little gross. A little rotten. Manipulative. The kind of man who sees a pretty bird like you—young and sweet, all soft lips and shy eyes—in some dingy pub sipping something pink, and he doesn’t think I want her. No. He thinks mine.
John Price who decides quick. From the first glance, it’s already settled. He’s already imagining you on your knees in his kitchen, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Already thinking about how tight your cunt will feel wrapped around him. How pretty you’ll look pregnant, tits swollen, begging for him to fuck you slower.
You don’t know it yet, but he’s mapped it all out—where you’ll sleep in his house, how long he’ll let you play independent before he starts cutting off your options. You won’t need your job. Won’t need friends. Won’t need anything but him.
He’s already picked the ring. Already picked the crib. Already thinking about whether he’ll fill you up before or after dinner, or how many kids he wants.
Twisted in the head, that’s true—but it doesn’t matter. He knows what you need before you even open your mouth. Knows how to touch you, how to own you, without ever asking for permission. You’re not equals. Never were.
He’s choosing you. He’s keeping you.
And oh, sweetheart—whether you feel it yet or not, he’ll make damn sure you learn to be grateful.
Grateful to wear his ring. Grateful to carry his name.
Grateful every time he fills you up, breeds you with his cum until you’re full—so full it leaks out of your swollen, poor cunt—reminding you exactly who you belong to.
Because in his house, in his bed, wrapped around his cock—you’re not just his girl. You’re his wife.
And he’ll fuck the doubt right out of you if he has to.
More Butcher!Simon Riley and his sweet regular customer because why not? i’m so in love with him :)
previous
Simon’s still getting used to the smell of vanilla instead of blood.
It clings to you—always has. Like the sugar-slick comfort of a bakery in the early morning, like something safe. Warm. A scent that doesn’t belong anywhere near steel tables and bone dust, but you carry it in like it’s yours to share. And somehow, it stays even after you leave. Nestles into the air, lingers in places he doesn’t expect—his shop, his apron, the spaces between thoughts.
Simon doesn’t understand how something so gentle keeps showing up in his world. He doesn’t ask. Just wipes down his counter a little slower when he sees you walk in, you always smile at him like he’s not a man who knows too well how to cut things apart.
You never flinch around him.
You should. That’s what he tells himself. You should flinch when his hand grazes yours as he passes you the wrapped paper package. You should look at the ugly scars on his face and wonder what it cost. But you don’t. You lean in when you talk to him, voice soft, like you’re not afraid of the weight he carries or the quiet violence in his past. You just ask if he’s got anything good today. Like it’s a ritual.
He says he saved something special for you. And he has. Not because he owes you, but because it gives him a reason to think of you in the mornings, to set something aside and imagine your face when he hands it over. Stupid. Sentimental. But he does it anyway.
You thank him like it’s more than just a transaction. Like it means something. Maybe it does. Maybe he’s reading too much into the way your fingers linger on the edge of the counter, the way your eyes scan the room before landing on him like he’s the only thing steady in your week.
It’s not love—he wouldn’t call it that. Not yet. It’s something smaller, quieter. It’s the way he keeps your favorite cut tucked behind the glass, even when it’s running low. The way he steals glances just to catch the details of whatever soft thing you’re wearing that day. The way his chest tightens every time you laugh at something he says, like he forgot he could make someone smile like that.
He tells himself this can’t go anywhere. That you deserve someone whole. Someone clean. Not a man who spent years drenched in the worst parts of the world. Not someone who only learned tenderness through muscle memory, through what not to do.
Still, when the door swings shut behind you, he lingers. Watches the faint blur of your figure through the frosted glass until it disappears down the street. The silence creeps back in, but it’s different now. Charged. Restless.
The sweetness of your scent still hangs in the air—thick, warm, stubborn. It clings to the front of his shirt, to the inside of his throat.
Fuckin’ hell—sweetheart, you shouldn’t smell like home in a place like this. And you sure as hell shouldn’t look at him like you’re his to keep.
He drags a hand down his face and exhales slow. You make him forget what he is. Make him want things he shouldn’t.
And if you ever lean in just a little too close—ask one more question in that sweet voice of yours—he doesn’t know if next time he’ll hand you the meat you came for, or press you up against the counter and show you what else he’s been keeping just for you.
🥩❤️🍨
═════════════════════════
I’m still pretty new to writing (just started a couple weeks ago), so i’m figuring out what style feels right, and right now it’s whatever this is, not a lot of dialogue.😂 thank you for reading! reblogs, comments, and asks always make my day.💕
im not sure if you’re open for requests but i really loved your butcher simon🫶🏻 can i ask for some fluff, soft moments with him please?
Hi anon! More butcher simon? Absolutely yes!! thank you for requesting, i hope you enjoy ^^ | From this butcher drabble
There’s blood on his hand.
Not a lot, but enough to make you pause when he sets it on the counter, the gash along his knuckle beading red. He doesn’t seem bothered—just flexes his fingers once, then reaches for the butcher’s twine like nothing’s wrong.
“Simon.”
He stops. Glances up at you.
You catch his wrist before he can pull away, frowning at the cut. “What happened?”
He huffs, like it’s barely worth mentioning. “Knife slipped.”
Your lips press into a thin line. “And you were just gonna ignore it?”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
You’re already moving, rummaging through the little first aid tin in the kitchen drawer. He watches, silent, as you wet a clean cloth and take his hand in yours. His palm is rough, calloused—so much larger than your own. When you press the damp cloth to the wound, he tenses, jaw ticking.
“Not used to this,” he mutters after a beat.
You glance up. “Used to what?”
Simon exhales sharply through his nose, looking away. “People fussin’.”
Something in your chest aches at that.
“Well,” you say lightly, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders, “maybe you should get used to me, then.”
He goes still for a beat—like he wasn’t expecting that. Then, quietly, he exhales. Just the faintest curve of his mouth.
“You get this bossy with all your guests?” he asks, voice low, a flicker of warmth beneath it.
You glance up at him, smiling. “Only the ones who bleed on my countertop.”
That earns a soft huff of a laugh. “Right. Forgot that was a crime.”
You dab at the cut, more gently now. “It is in this kitchen.”
He watches you a moment, something softer in his gaze. “You always this gentle?”
You shrug, not looking up. “Doesn’t take much to be kind.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. Just lets you work in silence, thumb brushing faintly against your wrist. When you reach for the bandage and start wrapping it around his knuckle, he doesn’t move. Just lets you.
Your hands are small, gentle. A little unsure, bottom lip tucked between your teeth, lashes lowered in focus. The bandage trembles slightly between your fingers.
For a moment, Simon doesn’t breathe.
He’s never been handled like this before—not with this kind of quiet patience. No one’s ever looked at him like this, either. Like he’s not a man with rough hands and old damage. Like he’s just… someone worth tending to.
“You’re a sweet thing,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Ain’t right.”
You blink, caught off guard. “What?”
“Just.” He clears his throat, looking down. “You’re… somethin’ else, you know that?”
You duck your head, smiling like you’re not sure what to do with the words. “I just didn’t want it to get infected.”
He huffs a laugh, low and warm. Then, softer—
“Thank you, angel.”
You blink twice, startled by the name—but you don’t pull away. Don’t correct him, either.
Instead, you keep his hand in yours a moment longer, the silence settling like a blanket between you. His thumb brushes against your knuckles—barely there, almost uncertain.
This is literally my first inbox ever and you have no idea how much it means — thank you! You’ve made my day💕can’t believe my messy brain words are feeding souls out here. Y-Y
Thinking about Butcher!Simon Riley with his sweet regular customer..
continue
Simon Riley who doesn’t believe in starting over. Not really. Retired from the military, he’d traded one kind of blood for another. The butcher shop wasn’t much—small place tucked in the corner of Manchester, no fancy signage, no bright lights—but the regulars came. You came. Twice a week, Wednesdays and Fridays like clockwork.
Simon Riley—your butcher—moves with a kind of brutal grace behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms cut from marble and hard labor. You watch him work the cleaver like it’s an extension of his body. Focused. Calm. Every slice is deliberate, clean, respectful. There’s no waste in his motion, no hesitation in his hands.
You tell yourself it’s just the way he works—but your heart tells you otherwise. It stutters every time he glances up and catches you staring. You always look away too fast.
He’s seen things, you can tell. Something in the set of his shoulders, in the way he carries silence like a second skin. They say he was military once, but no one in the neighborhood asks. They just buy their lamb chops and brisket, nod respectfully, and leave him be.
But not you.
Sometimes you don’t even need anything. You come into his shop just to linger by the display case, pretend to think hard when he asks what you’re in the mood for, and always end up letting him choose. You like the way he speaks when he’s talking about cuts—like meat is an art form and he’s the only one who understands it. Like there’s a language in bone and fat and sinew, and he knows how to read it all.
He knows you’re into him.
You think he doesn’t notice—how your eyes linger on the flex of his forearms, how your breath catches when he tightens his grip on the knife. But he does. He knew from the first time you smiled at him over a pound of sirloin, all nervous and bright-eyed.
And he liked—more than he should’ve—how you smelled faintly of sugar and coffee when you leaned in to hand him cash.
It wasn’t anything serious. Not at first. Just a little dance. A tilt of your head, a brush of your fingers when he passed you the package. He told himself it was nothing.
But he starts saving the best cuts for you. Packs a little extra into your order. Keeps the shop open late on days when you run behind, just in case. It’s nothing. And it’s everything.
The day you tell him about your promotion, you’re practically vibrating. He can see it before you even speak. You ask—halting, hopeful—if he’d like to come over for dinner. Just dinner. Maybe.
He says yes.
Later, in your tiny kitchen, you cook with meat he cut for you himself. he watches you handle the meat. Sees the way your hands move, careful, precise, even if you’re nervous. You ask him how thin the slices should be. You ask him if he likes garlic. Ask if he likes bourbon. Fuck—darlin’, are you trying to get yourself a ring?
He’s still all knives and scars and quiet edges—but with you, he doesn’t have to be just that. So when you ask him if he wants to stay a little longer after dinner. With that soft, bright smile like you’re not afraid of what’s under his skin, something in him loosens. Maybe even heals, just a little. And he finds he doesn’t mind saying yes to that either.
Raspberry Girl
Part One + masterlist + AO3
Simon Riley/female reader
CW: 18+ mdni, sexual content, dacryphilia, daddy kink. Reader is neurodivergent.
Simon Riley is a simple man.
Now.
Cobwebs cleared, shattered shards of glass painstakingly swept away, lacerations stitched and glued back together. He's climbed the mountain of his mind and descended down the other side. Hurdles jumped, skeletons dragged into the light and then cut down.
Guess that's what happens when you finally decide you want to live, instead of exist.
At least he figured it out before he died.
He's old now, older, signature sore back and creaky knees worse then they were ten years ago, sciatica pain when it rains, headaches whenever he's spent too long looking at paperwork (should be wearing his glasses, but can only bring himself to do it at home.) He's even soft around the middle a bit.
Still, there are some things that never change, some things that are amplified by time. Skill, focus, dedication. Thirst.
The thirst is what keeps everyone in line, keeps everyone's head down after a salute, eyes shifty and hands clenched. He still strikes fear. He doesn't mind.
It's how he got here. How he ended up standing in front of a team, his team, tackling a debrief. It's only given him more of what he know nows he craves, the aspect of control that was so long missing from his life, taken from him by others, by their actions, their decisions. Now he has it in spades. He learned to indulge it, practice it, hone it, and when it reared its head in other aspects of his life, he didn't shy away. He embraced it, experimented with it, figured out what he liked, what he didn't, what he truly needed. Chewed on it, for a while.
A casual fuck here and there, fine, but not enough, not nearly.
He's built a house after all.
It's all spilled over though. Run away from him and out of the base, infiltrated his home, crawled across town-
and set it's sights on something it can sink it's teeth into. Something it won't let go of.
Daddy's girl.
"C-captain Riley." Your hands press to your stomach, anxiously wiping away smatterings of batter and flour, and he tries to screw his mouth into a flat line to hide his smile at the hitch in your breath.
"Hi sweetheart."
"What can I... what can I get for you?" He sweeps over the case, eyeing the piled high pastries and bagels, muffins and quiches still warm.
"Just a coffee today." You nod, lip tugged between your teeth, hand practically shaking as you reach for the stack of cups. When he was a younger man, he wouldn't have patience for this, or you. Wouldn't see the bright side to this, these moments he shares with his girl at the bakery, his nervous little fawn he's finally coaxed to look him in the eye for more than ten seconds at a time. Being in your forties will do that to you, he guesses.
Time heals more than he ever thought possible.
"Black?"
"That's right." He indulges himself as you turn around, tracing your curves, the swell of your ass in your leggings. You wear an apron at your waist religiously, cinching it tight, hips and thighs and everything else perfectly framed. He loves those leggings, and hates them every time he catches an overzealous prick leering at you over the counter.
"Do you um, do you want room for cream?" The answer is always the same, but you still ask, and he doesn't mind.
"No, I'll just take it as is." He eyes the pan of raspberry sweet rolls sitting on the counter, cream cheese icing slowly melting across the top. They're his favorite, but he's putting on too much weight, and with the next mission around the corner, he can't afford to be too soft. You look up at him shyly, gesturing to the giant buns.
"I made your favorite." Fuck. He can't. He shouldn't... but he can't stomach the idea of dimming your glow, killing you excitement, the eager look on your face as you wait for his approval.
"Y'know what... the boys are always complaining I never bring them anything. I'll take the whole pan." Your eyes turn to saucers.
"The wh-whole pan? Really?" You brighten into a sun, glowing with pride, and he rewards you with a smile.
"Is that okay?"
"Of course!" You blurt, half panicked, "of course I just... okay. Let me-" You go to put the coffee cup down in front of him, but the bottom nicks the edge of the counter and like everything has turned to slow motion, he watches as steaming hot liquid comes flying from the top, half splashing, half spilling all over his uniform. He catches it before it rolls off the end, but the damage has been done, and tears line your lashes.
The woman waiting in line a few feet behind him snorts. His vision turns red and he whirls on her with a glare, satisfied when the color drains from her face and she runs off.
“I’m sorry, I’m so s-so-sorry,” you’ve come around the corner with paper towels, trembling like a leaf as you stare at the stain on his jacket, wide eyed and frantic.
“It’s okay, it was an accident.”
“N-no, your uniform,” you croak horrified, “I ruined it, I’m so sorry.” You hiccup a little, trying to suck in some air while you succumb to panic, and he takes your hands in his, squeezing gently, trying to ground you.
“It’s alright baby, it’s okay,” you don’t even notice when he calls you baby, too preoccupied by your rapidly dissipating oxygen. “Hey, look at me,” he soothes, ducking into your line of sight, grabbing your attention. “Good girl, you’re alright.”
“I’m sorry.” You whisper, shrinking in on yourself, curling your shoulders forward. More tears, and the sight of them sends blood rushing through his body, uncomfortable pressure starting to build in his cock.
“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” The shop is mostly empty, the woman behind him gone, and he takes the opportunity to usher you past the counter and into the kitchen where there’s a stool waiting just inside the door. He guides you up and holds steady. “Everything’s okay, I promise.” The paper towels come free from your tension filled grip, and instead of using them on the stain, he presses them to your wet cheeks, blotting away your tears. You lean into the touch, so trusting, so easily his, and he wonders what else you’d let him do. He’s hard against the teeth of his zipper as he thinks about hoisting you onto the table, spreading your legs to find what you’ve been keeping safe for him there.
He doesn’t have many things to care for these days, outside the team, his ultimate responsibility. Keeping a special ops unit alive, planning and executing, cutting through political bullshit is more than enough, but it’s all rough and heavy handed.
He needs something to nurture.
You blink at him as he finishes and tips your chin back, ignoring the way your lips part in awe. “That’s better.”
“Thank you.” The two of you breathe in tandem, silenced and walking a tightrope until you cough. “I should uh… I should go, get those rolls packaged?” He nods, and you manage a very small smile before dipping your gaze to the ground and running off to the front.
“When did you know?” He rolls the cigar smoke around in his mouth and John cocks his head.
“When did I know what?”
“That you were ready,” he gestures to the house, where John’s wife Grace sleeps soundly, “for this? For her?” There’s a glint in his Captain’s blue eyes, a knowing smirk on his face.
“I just did. At some point, life becomes more than the job, but the mission stays the same. Lead, decide, control. Keep them safe, complete your objective, give what’s needed, get it for yourself. It’s no different.” The idea is tar, sticking to every surface in his mind, gumming up his synapses and creating hallucinations so intoxicating they’re hard to believe.
You, curled up in bed asleep with nothing but a pair of panties, or cradled between his knees in the bath as he works a chunk of batter free from your hair. You with your legs spread, knees pushed towards your ears, pussy ripe and waiting for him, only him, for the rest of his life. Hands and ankles tied together like a pretty little present. You, sitting on the couch with your thighs slung over his lap, nose creased with a little wrinkle as you thumb through a book.
John chuckles. “Found one then?”
Simon only nods.
He slips through the door just before closing, little bell at the top announcing his arrival to an almost empty space. There’s someone at the register, counting cash, and she smiles at him with all her teeth.
“We’re about to close but there are a few things left, or I could make you a tea?” The case is pretty barren, a few bear claws and croissants, a muffin or two. Stragglers.
Next to it, a bouquet sits in a vase. They’re fresh, healthy, and the hair on the back of his neck stands.
If someone is buying you flowers, he’ll kill them. Dump their corpse in a pit and piss on it.
The girl clears her throat, and he shakes his head. “No, but thanks. ‘M here to see…” you push through the kitchen doors with two metal sheet trays in your hands, and freeze.
He knew you’d be surprised, caught off guard. It’s like catching a feral cat. Trying to earn a street dog’s trust. Like he’s crouched on the sidewalk, hand extended, food waiting in his fingertips.
A fisherman, with bait on the line, patiently waiting to hook his prize.
The incident last week has thoroughly spooked you, pushed you back inside your shell, eroded a lot of the groundwork he painstakingly laid, the foundation he’s been building, and the only time he’s been in since then, you ran into the kitchen as soon as he crossed the threshold.
The clock has turned back to the time when you were so gun shy, you’d turn to stone at the first sight of him, hands clasped together so tight he knew they hurt.
It’s no matter. He’s a patient man now, a far cry from who he used to be, and he’s willing to wait for the things worth it, willing to put in the work to fix it.
His body disagrees. A river of need runs consistently runs through him, wild and turbulent current thrashing in his blood, white water rapids trying to flood his lungs. His cock is heavy at night as he imagines you bent over the butcher’s block, leggings ripped open, gooseflesh cascading from the small of your back down, empty little hole clenching on nothing, begging for a fullness only he can give. He dreams about your tears, salty sweet drops soaking your cheeks as the crown of his cock bulges in your throat, as he takes your air and gives it back, over and over again.
Ruin you, rearrange you, remold you until you only ever fit him.
He’ll give you what you need, he’ll take away what you don’t.
He’ll decide.
The girl at the counter looks at you, then him, small smile pulling on her lips. “I’m going to get this deposit ready,” she announces to no one since you’re not paying her any attention, barely registering she’s disappeared as you stare at him.
“Hi… u-um hi, Captain Riley.” You put the pans down onto the counter but miscalculate the distance, and they clatter with a resounding smack, one that makes you wince. Your chest expands with a long, deep breath, and you look away from him to the floor. “Can I get you something?”
“No, I’m jus’ here to see you.” You jerk, gaze snapping from the floor to his face.
“Is th-this about your uniform? Did you get it dry-cleaned? I can pay you back for-” You rush out, half panicked and cut off when his hand fits to the space between your shoulder blades with just enough pressure to move you forward. He leads, steering you to one of the little tables by the window, urging you down into the chair before taking his place on the other side.
“You’re not paying my bloody dry cleaning bill. I’m here to see you, sweetheart.” You’re vibrating, practically rattling in your skin and he wants so badly to soothe you, tuck you into his chest and push the outside world away, but it would be too much, too soon. You’re not ready.
“See me?” He nods.
“Why did you run from me the other day?”
“I didn’t I was just… I was busy.” He didn't expect the truth, not right away. You're always trying to hide your vulnerable spots.
“Try again. No lying this time.” There’s about one eighth of his usual authority in his voice, the captain’s edge he’s honed over the years, and your lips part with a sharp, small intake of breath.
“I thought maybe… I thought you might be upset or something and I didn’t want…” you trail off with a shrug, and he’s not surprised. He knows his reassurances from last week weren’t enough. His sweet girl is afraid of her own shadow, you need more than just a few words and your tears wiped.
“I’m not upset.” He leans back against the rickety wood. There are a million things he could say, do. A million different pieces he could pick apart right here, right now, peel your layers back and put you on your knees with your cheek on his thigh, his hand patting the top of your head.
“Daddy’s not mad, sweetheart.”
You’re watching him, waiting, looking for him to give more, heal this wound, but he’s cautious. A gas pedal to the floor will only get him the kind of chase he doesn’t want. Not yet. “You understand me?”
“Yes,” you whisper. You’re hesitating on something, holding back, but he doesn’t try to drag it out, choosing to wait, to give you the time you need, the space he knows the rest of the world doesn’t allow. “Did um… did they like them?” He cocks his head.
“The team?”
“Mhm,” your leg bounces under the table. You’re so fucking cute he could smother you.
“Yeah baby, they loved them.” You beam, blooming into a pretty, perfect flower, vibrant and colorful, rare as they come.
“That’s good, I’m so happy.” You wiggle a little bit in the chair, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Fucking hell. He wants you on his lap instead, wiggling around as he slowly sinks you down onto his cock, fingernails biting into his chest as he stretches your pussy, toes curling as you struggle to take him. “D-do you want to take some home?”
“You have some left over?” You shrug sheepishly.
“I’ve uh, been making them every day. I thought if you were mad at me, maybe they would… make it better.” Oh baby.
“No. You never have to appease me like that. You never have to appease anyone like that, sweetheart.”
“Right. Okay.” You look relieved, a little bit of heaviness lifted from your shoulders, and then you give him a small smile. “But do you want to maybe have one… now? W-with me?” His sweet little fawn, navigating the world on new trembling legs, taking chances when she feels brave.
He pulls your hand into his and strokes his thumb back and forth across your knuckles, setting up a slow, soothing rhythm. “Of course.”
“You were made for me, doll.” Something something about Possessive Simon Riley who says it like he’s carving the words into you, like it’s not just sex—it’s claiming. Maybe it’s a vow. Maybe it’s a threat. You’re not sure. But you believe him. Right, lovie?
═════════════════════════
It’s always the same words, whispered in that low, darkened voice of his.
“You were made for me.”
He says it when you dress yourself up pretty for him, when his gloved fingers tilt your chin and his thumb smears your lipstick because he likes you messy.
He says it when you kneel, when you take him into your mouth and he’s gripping your hair, praising you through gritted teeth for being so good.
But when he’s inside you, when he’s got you split open on him, that’s when it feels less like a promise and more like a fact. A brutal, inescapable truth.
“You were made for me,” Simon growls, voice thick and dark, teeth scraping hot against your throat as his hips slam into yours. “Only me.”
His hand wraps tight around your throat, not squeezing, just holding—reminding you that he could if he wanted. That you’re his, and there’s nowhere else you belong.
You cry out, nails digging into his back, body trembling under the brutal pace he sets. It’s too much. He’s too much.
“Can’t—” you sob, voice breaking. “Si– I can’t”
But he’s already shaking his head, leaning in until his mouth is against your ear.
“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You will.”
His hand slides down, fingers bruising your waist as he pounds harder, deeper. “You can take what I give you, love. You were made for this. For me.” His voice is a dangerous rasp, but there’s something almost reverent underneath it. “Made for me to fill up. For me to ruin.”
And fuck, if you don’t believe him.
It hurts. Your body’s shaking, stretched too far, too full—but you need it. Need him.
Because he’s right. You were made for him.
And you’ll let him ruin you, wreck you, all over again—just to hear him say it again.
Serial killer Simon who made his perfect sweet girl into exactly what he wanted. When your boyfriend’s love language is..a bit twisted :p
═════════════════════════
You’re not supposed to do this.
Your hands are still shaking. There’s blood spattered across your knuckles, slick along your palm where you gripped the knife too tight. It’s not yours. That’s the part that makes your stomach twist. It’s not yours, but it could’ve been.
You’re breathing too hard. Chest rising and falling like you ran a mile, even though you haven’t moved from where you’re kneeling. The body lies in front of you, and you can’t look at it. You won’t.
And then his hand is on your shoulder. Heavy, warm and solid. You flinch at first, like you’re still expecting something worse. But his grip only tightens in that way he does when he’s grounding you—pressing his thumb into the muscle by your neck, reminding you you’re still here. And he’s, too.
“That’s my girl,” Simon says. Voice low, rough in a way that feels like gravel under your skin. He crouches behind you, close enough that you can feel the weight of his presence against your back. He’s wearing his balaclava, and you can feel the heat of his breath at your temple.
You’re not sure if you’re going to cry or vomit. Maybe both. But then his fingers slide down your arm, slow and careful, until he’s wrapping his hand around yours. Around the knife—the proof.
“You did good, my love.” he murmurs. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, smearing blood in a slow, deliberate line. “You did what you had to.”
Your throat works as you try to speak, but nothing comes out. You’re not even sure what you want to say.
Simon doesn’t rush you. He never does. But his hand doesn’t leave yours. He holds you there, steady, as the seconds tick by and the blood on your skin starts to dry. And when you finally turning your head, just enough to meet his gaze—it knocks the breath clean out of your lungs.
There’s something ugly beneath those dark, toffee-brown eyes of his. Something terrible. Possession, yes. Pride, too. But there’s more. Something you don’t dare name, don’t even dare think about, because if you do, you’ll unravel right here at his feet.
But it’s there.
Plain as day in that all-consuming stare.
He looks at you like he made you.
Like he carved you out of bone and sinew with his own bloodied hands. Like you’re his pretty puppet, strings wound tight around his fists. You move because he tells you to. You kill because he taught you how.
And God, he’s proud.
“My perfect doll,” he rasps, voice like smoke dragging over raw skin. “Did exactly what I taught you.” His hand moves, gloved fingers cupping your jaw, thumb dragging a smear of blood across your cheek. It streaks the corner of your mouth, and you swear his gaze lingers there a little too long.
Then he leans in—his mouth ghosting over yours, breath hot, unsteady. “Now.” he murmurs, low and dark, “go pull that bastard’s nails out.” He smiles then, “You should start a collection, love. First trophy’s always the sweetest.”
Your heart races, and your legs move before you can even think about it.
